“How does that work?” Cyrus asked. “The eyes thing?”
“They pay for information,” Guy said, not looking at Cyrus for even a second, not daring to break his careful watch for anything so wasteful as eye contact while answering a question. “Sometimes, they just go down the street and grab random people, beat their secrets out of them. Where they've hidden money. What they know about their neighbors' dealings. How they feel about their wives or husbands or mums and dads. We call it 'confession' or 'drilling'.” Now he flashed a look at Cyrus. “Because you're looking to get to the core of – well, the truth. And also—”
“I get the idea,” Cyrus said, wincing, and not entirely from the pain. “Why'd you join the Machine?”
“What else was I going to do?” Guy asked, though this time he did look at Cyrus, just briefly, before looking down and away. So he did have a sense of shame, though it was buried under a thick layer of bluster. And fear, now. “Work at a factory? Die in an industrial accident at age twenty, as one does in those places?” He shook his head. “You want fortune in this city, there's one path to it – the Machine. It's the only game in town.”
“Seems to me a man participating in the Machine might have to bury his humanity to do it,” Cyrus said coolly. Another moment passed, and he tried the healing spell again. His hand flashed red, but the pain alleviated once more, by a tiny amount. This was not going to do it. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed. If he didn't get a heal, a solid one, before the hour elapsed...
He was going to be nursing these injuries – and be nearly useless in battle – for months to come.
Guy let out a sharp laugh, reminding Cyrus that he'd said something before lapsing into self-reflection about his injuries. “You know, the man whose armor you're imitating buried more than a little bit of his so-called 'humanity' in the course of building his legend.”
Cyrus cocked his head at Guy. “Explain what you mean.”
“Gladly,” Guy said, and now he was looking at Cyrus with undisguised glee, all thought of keeping watch for the Machine gone in his desire to make a point, apparently. “How many battles do you reckon Cyrus Davidon fought in? In his life, I mean?”
Cyrus met his gaze. “Countless.”
“See, a real imitator who took his trade seriously would have known the number off the top of his head,” Guy said, grinning. “But 'countless' answers it well enough for our purposes. How many people do you suppose he killed in all those battles?”
“Truly, now we are in the realm of 'countless',” Cyrus said.
“I mean, if we just go by the book,” Guy said, leering at him, “he did a fair amount of killing at the battle of the Nartanis Mountains—”
Cyrus stiffened. “What? I didn't kill anyone at the battle of the Nartanis Mountains.”
Guy rolled his eyes. “See, here's where you fail at your job again. Everyone knows that Cyrus Davidon killed the Dragonlord and his servants at the battle of Nartanis Mountains.”
“I blinded the Dragonlord and rode him into the ground, certainly,” Cyrus said, “but I didn't deliver the final blow, technically – Alaric did that. And the rest of Sanctuary and our allied guilds fought the ground battle while I was up in the sky with Ashan'agar.” He shook his head. “My killing there was minimal. And, in the interest of accuracy, I should point out I started killing far, far earlier than that.”
“I don't think we're going to reach a meeting of the minds on this,” Guy said, staring at him smokily. “My point is...when do you suppose Cyrus Davidon killed his first person?”
“My first kill that stuck was when I was in the Society of Arms,” Cyrus said, the answer coming to him instantly. “Training exercise. We hit a bandit camp in the Pelar hills. The instructors helped us find it, then turned us loose to dispatch the bastards.” He noted Guy's raised eyebrow. “It was a civic service project. The Society was always doing those sort of things for the Confederation. The bandit I got was a skinny bastard, probably malnourished, honestly – and a head shorter than me even though I was – what? Fifteen? Sixteen, maybe?”
“Thanks for illustrating my point for me with that lovely fiction,” Guy said. “Cyrus Davidon killed lots of people, that's what I've been getting to between your lovely fictive digressions. So when you accuse me of burying my 'humanity',” he sneered that word, “realize that the man whose armor you're imitating buried 'is even deeper. And he buried more than a few other souls along the way.”
