Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  Thunderous applause greeted them, echoing forth in the courtyard from every servant and guard, as loud as in the open air of the square in the village below. There would be feasts, and songs, and plenty of wine, Cyrus knew, but his eyes were fixed on a point past the King, on a face still glowing, still smiling at him, and thinking of a time long past dinner and dessert, when the hours were late and the darkness was nigh …

  … and he stayed awake long into the night, he and Cattrine, in each other’s arms—and even when the knock came at their door the next morning summoning them for breakfast, they were not quickly to be stirred or parted.

  Chapter 22

  A month passed in an eye’s blink, to Cyrus. He found himself in need of exercise beyond what the Baroness offered in their chambers in order to offset the rich delicacies that the King continued to feed them, and so he took up practicing with his sword in the courtyard every day before lunch and again before dinner. More often than not he was joined by the Baroness, clad not in her dress (nor in the much less formal attire she wore to their bed) but in the riding outfit she had donned during their journey from Green Hill, and he taught her the way of the sword, a day at a time, with a blade provided by the King’s armory as a gift.

  “Not quite like that,” he said, behind her, pressed against her, steering her arm with his hand wrapped around hers. “Like this.” He made a motion and then drew back his hand, watching for her to make the same motion. She did, and he spoke. “Very good.”

  “Such ample encouragement,” she whispered as she made the motion again, a short strike with the light blade, enough to cut a throat, if need be. “Do you teach all your students from this position?” She looked up to him, catching his eye, and he saw the hint of wryness in her smile.

  “Not quite,” he said, rubbing himself against her, feeling her press back, and sensing the promise of something else later, something that would perhaps help defray the slow slide of lethargy that thirty days of idleness could bring a soldier. “But with you, I do prefer a hands-on approach.”

  “Indeed?” she said quietly. “And where would you prefer those hands to be?”

  He started to answer her but stopped when a stableboy passed by them on his way into the castle. The sunny day shone down on them from above, the white stones of the castle gleaming in the light. Cyrus looked around and realized that only a few souls were out and about today, which was unusual for the courtyard. “I’d prefer them be in several places at once, if I had my druthers,” he said once the stableboy passed from earshot. “But as I only have two, I can think of where I’d prefer they go first …” He whispered in her ear and she laughed, giving him a kiss on the mouth for his suggestion.

  “Had enough for today, then?” he asked her when they parted.

  “Of swordplay? I think so, yes,” she said with a smile and a glimmer in her eyes, sliding her weapon back into the scabbard. The blade was thin, more of a rapier than a proper broadsword, but quick and light enough that Cattrine, thin and lithe, could wield it lethally. “Of being physically maneuvered by you? No. Not even close.”

  He walked with an arm around her as they headed back up the steps into the foyer. “Hard to believe we’ve been here for a month.” He frowned. “Even harder to believe we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said with mild enthusiasm. “I finally get to see this mythical ‘Sanctuary’ I’ve heard so much about. And perhaps I’ll finally meet this much-vaunted Vara, and see how much competition I have.”

  “That would be none.” He stopped her in the stone foyer, delivering a long, passionate kiss that caused a nearby servant to cough politely. “She gave up the fight before we even met; the battle is ceded to you.”

  Cattrine stared at him, something vague and mysterious hiding in her expression. She reached up with a lone finger and pressed it to his lips. “I do enjoy hearing you talk about love in war metaphors.”

  “They’re very similar, I’ve heard,” he said with a wide grin. “Battles and fighting and all that. Even some bloodshed. Also, all is fair in both of them.”

  “All that aside,” she said, serious, “what’s to become of me when we arrive back in Arkaria? Am I to stay in Sanctuary, be your kept woman?”

  “I would be perfectly fine with that.” He wrapped his arms around her, but when he went to kiss her again, he got her cheek instead of her lips. “What’s wrong?”

  “I am not some broken woman, waiting for a man to save me.” She looked momentarily embarrassed. “Which is why I took you up on your offer. So that I would never have to come before a man again and beg him to give me what I want—and that includes you.”

  “Just because you’re with me doesn’t mean you’re bound to me,” Cyrus said, letting her pull from him. “You can find some meaningful work, some endeavors to devote your time to.” She did not look at him. “Baroness—”

  “For heavens sakes, Cyrus,” she snapped. “I am no longer a Baroness. Everyone else calls me Cattrine, and the least you can do as the man I am intimate with is afford me the same courtesy.” She looked at him with rueful humor and the slightest amusement. “Please.”

  “I’m sorry.” He found he meant it sincerely. “It must be difficult.”

  “Hm?” She looked at him in curiosity.

  “Not knowing what to do next,” he said. “Not knowing … where you’re going, or what you’ll do when you get there. Being reliant on another person for food, for sustenance, for room and board, for everything. I apologize for having put you in that position.”

  She sighed. “You didn’t. Being born a woman in Luukessia put me in that position. You’re relieving me of it; but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. Many a bird has struggled before taking flight for the first time.” She looked at him with great irony. “More than a few die trying to fly. I hope I’m not one of those.”

