Still, at night, he would listen to her quiet cries, his chest hurting with sorrow. “We must find my daughters. We must find them.” It was almost a litany, a mumble that only ceased when the pain grew too much to bear and she drifted into a gray nightmare of regret and despair.
The pirates shadowed them away from Monard and toward Athesia for almost a week, never quite coming too close, never attacking. They kept true to their word, or perhaps, it was the fear of Ewan’s curse—and retribution. He was glad for the respite, because he was not quite sure he could handle the two women and a horde of brigands at the same time.
He considered confronting them. They might know something about Doris’s girls. But it was a stupid, infantile notion. The Oth Danesh had conducted thousands of raiding parties into Caytor, taking away children from hundreds of nameless villages. Few would know or care where they found their prizes. One slave was just like another, a tiny lump of meat they locked up in a galley cage.
The sight of pirates made Doris wet her dress, but she pretended she didn’t see them. She had withdrawn into a huddle of cold emotion. She kept silent and to herself. And followed. Like Constance, she was chased by her terror and didn’t know what to do. So she trailed the one person who seemed to know what he was doing.
Ewan wished he did.
Nine days since the encounter with the pirate scum, they reached the first inhabited settlement, a village that marked the end of the Caytorean rule and the beginning of the young empire of Athesia. Ewan knew the difference only by the presence of a tiny Parusite garrison holding the land. King Sergei’s banner flew on top of the mill. Not far from it, farmers worked their narrow strips of land, just as they had months and years before.
The West Road snaked south, toward Parus, but Ewan’s mission took him down a dusty path due west. They left the first Athesian village behind, walked past a stone marker bearing city names inscribed on its wind-worn faces, ignored the broken remains of a trader’s cart and the bleached bones of a dead animal—maybe a horse or an ox that had pulled that wagon—that decorated the weedy sides of the track.
A day later, the small town of Naro loomed ahead, a patch of slate roofs and smoke. Here, the quiet emptiness of the Caytorean countryside ravaged by the pirates ended, replaced by the bustle of life and trade. Coming from the seashore, Ewan’s small party had missed the rush of people and convoys going across the land. Maybe for the better, he thought. He did not relish the idea of Constance and Doris meeting bored soldiers.
The people who greeted them were a mix of locals and foreigners. Ewan perked his ears and listened to what they had to share. The country folks had fled the rumor of war and slaughter, but after they learned the Parusite king would not butcher them in cold blood, slowly, warily, they had returned to their abandoned homes and doused hearths and set about rebuilding their lives under a new ruler. Mixed among their lot was a throng of migrants, come with the tide of war.
Southern Athesia was a cauldron of cultures now. Villages and towns were run by Parusite barons and retired captains. The provosts administered economy and law, but in general, they left the Athesians in peace. King Sergei obviously intended to annex Athesia rather than destroy it, and he needed its peasants and craftsmen for after the war. And as far as the common man was concerned, one king or another, it made little difference.
The roads were busy with traffic, army convoys and trade caravans, trains of refugees, peddlers, free riders, war profiteers, and clergy. The Parusites were busy building shrines and temples and repairing damaged property, paving streets with fresh stone, hanging bandits, herding livestock to pasture. Life was trickling back. After the ghostly expanse of western Caytor, this boiling activity alarmed Ewan.
It was drizzling as they neared Naro. The wind was blowing the drops almost horizontally, and they cut under the clothing. Both his female companions looked miserable. His thin cloak was just a pretense to make them feel comfortable. For all he cared, it could have been raining drops of molten iron.
Although it was only midday, Ewan decided they would lodge in the town for at least a day. They needed fresh supplies. His rations had been originally intended for two people, and with Doris joining them for the last two weeks, food was running low. Ewan intended to let the women rest, buy fresh horses, and get proper winter clothing. His stomach roiled with anxiety, but he tried to ignore the nagging sensation.
