The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (31 page)

Then, pairs started to enter, mothers presenting their daughters, Ewan saw. The mothers would deposit their girls in front of Ewan and bow out of their way, joining the growing audience near the sloping walls. Still no one dared look him in the eye, not even the women standing at attention in front of him.

“Our finest virgin daughters, for you,” Naman said.

Ewan stared. Just stared, stupidly. He was acutely aware of the women in front of him, their lithe bodies, their mixed lineage that made them more beautiful and exciting than the girls of the realms. He found the combination of dusky skin and pale eyes rather alluring. But then he noticed the shivers, the tense postures, the bitten lips, the agonizing lumps in the throat. The girls waited, because they had been told to wait, he realized, but no one had probably asked them if they wanted to be here tonight. There was only one emotion that could describe their behavior.

Fear.

His brief excitement fled him in a hurry, leaving him with an empty feeling in his stomach.

Naman leaned down toward him, his gray braid swinging. “Are you not satisfied?”

Ewan took a deep breath. He had to stop this madness. He rose, kicking the smelling hides away, and the crowd edged away from him as much as they could, a quick, almost singular motion by everyone present. Their reaction shocked him.

“What is happening here?” Ewan asked in a low tone, turning toward his fat guide.

The Oth Danesh rubbed at his fat jowls, wiping sweat off. “This is a celebration in your honor. Ever since Toraan returned and told us about you, we have been preparing. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe you want something else?”

Ewan took a deep breath. “I do not want anything now. I want to understand what’s happening.”

Naman flashed a small knowing smile. “You will remember. We will help you. We have not slacked in our duty.” The guide’s fat hand pointed toward the terrorized audience. “The people of Kamar Doue await your pleasure. It’s a great honor. Please.”

Play a role in the bigger scheme of things
, Ewan thought. Why not? He had done it twice already. He had allowed the gods and goddesses to lead him across the realms from one corner to another and back again. He had been a pawn in their game, without understanding anything. All he had was the gut feeling, and it was there now, tiny, persistent. Whatever it was, Damian’s death had not ended it.

He had allowed the gods to use him. Why not indulge these people? He needed the answers they might have.

“Who am I?” Ewan said aloud.

Naman blinked, confused. “You are our king.”

I am a king
, Ewan thought inanely. All right, so be it. For now, he didn’t have a better plan.

He turned toward the crowd. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’m honored.”

Silence. They stared at him in that oblique, indirect manner, eyes darting from under lowered brows, trying to catch a glimpse of him when they thought he wasn’t looking.

“Most of the people do not speak the language of the realms,” Naman said.

Ewan frowned. He remembered the pirates having no trouble communicating. But then, these people lived inland. Maybe they didn’t get to see other cultures that often. So why did they have so many mixed children here, then?

“Tell them,” Ewan said. Naman translated. Still, nothing. Silence. Whatever recollection the Oth Danesh had of their would-be king, it was one of terror.

So what should he do now? Pretend everything was fine and sample of their roast squashes, lake fish, and figs? Ask the virgin girls to join him for a little chat, with a translator? What was he supposed to do with those terrified women? Claim them as his kingly right? The notion left him uneasy. Still, his body responded involuntarily, and his mind remembered Maya and Constance.

“I want to know more about me,” Ewan told Naman. Best if he stuck to why he had come here in the first place.

“Yes, of course. We will teach you. We will help you remember.”

“I want those heads removed.” He pointed.

Naman gaped. “But…we maintained the vigil for so many years, and—”

Ewan raised a finger. “And now I am here.” He looked at the people inside the hall, looked at the hall entrance. He could
see more people converging there in the deepening dark, toting lanterns. They floated like night bugs, bobbing up and down.

Whoever I am, something begins today, here. My life story hides behind the countenance of those frightened girls, in those furtive glances, in the food and the shriveled heads and Naman’s magic
. He knew he could simply leave everything behind and walk away. Choose the easy way out. He could be a farmer or a daring sailor somewhere, and no one would ever bother him again. No one but his conscience.

What would Ayrton do if asked to lead a horde of terrified, confused people who mistook him for some unlikely hero?

The answer was plain.

He lowered himself into the furry rolls and sheep pelts and buckwheat cushions. They were supposed to warm him, or make him comfortable, but they just offered a filthy, suffocating hug. As a king, his throne was not quite enviable.

The people let out a collective sigh of relief. He could not see any one throat open or any one mouth breathe, but he could sense tension oozing out of the dim hall, a sort of symbolic moment that they had expected for so long.

He would indulge their weird customs for one night. It would make no difference. But tomorrow, he would start learning about who he was and why the distant nation of Oth Danesh knew more about him than anyone in the realms.

“So what now?”

Naman knelt again. “You can sample the foods. And take your pick of the women. They will all be honored to bear the king’s seed.”

Ewan shook his head. “There will be no bedding tonight.”

Naman made a small sound in his throat. “And we will bring dancers. And fighters. They will fight in your honor right there, until one drops dead.”

Ewan looked at his fat guide. “No violence, no mating. This will be a quiet, peaceful return. And tomorrow morning, you will start teaching me everything you know. Everything. I do not want any secrets or games. Then, you will see how you go about that promise you made.”

The Oth Danesh touched his forehead to the floor, or as close as he could with the hides and rugs. “As you say.”

Ewan bit into a small, ripe fig and pretended to enjoy it.

CHAPTER 23

N
igella looked at Calemore. She looked at her son. She pushed the sense of panic down.

This man needs me. He needs my ability. He will not hurt my son
.

There was no indication Calemore intended anything bad. He was smiling, almost carefree, talking to Sheldon.

