The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  He still had not visited her. She was feeling lonely. She missed his companionship, no matter how abrupt and terrifying it was. She longed for his touch, for his sharp intellect, for his humor and even his merciless remarks. She longed for his wild passion, when he let it show.

  Every day, she sipped her tea, and she never added laserwort these days. She still believed that Calemore and she could be together one day.

  Despite everything she read in The Book of Lost Words.

  “Mom,” Sheldon called, distracting her.

  Nigella sighed. “Yes, Shel?”

  The boy squirmed onto the bed. “I’m done playing with my army. I want to do something else.”

  She looked about the cabin with some small measure of frustration. Her home was never meant to be a child’s domain. Sheldon had been supposed to grow up in the city, as an apprentice, far from her witchcraft, her customers, her disappointments.

  The Naum invasion had come almost too suddenly, and she didn’t have enough toys and things that would entertain a nine-year-old boy. All his things had burned in Marlheim. But he was a smart lad, and he liked to keep his mind occupied.

  “I can show you how to make a pie later,” she suggested.

  “I don’t wanna do that,” he said, almost whining. Outside, the rain hissed against the timber.

  Nigella pushed her chair back. “Son, please. There’s nothing much to do. But you must be patient. Hopefully, tomorrow, the torrent will end, and you can go play in the hills.” Not that she relished seeing him drag mud into the shack, and worse, those Naum soldiers following him, trying to talk to him in their foreign language.

  Unfortunately for Sheldon—fortunately for her—it did not seem like the rain was going to abate anytime soon. It had been pouring almost the entire week. The seams between the timbers of her house had started to leak, and the floor was damp. But just earlier that morning, despite the wind and cold and whipping downpour, several Naum men had worked on the wood, trying to daub the leaks.

  The boy huffed. “I really wanna do something else.”

  Could she blame him? He had been locked in there with her for so long, without any other children to play with. He was just a boy, after all, and she was probably too morose to make him happy like he needed. Well, what Sheldon really needed was a father figure.

  Someone like…

  No, that would be too much. But then, what did she expect? If someone like Calemore ended up loving her, what would happen to Sheldon? He would be a part of their intimacy for a long while, until she could find another trade for him. Somehow, she doubted the Naum people would be tolerant toward the strange child in their midst. They would hate him, and because of Calemore, they would fear him. He would be different; he would be an outcast. Just like she had been.

  More thunder, but it was drifting away, and the clouds remained dark.

  “Mom, can I read your book?”

  Nigella gripped the edge of the table to steady the tremor in her left hand. Gently, with the other, she pushed the book away. It was open, its oily, perfect text almost shimmering on the fine paper, inviting the eyes to pore over it, to get lost in its ancient, convoluted secrets.

  “No, you cannot,” she whispered.

  “But Mom, I don’t have anything else to do. You always told me I must read books.”

  Yes, read books, become smart and educated, gain advantage over the privileged Caytoreans. He had to do it, because he would have no slack in his life. She could not give him anything apart from her own bitter experience. James had at least secured a future for Shel, until Calemore had come and destroyed it all. Not that it lessened her disdain for James in any way.

  For a fleeting moment, she wondered how he was doing. Then, she hoped he was dead, too, like Rob. Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to ask Calemore to murder him, but she wouldn’t shed a tear if she heard of his early demise.

  I can’t let him read this thing, she thought, her heart beating rapidly. She was suddenly scared. She understood the implications of the book, of its secrets. It was no ordinary thing. It was a powerful tome of magic, and its truths were dangerous and dark.

  But then, Sheldon wasn’t an ordinary child either.

  He had magic in his veins. All Sirtai did to some degree, and he carried that bloodline. He had lived in her shadow, behind her magic, her divinations. He had met the White Witch. And the boy understood the words of this Naum nation. So maybe he deserved a glimpse of the magical book.

  What am I doing? she wondered. Have I gone mad? What will Calemore do if he learns I let Sheldon read from the book? What will it do to his mind? Can he even grasp the truths written inside?

