“I always wanted to see this place,” Bellarum said, blocking every attack Vara made with ease. “It’s much nicer than I thought it would be. Not a bad place to die.”
“I agree,” Vara said, straining with every stroke of her sword, not a single blow she’d struck having the slightest impact. “Let’s kill you here.”
Bellarum laughed as Cyrus tried to get to his feet and his legs collapsed beneath him. “You have so much spirit. It’s a shame you were the favorite of Vidara, that weak old cow. If you hadn’t fallen under her sway, I might have claimed you for my own. You have more fire than he does, anyway—”
Vara’s sword struck Bellarum’s bracer so hard sparks flew. “That’s my husband you’re talking about, and this is our home, so I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head while under our roof—”
“You know what they say,” Bellarum said, cackling again, “home is where the heart is.” He blocked hard and checked Vara as he stepped in, slamming her against the wall. He knocked the sword right out of her hand, sending it skittering over to where Agora Friedlander stood. She stooped to pick it up, cradling in her hand. She peered down at the intricate blade with her childlike eyes then slung it over her tiny shoulder.
“And I think your husband needs to have his heart torn out,” Bellarum said, his massive, gauntleted hand seizing Vara by the throat, pinning her head against the wall. He spun around to look at Cyrus, who was still trying to get to his feet and failing, the world dim around him. Wasn’t it a summer day a minute ago? Blood streamed down his forehead under his helm, trickling into his eye thickly. “Do you hear me, Cyrus?” Bellarum’s fingers glowed as he waved them toward him. “What about now?”
It was as though a suffocating blanket had been torn away from Cyrus’s head, and he blinked and came to his feet.
“No, no,” Bellarum held up a finger. “Don’t. I’ll pop her head right off and burn it in my hand before you can even make it halfway across the room.” He smiled beneath the helm, and once again Cyrus found himself looking into burning crimson eyes. “I warned you … those who do not serve will be destroyed.”
Cyrus tasted blood on his lips, felt it trickling down his face. “I … I …”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bellarum said, staring at him, still dangling Vara from his fingers. “Can you cast a spell? Could you throw your sword? The answer is—not in time. And if you throw either one of those fine swords, I’m keeping them.” He peered at Cyrus. “I did give you one of them, after all. It would be only fair, wouldn’t it?”
“What … do you want?” Cyrus asked, swallowing hard.
Bellarum blinked at him, the red receding beneath them helm. “Did you not just listen? I told you. Those who do not serve … will die. Simple enough, isn’t it?”
“You want me to serve you?” Cyrus stared at the God of War. “Now?”
“I thought I healed your head wound, but still you cannot think,” Bellarum sighed. “No. No. Let me explain, perhaps more slowly this time. This is why I’m a god and you’re … not.” His eyes burned bright. “Those who do not serve … will die.”
The God of War’s fingers glowed a deep orange, and he pivoted hard into a punch that tore right through Vara’s shining breastplate, shredding the metal and boring into her center. She let out all her air in one breath and blood poured from between her perfect lips as her eyes locked on Cyrus’s across the wreckage of the Council Chambers. Bellarum tossed her to the side before the balcony door, his gauntlet dripping red.
Cyrus watched Vara twist in the air and come down hard with a thud, shuddering as she landed. He watched, his eyes trapped, unable to look away from her. His breath caught in his throat, he threw up a hand instinctively, concentrating, remembering the words as he reached out to touch her with a spell from across the room, a healing caress to undo the horror he’d just seen done.
His hand glowed briefly then faltered as she landed, rolling in a twist as she came to rest on the balcony. He ripped his eyes from her and turned toward Bellarum, letting out a scream of rage and charging through the wreckage, ignoring the splinters and boards of the table as he ran toward the red-eyed beast—
Cyrus was knocked aside by a gauntlet that moved faster than he by a very great margin. He rolled, thumping along the ground, and came to rest next to something hard and yet soft, his fingers touching—
Vara.
