Ewan sighed deeply. Maybe that was what he needed to do. But no. He would not do something like that. What would that make him? He would earn his gold honestly. Tomorrow, he would go out there and work long and hard. He would take a dangerous job that no one wanted. But he would not exploit other people’s bloodlust and misery. He would not take a life to become rich.
Even though he knew he would have new clothes tomorrow, he drained the wet shirts and trousers as best as he could, wrung the socks until they groaned, and walked back to the room. He tapped five times, waited a moment, tapped three times more.
Constance opened the door slowly, peered around its edge, then let him in. She was holding a knife in her healthy hand. And she was naked.
He said nothing. She stood crying, watching him intently. The knife clattered to the ground. She took his hand in hers and drew it close. His fingers touched her belly. She pushed lower. His fingers brushed against the thick, fuzzy growth between her legs. He shivered. Something deep and primal awoke inside him.
“What…” he murmured.
Constance pulled him close. He followed. She sat on the bed and inched backward. He eased himself near her, watching her, trying to understand what was happening. He didn’t dare say anything. She leaned back. She waited.
Like a man possessed, he saw his arms respond to his need. He undressed slowly. He was breathing hard, through his nostrils. Blood pounded in his temples. He could feel the blood vessels in his neck throbbing.
“Make love to me,” she whispered. She gestured that he should slide on top of her.
“But your ribs…” he said.
She smiled. “I will be all right.”
Ewan carefully positioned himself above her. She put her injured arm above her head, out of harm’s way.
He had seen her naked before, all bruised and battered. Even now, her body showed faded yellow marks where the last contusions still stubbornly held. But he was seeing her now in a different light. She was a slim, petite thing, but her curves were smooth and soft, and he felt desire engulf him like fire. She had not bathed, but he did not mind. The rank smell of sweat only made him giddier. The wild aroma of raw sex filled the air.
The last time, the only time, he’d had sex was with Maya, a whore. This time, it felt different. It felt right. He did not feel any guilt. And his mind was clear.
Constance watched him without blinking, her eyes teary. He did not understand those tears, but he knew she wanted him. They moved in unison. He tried to be gentle, arching his back as much as he could, away from her ribs. As he neared climax, his motions grew deeper, stronger, more erratic.
She gasped. His vision blackened into a spot of sweet agony. He climaxed in a rush of wildfire. Constance yelped. In the drunken reverie of his orgasm, he realized he was leaning against her, crushing her.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he moaned, pushing away.
“It’s all right,” she said, breathing hard.
Ewan lay on his back, savoring the moment. Her smell, mixed with the grime and sweat, made him happy for some reason. Carefree. It was simple, innocent joy.
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”
He tried to speak. Instead, he suddenly screamed.
Agony, searing white and sharp like a needle, stabbed him through the gut. His body went rigid with a numbing, debilitating pain, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Ewan saw himself spread-eagle on the bed, wailing at the top of his lungs, his voice diminishing to a hoarse whisper. And still, he could not move. He could not blink. The world became a blur of dazzling, painful white.
Constance clamped her ears shut instinctively and fell off the bed. She scrambled away, blood drained from her face, shivering, crying uncontrollably. Ewan’s body arched, trying to lift off the bed. He looked like some warped statue, chiseled of terror and anguish.
Then, as suddenly as the wave of pain had come, it vanished. He rolled to one side, vomiting from his mouth and nose. He was shaking wildly, but then the tremors subsided. Slowly, carefully, he turned himself over, spitting bile, wiping blood from his nose. Gently, he touched his belly. The skin was clean, intact. Nothing. Just moments earlier, it had felt as if he’d given birth to a cow. There was no better way of imagining it.
After so long without any real physical sensation of pain, this spasm was all the more overwhelming. He had no idea what had just happened. Except for the sudden, deep fatigue and a humiliating sense of surprise, he was all right. He knew there was nothing wrong with him. Even the terrible urge that had burned in his bones was gone.
“Ewan, what happened?” Constance cried.
“I don’t know,” he groaned. “I don’t know.” The roiling, gnawing lump in the pit of his stomach returned suddenly, stronger than before. Ewan realized that something dreadful had just happened. He had to go west. He had to. He had to.
We must leave tomorrow, he thought. There would be no time to rest. We. We. He had to go alone. But what now, after they’d made love? Abandon her?
Constance rose to her feet, nursing her broken arm. She had fallen hard onto the floor. Her lips was quivering. She appeared to be in a mixed state of panic and shock, yet she inched toward him. She came close and hugged him. It was a gentle, friendly hug.
“What just happened, Ewan? Are you okay? Are you feeling all right? What happened?”
He thought he did not know, but as she voiced the simple question, sharp realization crystallized inside his head. A god has just died, he thought. How can I tell her that? She’ll think I’m a lunatic. Or worse, some kind of a monster. He snorted. I am a monster.
“Must be fever, from all the traveling,” he lied.
He hated himself for it, but there was no other way. He could not afford to lose her now. If he told her the truth, she would leave him surely. He did not want to be alone. He did not want to be lonely.