Cyrus let a long, florid sigh escape him. “You people really don't know me at all, but I would say that you, of all those I've met in this era, understand me the least, Guy.” He planted a gauntlet on Guy's lapel, straightening it where it had become tucked over on itself during the fight in the alley, or helping Cyrus along. “I never buried my humanity, even as I fought those countless battles or killed those countless people. Covered it over, perhaps, in dust, let it burnish in disuse, but never buried it. The terrible things I was doing to my fellow – well, beings, since many of them were hardly human – was utmost on my mind.” He focused in on Guy's eyes, which were slitted like a prey animal, determining whether Cyrus was a predator to bolt from. “I killed them in spite of my humanity – because of it, even. For they buried theirs, deeper than deep in many cases, or failed to acknowledge mine at all. Some kinder souls might have suggested to meet enemies like the Dragonlord with love. They'd live today in a kingdom of ash, these gentler beings, for the enemies I confronted have been those that most threaten the people I love. Murderers and bandits, usurpers and conquerors, these are my enemies.” He leaned in, planting a hand on Guy's shoulder, not to lean on him but to impart this truth. “Long have I stood in the path of those who would harm the people of the lands that I have loved, and done terrible things to them in defense of those souls. It's why I'm here now, to supplant the Machine, which crushes beneath it carelessly the people of Reikonos, and to overthrow that thrice-damned imposter of a Lord Protector.” He cast his eye toward the Citadel, which still smoked, headless, over the rooftops in the distance. “I am human, or else I would show much less care in my choice of victims, you see. A man without decency who wishes to kill will simply kill; I only kill those who threaten those I love, human or otherwise. My humanity is very close to the surface, you see – and it could not be otherwise unless I cared for nothing but the act of killing. Which I don't.”
“That's either beautiful or disturbing,” Guy said, wide-eyed. “Can't decide which. Maybe a bit o' both.” He flicked his gaze back to the street around them, and must have found it disagreeable, for he looked back to Cyrus and folded slightly at the midsection. “I don't know how much farther we have to go, but I don't think I can carry you any more.”
A whinny in the distance caused Cyrus to look up. And when he found the source...to smile. “I don't think you'll have to.”
“You going to start walking under your own power?” Guy asked, regarding him with more than a little skepticism. “Because that would be a pleasant surprise indeed.”
“No,” Cyrus said, watching the familiar figure move through the crowd, skirting the edge of the sidewalk, sticking to the gutter, head up above the countless ones streaming by in front of him. Cyrus shoved off, pushing his way through the crowd to the edge of the street, following his eyes to the glorious white horse that waited, just off the curb, for him. “I'm going to ride.”
“You're into horse thieving now?” Guy asked, looking around as though a local constable might leap out and apprehend them just there. “I suppose you've done worse at this point, but—”
“I'm not stealing anything,” Cyrus said, patting the horse's neck, running his hands over flawless white mane, offering a reassuring clicking of his tongue. “I'm saying hello to an old friend.” Cyrus could feel the slow grin spreading over his face, in spite of the pain, because now...now, he knew everything was going to be all right. “It's good to see you again...Windrider.”
Chapter 11
“I don't like the fact that you made me
ride behind you to keep you from falling out of the saddle,” Guy said as they cantered into the Sanctuary yard through the open gate.
Did the man ever stop whinging? “Would you have preferred to walk alongside?” Cyrus asked, letting Guy dismount first, and taking care not to topple over. Hopefully Curatio would have returned already, because by his counting, the hour he had to get these injuries healed was drawing to a close.
“I'd have preferred to ride in a motorcar,” Guy said, staring up at Cyrus. He looked at Cyrus's hand, which was outstretched, waiting for him, then sighed and offered his own.
“Well, I don't have one of those,” Cyrus said, taking Guy's hand and bracing against it as he stepped down, cringing from the stinging pain that ran through his body as he touched the ground and nearly knocked over the more diminutive Guy. “Hell, I'm not entirely sure I know what one of those even is. Are those the horseless carriages I've seen rumbling around town?”