He raised his head and stared. Her mouth moved, she lay flat upon her back, the wound inflicted by the God of War still gaping in the center of her chest, her chin covered in red and her mouth opening and closing slowly as she tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“Vara …” Cyrus whispered, rolling over to her, crawling with his swords in hand to straddle her, shaking as he tried to cast a healing spell again—then again—then—
“Oh, it’s not you this time,” Bellarum said, Agora Friedlander flanking him as he stepped past them to stand on the balcony’s edge. The God of War backed to the edge, smiling faintly at Cyrus. “I cursed her, you see. Didn’t want you to be able to undo what I’d done.” There was so much joy in his words, Cyrus thought, staring down at Vara’s eyes as she faltered. She raised a hand, shaking, and brushed his cheek, but her touch was covered in her gauntlet, and the metal scraped against his day’s worth of stubble, leaving a trail of blood behind.
“Vara,” Cyrus said, afraid to relinquish his swords but utterly unsure of what to do. She stared up at him, breathless, making a gulping sound from her throat, desperate, trying to draw breath but failing. “VARA!”
He lowered his face to her, pushing his eyes close to hers, looking into them. He could see the light as it faded, as life left them, as the last sound passed between her lips and she sagged against the ground … lifeless.
“Oh …” Bellarum said, “Well, we’re halfway done, I think.” And he stepped off the edge of the balcony, Agora Friedlander following him a moment later.
“Vara!” Cyrus shoved his swords away, into his belt, seizing her face with his gauntlets, lifting her head limply off the stone. “Vara!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the plains. “No, no no no no—you were—you—you were supposed to be the one to—to live for—I was supposed to—to go—go before—” His words came flooding out in a long crawl, ripping out of his throat. “You were supposed to live, I was supposed to—you can’t—you can’t—YOU CAN’T GO FIRST—”
He shook her. She moved, and he felt a flare of hope. “Vara!” He shook her again, but she only danced along with his motion; there was nothing of her left. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling above them, past his eyes, past him. The ponytail hung without motion, flowing down, no hint of life—
“Cyrus!” The door flew open behind him, but he did not turn to look. He kept his eyes on Vara’s, waiting for something, some motions, some hint—
You can’t be gone.
You can’t go first.
“You weren’t supposed to go first.” He pressed his lips to hers, but there was no warmth there, no sense of resistance, no pressing back, nothing—
Just nothing.
“Cyrus!” Vaste came down beside him, hand on his shoulder. “Cyrus, are you—” He stopped, and his hand flared with white light as he cast a spell. “Oh … oh … oh damn … dammit … I can’t …”
The world shook around them and the tower lurched, dust shaking down from above. “Cyrus,” Vaste said, more calmly now. “Cyrus, do you know what’s going on?”
“I don’t care,” Cyrus said, staring into those blue eyes, like the skies he’d seen outside only a few minutes earlier … skies that held an infinity of promises …
… until Bellarum had come in …
“Bellarum is destroying Sanctuary,” Vaste said, “and he’s not alone. There are other gods with him. Cyrus, I’ve ordered everyone to leave. The wizards and druids are trying to get everyone out now but—”
“I can’t leave …” Cyrus said. The blue eyes stared back if he leaned over far enough, an
d he could see the promises within them if he just looked hard enough …
“We have to go,” Vaste said, shaking him again, grasping him roughly, trying to pull him away from her.
“NO!” He elbowed the healer in the belly and scrambled back to the ground, lifting her head gently, cradling the shining hair, like gold, but worth so much more to him … “I won’t leave her!”
“Cyrus! If we stay, we’ll—”
A giant, armored head rose up past the balcony; Bellarum’s helm was the size of one of the towers, leering down at him with eyes as large as Malpravus’s skull had been in the temple. “You’ll die,” the God of War said in an amused sort of way. “But if you leave now, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing your home has been utterly destroyed, so …” The helm tipped to the side. “Your choice.”
“Cyrus!” Vaste hissed.
