The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “Good, now,” the old man spoke. “I will marry you, then. But I must ask, who will defend your honor if needs be?”

  Pete’s commander stepped forward. “I will defend Agatha’s honor,” he said in a loud, booming voice.

  Amalia cleared her throat and inched closer to the old man. She could smell him now; he had that weird smell old people had. “I will defend Pete’s honor.”

  “Good, now. You are man and wife in the sight of the gods and goddesses and all these people.”

  A ragged cheer exploded among the soldiers. Several started to clap. A flurry of hands rushed to tap their comrade on the shoulder, pushing him awkwardly closer to his wife. Clumsily, with practiced gentleness, Pete hugged Agatha and kissed her on the brow. The old priest was already retreating to the city, wobbly, stooped, looking like he might collapse, but he kept plowing stubbornly on through the rain, proving everyone wrong with each new, hesitant step.

  Used to beat her, now he kisses her, Amalia observed. She wondered if she would ever get the privilege to meet anyone who might like her or want to marry her. Not with my scarred head and torn ear, no, she thought bleakly. I had Gerald, but he is gone.

  All semblance of order at the little altar was gone now. Everyone was trying to get close to congratulate the pair. Amalia edged out of the press, feeling uncomfortable around so many people. She found a quiet spot some distance away and watched. Agatha was smiling, looking very happy. She did not worry about James or the Parusites or anything else right then. She had secured herself a strong, capable man with a good career, who would take care of her and protect her. She was no longer a nobody.

  Amalia was glad for her. She really was.

  There was one other person who did not seem to like the press either, and that was the man of honor. Major Landon, his name was, Amalia recalled. She wanted to squirm away, but that would be suspicious. So she frowned, pretending it was because of the rain, and waited.

  “We gonna slaughter a goat tonight!” one of the soldiers hollered. Someone had already cracked open a barrel of ale and started ladling healthy swigs into wooden cups. Pale foam inched round and over the rim of the cask, like some living thing.

  “You do not seem happy, miss,” the major said to her, smiling.

  Amalia wondered how hostile she could allow herself to be without sounding condescending or rude. Camp followers did not foul their mouths before their superiors, and Major Landon was very high up the superiority ladder.

  “I am very happy. It’s the rain, that’s all,” she blurted.

  He looked up, blinking against the odd drop hitting his face. “Sure. I know that look.”

  Amalia bristled. “What look?”

  Landon smirked. “That look that says, my friend got married, and how come I did not?”

  The former empress shrugged. The major was pleasant enough, his face was broad and honest, but she did not dare let her guard down. She could never know what he might do.

  The worst part was, she could not just walk away. He was not just some randy footman, a drunken bard, a Borei pervert, or some half-shy village fool flashing a chance smile at her. This man had seen her around; he knew that part of his food and a little extra went to Agatha and her silent friend. He knew that Pete treated her differently. She might be a washerwoman, but she had a safe spot inside the army camp, away from all the coarse, rude sutlers.

  “Nothing to say?” he goaded.

  Amalia looked him up and down quickly. A decent fellow, balding but with a round, symmetrical face, a thick neck, and big shoulders. He was not someone she might have noticed as an empress, but a common girl would feel lucky. My life, I’d better get used to it.

  Deep, deep down, she wanted to talk to Landon. She wanted to have someone to confide in, to discuss things with, to spill her feelings to, to let out her fears and frustrations to. She wanted company. She wanted to belong. But she knew that if she surrendered to her despair, the empress in her would die for good. The moment she resolved herself to being just a camp follower, her soul would die.

  She envied Agatha in some small, friendly way. She envied her easygoing manner, her simple needs and choices in life, her strength and dedication, everything she did not have and could not afford to have. Unlike Agatha, she had an empress’s share of worries and no empire.

  That woman died in Roalas, she reasoned. The sooner I let go, the better.