  “Come here,” she said.

  Sheldon hopped over and sidled up into the second chair. He was still a small boy, and his legs dangled. He raised his chin, looking down his nose at the heavy volume.

  “It’s called The Book of Lost Words,” she heard herself say. “This book must not be copied. You may remember what is written in its pages, but you must never write even a single word anywhere else. Never. Do you understand that, Shel? It is very important.”

  Sheldon seemed unfazed. “Why would a press master make only a single book?”

  Nigella smiled softly. “I do not think this book was made in a press.”

  Her son looked keen. “It was written entirely by hand?”

  She did not really know. “Maybe.”

  His small fingers probed. She moved the book closer. He touched the pages, ruffled them gently, traced a finger along the thick, perfect cover. His hand hovered above the text, and his face took on the look of a young, eager apprentice, trying to mimic the gestures of his superiors, trying to soak in their candor and professional appreciation for the fine art and details of the work before him. He looked so adorable, and it would have been an idyllic moment if that book hadn’t been Calemore’s.

  “Is it very old?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Sheldon scrunched his nose. “So I may not copy its words, Mom?”

  Nigella almost panicked. “No, you cannot. You must promise me, Son. You must never do that.”

  He nodded vaguely, but she knew he would obey. “Who wrote this book, Mom? Was it Uncle Calemore?”

  She sniffed. “I told you not to call him that. Calemore is not your uncle.”

  Sheldon ignored her. His eyes were watery in the lamplight, locked on the perfect binding, on the smooth flow of text in a lovely tilted manuscript. “What is this book about, Mom?”

  The future. Nigella hesitated. “Old stories. Myths. Legends. But they are all written in a special way so that the reader must interpret the message for themselves. It’s not very interesting.” She tried to dissuade him.

  But that only got him keener. His small head was almost hovering above the book, and he was trying to push himself up against the table. Such focus, such childish wonder, it was mesmerizing.

  “So can I read, Mom, please?”

  Nigella flipped the page. She had not read the next one. She had no idea what words hid there. And she wasn’t certain she would like to know. Recently, the images of possible truths coalescing inside her head were more sinister than before, and they left a cold, metallic tinge in her soul, in her nose and her mouth. Whatever the book was trying to tell her, it was grim. But she still could not separate her own life from Calemore’s. The twin destinies snaked round one another, confusing her. She was trying to read for herself, to unravel her future, but it was impure, tainted with glimpses from another life.

  In a way, she was desperate.

  Calemore would return to her shanty one day, and he would demand answers, truths. What if she could not provide them?

  Then, her son could speak the Naum language. The how of it still haunted her, but maybe she was too much of a coward to try to learn the reasons. Maybe she should not be afraid of using her son’s gift. Maybe he would be able to tell her truths that she could not see. She might be blinded by her upbringing, her emotional
scarring, her inhibitions and fears. He was still unfettered by the world’s ugliness.

  But she promised herself, she would never jeopardize his life. Never.

  Reading a little from a magical book could not hurt. Could it?

  “All right, you may read now. But do not read out loud. Do not repeat the words. Just read to yourself.” She was ready to yank the book away if he tried so much as utter a single syllable.

  Sheldon picked up on her mood, and his face turned somber. Face slack with concentration, he started reading. Nigella watched him intently, watched his eyes scan left and right, left and right, moving down the page. His lips were pressed tight, silent. His skin was soft, relaxed. Whatever he was reading was probably boring. He might decide playing with toy soldiers was more fun. She hoped it would be like that.

  Suddenly, he burst out laughing.

  Nigella almost yelped, clawing at the book, closing it with a thump. She was trembling, her whole body fluttery. “What it is, Shel?”

  Why am I doing this? she wondered. The Book of Lost Words was not a child’s book. She was making a big mistake. Calemore had entrusted her with the tome, not the boy. She was doing a very dangerous thing here.

