The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (12 page)

Mali shook her head. “Do you know anyone?”

Royce grunted. “Here? This shit place? I got boys who can’t tell their left from right. In the name of the Abyss, most aren’t old enough to have even been born twenty years back. Maybe at the army command, there could be. I could take you there once we finish here. But why would I?”

Alexa stepped forward. “Because you are a smart and resourceful officer who follows his instincts.”

The captain snorted. “Oh, you want to tickle my pride. Got me there, woman. You two don’t seem like you’re mad. You look educated, well-bred. You can tell what a man’s thinking.” He stepped closer. Mali waited patiently. Everyone needed his or her share of importance. “You read and write?”

“With great skill,” Mali admitted. “Both of us.”

“And you wanna die in war?”

“On the contrary, I want to make sure as few people as possible die in this war.” Mali looked him straight in the eye. “Seems like this shit place needs some discipline. From what I
hear, the nomads teach their children to wield the sword the moment they are old enough to walk. You don’t want to be facing them with boys who can’t tell left from right.”

Royce was still a long time. Then he shrugged. “Well, they told me to recruit. No one said anything about not recruiting old women. If you two can contribute to the war machine, so be it. But as to your identity, it has to be seen. And my promise of whipping stands.”

“Where’s the army command?”

“Barrin estate. We’re going there in a week. You can come along as my clerks. I got too many papers as it is. No pay until I get to know who you really are. Understand?”

Mali could not help but smile sadly. She would be going to the Barrin estate as a clerk after all.

CHAPTER 8

C
alemore 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 anything 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.