“Yeah,” Guy said, giving a glance to the rise of Sanctuary behind him, surveying the facade with an appraising eye. “And I suppose it shouldn't surprise me you lack familiarity with the conveniences of modernity, given you live in a place that looks like it was built during the days of Davidon.”
“Long before those days, actually,” Cyrus said, limping his way toward the stairs, but only with great effort. He had to get inside, had to get a more powerful healing spell cast on him, maybe even a chain of them, to sort this out. There was definitely some fighting in his future, and not being able to stand up straight would hamper his ability to do so just as surely as Guy's lack of social graces and decency hampered any conversation they had.
“Certainly looks the part,” Guy said, trailing in his wake, not offering a hand now. “Looks like a temple, actually.”
Cyrus shoved the door wide into the foyer and called, “Hello!” It echoed through the high-ceilinged rooms as he leaned on the big door. Weak sunlight shone in through the stained-glass circular window above the doors, and illumination emanated from the hearth that stretched the length of the wall to his right. The great seal of Sanctuary lay inset into the floor before him, and a glance through the double doors into the dining hall revealed no one waiting.
“What happened to you?” came a sharp voice from his left. Cyrus turned, hand falling to Rodanthar in his scabbard in anticipation of an attack-
But found only Pamyra, eyes slitted as she surveyed him at the door to the lounge.
Cyrus relaxed only a little at the sight of the elf. “I got thrown across the city,” he said, leaving the door behind and limping toward her. “Any chance you followed in your father's footsteps and learned a healing spell or two? Because I have a need. A powerful one, and urgent.”
She seemed to draw up as he approached, a reserve falling over her face, as though preparing to argue. After a moment's conflict within, she relaxed, sighed, and said, “Of course.” And with a wave of her hand, and the flash of a glow between her fingers...
Suddenly Cyrus felt immensely better.
“Ohhh,” he let out a long groan, sagging against the wall halfway to the lounge's open archway. The pain was mostly gone, and he inflated his lungs and straightened his spine with only a twinge of angry, lingering after-pain to mark the passage of his fall injuries. He flexed his knee and put a little weight on it, then a little more, finding it bearing up just fine. “Thank you,” he said, with utmost sincerity, looking Pamyra in the eyes.
Andren's daughter was back to implacable, but the facade cracked for a moment as she nodded. “You're welcome.”
“I take it no one else has made it back yet?” Cyrus asked, casting a look around the entry foyer. It was a sweeping room, but nowhere near as sweeping as it had been a thousand years before, with a majestic second-story balcony from which to address the entire assembled guild.
“From the rally? No.” This answer came from across the room, and a little woman, small of face and frame, who looked just a touch like Pamyra – fitting since they were mother and daughter. Shirri Gadden crossed swiftly to them, giving Guy a glance where he malingered by the front doors. “Who's this?”
“Guy – uh...what's your last name?” Cyrus asked.
“Harysan,” Guy said, looking mildly affronted at the lapse. Cyrus couldn't remember if he'd even been offered it before.
“Guy Harysan, this is Shirri Gadden and Pamyra,” Cyrus said, indicating each with a wave of the hand. “Guy's a former Machine thug who kindly let Vara and I know about some of their hideouts. Now he's in danger of having his head removed from his shoulders by them.”
“And you brought him here because he's trustworthy with the knowledge of where we sleep at night?” Shirri asked, now looking a bit like a cat who'd been threatened with implicit danger.
Cyrus didn't have to ponder his answer too long. “No, I brought him here because I couldn't walk upright and because he came within about an inch of losing his neck – and the rest of him – to the Machine while I watched.” He looked at Guy, whose pursed lips indicated just about what he thought of all of this, and it wasn't good. “Call me soft, but I felt a little responsibility for his current situation.”
“That's because you are entirely responsible for my current situation,” Guy said, a little nonplussed.
“Not entirely,” Cyrus said. “I didn't force you to come gawk at me in that alley. You could have been on an airship to another land right now if not for that.”
That did nothing to alleviate Guy's sour expression. “Quite right,” he said, but that was all.
