Bart scratched his cheek. “No. You are correct. I’m an emissary for Monarch Leopold of Somar. I am Count Bartholomew of Barrin in Eracia. Before you ask, the Parusite king refuses to see you or anyone else. However, I felt it was important that I meet with you.” He was wearing a slightly smug expression on his face that probably meant he had slightly bent some rules and protocols to meet with supposed enemies of his realm.
“Why?” Ewan said quietly.
“To discuss your terms before I leave for the city,” the count said simply.
Doris seemed to be on the verge of crying. Gently, under the desk, Ewan reached for and squeezed her hand, offering what little support he could. Ewan had no idea what the man was talking about, but he was not going to divulge his ignorance.
“What do you mean, sir?” he probed carefully.
Bart pursed his lips and puffed loudly. “Are you not here to discuss the release of the Caytorean hostages?”
“I am here to demand the release of my daughters,” Doris whispered through gritted teeth. Tears budded in the corners of her eyes.
Bart leaned back, confused. “Tell me more,” he said after a while. Doris started crying.
Ewan stared hard at the Eracian, wondering. Was this some kind of ploy? Was this man working for the Parusite king as an interrogator, trying to weed out sympathy and information?
But all he saw was simple, pure defiance and blank honesty. That look would have fitted any of his dock friends perfectly, a face with a single purpose in life. Ewan wished he knew what that purpose was. He would have to share first before he learned anything.
So he took the lead and told their story, slowly, carefully, what few details he dared divulge, mindful of the conflicting interests between the Parusites and Eracians. He didn’t feel like a politician, but his instincts steered him through a vague, sparse tale that omitted more than it gave. He told nothing of Constance and her ordeal in the capital, nothing of his own terrible burden. His heart skipped a beat when he gargled his assumed identity and that of Constance, but the count said nothing.
Bart listened carefully, his intelligent eyes shifting left and right, weighing the three strangers. His gaze would often linger longest on Constance, who had so far spoken not a word. Then, he relaxed and told them his story, the six months of warfare they had mostly missed. He shared his perspective on things.
Quickly, Ewan realized this man was not their enemy.
He was not their friend, either.
It seemed the count was not in league with the Parusite king. Like themselves, he was a man in a place he did not wish to be, without a choice. Ewan wanted to believe him, but his guard was up, and he just couldn’t sweat the blobs of trust the other man expected. Instead, Ewan kept quiet, reserved, judging, wondering.
One thing was sure, whatever purpose or higher cause guided this man, he was not going to let an opportunity to meet with a Caytorean councillor slip through his fingers.
Ewan started to worry. His knowledge of how members of the High Council and their family behaved was nonexistent.
Seemingly oblivious, Bart spared no detail. He told them everything he knew, the rush to conquer the city, the Pum’be assassinations, the daring night battles, the Autumn Festival kidnapping, the feud with the Oth Danesh. Ewan felt naked against the onslaught of news. And alarmed.
“I will be going to meet with the Athesian empress in a few days. My mission is to secure the release of Eracian dignitaries. But there might be more I could do.”
Ewan sensed the opportunity—or was it a trap? Doris was too shocked to notice. She just sat there, emotionally exhausted. For weeks, she had built up her resolve, preparing for a duel with the Parusite king. And now that it would never come, she felt drained, defeated.
Ewan cursed his bad luck. He had hoped to depart as soon as Doris parlayed with King Sergei, but apparently, he would have to stay with Doris several more days and keep enduring the tingling pain in his muscles. What he did not know was what to do with Constance. She could not follow him where he had to go. But he could not just leave her, either.
“We must consider your offer. Thank you,” he mumbled.
Bart just nodded. The Eracian did not press with his questions. He knew he would have an opportunity to ask more later.
There was little else to say, so they left.
The little clearing where Bart lived was occupied by his Eracian retinue and a handful of Parusite soldiers protecting them. Ewan was given a tent in the far row, which he was told to share with the two women.
