The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  A world of the unknown was forming before her like a mosaic, and the little chips danced in a wild wind, which tossed them around carelessly. Her hands groped, trying to catch them, piece by piece, and slowly, the hint of a future was forming.

  If she had not liked it before, she truly feared it now.

  I am helping Calemore build a dark, sinister world, she thought. But what choice did she have? Give up now? Flee and hope he would never find her? Such a silly, useless notion.

  The urgency to master the book grew stronger than ever. For herself. She had to know. She had to know. Calemore was being awfully nice to her, but something in her bones told her that mercy and compassion were two emotions he did not really understand, more like tried to show and practice. He promised her no harm, but she could only guess what the word “harm” really meant in his lexicon.

  You cannot consider murder as murder if you do not have a concept of right and wrong, she thought, almost inanely. Squashing a roach was not murder. Killing game for food was not murder.

  So what was she?

  There were so many more questions she wanted to ask Calemore, but she did not dare. She did not want to hear his version of the past, his idea of goodness and justice. She knew her soul would be scarred by them.

  I pledged myself to help, and I did not ask why.

  Whatever was going to happen, she would be an accomplice. She would help this White Witch achieve his plans. What did that make her?

  She was beginning to understand the looks he gave her, the cruel, casual amusement in his eyes. It was the sort you spared an insect that delighted you with its little behavior, and you watched it squirm with a piece of fruit or burrow a hole in the dirt because you were bored and you had nothing better to do right then. His utter disdain, his total disregard for life and its value.

  If she wanted to outlive this madness, she had to make herself more than a worthless insect. She had to match his cruelty, on his terms. She realized she could no longer indulge in her own pity, in her son’s success, her ugly teeth, or her apple pies. The gravity of her situation would not permit those anymore.

  Could she do it, though? Yes, yes, she could. After being abused her whole life, breaking apart was easy, but there was bitterness too, and if she tapped into it, it suddenly would not stop gushing out.

  I can do it, she told herself, and steeled her heart.

  “You once told me you would give me anything for my prophecies,” she said, feeling dizzy, crazy.

  Calemore smiled. “Yes. So you want to be a queen, after all?”

  Nigella rubbed her cheek dry. “No. Not yet. But there’s something I must ask you. Ten years ago, this man Rob, a Caytorean rich man, made love to me during the Autumn Festival. I got pregnant, with Sheldon. He was supposed to marry me. Instead, he cast me out of his mansion, left me with nothing.”

  Calemore was grinning impishly, finding her story utterly entertaining. She almost lost courage then, but she rallied. She swallowed her dread, her disgust, the feelings of self-loathing and worthlessness, and plunged on, deeper into the sea of resentment and rejection that was her life.

  “He humiliated me, abandoned me, and put my life at risk for nothing. He used me.” She looked up into those pale eyes. “I want you to kill him.” I asked James the same thing once, and he turned me down, betrayed me. Maybe I should have James killed, too.

  The expression on his face did not change. He just blinked once, deliberately. “It will be done.” He chortled. “I like the way you think, Nigella. You are humble; you are withdrawn. You shy away from this world. Yet, you are the most courageous human I know. No one else would have dared ask me for such a simple, personal favor. It touches me.”

  Nigella managed a tiny smile of her own. “When will you do it?”

  Calemore looked up at the ceiling as if thinking, calculating. “In a few weeks.”

  She nodded. Now that she had commissioned Rob’s death, she felt lightweight somehow, cleansed. She did not feel any guilt or fear. There was just a sense of resolution, ten years aged and seasoned with pale remorse.

  Lying with him on the bed like this, after making love, she could almost pretend she was a normal woman, with a husband who cared for her and would protect her from harm. She could ignore the world outside. Almost.

  Calemore still wanted his prophecies. She had to provide them.

  Nigella had never thought she would be an instrument of destruction, but that seemed to be her fate. She was destined to serve this beautiful, immortal thing, make his dreadful vision come true, and she knew it would be terrible. But perhaps her choice was not so bad this time. She had tried humans, and all they had given her was grief. False smiles, false friendships, betrayal.