“I should rest now.” He leaned back and pretended to sleep.
CHAPTER 20
“Spit on my hand,” the woman said.
James cocked his head. “Why?”
The woman groaned, rolling her eyes. “Because that’s how magic works, dummy.”
The future emperor of Athesia kept his face straight, but he smiled on the inside. Dummy. After months of being rolled in the dross of dishonesty and intrigue, he adored the simple, informal way his hostess addressed him. It made him feel carefree.
She was called Nigella, an odd name for an odd woman. People in and around her village knew her as a skilled herbalist, but she was a witch. Like Adelbert, she traced her lineage to Sirtai, although you could not tell that from her face, a homely, bespectacled visage and buckteeth. Her physique was slim and firm, but she did not exude the aroma of ripe, sweet enchantment like Rheanna. She felt bland. James was glad for the distraction. The coy games of flirtation were becoming unbearable.
He noticed her impatient look and realized he had not spat yet. He hawked a solid ball and let it dribble onto her extended palm.
Nigella turned from an angry statue into a torrent of quick, jerky gestures. She rolled the spit between her hands, sniffed her fingers, tasted the froth on her pale skin. James watched, utterly fascinated. He knew nothing of magic, but the very moist displays he had seen so far made it look crazy and unhygienic.
“So why are you here?” she asked, shaking her hands above her head, letting the spittle dry.
James shifted his weight; he found sitting on bare ground uncomfortable. “I need help.”
Nigella stopped moving. “What will you give me in return?”
“I didn’t tell you what I need from you yet.”
“No, but you will know what I will give you after you tell me.”
James puffed. He desperately needed a political edge. He needed to outwit his benevolent captors. He needed to immerse himself in the maze of sweet talk and lies and deception. He needed to know how to maneuver fast. He needed to know how to win over his foes, leaving them confused and shattered.
He did not want it, but he could not escape it. Sooner or later, they would corner him and leave him no chance. Kill or be killed, the basic law of the lawless. Like in the woods, when you faced a criminal and you could see in his eyes that he would run no longer. Justice would be sown, right there, in the shadow of a nameless tree.
His head buzzed with filth. Assassinations, threats, plans to outmaneuver and bankrupt the opposition. Behind the perfect smiles and posh talk, the councillors, the bankers, the rich and powerful of Caytor behaved like thugs. They wanted him to fornicate against his will. They wanted him to contract killers against their partners. They wanted him to buy armies and prepare for war. They wanted him to shed blood in the name of…what? The glory of Athesia? Could he cling to that idea?
Was he worthy of ruling a nation? He was just a lawman from a tiny town in northern Eracia. What did he know about the world? What kind of wisdom did he possess? Did he have the right to decree the fate of other people?
But it was not important anymore. No one cared what he truly believed. He was committed to the idea. It was all that mattered. He was the emperor, no matter what anyone else said. It could be a lie, but he was going to defend it to the death. But if he merely mouthed the shit they fed him, he would find himself a nameless corpse one day. He knew that much. He had to turn the odds in his favor.
He wanted a glimpse of the future. He had no idea if this could be done, but Nigella was his best bet. Adelbert had mentioned no one else but her. If there was anyone who might help him survive the coming months and years, it was the bucktoothed woman.
James thought about the man’s price. He had not yet named it, and that worried him a little. And now, the witch.
“What do you want?” he smarted his question.
Nigella smiled. She was not so ugly when he focused. He waited.
“I have a son. He’s apprenticed in a little monastery not far from here. When you come to power, you will take him under your protection and raise him as a lord.”
He blinked. Son? She looked roughly his age. Then, you could not really be sure with magic wielders. And Sirtai had a funny streak when it came to how age showed on their skin. But she looked younger than Rheanna.
“And you will kill his father,” she added coldly.
There we go, he thought. His first blood. “Who is he?”
Nigella restored the smile. “A rich man who would not keep his promises.”
James kept his face perfectly still. Such simple human requests. Who knew what kind of evil lurked in the hearts of men? But if he had to kill, he would do it for himself and not for Otis and Melville.
Looking around the bare shack, he realized the witch woman was poor. Her magic skills were a secret she could not share. She had probably given the child away. He would not ask, he promised himself.
She read his mind, of course. “You don’t start having a child when they don’t expect you to.”
James swallowed. Windpoint had been a popular destination for orphaned bastards. They either came to practice law or practice crime. But they fled their lives where even their mothers could not keep them and pitted their anger against brutal survival.
Her simple demands made him sad. He had expected avarice. He had expected gold.
“Do you promise to keep your word?” she asked. It sounded like a threat.
James considered the enormity of his pledge. Across Caytor, his rivals were coming to life, one after another, a tale of lies that would soon be as truthful as any other. One of the impostors had already hanged, after overstepping his authority, but that did not lessen the claim or risk of all the rest.