  A few months ago, she had wanted to defeat her half brother, to be the leader of her nation once more, to fight against King Sergei, and to restore her land. Now, she thought, what would be the point? No one mentioned her, ever. She was long dead and forgotten. The realm lived on without her. They might talk about Emperor Adam with awe and respect, but they simply never mentioned her. And why should they? She was just a foolish girl who thought she could have ruled Athesia once.

  Surrender, surrender, her being screamed.

  Something held her back still.

  Major Landon was frowning now, looking dejected. “You will not talk to me?”

  The more I speak, the more I am at risk of being detected. Even if I might not desire to be an empress anymore, others might not be so forgiving, she speculated. If they want me dead, my goodwill won’t save me.

  “It’s not you,” she said.

  His right brow shot up in an almost perfect triangle. “Not me, miss?”

  She sighed. “You are a decent chap, major, but I am not looking for company. I want to be left alone.”

  Landon nodded, his lips pursed, his cheeks full of air. He pushed the air out in a thin, slow wheeze. “My mistake, miss. I thought, after the wedding…I will not bother you again.”

  A gentleman, Amalia thought. He has done nothing wrong.

  He turned away. Amalia wanted to call him back, but she was too much of a coward to do that. She cherished her misery too much to stop now. She loved the poison in her soul; she loved to feel bad and stupid and unloved. That was her fate.

  Landon headed back to the revelry. Some men were already drunk, even before the evening celebration. A soldier was chasing a goat, but the animal, sensing something was very wrong with the extra human affection it was getting, was zigzagging madly, trying to avoid becoming the main course. The soldier’s brothers-in-arms cheered, laughing as he slipped and skidded on wet grass.

  Amalia just watched. She did not belong here. She did not belong anywhere.

  CHAPTER 31

  Nigella was lying on her small bed, propped on one elbow, her back pressed against the wall, her stomach pressed against Calemore’s muscled side. He had both of his arms folded and tucked below his head, using them as a pillow.

  She was watching him. It was midday, a silly time to be spending in bed, unless you were a witch woman who gleaned truths from customers through their blood and seed. Lately, with Calemore, it was mostly seed, and more than just visions and prophecies. Often as not, she ended up with her thoughts scattered rather than focused, her body aching with pleasure. A dangerous sensation.

  As much as he demanded a glimpse of the future, he sometimes seemed to forget why he had come to her, why they mated. Like today. Spent, he just slumped there, his perfect, lithe body limned in the shadowy, rainy afternoon light.

  Up close, Nigella did not need her spectacles to see every detail. His skin was perfect too, smooth, without blemishes, scratches, ugly little marks, blackheads, or moles. His muscles seemed sculpted. They did not bulge like corded rope, and yet, she could see the outline of every one, as if it were a mold for an art display.

  His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. She could not hear him suck or expel air through his mouth or nose. His throat never bulged with swallowed spit. His blinks were just as measured and precise as his breathing.

  Calemore had no hair on his body, except where you would find it in a painting like she had seen at Rob’s estate back when she had been a stupid, naïve girl, down between his legs only. Nigella wished she could be as perfectly built; all she had to offer was a pai
r of breasts too small, a belly etched with stretch marks, curdles of fat on her legs, tiny hairs down her belly and on her thighs, bigger ones on her shins, a solid black fluff beneath her armpits. She had never minded those until seeing Calemore. Now, she felt like some dusty hedgehog.

  Her nails, each had its own grain, a bit of pink and white. Some were chipped; some had cuticles. His looked manicured like a prince’s, fingers and toes, perfectly long, perfectly round. His teeth were shiny porcelain; her own bucked forward, too big for her mouth. His body was cold and yet warm, and he never sweated, it seemed. His skin smelled of whatever he touched, the sheets, the clothes, her own body oils.

  Calemore was perfect.

  As far as his body went.

  When it came to his personality, he had the equal traits of a genius, a madman, a whimsical child, a violent brute, a solemn killer. He frightened her and delighted her in equal measures, made her want to weep and shout in joy. A dangerous, deadly man by all accounts.

