by Joseph Lallo
He chuckled. “And what is it that you want?”
She bristled for a moment and then relaxed. “That remains to be seen,” she said, almost as though she were pondering whether she should tell him more. “I think I should retire for the evening. It's been a long day, and we have a longer one ahead of us tomorrow.” She stood up and he joined her out of gentlemanly reflex. “Goodnight.”
He leaned in close to her and felt the pressure of her hand as she deflected him gently to a kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight,” he said with a whisper of sadness. As her back retreated up the stairs, he watched her go.
“What changed?” he called out. Blood hammered in his temples, filling him with a sudden recklessness. “A month ago you hated me. You would have danced on the day I left Sanctuary if you had heard I was never to return.” He shrugged. “I'm the same man I was a month ago, so what changed?”
She froze in the middle of the stairs, pondering for a moment in silence before she turned to face him. She stared at him, eyes brimming with a silent sort of despair that he had never noticed in her before. “I think... that in seeing you vulnerable, I saw the real you. Not the blustering warrior who'd jump into the middle of a battle at the drop of a helm; not the dashing and confident – sometimes arrogant – human who was quick with an insult – I think I saw you,” she said, words tumbling out. “And it was... different from what I had expected of you.”
He closed the distance between them, finding himself on the stairs next to her. “What do you see now?”
She blinked and turned away from his intense gaze. “Something different.” Looking back for just a moment, she added, “I see a good man, someone who won't lead us into foolish action or abandon us when things become difficult.”
“Us?” he said, drawing closer.
“Yes. Us. Sanctuary.”
“What about you?” His hand rested on her back, so close he could feel her breath.
“Me?” she whispered. She pressed her forehead to his for just a moment before he could feel the change in the air. “I'm not ready yet,” she breathed, and pulled from his grasp, taking a few slow steps up the stairs, turning her back on him once more.
He stared at her receding back as she walked slowly up the stairs. “Just keep in mind, I don't live as long as you do – if you wait too long, I'll likely be dead.” Though he meant it as a jest, to lighten the moment, she did not laugh or look back. Upon reaching her room she shut the door and he did not see her again until morning.
Chapter 33
The next day, they did not speak of their conversation and Vara's guardedness had returned. Although she admitted after a few hours that her head ached from the wine, she did not return to the more pleasant mood exhibited the night before. The next two weeks passed in much the same manner; Cyrus's repeated attempts to return to a more intimate and friendly conversational style failed. Although Vara remained pleasant, she also remained distant.
By the end of the week, Cyrus attempted to quicken their pace, striving to finish early. Every time he tried to get ahead of schedule, Vara would interfere with a demand that he take a rest, or that they stay an extra day in some out-of-the-way town. He did not argue, and they ate their meals in relative silence. Once, on the last night, he could have sworn he caught her looking forlorn.
They met Nyad outside the elven capital of Pharesia at the appointed time. The elf greeted them with silence and a stricken look.
“What happened?” Cyrus asked her while dismounting.
“I've just come from a meeting with my fa-” she looked flustered. “From meeting with the King of the Elven Empire.”
Cyrus grinned. “Your father.”
Nyad rolled her eyes. “He informed me that the Museum of Arms was broken into last night, and that Ventus, the Scimitar of Air, was stolen.”
Vara's jaw dropped. “Did any of our detachment report seeing anything?”
Nyad shook her head. “There was no sign of anyone entering through any of the doors: the intruder appeared to have entered through a skylight from above.”
Vara blinked. “Can we speak to our guild members from the detachment?”
“No.” Nyad shook her head. “They are in the process of being released from the jail – it will be several hours.”
“Jail?” Cyrus said with a start.
“They were all in proximity to the Museum at the time of the theft,” Nyad said with a deep frown. “I've spoken with my father and he's agreed to release them on my request, but it will take time. Alaric ordered me to transport you to Reikonos. We've doubled the size of our detachment and he'd like the two of you to join him there.”
“He's there?” Cyrus said. “Where can we find him? Around the Citadel?”
Nyad shook her head. “There's a contingent there, but they've set up a headquarters at your old guildhall in the slums.” She looked at Cyrus as he blinked in surprise. “Andren is helping to lead the effort in Reikonos; he offered it.”
“We need to go now,” Vara said. “Who knows how much time there is before they strike Reikonos and takes the Spear?”
“Assuming they can. And assuming they're going for it,” Cyrus said. “Who knows how many of these things they're really after?”
“They can,” Nyad said grimly. “The Museum of Arms is one of the most well-defended buildings in the Elven Kingdom, complete with mystical barriers and a variety of other spells for defense, in addition to housing a large contingent of troops. If they can steal a weapon from here, they can take it from Reikonos.”
“In any case, would you care to bet the survival of our world on the idea that this nameless, faceless enemy is going to stop before collecting 'the whole set'?” Vara glared at him.
“No.” Cyrus shook his head. “All right, Nyad, take us to Reikonos Square.”
Without a word, the wizard cast a spell that filled Cyrus's vision with light and landed him in Reikonos Square. He and Vara exchanged a quick goodbye with Nyad as she disappeared in a blast of energy. Cyrus looked to the north to see the massive Citadel filling his view.