The fits of bone-deep agony had come several times since, but they had subsided of late. However, his sense of urgency and blind panic did not recede. He felt the silence of pain in his blood was not a good sign. Something terrible was going to happen soon, and he feared he might not be able to prevent it. He should leave Constance and Doris and just run, day and night, without stopping. But he just could not bring himself to do it.
A small party of Parusite cavalry joined by Athesian deserters and mercenaries intercepted them by a small stone bridge. Ewan expected a scuffle, but it turned out the soldiers were looking for Oth Danesh. The king was displeased with his allies, it seemed, and he was actively hunting down the pirate raiding parties. The three of them were let go with only a handful of suspicious looks and as many leers.
They entered the town, every chimney stack holding a spear tied to it, and the Parusite flags flying from them whipping in the rain and wind.
Halfway down the road to the main square, they passed a tree. Several bodies hung from the low branches, swaying in the wind. Constance looked sick. Doris saw nothing. She rode in a stupor, haunted by her own demons.
Ewan wondered what Doris might ultimately try to do. She was a member of the Caytorean High Council and the widow of the late mayor of Monard. There was no state of war between Caytor and Parus, and yet forces fighting under the Parusite banner had butchered her family. The woman might decide to take up the matter with the local garrison commander. Ewan was not sure how her protest would be accepted. The Parusites might decide they were better off silencing a displeased Caytorean than worrying their king with yet more bad news of war and pillage by their allies. He feared her choice. But there was little he could do. He had saved the woman’s life. He could not abandon her now. Ayrton would never let the weak suffer.
There was only one inn in Naro, and all of its rooms were booked. However, extra gold quickly vacated one and even secured stalls for their horses.
Ewan decided the two women needed some privacy. He had seen them both naked, but not at the same time. Somehow, he knew his presence would make things worse. He told them to remain in their room and bolt the door firmly. Constance remembered the secret knock. Just before he left, he made sure Doris could use the knife.
He left, thinking about his lovemaking with Constance in Shurbalen. The girl had not approached him since, and he dreaded making any advances. He did not want her to think he was trying to take advantage of her. But he yearned for her touch, yearned for some kind of relationship, friendship, anything. He truly had no one in this world anymore.
A weary, filthy traveler drew little attention in a town infested with foreigners. There were few people outside in the icy rain, but the shops were bustling with commerce. The Parusites were arguing with the locals over prices and ideology, coming to terms with their tenacious legacy. Ewan remembered the last time he had traveled through this region, this land had belonged to Caytor. He could still hardly believe eighteen years had marched past, while he had not aged one bit.
There were lots of armed people everywhere. He did not like them. Unemployed soldiers were bound to cause trouble sooner or later. And yet, despite the flickering tension, Naro managed without brawls and street fights.
Ewan settled in quickly. His dockyard worker’s manners made him a friendly guest everywhere. In less than an hour, he seemed to know everything about this war. The Parusites were harsh but just. They kept crime in tight check. Any person caught inciting violence was put in stocks or paraded naked through the town. Men lost arms and tongues for stealing and befouling the king or the gods. The sharp bl
ade of the law extended to spies and all sorts of troublemakers. Bodies swayed from trees in orchards and from rusty drains, a reminder of the blade’s sharp edge. Naturally, people abused the situation to settle old scores and feuds. Religion was coming back into the lives of the Athesians, after an age of neglect. Morning and evening prayers were mandatory. People grumbled, but not enough to get their heads lopped off.
He made a few purchases and headed back to the inn. He knocked. Doris opened, holding a thin poniard in her hand. She put the knife away. Ewan laid the bag of tools and clothes on the floor.
Doris watched him intently. Her big eyes were wet with tears. “I’m okay,” she said.
Ewan nodded, uncomfortable. What kind of solace could he offer a woman who had lost her family? What could he tell her that would make a difference? She pretended to be strong, she tried to believe in her pretense, but in the small hours of the night, her resolve shattered. The intimacy of those painful, bleak moments shamed him. In the morning, her pain-wreathed face promised fresh vigor, but the sadness never quite went away.