  And yet, lying next to him, watching him, she felt a certain fatal logic, the kind of self-illusion she had not experienced since meeting Rob.

  Which left her with one question. Was this another of her illusions, too?

  No harm in asking, she thought. Well, a terrible lot of harm, but I am sleeping with a lunatic, prophesying his future and reading from a magical book of dreadful proportions. How much more harm could there be?

  So she opened her mouth. “Tell me about yourself.” For months now, he would come and ask questions. She had never asked anything in return. But now, she had gathered enough courage, and she felt she deserved at least a sliver of truth from him.

  Calemore turned his head ever so slightly so his pale eyes could see her. “About me? There’s so much.”

  Nigella bit her lip. “Tell me where you come from.”

  He untangled his arms and stretched them in front of his chest. His muscles rippled. “Are you certain you want to know?”

  The witch woman swallowed. Yes. No. “I want to know.”

  Calemore turned sideways so he faced her now. His right hand trailed over her thigh slowly, tingling her. He seemed to be thinking, contemplating what kind of things to tell her.

  “If I know, I might be able to help more,” she teased.

  Calemore grinned. “I never thought you had it in you.” His fingers cupped her chin.

  Nigella felt a stab of genuine fear grip her, but it was too late now. What was I thinking? I’m such a fool. All she could do was keep calm and hope he did not hurt her. But he wouldn’t, would he? He needed her; he needed her skill. He needed to know what the book hid.

  “I will tell you,” he purred. “But it will be your most guarded secret. You will never ever speak of it to anyone, not even your son. No one must know. And if you do tell, I will know. Do you understand?”

  She nodded hurriedly, her neck motion awkward with his fingers pinching her chin.

  Calemore flashed that lethal grin again. “Good. Now here’s the story no one in the written history of these realms has ever heard. You are indeed privileged.”

  I made a mistake, Nigella thought.

  He let go of her jaw. Then his eyes focused on hers and held her in a mesmerizing lock. She could not move, even if she wanted. She could hear her heartbeat, rapid, loud, pounding in her ears.

  “I am known as the White Witch of Naum. I am the king of all lands and people. The south, the far north, the realms. The Old Land, as it was known once. I have returned, and I will restore my kingdom.”

  “Naum?” she croaked. She remembered the book mentioning Naum. An image of misty hills swirled in her mind. Bare rocks, without a single tree, clinging to the frozen soil, dappled black-and-white peaks, a merciless wind whipping through gullies and canyons, shrieking forlornly. Silver-gray fog rolling, merging with the clouds, snaking around jagged, broken stone and scarred slopes.

  He pointed north. “Far away.”

  Nigella was beginning to formulate a truth, but she did not dare admit it to herself. It cannot be, her sanity pleaded. But she had long suspected there was more to Calemore than just perfect teeth and skin. She was reading from some ancient book of prophecies that no one had ever heard of, a book that held all futures in its pages. Such sorcery did not just come from a random shelf in some library. It had not come into her hands because she was a poor yet lucky half Sirtai.

  “What do you know about the gods and goddesses?” he asked her suddenly.

  She frowned. “The continental gods?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, that is quite true. Your origin, you are from the Wild Islands?”

  Nigella was not sure what he meant. “My father was Sirtai. My mother was Caytorean. When I was born, she wanted to raise me in this land. She did not want me to forget the culture and traditions of her people. My father did not want to leave Sirtai, so they parted ways.” As Rob left me, just like that. “My mother raised me as a Caytorean, but I always knew I was a little different. Then, I learned about my powers. There was this boy, Dwayne, and when we kissed, I could see things about him, how he would fall into nettle and come out all red, how he would be chased by a billy goat. Stupid things, but I learned I could tell things from the future by kissing people. One day, this woman who worked in the local bakery, she took me aside and taught me magic in secrecy. She said she had her own skills, and she wanted to share her knowledge with me. So, I learned about my unique talent, and how it came from my father’s side, because Sirtai have a lot of magic. Soon, I started doubting my Caytorean beliefs.”