He had no friends in Pain Daye; he had no one he could trust. He was surrounded by hypocrisy. His future was dark and uncertain, and all he could see was bloodthirsty enemies growing in number, encircling him, waiting for him to drop his guard so they could pounce. He wasn’t even sure he would live to see this future, and that thought fueled him with righteous anger. People wanted him dead, people wanted to manipulate and use him, and all they cared for was the title he bore. His own life was cheap and expendable. No one cared about James. They wanted the emperor.
This witch wanted him to promise something so trivial, and yet so dismaying and complex. A bittersweet revenge at the end of a long journey, so long that things and ideals he’d started with would be meaningless afterward. Then again, it meant that if he lived to see his promise kept, it meant he would live. Well, the old James could still pack his bags and flee, go back to Windpoint, and vanish forever. But he would not go back; he could not go back.
“I promise,” he said.
Nigella was jerky gestures all over again. “You will get help from me.” She rose and walked over to the corner of her singleroom home. By her simple straw pallet, a handful of bags lay, tied with a cord. On top of one, a cat slept. She reached behind the bags, dislodging the animal, which simply slid off without much protest.
She came back with a simple wooden cup and a bone needle. “Extend your arm.”
James did not like the sight of the sharp thing in her hand. But he obeyed. Faster than a snake, she slammed the needle into his forearm, drawing a drop of blood. She leaned over and licked it. It happened before he could blink.
“Your blood says a lot,” she whispered. “But you need political advice before you need a divination. Luckily, I’ve had eight years to study the art of politics.” She could not hide the bitter poison from her voice.
“You need three things. You need a friend, you need a partner, and you need a butcher. Hopefully, they will be three different people.”
James was a little confused, but he waited.
“You need someone you can trust. Otherwise you’re doomed.”
He thought of Rheanna. Yes. No. Maybe.
“You need a powerful partner who will share your goal. Find one. Or create one. But you will have to figure out who among the vultures will peck from your hand. Finally, you need someone to do your dirty work.”
That sounded like a lecture, James thought. He was slightly disappointed. He had expected a more cryptic, more ominous message. He’d not expected sound political advice from a poor woman. It did not sound right.
“I have not always lived here, you dummy,” she told him.
James kept his thoughts tightly lidded. He did not want to guess who she had been before becoming an herbalist. He did not want to let his imagination frame her in sorrow and pity. She was a powerful magic wielder, and she could help him become the emperor in truth.
“Now, give me your seed,” she said and handed him the cup.
“My seed?” James repeated stupidly. He kept his hands in his lap.
She frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean? You mean my…”
Nigella snorted. “Of course. Your semen. I need it for my divination.”
James realized he was blushing. It felt like ants crawling over his skin. “But why?”
The woman was patient. She blinked hard and leaned back. “Soul magic is about the force of life. Water, blood, semen. That’s how it works. The most powerful magic comes from seed. It contains the essence of life.”
He still hesitated.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do that,” James mumbled, feeling utterly embarrassed.
She said nothing for a few moments. “Are you a virgin?”
“No!” he snapped defensively. Then, he deflated. He was here to plot his survival. It would not work out with lies as the foundation. “Yes, I am.” It felt strangely liberating to say something like that to a stranger, a woman no less, but it made him painfully aware of his pent-up frustration and lust. His mind clouded with Rheanna.
“You never fucked a woman, not even a whore?” she asked incredulously.
James blushed again. “No, I did not. I was engaged, back home. And we never did…”
She snapped h
er fingers. “You like men, but you deny it. Is that it?”
“No!” he shouted. “No. That’s not it. It’s just I never had a chance. That’s all.”
Nigella shook her head. “There’s no way you’ll survive the life at court being a virgin. You’ll be torn to bits. Every woman with a bit of self-consciousness will smell you out and take advantage of you. You will be manipulated. Men can’t think clearly when they’re hungry for sex.”
James swallowed. Another lecture. But it felt alarmingly true. Whenever he saw Rheanna, he felt blood pounding in his temples. It was irrational. It made him nervous and distracted. He let his desire rule him. He knew it was wrong, but he could not help it.
After sinning, in the silent moments of guilt and clarity, he rationalized his actions and thought of what he must do, but when he actually met Rheanna and other women, the supple bodies and intoxicating smells softened his resolve. He felt himself react in sympathy to their subtle hints and unspoken terms, even if his mind did not acknowledge it. He lived a paradox and was helpless to prevent it.
“What should I do?”
“You must start having sex with women. You must grow immune to their lures. Sex must become a duty for you, a boring duty. You must make sure sex cannot be a weapon used against you.”
James felt his right eye twitch. A flicker of panic engulfed him. What was he supposed to do? Start making lewd offers to noble ladies who came to visit him? He recalled Otis telling him about frogskins. The man had actually given him sound advice. Maybe Otis really meant good? Or maybe they knew he would get in trouble and wanted to avoid the diplomatic scandals?
“I should let all those women who court me get into my bed, then?”
Nigella almost jumped. “What? No. Those are your enemies. No. They will try to manipulate you. You must never let them seduce you. No. No. You should have sex with the help instead. Go into nearby towns and have sex with tavern wenches and whores. Don’t ever let the rich ladies hold your cock. It’s a sure sign of surrender.”
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 22