“So, you can read?” he asked the boy.

Sheldon nodded. “Yes, sir. Read and write. They taught us Vulgar and Elite.”

Calemore made a small sound of exultation in the back of his throat. “Intriguing. And are you any good with numbers?”

Sheldon nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

Calemore looked at her, and she felt hairs prick on her nape. “Smart lad.”

Nigella swallowed. After Rob had banished her, penniless, pregnant with a child, she had desperately sought any kind of place that would accept her. Luckily, the people of Pasey had just buried their herbs-woman and needed another, and she had happened to pass there. Usually, villagers did not take well to strangers, especially not women of fickle, foreign origin, but she had offered to work with them for free, heal their babies and livestock, and make poultices that stopped fevers. By a
scrap of mercy and dire need, the village had accepted, and she had stayed in the hamlet, making it her world, her shelter, her patch of sanity.

When Sheldon was born, she had once again found herself struggling, trying to make ends meet, provide enough bread and fresh vegetables for her baby. No one would help a half Sirtai raising a bastard, no one but the priests. Shunned and almost forgotten in Caytor, they still had a small monastery in Jorat, always willing to take acolytes. She had been mistrustful at first, worried her son would be raised in the faith of the realms and not know anything about the nature of magic, but things just got worse with the years, and she really had no choice, and the priests had offered free food and promised to teach the boy letters and numbers.

For nearly three years, Sheldon had studied with them, learning about the gods and goddesses, singing in their praise, and scribing words from old tomes of prayer. He had a very fine hand, they said, so they had made him into a bookmaker’s apprentice.

She saw him seldom and missed him fiercely, but that was her share in the world.

And then, James had come.

Now, Sheldon was an apprentice in a press shop in Marlheim. James had sent her there, with his letter of credit that promised gold and favor to the shop owner if he took a certain boy under his auspice and taught him his trade. Sheldon’s religious upbringing and fine manuscript had made him into an instant favorite with the artisan. He had a future there.

Nigella got to see him every few weeks, in her unassuming little cottage outside the city, where no one would suspect her. She often gazed at Marlheim, at its sooty slate rooftops, at its blackened chimneys. She often wondered what her son was doing, what he ate, where he slept.

The boy seemed unconcerned, used to the fact he spent nights on a tiny cot with a dozen other children at his side. Most parents would consider it a blessing to have one less mouth to feed. For Nigella, it tasted like sacrifice, a cheap, painful sacrifice.

“So, I hear you were an acolyte in a monastery?” Calemore asked, lounging in the grass like a cat.

Sheldon was busy playing, stacking some wooden blocks, but he nodded.

“Who’s your favorite god?”

Nigella did not like the question, but she did not dare interfere. It was her fault. She had expected Calemore to arrive today; she shouldn’t have brought Sheldon over. Only she missed him so much.

If Calemore felt inconvenienced by the intrusion, he did not show it, but she dreaded the cold mischief in his eyes.

Sheldon pursed his lips and started making a fart-like sound with his spit, thinking, apparently.

“Stop it,” Nigella chided.

“Sorry, Mom.” He looked up at Calemore, totally unafraid. “The god Sear.”

Calemore ahemed. “And why him?”

Sheldon clapped his hands and made a face as if reciting. “Because he’s the patron of our monastery, and he’s the god of books and secrets and everything written. But we praise all the gods and goddesses.”

“Is that so?” Calemore asked. He looked at Nigella. She smiled nervously. For a moment, she remembered the book in her cabin.

“Who is your favorite one, Master Calemore?” the boy inquired.

Calemore straightened up on his elbow. An empty plate rested in front of him, with small crumbs of leftover apple pie. “I do not have a favorite one, Sheldon.”

“Sheldon, go inside,” Nigella spoke.

The boy did not argue. He collected his little blocks and shuffled over to the hut.

“Hey, Sheldon, wait. I have a present for you,” Calemore said to the retreating child.

“Really?” The boy spun around, a wooden toy falling from his fingers, forgotten.

Calemore sat up and reached behind his spotless white leather jacket. He produced an oval thing made of glass. It was clear, polished, with black veins streaked through, almost like a drop of ink in water.

“What’s that, Master Calemore?” Sheldon asked, his curiosity fighting his disappointment. He must have expected a sword or a lead soldier figurine, Nigella thought. All boys wanted them.

“That is for you to discover. Take it. Keep it. Do not give it to anyone, you understand?”

A small hand accepted the gift. Nigella expected it to be heavy, chunky, but the boy held it with ease, as if it weighed only an ounce. The gleaming glass fit well in his palm. She could see tiny rainbows reflecting off its spotless surface.

Sheldon went into the cabin.

“What is that?” Nigella asked.

Calemore ignored her question. “He will be staying, I presume?”

Nigella thought about their fierce, intense lovemaking and blushed. “Yes.”

Calemore shrugged; in his pose, only one shoulder bobbed. “What have you learned?”

What have I learned?
Nigella thought, her mind racing. She had learned quite a bit. However, she was not going to tell him everything. Some details did not concern him.

Since she had decided to study the book for her own sake, all kinds of future truths had become apparent to her, some accompanied with clear visions, some with sounds and smells. It was as if she left the world and entered whatever sliver of reality the paragraphs described. Sometimes they were vague, sometimes pure nonsense, something simple or conflicting or boring. But there were truths there, big and small and horrifying, thin like fried onion, black like roasted sausages, bloody like a mosquito smear.

She had seen machines made of shining metal, slick with oil and tar, rumbling down hills, steaming, screeching. She had seen fires lash across fields. She had seen children running through grass, laughing, a pale sun at their backs. She had seen a king take his crown off and weep.