The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (32 page)

That sounded like a lecture, James thought. He was slightly disappointed. He had expected a more cryptic, more ominous message. He’d not expected sound political advice from a poor woman. It did not sound right.

“I have not always lived here, you dummy,” she told him.

James kept his thoughts tightly lidded. He did not want to guess who she had been before becoming an herbalist. He did not want to let his imagination frame her in sorrow and pity. She was a powerful magic wielder, and she could help him become the emperor in truth.

“Now, give me your seed,” she said and handed him the cup.

“My seed?” James repeated stupidly. He kept his hands in his lap.

She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean? You mean my…”

Nigella snorted. “Of course. Your semen. I need it for my divination.”

James realized he was blushing. It felt like ants crawling over his skin. “But why?”

The woman was patient. She blinked hard and leaned back. “Soul magic is about the force of life. Water, blood, semen. That’s how it works. The most powerful magic comes from seed. It contains the essence of life.”

He still hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do that,” James mumbled, feeling utterly embarrassed.

She said nothing for a few moments. “Are you a virgin?”

“No!” he snapped defensively. Then, he deflated. He was here to plot his survival. It would not work out with lies as the foundation. “Yes, I am.” It felt strangely liberating to say something like that to a stranger, a woman no less, but it made him painfully aware of his pent-up frustration and lust. His mind clouded with Rheanna.

“You never fucked a woman, not even a whore?” she asked incredulously.

James blushed again. “No, I did not. I was engaged, back home. And we never did…”

She snapped her fingers. “You like men, but you deny it. Is that it?”

“No!” he shouted. “No. That’s not it. It’s just I never had a chance. That’s all.”

Nigella shook her head. “There’s no way you’ll survive the life at court being a virgin. You’ll be torn to bits. Every woman with a bit of self-consciousness will smell you out and take advantage of you. You will be manipulated. Men can’t think clearly when they’re hungry for sex.”

James swallowed. Another lecture. But it felt alarmingly true. Whenever he saw Rheanna, he felt blood pounding in his temples. It was irrational. It made him nervous and distracted. He let his desire rule him. He knew it was wrong, but he could not help it.

After sinning, in the silent moments of guilt and clarity, he rationalized his actions and thought of what he must do, but when he actually met Rheanna and other women, the supple bodies and intoxicating smells softened his resolve. He felt himself react in sympathy to their subtle hints and unspoken terms, even if his mind did not acknowledge it. He lived a paradox and was helpless to prevent it.

“What should I do?”

“You must start having sex with women. You must grow immune to their lures. Sex must become a duty for you, a boring duty. You must make sure sex cannot be a weapon used against you.”

James felt his right eye twitch. A flicker of panic engulfed him. What was he supposed to do? Start making lewd offers to noble ladies who came to visit him? He recalled Otis telling him about frogskins. The man had actually given him sound advice. Maybe Otis really meant good? Or maybe they knew he would get in trouble and wanted to avoid the diplomatic scandals?

“I should let all those women who court me get into my bed, then?”

Nigella almost jumped. “What? No. Those are your enemies. No. They will try to manipulate you. You must never let them seduce you. No. No. You should have sex with the help instead. Go into nearby towns and have sex with tavern wenches and whores. Don’t ever let the rich ladies hold your cock. It’s a sure sign of surrender.”

James listened, fascinated. He’d never expected something like this. Even if he’d not a heard a word of divination yet, he was glad for the advice Nigella gave him. It sounded true. It sounded right.

“Now, fill this cup,” she told him again.

Embarrassment wrapped him again. His muscles froze. A cold noose of debilitating numbness sneaked into his trousers, engulfing his loins. If his member ever felt paralyzed, it was today. It felt small and quiet, like a squirrel burrowed in its hole, waiting for the big predator to move on.

Watching the bucktoothed woman stare him down shamelessly felt humiliating. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. Growing up with his mother only, he’d never had a father figure to tell him about life’s more interesting facets. And she had kept him cocooned in safety, away from many aspects of reality. Then, as deputy sheriff, he’d fought for justice. It had been black-and-white justice, a simple world of law and crime.

He reached for the cup. His fingers brushed against the old wood. He wondered how many men before him had held that same cup. How many had spilled their seed and waited for Nigella to divine their future. The cup unmanned him.

“I really can’t do that. Not yet. I need time.”

She sighed. “All right, silly boy. But the sooner you come to your senses, the sooner I can help you.”

James nodded. “I just need some time, that’s all.” He rubbed his hands nervously. “What do my spit and blood tell you?”

Nigella shrugged. “Nothing much. Your future is a thunderstorm, all black and livid with lightning.”

He craned his head to one side. “What does that mean?”

She clapped her hands, startling him. “Oh, you expect a report on a piece of paper?”

He mumbled dumbly.

“It does not work that way. Life magic is difficult and complex. Seeing the future is a very tricky task. Nothing is ever certain. But now and then, there will be powerful leads. And if you’re smart, you will use them to your advantage. You will take these vague hints and turn them into a hard truth, and you’ll shape reality as you want it.”

She leaned forward. “There’s little time. You must make your decisions soon.”

James clenched his fists hard. “I will.”

“Come back soon. And you’d better not be shy about it.”

“I will do my best,” he promised. His first task was to stop being a virgin. That sounded easy. But it would also mean clawing off the last shred of decency he still had. What should he do? Produce bastards with poor village girls with broken teeth and lice in their hair? Substitute Celeste for prostitutes? What did that make him? Did his love mean nothing?