  The boy was still wearing a big grin on his face, one of his teeth still missing. Nothing on his young face indicated any worry. Whatever he had read seemed rather funny. Unlike her own visions and interpretations.

  “What is it?” she repeated.

  “Mom, the book says I’m going to be a prince. That I’m going to have ten wives! Pffff.”

  Nigella blinked, trying to keep tears away. Joy? Relief? Terror? She was not really sure. I’m a fool. Oh, she hated herself. But what could she do? Sheldon was penned up in this miserable little hovel, and he was a child. He could not understand war.

  Prince? Trying to calm her nerves, she opened the book again. This time, she read the same passage.

  Nothing of that sort.

  Her mind filled with different images. The garbage of words misted into a field. Old shrubbery, stripped of leaves, it seemed. No. Wooden stakes, all angled in one direction, facing toward a dark black stain on the horizon. She frowned. There were no people there, just a sense of great loss, a black hole of pain and sorrow, yawning, sucking on the coldness of a dreary day.

  Her son, a prince. And she a queen. She remembered Calemore’s words all too clearly. Nigella, I would make you into a queen. Would you like that? I only want to look after my son. He will be a prince then. I don’t know what I want.

  She still did not know. A queen, what did that mean for her? What would she be a queen of? What people? Did she really want that? She kept imagining the future for herself, with Calemore at her side, and quite often, warmth suffused her at the thought of that. Then, at other times, there was only pure despair waiting for her in the knotted folds of time. It would be charming to be a queen, to have servants, to have people bow to her. But that was just a silly, sweet, perverted thought, so sweet her jaws went numb with hurt. It wasn’t for her. She was not destined to be a queen. She was ugly and shy, and she belonged at the side of some man, if she were lucky. Maybe it was Calemore.

  She wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “Sheldon, go play with your soldiers,” she blurted.

  The boy frowned. “Mom, I wanna read more.”

  Nigella closed the book. “No. Enough. Go play on the bed.”

  He wasn’t very manipulative, her Shel, but he still tried to pout and make her resolve crack. When he realized it wouldn’t work, and she was adamant, he retreated to the bed and started fiddling with his old toys.

  Nigella took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The Book of Lost Words was definitely a magical thing. And it revealed whatever it wanted to its reader. For Sheldon, his dream of princedom. For her, a dark, despondent future. What did that mean?

  She would not separate from her son. She wouldn’t let anyone take him away.

  She would not let anyone corrupt his pristine soul. Not even Calemore.

  But maybe it was just a metaphor. The book might be lying, revealing a childish illusion of some greater truth in a way that a nine-year-old could understand. Maybe her son was destined for greatness, and the only way he could perceive that was through princely deeds. Sheldon was a smart lad, and she did not doubt he could achieve greatness one day if properly guided.

  Only, looking outside the window, she could see that Caytor no longer belonged to its people. There were no people left. Just these Naum strangers. Sheldon might be a prince, but it would be of a nation that spoke a different language, abode by a different culture.

  Maybe Sirtai? Yes, that could be it. Her son might succeed in her homeland? Perhaps the future was bright and happy, but she still had not deciphered all the pieces, and she was drowning in the gruesome parts. Perhaps Calemore would lose in his war. What then? What did it mean for her? Or for Sheldon? And what if he won?

  What if he won?

  She looked at her son. He was everything she had. Nothing else mattered.

  “Shel.”

  The boy raised his head from the impromptu battlefield. “Yes, Mom?” He was bored, but he did not look sad or angry.

  “You know I love you, Son, more than anything in the world?”

  Sheldon nodded. “I know, Mom.”

  Suddenly, she had an urge to hug him. She rose and walked over, knelt by the mattress. Her hands crushed him to her chest, and he protested. Sheldon did not like to be hugged. No man did, as far as she knew.

  “I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  “Can I be a prince, Mom?” he whispered against her bosom.

  Nigella stroked his head before he yanked himself away, slowly but persistently. What could she tell him? A prince of what? But he deserved it. After all the hard life he’d had, all the abandonment, he deserved greatness.