“Ever been inside?” Vara asked, not looking at him.
“Never.” Cyrus shook his head. “Let's find Alaric.”
They made their way to the slums and Cyrus lashed Windrider at a hitching post outside the door of the old Kings of Reikonos guildhall.
“You actually lived here?” Vara said, voice high in disbelief.
“Yeah,” Cyrus said without meeting her eyes.
There was a long pause. “I cannot believe I made that stupid wager,” she said in a low tone. “The comedic possibilities here are endless.”
“Hush.”
Cyrus opened the door. Though the interior still contained the old bunk beds, they had been pushed against the walls and their old table had been set in the center of the room with a scale model of the Citadel sticking out from the middle. Clustered around it were Andren, Curatio, J'anda, Vaste and Alaric. Upon seeing them, the discussion halted.
Curatio greeted them with a smile. “Good to see you both – Cyrus, you're looking much better.”
Alaric stood before him, helm placed on the table. The paladin's good eye surveyed the warrior, and a slight smile creased the lines on the Ghost's face. “It is good to see you, brother. I feared that I might have sent you to your death.”
“It'll take more than a few months of hard work to kill me.” Cyrus smiled as he strode in, Vara at his side, to join them at the table. “What's our plan?”
“As I was telling them, we have people here and here.” Vaste pointed at two spots around the Citadel. “A few more are spread out in something of a roving patrol, and we'll increase our activity tonight.”
“Do we have any idea how they penetrated the security at the Museum in Pharesia?” Cyrus asked as he looked around the table.
“Other than entering from the roof?” Vaste quipped.
“I mean the mystical security Nyad mentioned? Barriers and whatnot
?” Cyrus said with a sigh.
“No.” Curatio shook his head. “Although with their hands on the number of godly weapons they have, it would not be difficult for them to breach any mystical barrier, regardless of size.” The elf looked sick. “I hadn't considered that.”
“What do you mean?” Cyrus looked at him blankly.
Curatio steadied himself on the edge of the table, suddenly very pale. “All the magics of our world can be harnessed and used by spell casters to varying effects. Whether it's a druid, wizard, healer, dark knight or paladin, they all have different spells that harness the magics inherent in our world.”
The elf looked around the table, pupils dilated, eyes wide. “The weapons that they've been capturing have an advantage because they're not from our world – they're from the gods. Those weapons can cut through any barrier put up by anyone on our planet. They were created by the gods transferring some of their own power – their own godhood – into the weapon. Our magic is no match,” the healer finished with a sad finality.
“So why didn't they just cut their way through the front door if the weapons are so powerful?” Vaste asked.
“I doubt that whoever is gathering these weapons would dare to risk any of their acquisitions in a frontal assault when they now have the power to bypass the mystical barriers and the stealth to avoid a confrontation.” Alaric leaned forward over the table, scouring the miniature streets.
“What's the point of having these weapons if you're not going to have a confrontation?” Andren mumbled.
“I'm sure they will,” Alaric said with a rueful smile. “But at a time and place of their choosing, not ours.”
“So the defenses for Reikonos are weaker than Pharesia's?” Cyrus looked at Alaric and Curatio in turn.
Curatio nodded, still pale. “Correct.”
“So why take that one first?” Cyrus asked.
“No idea,” Alaric shook his head.
“Should we consider sending an envoy to warn the dragons?” Vaste asked. “They may have the only other weapon still out there.”
“They do not,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. Cyrus turned to see a dark elf, axe slung behind him. The familiar smile was not present on the face of Terian Lepos as he crossed from the doorway to the table.
“I have asked for Terian's assistance in this matter,” Alaric said, diffusing the surprise around the table. “He is well informed when it comes to the affairs of dragonkin; much more informed than anyone I have ever met.”
“Yes, I'm still wondering how that is,” Cyrus said with a smile.
“I'm friends with a few wurms – that's w-u-r-m,” the dark elf said with a dazzling smile, aimed directly at Vara, who had already opened her mouth to say something and looked crestfallen. “The Scepter of Fire was stolen from them months ago, disappearing at roughly the same time as our old friend Kalam.”
“What are the odds?” Cyrus said.
“Very good odds,” Terian said, “when you consider that he was still highly placed in the dragon government, and would have had access to the weapon in question.”
Andren looked around the table. “So did he have it when we killed him?”
Terian shrugged. “I don't know. When I checked his hoard with the other Alliance officers, I didn't see anything that resembled it.”
Cyrus froze. “Wait. The Hammer of Earth was traded during an Alliance invasion, the Staff of Death disappeared before or during one, and now possibly the Scepter of Fire? I'm not a big believer in coincidence.”
Alaric folded his arms and deep creases knotted his forehead. “This does not bode well for the Alliance if someone from within is involved in this plot.”
Terian snorted. “As though you trusted them to begin with.”
Vara slammed her fist onto the table. “I have never seen clearer evidence of Goliath's treachery!”