  Maybe Calemore was what she needed. After all, she was a half Sirtai living among people who hated magic and would probably kill her if they knew her skills and doings. Calemore was this mad, cruel king of all the lands, and, well, kings were supposed to be mad and cruel.

  When he asked me if I wanted to be a queen, did he mean his queen? she thought. A flutter of hope in her belly. Maybe. No.

  There would be no more answers from him today, she realized. However, the book might hold some. So she spent the next hour lying on the bed, waiting for him to get bored and leave. When the door of her small house closed, she lit several lamps, and squinting in their jaundice glow, she set about reading The Book of Lost Words and trying to figure out what the future had in store for her, the world’s fate be damned.

  CHAPTER 32

  James walked side by side with the two Sirtai, feeling somewhat confused and mistrustful. It was not as if he received a pair of magic wielders at his doorstep every day. Especially not one with a face painted blue.

  This whole end-of-the-world story sounded too farfetched. He was not sure whether to believe Jarman, or what his motives might really be. To be sure, there was more to the tale than just pending death and destruction. The young wizard was hiding something, James could tell. The other one, well, he defined the word “secrecy.”

  Worst of all, acknowledging the threat meant putting aside all he had been doing in the past year. His fight to survive at Pain Daye, his attempts to win over the Caytoreans, his marriage to Rheanna, his battles, they would all be meaningless now.

  His two new advisers did not quite behave like one would expect from imperial adjutants. For that matter, neither did Lucas behave like a typical slave, but James was not quite sure how the islanders perceived power. Their culture was so much different from the realms’, it was risky assuming they thought and reasoned like any Caytorean or Eracian. Until he knew better, James made sure not to draw any hasty conclusions.

  Jarman was polite, somewhat hesitant, eager, and a little clunky around other folk, as if he had learned about communication from a book. Lucas was stern, hard, almost frightening. You could not argue with him. Both oozed an air of confidence that left James feeling stupid. Perhaps the Sirtai did think themselves better than the people of the realms.

  For the past three weeks, they would come to visit him a few hours every few days, talking to him about politics, about his decisions and future plans, and each time hinting a bit more on the sinister, magical things that lurked out there. So far they had stayed at their own inn, avoiding getting entangled too deeply in the local affairs, as if they did not matter to them. Now, though, they demanded their own floor at the mayor’s inn. That meant vacating some of his officers. A hassle, and maybe an affront, but definitely a test of his authority.

  They were outside the city, in the wet fields north of the mining camp, close to the small forest called the Weeping Boughs. No one knew why the trees were called that, an old, dark growth of oaks and beech, their mossy bark slick with rain, their branches bare.

  Mayor Alistair had organized a hunt in James’s honor. He claimed the forest had lovely boar, a small kind that was not dangerous for men or horses. Killing a few fat ones just before the winter sounded like a good opportunity to rekindle
some of the comradeship with his noble followers, so James had acquiesced. They hunted while he talked.

  He would have preferred to ride, but the Sirtai had refused horses. Instead, they walked, wearing galoshes to keep the wet mud away. James had a fancy red pair, with hide leggings going up to his thighs, but the color was lost under a black smear of earth and leaves. Lucas and Jarman had their robes trailing in the grass, soaked through, but they did not seem to mind.

  Around, a host of bodyguards was following, some on foot, some mounted, swords drawn and crossbows held ready. Timothy plowed dutifully behind. Rob was there, too.

  It was the kind of morning that made you feel depressed, with the sky a single drape of gray fading into a grainy mist about a mile away. The weather promised rain, but there wasn’t any, and the air was heavy and wet; James wanted to open his mouth and swallow a gulp. It was rather warm, too. He was sweating under his expensive coat.

  Farther away, near the eaves of the forest, men were cursing and shouting, galloping in short strides around bushes and trees. Dogs were barking, saddle gear jangled, and it all sounded muffled and amplified at the same time. Eerie.