  “Maybe.”

  He pushed his soldiers away. “Are you crying, Mom?”

  Almost guiltily, she removed her spectacles and swiped a lone tear away. “No. It’s too dark, and my eyes are tired.”

  “I want to read more,” Sheldon insisted.

  “That book is not good for you. It’s a book for adults,” she tried to reason.

  “But I like it. I want to know what happens next.” He squirmed.

  Nigella raked her hair. “No. But you know what? When the rains end, I will ask the soldiers to try to salvage books from the library in Marlheim, if there are any left. You will like that, won’t you?”

  “Can I go with them?” His face lit up.

  A gust of panic slammed her, even as the torrent outside lashed against the cabin walls on all sides, trying to bring it down. “No, Son. Those men are soldiers. Their profession is dangerous. You must stay with me, here.” Then she remembered his strange ability to understand their tongue. One day, I will have enough courage to try to unravel that. “You will tell me if they ask you to do anything.”

  Sheldon nodded again, silent.

  Nigella remained on the floor, her knees cold and itching. Her son, a prince. Who would believe that? It sounded nice, almost story-like, a poor boy rising to greatness and glory, but then, if she glanced at the burned-out husks of the nearby town, if she stared at the convoys of hard-eyed foreigners leaving for a war of extinction in the south, the sweet illusion evaporated.

  Whatever Calemore was planning, it could not be good.

  Now, her son might be involved. She would die before she let harm touch him.

  When it came to her boy, there was nothing in this world that could stop her. Not even a pale-eyed witch whom she thought she might be in love with.

  I’ll die first, she swore. Die or kill.

  CHAPTER 36

  What kind of enemy does not respond to your baits? Mali wondered. One that is too stupid to comprehend the situation or one too powerful to care?

  So far, the foreign army had not bothered halting its advance just because they had a thorn in their backside. Oh, they would send a sizable body of troops to en
gage the pest now and then, but the vast legion would just plow on south.

  Mali hated being wrong. And with this white foe, everything she decided turned out badly.

  She had thought severing its supply route would cripple it, or at least slow it down, make it distracted and weak. She had thought attacking from behind would give the enemy pause, force it to reconsider its plan, make it veer off its course. Perhaps she had contributed to the defense of the realms somehow, but it would take a brilliant strategist to explain it to her, because she could not see it.

  They were somewhere in Caytor now. Or maybe Athesia, her son’s realm. She wasn’t certain. Without any people around to tell her whose taxes they tried to avoid once or twice a year, it was hard telling where the borders touched. Any stream, hill, or large village could be a landmark. Without any folks left, everything looked the same. Wild, eerie, grim.

  “What do you think?” she rasped.

  Alexa was licking her lower lip industriously, concentrating. They had one old map, but it depicted a world full of people. Still, they thought they were somewhere in northern Athesia, about five days from Bassac. The road they followed was supposed to be the Traders’ Stretch, and it supposedly went all the way to Pain Daye, and that was where James might be. Only days back, they had passed a large intersection where the road forked south toward Ecol, Gasua, and eventually Roalas.

  Some Eracians called this artery the Road of Old Memories, because it had barely been traveled for centuries, until Emperor Adam restored the commerce between Caytor and her land. Well, perhaps it was that. Because she could not really be certain.

  The river bisecting the horizon was definitely the Hebane, and it was fat with rain and mud. The banks were overflowing, licking at the willows and twenty-foot cattails growing on the marshy banks. A long bridge ran across, and half a dozen livestock barges thudded gently against one another in the shallows on the western side.

  Getting ready to step onto the rafts was the tail of the northern enemy.

  It was such a perfect ambush location, and she knew it, and she knew the enemy also knew. Finley and she had been nipping at their heels for weeks now, taunting, teasing, raiding, killing them. A few times, the monster had reared and roared and fought back, but always kept on moving south, almost fanatically.