  Calemore did not interrupt her. He just listened.

  “I was taught that the gods and goddesses had all made us. But then, as I learned more about my father’s origins, I learned that the Sirtai did not believe in the gods like the people of the realms. And that seemed strange, because that would be like denying your own mother and father, right?”

  “Right,” he said, his tone neutral.

  “Over time, I began meeting more and more with these magic wielders, and with Sirtai people when I could, in utmost secrecy. I was always afraid the people around me might suspect I was dealing in magic, and you know the Caytoreans hate magic. Over the years, they taught me that there were other forces in nature just as strong and powerful and eternal as the gods. The Sirtai called them the continental gods, because they only held sway over the people of the realms, the continental people.”

  Calemore touched her cheek. “Very good. You know more than I hoped for.”

  Nigella braved another question. “You said this is your kingdom. Why did you leave?”

  The man with the pale eyes turned somber. “An unpleasant affair with the local gods and goddesses.”

  There was no going back now, she knew. “How old are you?”

  Calemore made a flourishing gesture with his hand. “Immeasurably.”

  Don’t panic, she told herself. She had known all along; she just never let her mind accept it. Her acquaintance with other magic wielders had left her educated beyond her age. She had learned about grim, exciting, macabre things from ancient legends and strange books, and although most seemed like eerie dreams and childhood fantasies, they lurked in the dark corners of her memory. Snippets of names and legends and foreign places and forgotten times. Once she had gone past that stage, she stopped fearing the dark experiences, they stopped being scary, and she let them fade away.

  Now, all of a sudden, everything was coming back to her slowly, a jumble of stories and texts, all of which seemed logical and starkly true. She no longer found any reason to doubt wild references to old wars between gods and monsters, the sundering of lands and magical weapons. Wicked songs, allegories, ages of wonders and myth, all of it suddenly seemed true and so very near her.

  “Are you human?” she asked.

  Calemore rolled his eyes. “A better, more perfect kind of human.” He smiled.

  Nigella just watched him, wondering if she might die today. But Calemore was only smiling at her, seemingly amused by her terror.<
br />
  I should have run far away, she thought, bitter remorse choking her. She felt weakness in every limb, a sagging weight in her chest. Her breath came out short, strangled.

  “I have come to the realms to restore my power,” he said. “You will divine for me what my enemies are planning. This is why it is imperative for you to unravel the book’s secret. You do understand the importance of the situation?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  Calemore stretched. “Excellent.”

  It was a while before she mustered courage to speak again. “Why did you tell me this?” What was her role in his return? Was she just a disposable piece he would use and throw away once finished? Was anything he had ever done to her—with her—more than just a cruel jape?

  What happens once he defeats his enemies? Do I go back to being an outcast?

  “Do not worry. I reward those who serve me faithfully,” he said, reading her mind.

  Nigella tried to smile, but she almost sobbed with terror.

  Calemore made a sympathetic face. “Every day, my enemies grow stronger. They gather more followers, more power. They are adapting, becoming cleverer. Your talent so far has given me very little. I need you to really try hard, Nigella. Really hard. You show such promise. But you must not hold anything back.”

  A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, dripped on the pillow. Calemore wiped it with his smooth finger.

  “Do not cry. It’s all right. You are safe from harm.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” she whispered, trying to keep the wail in the back of her throat from smothering her.

  “Do? Nothing. Now you know, though,” he lectured. “Now you will be able to help me.”

  She nodded, her tongue too heavy to speak. But there was clarity in her head now. The magical texts from The Book of Lost Words swirled like leaves picked up by a whirlwind, bobbing round and round and up on tiny, violent eddies. Nigella remembered the vague images, the sharp smells, the random sensations of frost and delight and dark places. Things she had told Calemore and things she had kept to herself.