  James brought his thoughts around back to the topic of the apocalypse.

  “Why would this Calemore want to do that?” he asked stubbornly.

  Jarman shook his head. “You are thinking like a human. The White Witch does not share the same sentiments as you. He does not perceive reality like you do.”

  James wondered how his wife would handle these wizards. He had received a letter from her two days ago. Apparently, she had sent a rider to Pain Daye, and thereon wherever the rumor of her husband’s location took him. It seemed that Eybalen was peaceful and that her clerks had not abused her absence that much after all. He wished he could share her burden. His own work seemed complex, and it was only getting more so.

  “How am I supposed to be thinking?” the emperor jabbed.

  The young Sirtai pointed at Weeping Boughs. “Like a man hunting animals.”

  James frowned. Three weeks since meeting these crazy men, he was still confused and unconvinced.

  Jarman seemed to notice his skepticism again. “How well did you know your father, Emperor Adam?”

  This was a topic he did not feel like discussing, but felt compelled to answer anyway. “Not at all. I have never met him. I just heard of him, that’s all.”

  Jarman made a funny gesture with his hands. “But I thought you knew about the book and the weapons?” He looked at his slave.

  James shrugged. “What book? What weapons?”

  The wizard sighed, a long, deep sound. “What do you know about your father’s victory over the Parusites?”

  The emperor stepped over a field rock. “He defeated them brilliantly. He used great military cunning against superior forces and crushed them utterly. That’s the sum of it.”

  Behind him, Rob coughed. James turned and noticed his friend wanted to say something, but then he just stepped back.

  “And what do you know of the past of the realms?”

  James recalled reading Blackwood, Askel, and another historian whose name he could not recall. They all made sure to detail the royal lineages of the different realms as far back as they knew, to mention all the slights and skirmishes and wars fought, to delineate a fresh map for each passing decade and century, but the farther back the pages went, the more blurred the truth was.

  “Have you ever wondered why we call you the continental people? Why your language is known as the Continental? Why there used to be forms called Vulgar and Elite?”

  James waved impatiently. Continental people? Because you live in your archipelago. “What is your point, Jarman?”

  The Sirtai continued undaunted, as cryptic as ever. “The realms have two histories, one part kept in your libraries in the cities like Eybalen, Somar, Sigurd, some of the old holy places, and the other kept in Tuba Tuba. They differ.”

  James felt a pair of eyes boring into his back. He flicked a glance at Rob. His friend’s stare told him he should not dismiss the wizard too easily.

  “You probably have no idea of how our age came to be, how the land was formed, how the realms got their name, their culture. But very long ago, there was a huge war fought here.” He gestured broadly. “And it was decided. The victors held the territory you know as the realms. The defeated party was banished. Their leader fled far north, far beyond anyone’s reach, and sealed himself behind a magic curtain so powerful even he could not get through. That’s a very meaningful defense, right there. Probably the only kind that really works.”

  James stopped and looked at the Sirtai. Rob joined his side with an expression of keen interest. All around, at a polite distance just out of earshot, the silent mass of bodyguards and followers spread and waited.

  Jarman smiled. “After centuries of war, the people of this land were weak. What they learned in those years, they learned from us, the Sirtai. We helped you recover. We gave you the cultural heritage back then. We taught you classes and language. Over time, your religion grew strong and took over. The realms became the domain of the gods and goddesses, ruled by the patriarchs and matriarchs. The Sirtai kept away and evolved. You stayed, unchanged, all these years, all the while rewriting the pages of history so the truth of those early days would never be known. And so the name Calemore and the title White Witch were forgotten, and your northern reaches became a desolate end of the world.”

  James had to admit it sounded quite fascinating. A whole deal more dramatic than anything else he had studied. A whole deal more ancient.

  “For you, and even for us, the First Age of Mankind is a relic so old you can’t even call it the past. But for the White Witch of Naum, time is meaningless, and the old scars burn fresh and painful. He is coming back to finish the war he fought, only this time, he will face humans who know nothing of their land’s history.”