And then, she was his senior, perhaps by as much as a decade. He felt like a child near her. Still, somehow, she deferred to him. Maybe it was his strength. Maybe it was the scarring of the Abyss that had made him old and somber beyond measure.
“I’ll bring us some food,” he said.
“No meat for me,” Doris said.
Ewan looked around the small, dark room; the window was boarded. “Where’s Constance?”
“She forgot some things in her saddlebags. She said she would be back soon.”
“I told her not to leave—” Ewan sighed in annoyance. Her near-death experience in Eybalen should have left her wiser. But what could he do? Berate a girl for not understanding the twisted nature of humanity?
“Stay in the room, please,” he instructed and went to search for his other companion.
Down below and behind the inn’s common room, he heard the giggles first. Then, a man’s throaty laugh. He entered the stables and saw Constance talking to a groom, less than an arm’s length away. When she spotted him, she stepped back quickly.
The man turned toward Ewan. Annoyance flashed across his face. “What do you want?”
Ewan paused to think. He was not quite sure he loved Constance. No, not that. He cared. He cared for her a lot. She was a fragile mystery, a crushed soul that he felt obliged to nurse back to vitality. And their intimate moment in Shurbalen had stirred a deep longing inside him. Without friends and family, he craved affection. The sight of her talking to this man made him jealous. He felt a pang of anger bubble in his veins.
An involuntary thought arrowed through his mind. He saw his right fist punch the annoyed look off the man’s head, along with the skin and bones of his skull. He envisioned his rock-hard hand connect with the man’s features and ruin them like thin porcelain.
Instead, he said, “Nothing, just came to check on my things, that’s all.”
“Well, you don’t come in my stables like that, you little brat. You hear!” the man shouted. Constance looked pale and uncomfortable. She reached a trembling hand toward the groom.
Ewan carefully examined the other man. Tall and big, with fat muscles and golden hair. He was a hand taller and two hands wider than Ewan. His face was chiseled, with rugged appeal, and whiskered. It was cold outside, but the man was wearing only a leather vest that showed off his brawny arms.
Ewan looked at Constance. Her look of panic pleaded silently. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He averted his eyes, breaking off the challenge. The groom snorted loudly, derisively. Ewan went to his saddlebags and feigned interest in the freshly oiled straps, fumbling with the leather, containing his anger and disappointment. He left.
Their lunch was strained. Ewan ate in silence, avoiding Constance. Doris watched them both carefully, trying to gauge what had transpired in the stables. Perhaps Ewan was just angry with her for leaving.
On his side of the small room, Ewan was stealing looks at the councillor. She was shrewd when she put her mind to it. He remembered running his hands over her flesh that day. He shivered.
The two women did not talk to each other much. There was mistrust there. Constance seemed very wary of Doris for some reason, and her unease seeped through her skin and projected back. It had been only a matter of time before the other woman returned the gesture. Ewan kept wondering what made Constance so afraid of anything that had to do with Caytor. After long weeks on the road, he was convinced she was hiding a deep secret from him. She could read; she ate daintily. She must have been raised in a decent family, he suspected. And yet, he had found her bleeding to death in a gutter in the seediest part of the city. There was something wrong there.
Then again, both women shared the same fate. They had both lost their children. Constance never talked about it. Maybe she mistrusted him. But then why had she made love to him? Why? Was that payment for a favor? Was that affection? A moment of need? He was confused and angered.
His thoughts strayed toward Doris. She was a very lovely, intelligent woman. Despite her terrible ordeal, she emanated warmth and trust. He liked talking to her, especially when he forgot the age difference. And he could not ignore the simple fact that he had saved her life, twice, and that he had shared her sorrow. The unreserved commitment had changed him.