Early dawn saw him lying on the cold ground, listening to the wind howling through the slits in the tent canvas. Both his charges were asleep, curled in woolen blankets, each on her own cot. Ewan decided he had pretended enough sleep and left the small shelter.
Outside, the world was black and white and shimmering with predawn light. It promised to be a clear, cloudless day after weeks of torrents. Eracian and Parusite soldiers alike stood guard, swathed in furs, with gloves and cowls to keep the frost at bay. Snow would not come for another month or so, but it was already freezing.
“You are the Caytorean lord, aren’t you?” someone whispered at his side. “Smoke?”
Ewan politely declined. He tried to see the face inside the hood. It was a woman, young, skinny, with sharp, pinched features.
“Corporal Kacey, sir,” the bundle introduced itself.
“Ewan,” he said simply.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked him.
With panic, he realized he was only wearing a thin linen tunic. He cursed his lapse of concentration. He should have been more careful.
“I’m used to harsh winters,” he said. He hoped the drowsy sentry wouldn’t question his lies.
She did not, but his presence attracted attention. Several more soldiers approached, all bored, yearning for anything to help them pass their shift. Ewan felt trapped.
“To your posts,” a voice commanded, relieving him. Count Bart, dressed just as lightly as he, approached, puffing on something thin and black. Gray smoke curled through his beard. He looked eerie. “Have a grudge against the world, I see, Lord Ewan,” the count said.
Ewan shrugged. When you had nothing wise to say, you kept your mouth shut. Ayrton had taught him that.
“I know you are not a Caytorean noble,” he said simply, deliberately avoiding the pained expression on Ewan’s face. “I know that young woman is not your sister.”
“How?” he asked at length.
“Because she told me she came from Eybalen. You hail from Monard. And your accent is all wrong.”
Ewan feigned innocence. But he felt a bubble of anger rise in his throat. He should have kept an eye on Constance. “My accent?”
Bart smiled. “No one else would notice that. But you speak like them, the Parusites. You must be coming from the Safe Territories. Now, I’m trying to guess whether you’re an assassin or a fool or something else entirely.”
There was no point lying about his identity, Ewan realized. It would only anger the man. “I am here to help Councillor Doris find her children.” “Stick to the truth when you can,” Ayrton had told him.
The count flicked the leftover of his cigarette far away. It trailed orange sparks and landed in a half-frozen horse piss puddle. “King Sergei had already ordered all Caytorean captives taken by the pirates released, but you know that. If Doris’s daughters are among the living, they will be returned.” He did not need to say how slim that chance was. “But why are you here?”
Ewan sighed. “My business has nothing to do with the Parusites, nor Eracians, nor Caytoreans.”
That seemed to satisfy the count. “We will talk later.” The man shivered and started to depart.
Ewan seemed to understand what the man had meant earlier about the grudge. “Aren’t you cold, sir?”
Bart grimaced. “Very much so, but so far, I’m winning.” He hopped away, trying to warm himself.
Later that day, he saw Constance chatting to Count
Bartholomew again. She seemed at ease, all smiles and curtsies and flirting, as if she were not half the world away from home, surrounded by thousands of killers who could become her enemies at any moment. He realized he should not let her be alone with the Eracian. She had already betrayed vital information to him. Who knew what else she might tell. But if he tried dragging her away, it would make him all the more suspicious.
So he resorted to the one thing that was always in abundance—waiting. Hour by hour, his anxiety grew. He felt an invisible current of icy heat tug at him from the west, pulling, luring, enticing. The presence of living energy was almost palpable in the air.
He should leave. He had to do it. But he could not bring himself to part from the two women. There was something stopping him. Maybe because he still thought they needed him. Maybe it was his need to have people depend on him, maybe confusion. Perhaps it was affection. Ewan could not forget that one lovemaking with Constance. It had changed him. And Doris…it was complicated.