  “There are many kinds of work available for a woman in Arkaria,” Cyrus said gently. “Even around Sanctuary we could surely find something to do that wouldn’t involve fighting, if you wanted.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” she said more quietly. “I would like to remain near you, so that we can continue to … explore … what our next step might be together.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Next steps … well, I can think of one that tends to be a natural path.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Rings, ceremonies, commitments? As I recall, I already asked you to do me that service once and you denied me.”

  “I did. But had I known what I would be getting at the time,” he said with a wide grin, “I might not have been so reluctant to commit to it.”

  She put on an offended look and smacked him on the arm. “You do me wrong, sir, to say such a crude thing to me.” Her look softened. “Especially since I did offer at the time, and you declined that as well …”

  He sighed. “If only I’d known what I was missing. Why, I could have had another month’s worth of your physical company in my bedroll on the way here.”

  “Is that all you keep me around for?” She kept her body at a slight distance, hovering just a few inches away.

  “Not at all,” Cyrus said. “I also find your insight excellent and your conversational skills top notch. But I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed the other.”

  She ran a hand through her brown hair, letting it fall out of the knot she’d styled it in before coming outside. He loved the way it lay, framing her face. “I confess that I’ve enjoyed this time with you as well—all parts of it, not having to worry, merely being …” she steered around the words he expected her to use, the ones she hadn’t yet—nor had he, either. “… together, without a care in the world,” she finished but without her customary smile.

  “It’s something I’m rather unaccustomed to,” Cyrus agreed, as they made their way up the main staircase. “Someone once suggested to me that I might consider taking a vacation, but really, for as long as I recall, battle has been my release, it’s the way I spend myself when I get too harried and wound. Bu
t this, to slow down and take things easy,” he slid a hand along her side as he said it, “has been nicer than I could have guessed it would be.”

  “You didn’t think spending a month in the company of an insatiable woman,” she slid her hands behind his back and grasped him, firmly, awakening him as she had by rubbing against him in the courtyard, “would be utterly exhausting and relaxing all at once?”

  “I … hmm …”

  They broke from another kiss with a grin and continued on their way. He watched the gleam in her eyes, the hunger, watched how she slowed her pace, to tease him, to make him wait. His long legs yearned to run, to scoop her up in his arms and carry her back to their bedroom, the place that they had made their own—he had seen her cry, watched her work through nights of pain and countless agonies from her past while he was there, waiting and watching and holding her. She had been there, too, for him, though he had never been as obvious about it. He had grieved in his own way, and she had rested his head upon her bosom, held him in her arms as he felt her warmth and let slip away a thousand dreams and memories of Vara, her golden hair and silver armor—

  Cattrine let out a squeal of delight as Cyrus swept her up in his arms, just down the corridor from their room, carrying her at a light run. He opened the door with one hand and carried her in, his fingers eager to unbutton her shirt, to unlace her breeches, to throw her entire ensemble on the floor and get her to the bed, where he could feel her against him, to be with her …

  They were on the bed when the first knock came, and Cyrus paused, his clothes already off. He waited, still, listening as the same methodical knocking came again. He met Cattrine’s eyes and she watched his impishly, waiting to hear if the sound persisted or went away. There was another knock moments later, and Cyrus exchanged a look with Cattrine, wrapped a blanket around himself, and walked across the cold floor to the door and opened it.

  Martaina waited outside, along with Odau Genner, who wore a pained expression on his pinched face. Martaina was impassive, standing as though she were on guard.

  “Yes?” Cyrus asked, looking between the two of them with slight irritation.

  “My liege summons you, Lord Davidon,” Genner said. “He requests your presence in the throne room immediately.”

  “Then I will be along—immediately,” Cyrus said. “Provided he won’t be offended if I dress myself first.”

  “I believe that he would consider that an acceptable delay,” Genner said with a nod. “We await your company, sir.” With that, he left, walking down the hall.

  “What are you doing out here?” Cyrus asked Martaina.

  “I’ve been here all along.”

  “You weren’t here a few minutes ago when I came in.” Cyrus snugged the blanket around himself, making certain that nothing undue was visible.

  “No,” Martaina agreed. “I went around the corner for as long as it took the two of you to go inside. But before that, I was out here.”

  “How did you know we were … oh.” He looked at her, annoyed. “Elven hearing.”

  She smiled faintly. “Get dressed, sir.”

  He closed the door, letting the grain of the wood slide against his palm as he pondered what the King might have to say that was so important it couldn’t wait.

  “Who was it?” Cattrine asked from behind him.

  Cyrus jerked slightly from surprise. “Odau Genner. The King wants to see me immediately for some reason or another.”

  She wore a robe, dipping slightly over her shoulder to reveal some of the scars that she had tried to hide from him, at first. “It seems unlikely he would summon you urgently for mere triviality.” She drew close, and reached under the blanket, drawing his attention to her. “We can finish our … interlude … later.” She kissed him. “You should get dressed.”

