CHAPTER 8
Calemore had never imagined an imperfect human body could be so much fun. Under him, Nigella squirmed and whimpered, flushed, sweating, trying not to enjoy herself and failing. She wanted to be the professional prophet, but Calemore knew he was too good to resist. As he climaxed, he let a trickle of magic into her, enhancing her sensations, and helpless, she climaxed too in a burble of soft cries.
He craned over her, let his breath settle, then slumped over and stretched lazily. Nigella just lay there, panting, exhausted. After a long while, she reached for her spectacles, put them on, and became ugly once again. Not that she was any better without them, but those thin frames made her front teeth look so much bigger.
“I’m hungry,” the White Witch said.
Nigella wiped sweat off her neck. She turned toward him, red like a beet. “I’ve made you some apple pie. You told me you like apples.”
Calemore nodded. “Yes, I do.”
She rose, swaying, then tottered over to her kitchenette. Her house was a dump. It was old, small, and too badly lit, not a good place to read The Book of Lost Words. Calemore wondered if she lived in these conditions because of her human guilt or because she wanted to remain invisible from the rest of her race. Either way, it was a stupid, self-destructive act. But he’d let her figure it out on her own, if she chose to.
Nigella went about preparing his dinner. Plates and cutlery clanked.
“What did you see?” he asked her.
The clanking stopped. “I…I didn’t see anything. I was distracted.”
Calemore did not like her answer. She was supposed to divine the future from his seed. That was how it worked with life magic. Blood, sweat, urine, semen, anything that came from a living person. Seed was the strongest. Not that he minded fucking this little human.
He looked at her naked form, glistening with sweat. An average woman, slim, perky, exciting in her peasant sort of way. Not befitting his status surely. The notion of gathering for himself a horde of sex slaves did not excite him, though. In fact, he could magic her bad vision away and make those front teeth smaller. He could fix her blemishes and her birth scars and all the little flaws. But what would be the point in that?
The White Witch wanted to be angry with her, but that, too, would be pointless. He had made her distracted. “All right. Try better next time. I need to know the future,” he told her, as if she needed reminding.
Nigella nodded, her back to him.
Calemore rose, stretching again. His fingers brushed the thatched roof. What a sorry hole.
“Here you go.” She handed him a wooden platter with a large square piece of apple pie. Her eyes shimmered expectantly behind the lenses.
The witch sat himself at her small table and put the platter down. He picked up the slice in his hands and bit into it. The pie was delicious, spiced lightly with ginger and cinnamon, with fresh, tart green apples, still warm from baking. Juice dripped down his chin, onto his legs.
“Great.”
Nigella hazarded a thin smile. “I’m glad you like it.”
Calemore did not like that smile. He ate the rest without looking at her.
“Want some more?” she asked, her face lit with emotion.
The witch wanted to refuse, but why? “Yes, one more.”
Delighted, she cut an even larger portion this time.
“You’re not eating?” he asked her.
She just stood there, arms folded in front of her privates, watching him with a frightened, hopeful look.
“I can’t,” she mumbled. “Not after…you know.”
“What else can you tell me? What did you read in the book?”
This got her seated. She pulled out the second chair and sat down daintily, back straight as a sword. The two chairs did not match; Calemore had brought the other one after he’d realized all their meetings would be with one of them sitting on the ground or the bed.
She pushed a lock of hair from her face. “Yesterday…I read about the broken pieces. They must be mended to make a whole. They must be mended to save something. I don’t know why.”
Calemore grunted. “I don’t want riddles. I can read them on my own.”
Nigella made a pained face. There, he thought. Her fear returns, as it should. She must never forget who she was dealing with, even if she had no clear idea who he was.
But then, he must not forget it either.
“It’s difficult. I’m sorry. But I think it means the realms.”
Calemore swallowed, then licked crumbs off his fingers. The realms? “What do I need to do?”
Nigella rolled her eyes. “I believe you must mend the pieces. Unite the lands?”
That makes sense. “Does it say anything about any deities? About gods?”
She shook her head.
He finished the pie. Nigella was a rather good cook. He didn’t like the scarcity of information the herbwoman was telling him. The Book of Lost Words was yielding its truth more reluctantly than he’d hoped for. And every day made the risk of fighting the one surviving god greater. He wanted to be prepared for that. He wanted to know what he must do.
Human affairs were insignificant. Once he defeated the remaining survivor, he would make himself into a god. But before he could do that, he had to find him. Or her. And discover its identity, its powers, its cunning. The fact the god had managed to outwit him in the hunt spoke of great wisdom.
Every day made his enemy stronger. More faith, more time to adapt to the world, more time to garner support and learn new tricks. Whoever it was, the god or goddess was hiding from his magic somehow. He had so easily tracked down all the rest, but ever since the incident at the Womb, he could no longer feel the location of that survivor. Maybe because that god was now omnipotent, and that meant he was everywhere. Or she was.
