Jerrica had died of her wounds yesterday, having survived the entire march from Roalas. Amalia saved her tears for later, much later.
The morning was wet, the wind flapping the wash lines and an icy rain undoing her work. But she did it anyway, clumsy as she was. Agatha stood at her side, shivering, helping her. Amalia still hadn’t thanked her for saving her life back at the palace. But she would make it up to her one day, she promised herself.
James laughed suddenly, stealing her attention and fascination again. He was smiling, his face free of worry. Damn him. But there was nothing she could do now. Instead, she dipped her wrinkled imperial fingers into the bucket of cold water and watched her reflection ripple on the surface. For a moment she thought her face was smiling, too. But it was a rictus of anger. Gritting her teeth, checking her emotions, she pulled the wet shirt, squeezed it, and tried to hang it, the cold, wet fabric slapping her in the face.
This humiliation was a lesson, she knew. Her father had taught her about hardship and difficult choices and suffering. She hoped she would be strong enough to endure it.
Amalia dipped her fingers into the bucket again and fished out another shirt.
Tanid watched the Special Child walk away from the Womb. Then, he stepped out of his hiding, into the clearing, and approached the two mounds of freshly turned earth. Elia and Damian, buried side by side. Only Damian was wearing that alien human face, but it was still him.
The god of weather paced the burial spot, restless. He could feel newfound energy bubbling in his veins. Nineteen years ago, he had woken from his stupor to find himself struggling for survival against a brutal humanity. With some cunning and much luck, he had survived the first onslaught, long enough to gather his wits and try to adapt to a reality of treachery and violence.
The human faith in him had sustained him until he learned how to cope in this new age. People always looked up at the sky and wondered what the cloud front would bring, a hail to kill their crops or a salvation for their harvest. They prayed for mild winters and bountiful summers, they prayed for rains, they cursed frost and wind and fires, and they dreaded sea storms that crashed ships against rocks. His presence was with them at all times, and their belief empowered him.
He had anticipated Damian’s son would arrive in this land to seek his revenge. He had realized that he, too, would die at the hands of human hunters if he didn’t adapt and start thinking like them. But how could he outsmart beasts at their own game?
He had been inspired when he’d seen a heron riding a nosehorn in the savanna near Gale Ropan. No, they called it Parus now. Such a small bird, riding on top of a dangerous animal that didn’t fear even lions. How could that be? But then, he knew what he had to do.
Become the heron on the nosehorn’s back.
His skill with weapons could not best that of Calemore and his cronies. There was no way he could outsmart him. The White Witch was too crafty, too powerful, too old and experienced to fall to simple tactics of guile and lies and deception, skills that Tanid did not have. But someone like Calemore would too easily ignore the gnats biting at his hide, only because someone like him never paid any attention to insects.
Tanid’s instinct urged him to flee as far away as he could. But his brain told him to stay close to the beast. And so he did.
Running away from the hunt would have made Calemore aware of his divine presence, guide the hunters onto his tracks, like he had done with all the rest. But with Tanid shadowing him mere paces away, watching him from behind street corners, sleeping under the roof of the same inn, the witch could not use his senses to detect him. Maybe his magic was incapable of feeling a god so close by. Maybe. But his arrogance would not allow for such a possibility. And so he looked far away, where he expected his prey to be, and the human animals following him did the same. All the while, Tanid hid in their shadow, following them on their quest of death.
It hadn’t been easy, but he had managed it. He had reached the Womb alive, hiding right under their noses, with Calemore and Damian never knowing any better. He had witnessed Damian kill his beloved for the second time, watched the witch flee.
He had felt Damian die at the hands of that boy.
And in that moment, the surge of all the divine power in the world into his own essence.
He was now the only god left, and all of faith belonged to him.
Calemore had wanted to make himself into a god. Instead, he had made Tanid more powerful than he had ever been. His strength was slowly growing. But soon, he would make human belief so much bigger. There was nothing like calamity to make people turn to their makers.