“We don't know for certain that Goliath is involved – or even if any of their members are involved,” Curatio said with alarm. “After all, the Warblade disappeared the night before our strike on Kortran. It could be someone from any of our guilds.”
Vaste raised an eyebrow, and for the first time Cyrus looked close enough at the troll to realize he had a new scar running down his forehead, a little dash of angry green standing out from the rest of his skin. “Or the entirety of one of the guilds.”
Alaric looked around the table, trying to meet the eyes of each of them in turn. “Or it could be none of them. I prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt on this occasion.” The paladin cracked his knuckles. “Assigning blame would be pointless at this moment. We need to spend our time and energies on defending the last of the weapons.”
Vara crossed her arms. “There is a limited amount we can do, is there not? Can we place sentries inside the Citadel?”
Alaric shook his head. “No. The Council of Twelve is unwilling to let us involve ourselves in their internal security matters. They will not bar us from placing our people outside the Citadel, but neither do they wish us to 'step on their toes'.”
Vaste stared at the diorama on the table. “How many people can we place around the Citadel?”
Curatio answered. “We have about a hundred in Reikonos right now; another fifty from Pharesia once they're out of jail some time this afternoon,” he added. “We've got about fifty or so still back at Sanctuary, trying to get our new prospects up to speed. Which is going slowly because we're spending so much time on these endeavors.”
Alaric stared hard at the Citadel model in the middle of the table. “I think I can safely say that regardless of the outcome here we will need those new recruits soon.” His eyes looked up to Curatio across the table. “Old friend, I need you to return to Sanctuary and speed up the training of our new adventurers. Don't bother to have our comrades that are leaving Pharesia join us here: I want them back at Sanctuary aiding you.”
Curatio nodded. “I'll leave immediately.” With a nod from Alaric, the healer cast the return spell and faded away.
“You're not giving up on protecting the spear, are you?” Vara asked the Ghost.
Alaric shook his head. “No, but we are unprepared for the next step and I doubt we'll need an army here.”
“What is the next step if we fail to protect Amnis?” Cyrus asked.
Alaric's jaw tightened and he remained silent for a long moment. “The next step is facing whoever has these weapons when they make themselves known. And for that,” the knight said with some reluctance, “we will require an army.”
Chapter 34
They debated a course of action until sundown, when Alaric ordered everyone out of the old guildhall and to their stations around the Citadel. Cyrus knelt on a rooftop facing the towering spire. Vaste sat behind him a few feet, as did Andren and Niamh. Vara and J'anda were to either side of him. Cyrus surveyed the streets around the Citadel, his eyes seeing nothing but the city guards and members of Sanctuary. “Thanks for the frost stone,” he said to J'anda. “I wish the moon would come out from behind the clouds.”
The enchanter nodded. “All the better if it actually helps you see the thief.”
Vara turned to glare at them. “Maintain silence,” she hissed. “Our success is entirely predicated on the enemy not knowing we're here, so shut up!”
“You'd think someone in Pharesia would have thought to station someone on a roof watching their museum,” Vaste said in a low rumble from behind them.
“High-born elves don't possess a great deal of what you would call 'common' sense,” Andren said between swigs. “They rely on us lowborns to move their society forward while they watch. Amazing they're still in charge of anything, really.”
Vara said nothing but Cyrus could see her roll her eyes.
Long moments passed in silence as the five of them scanned the nearby rooftops. Cyrus looked at the horizon, but the structures of Reikonos created an uneven skyline.
The Citadel was a spire that reached into the sky with a
base as big around as any ten shops, perfectly rounded in structure. It stretched into the air to the height of thirty stories or more, the tallest building in Arkaria. At the top of the Citadel a bulbous expansion jutted out, wider than the tower that supported it, giving it the look of an exceptionally long neck with a rounded head at the top. Cyrus knew from rumor that within the top floors was contained the meeting room for Council of Twelve that ran Reikonos and the Human Confederation.
“How old is the Citadel?” Vaste said. “It's so unlike the other buildings in this city and so much taller.”
“It's older than Reikonos,” Andren said. “And older than me. The humans built the city around it.”
“Am I right in thinking that the spear would have to be on the top floors?” Cyrus said, refocusing their attention on the matter at hand.
Vaste grunted, but Vara answered before the troll could. “Seems likeliest, doesn't it?”
Cyrus turned to face them. “If you were going to get someone into the top of that building, how would you do it?”
A moment of silence preceded the answers. “I'd take a flying mount, like a griffon,” Vaste answered first.
“Falcon's Essence,” Niamh said.
“Invisibility spell.” Andren took the flask out of his mouth to answer.
“We can see through invisibility, you knucklehead,” Vara shot back.
“Hopefully we can see someone flying toward the tower or a griffon if it approaches as well,” Cyrus said. “Any other ideas?”
“An invisible person on an invisible griffon flying toward the tower?” suggested Andren half-seriously. Vara did not respond.
“If the Citadel were smaller,” J'anda said, “perhaps a rope to climb.” The enchanter looked at the structure. “But I think that even the strongest of warriors would have great difficulty ascending that height without falling.”