This deity was dangerous. Perhaps it already possessed enough magic and power to defeat Calemore. Perhaps it was using tricks to hide its presence or feed him false leads. Worse yet, the White Witch could not kill the god by his own hands. He had to use human proxies, and that meant sending armies of killers all around the world. But this would no longer be some sorry soul absorbed in self-pity. This would be a mighty, crafty opponent, with a strong desire to live. This would be a god who had courage and will and brains. A god who had somehow eluded him. Not at all what he had expected.
One thing that consoled him was that Damian was dead. His spirit was locked in the Abyss, all of it, without any traces in the human world, and Calemore did not intend to waste his powers freeing him again. His original plan had taken too long to materialize, only to fail. Decades of Damian posing as several influential Caytoreans. Decades leading a new religion against the old one. Decades plotting and counterplotting, every action woven with treachery. Calemore understood now his father had spun the Feoran faith as an attempt to free himself on his own so he could fight his son when he finally arrived in the Old Land. What a dullard.
And that affair with that puny human emperor. Another plot. Well, the fool was dead. He may have killed himself after murdering Elia for the second time, or someone had speared his sorry avatar, or maybe the body had finally died of old age. It made no difference. Damian and the rest of the gods would never leave the Abyss.
Now, Calemore was back, where he rightfully belonged. The Veil of Sundering was down, and nothing could stop him any longer. He just had to make sure to finish off this remaining deity and fulfill his dream. But Nigella’s advice was not really helping. She made excellent food, and she squirmed nicely, but her prophetic skills were a disappointment.
He had no other Special Children to assist him. These realms were awfully empty of good blood. The people of the Wild Islands had lots of magic, but they would not aid him, and he didn’t want yet another enemy. They did not know he had returned, and they shouldn’t. There were other nations and races scattered about the land, but they were too far away, too detached from the history of the Old Land to be of any help. They would not understand an
ything written in the book. It would be meaningless quotes and passages to them.
Nigella was his one companion, a rather homely girl with a firm body and fiery spirit. He had to remember to make her fear him, but not so much she would fear telling him the truth, no matter how ugly. And not so much he alienated her so that she told him lies. Humans appreciated loyalty. It was a silly emotion, but brute, cold strength would not work here.
The woman cleared away the dishes. Then, she seemed to remember she was naked, so she donned her robe. Calemore remained sitting, thinking, watching her watch him. She was a tool, nothing more. So why did he care what she felt? Why did he worry about not breaking her spirit, or if she enjoyed herself in bed, or if he hurt her too much? Humans did not deserve his appreciation. But he gave it anyway. Nigella especially liked it when he complimented her on her baking and cooking.
You either rule them or you let them poison your soul, he thought. In Naum, his subjects did not talk to him. They did not even look him in the eye. Back there, he had not needed their help or advice. He had not needed them to trust him. And he had not relied on their goodwill and patience to secure his future.
Well, there was nothing else for him here anymore. He had given her his seed; he had eaten. He would return in a day or two. Hopefully by then, she would have a better notion of what he must do. The realms would wait; he needed truths about the gods. Oh, he reminded himself not to distract her the next time. But the fact she dared enjoy herself in his presence unnerved him. It was a rare, intimate feeling.
He started dressing, donning his white leathers.
“Do you want to stay overnight?” she said suddenly.
Calemore paused for the tiniest instant. What did he care what she thought? A tool.
“No.” He placed several coins on her table. And he left.
Nigella stared at the door. She was such a fool. How could she have said that? She berated herself. Fool, fool. This man was dangerous. Lethal. He was not someone she could trifle with. What had possessed her to ask him to stay?
She swallowed. Her heart hammered fast. The small cabin seemed empty now, unprotected. With him around, it was not so. Oh, she knew she should show respect and fear. Only, she felt other things, too, and they wrestled to get her attention. Expectation? A need to please? A need to be pleased?
Like every time he left her, feeling rejected and ashamed, she knew she ought to run away. Pack her meager belongings and flee and never look back. But she never did that. She suppressed her terror and focused on her gift. That’s who she was. She could not escape that.
And then, there was the book.
Every time she read it, she felt her world shift, as if she were drunk, and the corners of her vision wobbled like they were liquid. Every time she pored over those strange, convoluted words, everything around her faded, or went away, or stopped, and she found herself swimming in a place where human notions of space and passage of hours simply did not exist. She would get sucked into a vortex without color and depth, and yet, it spun her about mercilessly, like a rag doll, left her reeling and nauseated and weightless. It was like dreaming that childhood dream where you took flight and tingling bubbles of bliss filled your body, only wrapped tightly in a gag reflex. Somewhere between pleasure and puke.
Nigella did not yet understand what The Book of Lost Words signified, but she so badly wanted to scab open its secrets. She understood, on a subliminal level, that few other humans had ever seen or read this work. It was a glimpse into another world, a swirling puzzle of endless possibilities.
She could not leave. The book compelled her.
The question was, would she be able to master it before Calemore lost his patience?
A life of compromise and fear had led her here, into this tiny cabin, into hiding. She had always chosen to flee rather than stand up for herself and her son. Perhaps this time, she could do it differently, make a change, fend for herself. People with her gift usually could not tell their own future, because you could not use magic on yourself. But now, she had been given a unique tool, a weapon really. She had the opportunity to unravel the unknown truths and use them to her advantage, if she were brave enough.