“I’m not leaving her!” Cyrus said, fighting to stay on his knees, to stay close to her, with her skin pale as a Northlands snow field.
“We have to—”
“Stay,” Bellarum said in a dull roar, “and it’ll all be over in a moment.” The tower shook again, and that deep laugh rolled over him.
“She’s dead, Cyrus!” Vaste screamed, and the words washed over him like cold water on an icy lakeshore. “I can’t resurrect her! It’s over!”
“It’s not!” Cyrus said, shoving him back, knocking the troll into the doorframe, shattering the balcony door’s window. Glass fell in sparkling shards, reflecting blue like her beautiful eyes. “It’s not!” His breath caught in his throat and it took a moment to get it unstuck. When he spoke again, his words were barely audible. “It can’t be.”
“CYRUS!” The shout from behind him did not even convince him to look. He leaned down and pressed his cheek to Vara’s, looking in those eyes, as the laughter came again like echoing thunder and—
Lightning flashed overhead and the laughter stopped, turning into a roar of fury and pain, but still Cyrus did not turn, did not look away. He wanted to lose himself in the blue, to lose himself forever, to—
“We—have—to—go!” Vaste wrapped his arms around Cyrus and dragged him, lifting him bodily off her, pulling him in from the balcony, his helm clinking against the lintel of the door as he came up, raised high by the troll.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Cyrus screamed as Bellarum’s red eyes raised up to look straight at him. His hair stirred under his own helm as he fought against Vaste’s grip on his midsection, struggling, trying to get back to her as the healer dragged him away in strong arms.
The red eyes of the God of War glowed, brighter and brighter, and Cyrus could see the spell being cast, destruction about to be unleashed.
Good, was all he could think. Good. Then this is it. It’ll take me back, back to the blue … back to the gold … to the white …
To her.
The wind rose as he saw the blast unleashed from Bellarum’s eye, and he knew at the last moment that it would not hit him, would not touch him. The world around him was swallowed in the howl of the wind as the blast disappeared in a whirl of druid magic and the red of the eyes was replaced by a blue sky, the noise of rushing magic by the chatter of voices and the sound of water. Vaste let him loose and Cyrus came down in a hard crash, his elbows slamming with all his weight into cobblestones.
“No,” he murmured, a soft gasp. “No … no …”
He turned his eyes to the sky, rolling sideways, and he knew where he was in an instant. People walked by in linen and silken clothes, sandals covered bare feet, and the sun shone hot overhead as the fountain sprinkled water behind him.
Reikonos Square.
“I’m sorry, Cyrus,” Vaste said, sagging against the fountain. “She was … she was gone. There was nothing—”
“You did the right thing, Vaste,” came Quinneria’s ragged voice, and he saw her standing next to the troll. “Another second and we would have—” She choked on the words. “We would have ended up like …”
“Like her?” Cyrus managed to choke out. The sky was blue. There was a wagon of golden hay rolling through on the cobblestones just ahead of him, wheels clacking as it went. A white-robed woman walked by, laughing, a companion at her side. The colors were vivid, the sounds and smells powerful and pungent. Cyrus blinked, and suddenly they were faded, along with the rest of the world, like it had lost some of its light.
She’s gone.
“We would have ended up like Sanctuary,” Quinneria said a moment later, her voice heavy, and her head bowed. A single tear ran down from her eye, cutting a lonely path down her cheek. “Because it’s not just her that’s gone, Cyrus. It’s everything.” The dim horror settled on him as he lay there on the cobblestones, staring up at the sky, the square swirling around him as his mother spoke. “It’s all gone now … all of it … when they’re finished, there will be nothing left of Sanctuary at all …”
NOW
Epilogue
“This place is no grave,” Vaste said, looking evenly at Cyrus, the note of sadness still there on his face, shaded by the light of the hearth. “You saw the weed sprouting. There is life here. It could live again. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life mourning what you’ve lost in the past—”
“I don’t want it to be past, don’t you get that?” Cyrus asked, staring at him. “My best days are behind me.”