“What happened to the others?” Pamyra asked. “Did the rally turn violent?”
“No,” Cyrus said, catching a whiff of cooked meat and heading for the Great Hall. There was food on the table, as per usual, and the thought of it blotted out his desire to explain what had happened. “We were interrupted.”
“By whom?” Shirri asked. She followed along behind Cyrus, as did Pamyra, though a bit more hesitantly. She seemed to be hanging on his every word, though, drawn to him by fascination, perhaps. Guy, too, followed, though his eyes seemed to be on the table as well.
“The Lord Protector's own guards,” Cyrus said, falling on a rib of beef and tearing the tender meat right from the bone as Shirri and Pamyra waited, seemingly horrified either by his table manners or the wait to hear what happened next. “Brought us to the top of the Citadel for a little meeting. Which, as you might have guessed by my walk when I came in, did not go well.”
“If you're telling it true, you got launched some eighty blocks from there, mate,” Guy said, picking up a chicken leg and sniffing it before taking a huge bite. “I'd say it went really poorly. Guess they don't take kindly to Davidon impersonators, eh?”
“Tell me about it,” Cyrus said. “I did feel every bit of it when I landed, after all.”
“Wait,” Shirri said, a dawning horror growing across her face. “What happened to the others, then?”
“Not sure,” Cyrus said, chewing this bite a little more slowly as he pondered. “From what I could see, the top of the Citadel was blown off.” Both Shirri and Pamyra reacted to that, though, with wide eyes. “I'm sure they'll be along shortly, though,” Cyrus said, before taking another lovely, steaming bite off the bone.
“How?” Pamyra managed to get out. “If they were in the top floor of the Citadel, and it was blown off—”
“Like I said, not sure,” Cyrus said, slowing the pace of his chewing to a near-crawl as he pondered the answer to that. “I think I would know if they were dead, though. I'd feel it,” he decided at last. “Because we're connected, via Sanctuary. And since I haven't felt it—”
“That is the most idiotic, half-witted explanation I have ever heard for anything in my life,” Pamyra said.
“Clearly you never listened to your father, then, because the shit he came out with, frankly, puts any bullroar I could conjure straight to shame,” Cyrus said. “Not to speak ill of the dead.”
Pamyra started to open her mouth to protest, but the sq
ueal of door hinges interrupted her. They all turned, as one, toward the foyer, and Pamyra broke off, hurrying out of the Great Hall.
“We have returned,” came Curatio's steady voice, though Cyrus couldn't see him particularly well, the archway of the Great Hall's door somewhat obscuring the foyer. He started to move in that direction, but Shirri and Pamyra were quite a bit ahead of him now.
“Some of us have returned more banged up than others,” Vaste said. Cyrus couldn't quite see him yet, either, and hesitated at the corner of the table, torn between greeting his friends and grabbing another beef rib. The rib won; it was only a minor delay, after all. “And, of course...” Here the troll lowered his voice. “...some of us have not returned at all.”
“Yes,” Curatio said as Cyrus paused, lingering behind the archway. “Unfortunately, ladies, I regret to inform you...Cyrus has fallen.”
The thump of something hard and armored ramming against Vaste drew a short, sharp shriek from the troll. “I told you, idiots...he's not dead.” Vara's voice was sharp, clear.
Cyrus smiled, hidden in the recessed shadow of the archway. Pamyra, a step ahead, glanced back at him, and Cyrus held a single finger to his lips.
“...Really must thank you for going to this trouble on our account,” Alaric was saying, his voice growing in volume as he entered the foyer. Someone grunted at him, low, quiet, a little feminine but hard to be sure.
“I am sorry, Lady Vara,” Curatio said slowly, the deep, remorseful tone the healer adopted like an itch that made Cyrus want to scratch, or a tickle that made him want to laugh. He kept it in only from perverse joy in being able to listen to this play out. “But I think we can safely say, now, that the worst must be true.” The elf paused, clearly for dramatic effect. “Cyrus...is dead.”
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