Days passed. Count Bart took his time leaving for Roalas. Ewan was furious, desperate, helpless, but there was nothing he could do. He had promised to help Doris, and he could not break that promise.
Ewan spent his time studying the Eracians and the Parusites, learning about their habits and ideals. Deep down, they were no different from their neighbors. All people wanted simple things in life. War was just something that happened and had to be endured. Their dispassionate lack of hate was unnerving. Killing people was just business.
In rare moments of sadness, Ewan remembered his old god almost like a guilty aftershock, the one friend you remembered only when someone asked you to name too many. Lar was a distant shadow, a frail and forgotten ghost. Once, Ewan had found calmness and reason in prayer. Lately, when he did join the invading army soldiers for a morning or evening service, the words of worship felt empty, meaningless.
He felt it was mostly the change in his heart, but there was something else, the tingling in his stomach. It wasn’t just the dulling of his soul.
Count Bart provided him with much entertainment and intrigue. He spent his days mingling with soldiers, something that most noble people avoided. And yet, he felt at ease around the armed men, both his countrymen and his hosts, chatting, eating, joking, sharing in their pain and joy. Constance was around him all the time. They seemed inseparable.
Ewan watched from a distance, enraged, helpless.
Doris never mingled. She kept to herself, some old books, and the anticipation of seeing her girls returned to her. Every morning, she would send a bored Parusite soldier scurrying to their king to return with a simple answer: the king did as the king pleased, they said. And there was nothing else she could do.
Ewan knew this meant there would be no meeting with the king anytime soon.
And then, she would go to the outer camp to await the return of refugees and prisoners freed from the Oth Danesh ships. True to Bart’s words, Sergei was trying to secure the release of the Caytorean people abducted in the pirate raids. The end result was chaos. The pirates hardly knew the names and places where they had taken their captives, so they beached their vessels wherever they could and dumped the few survivors onto the shore. The Parusites tried to help, but few people were willing to go back to their burned villages. Southern Caytor still boiled with raids and pillage.
In the icy rain and whipping winds, the stragglers were marched into temporary camps to await the end of this war. None came their way. The siege camp around Roalas was no place to herd women and children. Only a few elder men arrived, hollow eyed and lost.
But long lists of names did travel. The Parusite clerks did their best to keep record of all the people they had saved, and those they could not. King Sergei wanted to be sure the Caytorean High Council of Trade could appreciate his effort in keeping peace with their realm.
Doris was allowed to peruse the wrinkled swaths, reading names and descriptions. Every day, she went back to her bed weeping, her hope shriveling like an autumn leaf. She never found her girls on one of the lists.
Ewan felt her pain. But there was nothing else he could do.
Another week passed. Constance never left the Eracian’s side. Ewan dared not interfere. He just wondered how much more mercy he had left for everyone but himself. Rain, hail, fog, whipping winds. The roads turned into mire again, and travel almost ceased. Then, one morning, Doris didn’t leave the tent to watch for the arrival of rescue parties and their dreaded lists. Alarmed, Ewan went inside. She was sitting on her cot, rubbing her puffy eyes.
“My daughters are dead,” she moaned.
“No, they are not,” he said. What else could he say?
The councillor smiled sadly. She leaned closer, stroking his hair. “You are such a gentle person, Ewan.”
Ewan felt his heart ache. It was sorrow, deep, intimate sorrow. He shared this woman’s pain as if the girls were his. He had no idea where his compassion came from, but he knew he was throttling his own desperate need for her sake. He had done all he could.
Ewan looked at her carefully. She was in her midtwenties, maybe even a little older. She looked older than Maya, the whore in Eybalen. Oh, what a fool he had once been. And probably still was. The memory of the day he had pulled Doris from the cold river flashed in his mind. Something stirred inside him.
The tent flap rustled behind them. Ewan spun around quickly, a flicker of guilt coursing down his gullet. Why do I feel guilt, he thought. Constance stood at the entrance, watching him carefully. Her expression was unreadable.