Tanid watched the world around him. His world. He was no longer just the god of weather; he was the god of everything. And he would not make the same mistakes Damian had.
Nigella touched the book almost fearfully.
“The Book of Lost Words must not be copied,” the man in white was telling her, repeating himself. “If you try to copy so much as one letter, you will die. Do you understand?”
It must be a myth, Nigella thought. But she kept her mouth shut.
The strange man with his too-pale eyes had showed up at her new home a week back, asking for a divination. Unlike most, he had had no qualms offering his spit and blood and seed to her. He had even paid her coin for her services, although it made her feel like a whore. She did charge money, but with this man, the experience had left her disturbed.
She had not expected to see him again, but then he had come to her shanty again, offering her a beautiful book and a proposal.
Nigella thought she should not trust him. She should not trust any man. They were all selfish, lying bastards. That fool James, may he be cursed for all eternity, had not shown any qualms banishing her from Pain Daye. He had used her, extracted the truths he needed, and then sent her away, breaking his promise. Just like Rob. She was angry, but mostly for not seeing it happen.
She wasn’t sure if she hadn’t started imagining that James might actually be interested in her as more than just a witch. She knew better than to let her work interfere with her emotions, but she had given in to something like girlish infatuation. All men were nice when it came to pumping some flesh. She was such an idiot.
James had even apologized for his choice, but he had still made her pack her things and leave. She was smart enough to perceive the threat, even one so plushly wrapped and veiled like his. There would come a moment when she would have her vengeance.
This man promised her that. Another promise.
“Woman,” the man in white snapped. “Are you listening?”
Nigella pushed the spectacles up her nose. “Yes.”
His smile made her cringe. “Good. Keep the book safe.”
Almost reluctantly, he placed the well-kept volume by her bare knee. Then, his cold finger stroked her skin. She squirmed, pulling away, uncomfortable with his touch.
“You have a very unique gift, Nigella,” he told her. “And you must hone it.”
Nigella felt butterflies of dread flutter in her belly. What had she gotten herself into? For what? To see two calculating bastards dead? One who had left her with a child and abandoned her, another who had broken his promise? All men did that. Something told her the price of her soul was not worth it.
But she could not shrug off the almost uncomfortable look on James’s face when he told her how Rob and he were good friends. The look of practiced sincerity. The look that told her she was not worth the attention he was giving her. Make Rob pay for her son’s future, he would. As if that could erase the humiliation of his betrayal.
She could refuse, she told herself weakly. Refuse this terrible man and his unnatural eyes. There would be nothing good coming from this, she could tell, even without a divination.
“Nigella,” the man said in a soft, sweet voice, “I would make you into a queen. Would you like that?”
“I only want to look after my son,” she blurted defensively.
“He will be a prince, then,” he cont
inued smoothly.
“I don’t know what I want,” she said cautiously.
He pushed the book closer to her. “You want to know the future, don’t you?”
Nigella felt herself nod. She was sitting naked, feeling violated by his stare.
“Good,” he said, grinning, pearly white teeth gleaming. No one had such perfect teeth. Her own were too big for her jaw, she knew. She would like to have teeth like those. “This book will tell you everything you ever wanted to know. Everything. The entire future is there. And I need your help unraveling it. Will you do it for me? In return, you can have anything you want.”
The future, she thought. It was what she was, who she was. But the price?
“Anything?”
The man in white never stopped smiling. “I will visit you tomorrow.” And he left.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Igor Ljubuncic is a physicist by vocation and a Linux geek by profession. He is the founder and operator of the website www.dedoimedo.com, where you can learn a lot about a lot. Before dabbling in operating systems, Igor worked in the medical hi-tech industry as a scientist. However, what he likes to do most is write. Passionate about the fantasy genre, he has been writing since the age of ten. You can learn more about Igor’s writing on his book series website, www.thelostwordsbooks.com.
Table of Contents
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 68