In the evening, they visited the common room for about an hour. They kept apart, trying not to draw too much attention. Ewan spent most of his time watching the bored soldiers gamble and slap the serving girls on the bottom. For all their cultural differences, the Parusites and Athesians got along well when drunk. It was as if the war had never happened.
An elderly priest entered an hour before sunset and called everyone to pray. As one, the guests stood up and murmured a litany to the gods. The clergyman crushed some herbs in his hands, scattered them on the ground, and left.
Ewan realized he had been praying quite loudly. But it felt odd. He wondered what fate had befallen Lar.
Back in the room, the two women shared the bed. Ewan pretended to sleep on the hard floor, listening to rats skittle through the rotten walls. His mind swam with doubt—and the ever-present urgency. He had to go to the City of Gods. He knew that now. And every passing moment made the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that much colder.
In the morning, he rose an hour before dawn. Constance and Doris were still sleeping, cradled together for warmth. Quietly, he left the room and locked it behind him. There was something he had to do.
As he expected, he found the groom awake, hammering on the anvil under the awning of his smithy shed. A pair of black sausages sizzled near the red bolt of metal. It was raining outside, a flat curtain of silent gray drops.
Ewan approached silently. The blond man finally noticed him. He turned, holding the hammer in his right hand. “What do you want, boy?”
“I want you to apologize,” Ewan said simply.
The man smiled. “Eh, you drunk, boy? I’m gonna teach you a lesson. Beat it.”
Ewan stepped closer. “I’m a guest at this inn. You will apologize.”
Without warning, the man swung the hammer. It was aimed for the legs. He did not want to kill Ewan, but he sure intended to make it hurt a lot. Ewan did not dodge and let the metal connect with his thigh. The tool clanged and dropped on the ground.
Quietly, Ewan grabbed the groom by the neck and lifted him off the ground easily. The man gurgled, his face turning dark red. His arms and legs flailed wildly, but he might as well have been wrestling with an ox.
“Apologize.”
“Ooorree,” the stableboy rasped.
Ewan dropped him. The man collapsed, breathing heavily, nursing his right arm. Without another word, Ewan left. He woke Doris and Constance, and they set about preparing for the road.
They took almost four hours, but it was time well spent, including the prayer. For some weird reason, Ewan felt good about it. Furthermore, unlike their hasty departure from Shurbalen, Ewan plan
ned for the journey ahead. He bought yet another horse and loaded its back with goods of all kinds, tools, weapons, blankets, anything they might need. He even purchased a short hunting bow for himself, not that he knew how to use it, but he hoped it would deter bandits. He also considered buying a proper sword, but decided against it. A boy sauntering with a broadsword at his hip was an invitation to trouble.
At his side, Doris was getting ready for the road. She looked anxious. He thought he knew what she was about to do.
“We will continue west,” he said, as he did every morning.
Doris nodded. Ewan waited, but she did not comment on his travel plan.
“You are welcome to come with me,” he murmured softly.
She smiled sadly. He could not decipher the look she gave him. “I want to see the town provost,” Doris said finally, confirming Ewan’s fears.
“Do you think it’s wise?” he asked quietly. In the best case, the officer might believe the councillor and send a letter of protest to King Sergei. The last thing Ewan needed was unnecessary attention and yet another delay. But could he tell a mother who had just lost her two babies not to do that because he was in a hurry?
She produced a small ring from a fold of her dress. It was her signet. Constance flashed a quick, panicky glance at the ring.
Ewan sighed. “We’ll go together.” There was nothing else he could do.
“Thank you,” she said and smiled. Gently, she caressed his cheek. It was a part friendly, part motherly gesture. Ewan felt embarrassed. His jaw was devoid of any hair. He did not have a rugged face, and had no beard. Constance was busy with her own saddle. The groom stood some distance away, avoiding them.
As soon as they had finished packing, they left their horses with the blond stableboy. His name was Tom, and he promised to watch them. Ewan gave him an extra silver, which only confused him more. On foot, they headed for the small manor house that served both as the army command and the mayor’s office.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 39