  For the hundredth time, James wondered, Why are you telling me this? Why had this Sirtai chosen him? Why not preach the same to the High Council of Trade or King Sergei?

  “And how do you know all this, Jarman?”

  It was Lucas who answered. “The Sirtai have a very long memory. We remember.”

  Rob was struggling to light a fresh cigarette, but the air seemed too damp. He looked hopefully at the two wizards without a speck of fear or shame. “Do you mind?”

  Jarman snorted with light amusement, and the cigarette end burst into fire. Rob opened his eyes in surprised delight and puffed eagerly.

  “Let’s assume all this is true,” James said, almost wearily.

  Jarman turned serious again. “You must make peace among yourselves. The people of the realms must be united. And you must all turn north to face the new threat. Every single one of you will be needed for this war.”

  “What about the Sirtai?” the emperor asked.

  The wizard blinked slowly. “We stayed away from the first war, and we will stay away now.”

  James pointed. “Then why are you here?”

  Jarman’s face turned hard. “I, too, have unfinished business.”

  James bunched his hand and pounded lightly against his lips, blowing air into the pocket of his fist. The story was fantastic, he had to admit. But he just found it too crazy, too farfetched. He could understand why people might dislike magic. He could believe ancient wars had been fought in some dark, distant past. That was what the past was all about. However, this magnificent enemy, this Calemore, suddenly coming from the north, beyond weeks and months of wasteland, that was too much.

  All the while, he had to win his realm back and defeat the Parusites.

  “You mentioned something similar,” James told Rob, recalling last year’s party.

  Rob nodded. “You should listen to these Sirtai.”

  James could not hold it in anymore. “Why me, Jarman?”

  Jarman smiled again. “You are Emperor Adam’s son. Your father was exposed to truths no other human had seen or heard in centuries.”

&nbs
p; “How?” James did not like this.

  Jarman bit his lower lip. “I do not know exactly, but you will help me find out.”

  But there was more. The wizard was hiding something. Every day, he told a new story, or a new facet of an old one, expanding endlessly, but still he kept some dark secret to himself. His new advisers were not only trying to influence his decisions, they were trying to skew his perception of reality, too.

  Rob’s face twitched with emotion. James’s mind kept going back to their drunken first encounter, but the details seemed fuzzy. He vaguely remembered being in a cheerful mood, and any apocalyptic references surely had sounded ominous yet entertaining.

  He was not so sure anymore.

  Nigella, he wished he had her by his side. But then, he had made his choice, the right choice.

  “So what now?” James tried to break the tense silence.

  “Make peace,” the Sirtai said simply, bluntly.

  “Impossible,” James snapped and resumed pacing, dragging muddy grass after him.

  “Time is running out,” Jarman insisted, his voice calm and deadly.

  Some lone bird took off from the grass farther down the field, flapping off lazily; it must have forgotten to migrate to a warmer climate and was now biding its time before the snows. From within the Weeping Boughs, a small party emerged, led by Warlord Xavier, a small something dangling bloody from the tip of his spear. James felt the moment for an intimate little chat with the wizards was drawing to an end.

  Jarman saw the newcomers, and his face flickered with the same emotion.

  James frowned in the direction of his legion commander. The other officers had refused this little celebration and were busy planning the defense and offense against the Parusites. James wanted to be present there, but he was deliberately abstaining himself. Trying to be aloof and stately, just like his lady wife had taught him.

  The past month had been a quiet one, at least for the people of Ecol and Bassac. Not so for the townsfolk and villagers of many other smaller communities in the north of the realms. Detachments of his army had gone almost every day into the countryside, policing, scouting, hunting for criminals and spies, decorating tree branches with fresh corpses. Not quite the legacy he had desired, but he knew he had to secure a solid foothold in Athesia before making his next steps. Soon, he would be sending his letters of encouragement to the Eracians.