But it had been so long. He rarely thought of Celeste anymore. She was just an excuse, a shield against his own desires, his true desires. She was a ghost of his old life, and he clung dearly, desperately trying to prove that he was better than the harsh world around him. But decency was not going to save his life.

Perhaps the real test was immersing himself in the web of lies and treachery that surrounded him, but staying true to his principles. Perhaps that was the true ordeal. He had decided to become an emperor, even if he’d not really understood what it meant. He still did not. But it was bigger than anything he’d ever done in his life. It was not just about him anymore.

Maybe he could still love Celeste, or love the idea she stood for, even if he let his lust take over his senses. Maybe he could make justice with his decisions, even if his body became a tool. He could live with that.

And Rheanna. She would not flee his mind. Her smell clung to him like a second skin. She imbued his every pore. She was a backdrop to his thoughts and feelings. And the more she lingered there, the duller the pain of betrayal and self-loathing became. Perhaps the last obstacle was his false sense of morality.

Emperors could not indulge in pity and childish dreams.

He bade the witch farewell and left the cabin, thoughts swirling. The village of Pasey was located about half a day’s ride from Pain Daye, on the road to Goden and Monard. It was one of the dozens of communities supporting the trade in the area, focused on wool. The hills, a never-ending ripple that stretched everywhere, were crowned in trees and bubbling with white dots. Sheep, an army as large as those in books of history.

James mounted his horse and headed back to the mansion. He was alone. He could not trust anyone, not even his gangly would-be squire. He still wasn’t sure if Timothy was a spy for one of the councillors. Probably not. He hoped.

CHAPTER 21

A
malia was touring her city. It was her second appearance since the night Calemore attacked her. While she had been away, Luke’s men had spun rumors so that it appeared she had never abated in her vigilance, visiting various city districts day after day, talking to ordinary people. Now that the swelling on her face had subsided, she could be seen again. People needed to see her, to be given hope.

Her entourage was walking down Baker’s Lane, a wide paved road with sidewalks and colorful merchant shops boxed on both sides. Men and women had stopped in their business and were watching the empress come their way. She had chosen to go on foot; riding a horse would put them above the crowd’s heads. She wanted to be face-to-face with her people. They needed it.

Gerald walked on her left. Edwin, his deputy, on the right. Agatha trailed a step behind, carrying two baskets of sweet bread rolls. Amalia would give those to children at intersections and in city squares. A token, some would even say a farce, but it was a gesture of goodwill that Roalas craved.

Roalas had become a self-besieged city. It swarmed with people from the countryside who showed no intention of leaving the safety of its thick walls. Street corners were swarming with squatters, women and children who always looked filthy. In the first few days after they started appearing, Amalia had ordered city guards to disperse the crowds with cudgels, and then banned them from entering the city proper. Finally, when the pressure grew too great, she had allowed some of her people in, and with them, the feeling of despondence and fear.

Her public display did help. People cheered her and gave her little gifts. They smiled at her and swore to endure any hardship. But there was worry behind their strained faces. Eighteen years ago, Roalas had faced near destruction before surrendering and becoming the capital of a new realm. Should the city fall again, no one promised such boons.

But the city remembered. Most of the people in Roalas today had seen the rebel army led by her father threaten them with fire and sword. All of the elder citizens had been Caytoreans once, sworn to the High Council of Trade, if not in their souls, then in their bodies and work. And overnight, they had sworn allegiance to a stranger and let him lead them into an uncertain future. Without the gods and goddesses to give them hope. Just the raw reality of life.

Roalas lived with that memory embedded in its cobbles and bricks. Even if a whole generation had been born since, it was an unsaid truth. Loyalty was merchandise here. You should never cling to it too dearly, since you might want to sell the next day, when the price got high enough.

Amalia was aware of that. Somehow, her father had bought their loyalty with his own ideals and unwavering vision of freedom. He had given them back everything, and in the end, after all, despite everything, they had truly loved him. Roalas had seen one ruler after another come and take control of its citizens, from the mighty lords and rich merchants who would not dirty their shoes walking its winding streets to Feorans who had burned people for their faith. Then, one day, almost like rain washing away an age of filth, her father had come and cleansed their spirits with pure truth of what he believed in.

He had won them over. And he’d made sure that their loyalty to him would never need to be questioned.

But now it was. Now, there could be a war. The Eracians were wavering and threatening, not really sure what they wanted; the Caytoreans were playing their dirty political games, like they always had. Little had changed in the past several months, yet a pall of inevitable doom was settling over the city like fine soot. It blackened everything.

Amalia hated the thoughts that swirled inside her head. The thousands of refugees that crowded her capital were simple people. They had paid their taxes to the High Council one day, then to the war priests of the Feoran Movement the next, then to a lowborn conqueror after that. It made no difference. But they had Caytorean blood, Caytorean heritage. What would happen if the horrors of war stripped their souls naked? What would happen to her soldiers, most of whom had Eracian parents?

She hated the idea of having a nation’s worth of simple human treachery confined in her city. She hated the gnawing doubt in the blackest recesses of her soul that tried to tell her that. It could not happen, she was trying to convince herself. Eighteen years was long enough to forge a national identity.

It had to be.

The Athesian army was hers. There was no doubt about that. But they had all been Adam’s men. Still, deep down, most of them were Eracians, just like her father. What would happen if she led them into war and lost? Would they stay here and protect her? Would they give their lives for her? Father’s and Mother’s mixed marriage had also served to unite the peoples of Athesia. But would that be enough? Would their shared dream survive the cruel reality?