“You could have a great many wonderful days in front of you,” Vaste said, “which is the same argument you used on Vara when she tried to cut herself off from you with that foolishness about—”
“SHE WAS RIGHT!” Cyrus thundered, and as his voice echoed through the empty halls, fading the further away it carried, Vaste bowed his head again. “She was right, Vaste. She’s been gone over a year and I … it’s not any better. It’s not getting any better. I thought if I …”
“I know,” Vaste said quietly. “I know.”
“I have fought my whole life,” Cyrus said, looking out the window onto the misty plains again. The fog was creeping in, closer to the window, and now he could scarcely see the ground below at all. “Fought the odds, fought the gods, and fought everyone else on and under the surface of Arkaria at some point. Now … I’ve lost everything,” he said with feeling, “… and I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“You read this,” Vaste said, and Cyrus turned around enough to see Alaric’s journal in his hand. He shook it lightly. “You tell me there’s no hope left, and I say you’re wrong, and you know you’re wrong because you know what he found, and what’s inside … is hope.” Vaste smiled faintly. “Hope for a better future.”
“I don’t want a future,” Cyrus whispered, turning back to the window, feeling the cool, damp plains air on his face. “I want my fight to be over. When I started all this, all I wanted was war and battle, to be the foremost warrior in Arkaria.” He dropped his hands to the hilt of the swords at his belt. “Now that I am, all I want is peace … and to have back what I lost.”
“You didn’t lose—”
“I lost,” Cyrus said with feeling, “I lost everything.” He put his hand over his face. “And everybody left. Here we are, at the end … and it’s just you and me.”
“Others would have come if you’d called,” Vaste said, sounding annoyed for the first time in their entire exchange. “You’re not alone. And they didn’t leave, you left them—”
“Everybody leaves, Vaste,” Cyrus said. “That’s a fact of life.”
“Bullshit!” Vaste said hotly. “She didn’t leave you, Cyrus, she died. It’s different—”
“It’s all the same in the end, isn’t it?” Cyrus asked quietly.
“It’s not—”
“She’s not here, is she?” He turned to look at Vaste, looking hazy as the fog crept in through the window off the plains. Cyrus raised his voice and asked again. “IS SHE? Can you see her?”
Vaste’s mouth twitched, his face displaying a flurry of emotion. “No,” he said at last. “No, I can’t.”
“So she’s left,
too,” Cyrus said, swallowing hard. “Gone on. Just like Narstron. Like Niamh. Curatio. Just like my father.” He felt a pull at the corners of his eyes. “Just like Alaric—”
“Do not be so hasty to judge,” a voice came, the mist coalescing into a pillar in the corner of the room, solidifying before the fire, strengthening into a figure. The mist became a cloak, covering the man from head to toe, draping him in grey, the fire casting its warmth upon his face, tired and worn, but with a voice deep with reassurance, smooth and quiet, like silk given audible form and poured into Cyrus’s ear. “For some that leave might yet return, unexpected …”
“Alaric,” Vaste whispered into the silence of the archive. “It’s you. It’s … it’s really you.” The smell of old parchment hung in the air, but something new was present as well, a subtle disturbance in the atmosphere that heralded a change.
“It is I,” the figure said, his cloak draped around him, grey and heavy like the mist he’d just formed himself out of. “And I bring a message for you, Cyrus … one that should be very familiar to you by now …”
“Wh … what is it?” Cyrus asked, staring at the face of Alaric Garaunt, and finding himself curiously warm as well, like a sensation had returned that he had not expected, sun peeking out of the clouds on a chill morning.
“That no matter how dark things might get,” Alaric said, “… there is always hope.”
The Ghost of Sanctuary smiled at him, returned to his home at last, and at the sight of the knight and the sound of his words, Cyrus Davidon started to believe—for the first time in a long, long while—that what he said might just be true.
The Sanctuary Series Will Conclude in
LEGEND
The Sanctuary Series, Volume Eight
Coming June 14, 2016!
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 57