Four months since James had betrayed her did not lessen her sense of indignation and bitterness. True to his word, he had made Rob finance the upbringing of her son. But while she never considered the coin men paid her after her divination, never felt cheap and used after sex, Rob’s forced alms felt like a whore’s money. Never in her life had she experienced such degradation, such humiliation. Another woman might be glad for the silver. Another woman might swallow her pride and let the cad pay up for his bastard guilt. But she was not going to forgive either of them, ever.
Nigella opened her cabin door and went out. Dusk was settling, turning the world pink and violet. As always, she had chosen a place at the outskirts of the town, where she could practice her work unnoticed. There was always the fear of bandits, and she might get hurt and no one would know, but she had lived this way her entire life, and she would not change now. Magic was a double-edged blade; it gave and it took, without asking. Fighting it would make no difference.
Crickets were coming to life, the air cool enough for them to start chirping. Soon, the entire place would tune to their song, drowning all other sound. Nigella watched, wondering. For the first time in her life, she had a fragile, dangerous chance to make her life something more than it was. She could dictate her fate rather than react to whatever the world spat at her.
But there was a price. As always. Devote herself to a pale-eyed madman who seemed to look at her the way a cruel child stared at an injured insect? Was she strong enough to bear it? Was she willing to commit her soul to this trial? Oh, the book, it called to her. The secrets of the future enticed her.
Courage. She needed courage. Nature had not given her much. She wasn’t very pretty, she wasn’t strong, and she wasn’t strong willed. She understood politics well enough, but few would listen to a half-Sirtai mongrel of common birth and no wealth. All she had was her gift. Perhaps once she had some dignity, but Rob and James had taken that away.
She should be grateful for her son’s trade. He would have a better future than she had. That should satisfy her. That was what mothers wanted. But somehow, that wasn’t enough.
When you could glimpse the future, you wished you could see the whole picture. After a while, shadow images and flashes only made you hungrier, more determined. The more she saw, the more she needed. And it would always be other people’s futures, never hers. Never her own. Until now.
She went inside.
Running away was the sensible thing to do. That was what she had always done. She knew that path. Her hand brushed against the book’s cover. She ran her forefingers over the edge of the tome, feeling pages ripple by too fast to count. This book was her chance to change everything. Not for Calemore. For herself.
Maybe that was the key to understanding the book, she thought with dread and excitement. It was not a book you could read for other people. You had to read it for yourself. Maybe that was why she had never managed to get any meaning from its texts.
A part of her soul cursed her, telling her she would regret it, but she was past caring now. She had committed herself the day Calemore had come to her. She had known that this would be unlike any other divination. Now, the truth was registering. It felt like icy lead up her spine.
Calemore needed her help? Very well, he would get it. But she swore that she would never again end up as a used whore. Never again. She would use the book to learn her own future, to unravel her own truths. As an afterthought, she mused, maybe she could make him appreciate her, not as a prophet but as a woman. He seemed cruel and vain and dangerous, but he liked her pies, and maybe, well, maybe he liked her. She had failed with Rob and James. Maybe her luck would turn now.
Whatever the future had in store for her, it was written in the book.
She flipped it open, squinted hard in the weak light, and began reading.
CHAPTER 9
Tanid watched the unusual child with deep, deep interest.
The boy had a slightly pudgy face, and he had strange eyes. Not eyes like most people, they were set more widely apart, somewhat oblique, and with skin folds at the corners. And his chin seemed to be missing.
The boy would not look at him, either.
Tanid sat on a rough wooden bench across the work desk, still and silent. On the boy’s left side were crates full of beeswax candles, unevenly stacked. On the right, he had smaller cases, empty and lined with tweed. With almost uncanny precision, he would dip his short fingers into the crates, produce a bundle of thin, elegant red sticks, and then place them into the smaller, slim cases, half a dozen each. Only he did this without looking at the candles, but he would always get it right. Most people would pause to count and double-check their work. Not this boy.
Tanid suspected he was special.
There were eight other work desks in the shop, with one younger apprentice and several older men and women stacking candles. They did this with care, their lips fluttering with numbers. Sometimes, one would shake his or her head over a mistake and then empty a freshly loaded case back into the crate and start over. Hands twitched, quiet curses whipped amid a murmur of figures, and yellow and red candles clacked softly. It was a routine morning in Yefim’s candle shop.
Most had gone through their first four crates for that shift. The boy had finished his fifteenth.
Those glassy eyes stared somewhere up and to the right, although Tanid suspected they saw him and judged every little detail. The god made sure he sat still in order not to alarm the child. He had his suspicions. They seemed to be coming true, and he had to be extremely careful.
Soon, the boy finished another crate. With mechanical precision, he lowered it to the ground, pulled another close within his pudgy arms’ reach, and continued the counting ritual. Tanid decided this was the right moment to check if the boy was gifted.
He rose and, as if by accident, pushed the crate off the desk. It fell, shattered, and the candles spilled out noisily. The crowd of workers looked up, wondering, confused, their lips still ticking off individual blocks. There would be quite a few mistakes there, he noticed. But not here.
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 9