  He grunted and retrieved his underclothes from the bedroom, pulling on his trousers and sliding into his shirt. “I wouldn’t mind it, you know. Getting married to you. Now that I know you, I mean.”

  She stood next to his armor, ready to assist him in strapping it on, the chainmail already in her hands. Her back was turned to him, but he saw her freeze, halfway down, having stooped to pick it up.

  “I would do right by you,” he said, coming up behind her. “I said no before, back when I didn’t know you, but I know you now, and I have no problem if you wanted to—”

  “Not yet.” She turned to him and smiled weakly. “It is custom in Luukessia for a short courtship, only a few days in many cases. What we have done, here, this last month is … not unheard of, but rare. And I have enjoyed it, every day of it. As an unmarried woman, before I was the Baroness, it would have been impossible. My virtue was guarded carefully. Now that that particular castle has fallen, I find myself all the happier for it.” She smiled. “I wish to continue enjoying our time together without worry or pressure. Having you here, without concern of marriage or imminent motherhood from our dealings—that ventra’maq is really quite the wonder—I find myself in the dubious position being able to tell you I am not ready, whereas before I would have welcomed your offer.” She laid aside the chainmail and grasped both his hands, bringing them to her lips and kissing them. “Please don’t be upset that I say no—it is not no forever but only for now.”

  “I’m not upset,” Cyrus said. “Long courtships are common in Arkaria, as are short courtships. Everything is acceptable, depending on where you are. As are extended periods of … well, what we’ve done here. I am not upset, and I understand.” He smiled and didn’t even have to try terribly hard to force it. “I trust you’ll let me know if the day comes you’d want to take me up on my offer?”

  “I …” She started to answer but stopped, and he studied her as her small hands found his chainmail again and held it up for him, indicating he should lower his head to put it on. “I believe the day may come … perhaps soon, even … when that could happen.” She smiled. “Be patient with me.”

  “But of course.” He held still as she strapped his breastplate and backplate on. “I think I can wait. At least a little while.” She slapped his backside in mock outrage and he laughed.

  A few minutes later, he stepped out of their chambers and started down the long stone hallway. Martaina fell into step a pace behind him. “Any idea what this is about?” he asked her.

  “As much as you do,” she replied, her green cloak trailing on the ground.

  “What, you couldn’t hear it from across the castle when they sent Genner to summon me?”

  “No,” Martaina said with a thin smile, “it must have gotten drowned out by the sound of your suggestive banter with the Baroness.”

  Cyrus took a left turn coming down the steps in the foyer, walking to the massive double doors opposite the ones that led to the dining hall. Two guards in the livery of Galbadien soldiers opened the door, holding it for Cyrus to pass. Martaina halted outside the door, drawing up to the frame and stopping. Once within, the doors began to close behind him and Cyrus found himself in the throne room, a place he had been on only a few formal occasions since arriving at Vernadam. Once had been for a presentation ceremony in which he and the other officers of Sanctuary had been recognized for their good works, for their efforts in the battle.

  It was a long chamber, the ceilings half a hundred feet high, with arches of stone and great columns to support them. The block was dark, grey, and cast a pallor in the room that even the row of stained glass windows to Cyrus’s right could not break. Light shone in from outside, but not nearly enough to counter the gloomy atmosphere. The air seemed stale to Cyrus, as though it were not moving within the chamber. Ahead of him was the King, on a raised dais a few steps off the ground.

  The King’s lips were pursed, his eyes narrowed in disgust, and the small ring of courtiers that stood around him loosened as Cyrus approached the foot of the steps, creating a half-circle with the throne anchoring the center, allowing the King to look down on Cyrus with curled lips, his poorly settled skin wiggling with the motion.

&n
bsp; “Your Majesty,” Cyrus said, dipping slightly in a bow when he reached the bottom of the steps. Looking up, he tried to discern from the courtiers’ expressions what might be going on; none of them were particularly helpful. Most looked dazed, surprised, and a few looked downright hostile. “You summoned and I answered your call. How may I be of service?”

  “It should surprise you not that we have received letters of vital importance this morning through carrier pigeons,” the King said, his expression still harsh, though guarded. “The first is of some note—the Kingdom of Syloreas asks us for peace and has summoned us to a moot at the ancient citadel of Enrant Monge, the place of meeting.”

  Cyrus listened and tried to decipher the unsaid message that had turned the room sour. “This is good news, is it not?”

  “It is,” the King said, puckering his lips. “Though to summon us to Enrant Monge is the unlikeliest of maneuvers for Briyce Unger; there has not been a moot there in fifteen years, and he speaks of putting aside the past to face new dangers that await us all. I wonder of what he might be speaking, if it might be a Western doom.”

  “Doom?” Cyrus asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps I could endeavor to explain?” Odau Genner appeared from the line of courtiers; Cyrus hadn’t even noticed the man absorbed among them. He was wearing clothing rather than armor. And let’s be honest, the man’s as plain as bread when he’s not being obsequious. “Enrant Monge is an ancient castle in the middle of Luukessia,” Genner began, “maintained to this day as the site of all discussions between the three Kingdoms.”