“Bart is leaving,” she said.
Ewan noted she was on first-name terms with the count. It pained him. But why? He was such a fool. This had to end soon. He looked at Doris. She had retreated into her own bubble of pain. The moment was gone.
Outside, Count Bart stood dressed in fine wool and gold. He had combed his beard and smoothed the curls with lard, but he had not trimmed it. Behind him, a party of five was mounted, all Eracian soldiers. They wore their uniforms, washed of mud and dirt. Several others waited on foot.
“I will return in two days. I hope,” the man was saying, almost indifferently, addressing one of them; an officer, Ewan guessed. “We will talk some more then.”
More waiting, Ewan thought. “Have a safe journey, sir,” he offered. Bart turned toward him and nodded curtly. Ewan hoped the count would find his answers. Just as he hoped to find his own. He wondered where that Oth Danesh Toraan was now. Had he found Doris’s children? I must go, he told himself.
But he stayed.
He stood motionless as Bart winked at his men and rode off.
CHAPTER 44
“An Eracian count?” Gerald repeated slowly, in case he had misheard the messenger. It made no sense. Amalia’s letter could not have reached Somar just yet. With bad weather, it would take weeks before they received a reply, if any. The commander sighed. He had a long day ahead of him. “Bring him in.”
It would be at least two hours before the count was admitted into Amalia’s study. He had to be led through the city from the gates, questioned, searched for weapons and poisons. Gerald was not taking any chances.
He still walked somewhat gingerly, the fat scar tissue in his side pulling with every step. But there was no blood or pus. He would live. Unlike so many others.
There were a lot of things to be done. The dungeons were growing crammed once more. Edwin was there, replacing Vlad, now that the boy had been moved into a more comfortable prison. Half a dozen city merchants and dignitaries were also locked. Luke had exposed a plot to open the city gates and let the Parusites in. Supposedly, the enemy king was going to pardon them and let them retain their posts and wealth after Roalas was taken.
All in all, high treason was a simple crime. People bet on the wrong side and lost. What worried Gerald was the phenomenon of well-fed, high-class citizens turning coat on their ruler, on their nation.
After the Night of Surprises, the city breathed more easily. There was hope in the streets, and the common
folk smiled and cheered the soldiers when they rode past. Bread and vegetables were still in shortage, but people believed their empress could bring them victory. It should have been enough to give him and Luke a few weeks of respite, spare them from the grueling, exhausting work of purging rats and hunting for ghosts. But it wasn’t.
It was all the more shocking to learn that the national rift was growing deeper by the day. People openly identified themselves with their former lands. Caytoreans and Eracians, all Athesian citizens, moved apart now and spoke little with one another and with mistrust. It was maddening. Worse yet, both accused the other party of treason and cowardice.
Treason had no preference for affiliation, it seemed. Rich people of both factions conspired together to see this war ended. They did not believe in Amalia’s ability to win. Pragmatic as only people with money could be, they aimed to cut their losses. They had survived the Feoran purges; they had lived through Adam’s reign. Changing colors one more time should not matter much.
Lord Benedict was not among the imprisoned, but his negative attitude was as much to blame for the rebellion. He had not spoken against the guild heads when they had spoken against their empress. He had kept silent.
For Luke and Gerald, he was another name on the list of people who needed to be watched.
The captain of the City Guard didn’t like the burden placed on his shoulders. But he would endure it. He would try the impossible, like his own father and like Emperor Adam. The City Guard was turning into a real fighting force. The talk of the revival of the legendary First Legion was growing like lichen on wet cellar walls. And his role as the leader of the surviving Athesian troops was all but written in the imperial missives. Officers from the decimated legions stared at him with a mix of awe and guilt and maybe just a bit of jealousy when they forgot their shameful defeats, when they forgot the names of those who had volunteered to sally forth out of Roalas to hunt for traitors and try to break the siege. Most of the time, they drank to their misery and bad luck.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 50
