“He didn’t,” Curatio said, studying Cyrus. “This is not the sort of thing our gGeneral would have hidden from us.”
“I’d like to hear him say it,” Ryin spoke up again, still massaging the place where Nyad had struck him. He looked at the faces around him, Curatio, J’anda and Nyad in particular, showing some irritation with him. “It’s not as though it’s the first time he’s played games with the truth to get something he wanted. I just want to hear him say he didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know,” Cyrus said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “But now we have consequences to deal with.”
“Actaluere’s declaration of war isn’t as problematic as one might think,” Longwell said, drawing the officers’ attention to him. “They’ll have received a summons to Enrant Monge as well, and they’ll be obligated to attend. We’ll have a chance to smooth this over with Milos Tiernan himself.”
“What if our esteemed General doesn’t want to smooth it over?” Ryin asked. “I mean, we are talking about handing over his lover—”
“She’s my nothing,” Cyrus said, drawing a gasp from Nyad. “She is nothing to me, now.” He didn’t wait for the officers to react before plunging ahead. “She is, however, under the protection of Sanctuary, granted asylum because of the barbaric treatment of women in this land.”
“Asylum she gained from you under false pretense,” Ryin said. “She didn’t mention she was the sister of the monarch, did she? That seems like material information that could have influenced our decision to allow her to come along.”
“It wasn’t ‘our’ decision,” Cyrus said dully. “It was mine.”
“Great,” Ryin said sarcastically. “Because your stubborn decisions never lead us into war.”
“Calm yourself,” Curatio said to Ryin. “We do have a reputation to consider. Once we grant someone protection, do we lift it and throw her back to the same brother who willingly wedded her to that monster the moment it becomes inconvenient? That doesn’t seem to be the Sanctuary way.”
“And starting another war for Galbadien to contend with?” Ryin Ayend looked around the other officers. “Is that the Sanctuary way?”
“It is if we start and finish the war for them,” Terian growled. “I’m no fan of the Baroness, but I could stand to have another few battles before we head home.” He smiled coldly. “After all, we have troops that need seasoning. It’d be a shame if they marched all the way out here to take part in only one good fight before we turn around and go back to Sanctuary.”
“Cyrus?” J’anda’s cool voice seemed to demand a level of quiet from the others in the room. “What do you intend to do?”
“We go to Enrant Monge,” Cyrus said. “We’ll travel along with the Galbadien court, and I’ll speak with Milos Tiernan, outline our position, and we’ll see where we go from there. Maybe there’ll be a war with them …” He let his voice trail off before it returned, only slightly above a whisper, “… and maybe there won’t.”
“What position will you be outlining to him?” J’anda asked, looking around at the other officers.
Cyrus did not move, did not blink, and gave no hint of any emotion when he answered. “I don’t know yet. But I’ve got a little less than a month to figure it out.”
Chapter 25
They left the next day in a long procession, wending down the hillside from Vernadam, Cyrus, the officers and the other guests he had brought following the King’s court. King Longwell was carried down on a litter to a horse-drawn carriage below. Unlike other carriages Cyrus had seen, this one was massive, almost a full living quarters in and of itself. When they reached the bottom of the hill, Cyrus saw his troops assembled for the first time in a month, though he knew Odellan had taken them through regular exercises.
“This looks like a fat and happy lot,” Terian said as they rode along the length of the column of Sanctuary’s army. “I’d gather that thirty days of rest has been good to them.” A harlot in red exposed herself from a balcony above them, then gestured to Terian with a come-hither finger. “A little too good, maybe,” the dark elf said. “Perhaps I should ask around and see if our boys have been behaving themselves.”
“I don’t care what you do,” Cyrus said grimly, “so long as you’re with us at Enrant Monge when we get there.”
“Maybe you should come on this inspection tour with me,” Terian said, slowing his horse. “It seems you have frustrations of your own to work out.”
“I’ve worked out plenty of frustrations in the last month,” Cyrus said, tense. “It seems to have left me with even more than when I started.”
“Perhaps you’re being too formal about things,” the dark knight suggested as Cyrus brought his horse to a halt, watching as the column began to get underway, marching slowly, in time, toward the west road out of the village. “You’re putting too much emphasis on feelings, and trust, and emotion and all these other ugly things that have no place in a bed.”
Cyrus stared at the dark elf as Terian tied the reins of his destrier to the hitching post. “Occasionally, Terian, I find myself envying you for the simplistic approach you seem able to take to your emotions.”
“Don’t speak about things you know nothing about,” Terian said darkly. “I am merely suggesting that you might be attaching too much significance to something that need not be so desperately complicated—or nearly so painful as you seem to be making it.”
“And I was expressing my admiration for your ability to go unfettered by the messy entanglements that seem to be constantly drawing me down,” Cyrus said. “I was quite sincere in what I said.”
“You still don’t know what you’re talking about, Davidon,” Terian replied, voice cold. “There’s a difference between this and the people you care about.”
“I wish there was, for me,” Cyrus said. “Unfortunately, thus far, there hasn’t been. Perhaps in the future.”
Terian smiled, a half one. “Stay a while. With our horses, we can catch up to the army after we finish our business within. Start now. It gets easier every time you do it, just like battle, and your soul gets hardened to it after a while, and it becomes reflexive, as it should be. A glorious release, without that horrible, life-draining emotion you attach to it.”
Cyrus’s smile was fake, but he tried. “Perhaps some other time. After as long a break as we’ve had, I suspect our formation will need some practice, and I mean to be there to see it.”
“As you wish,” Terian said coolly. “But you know full well that Longwell and Odellan can handle that better than you can. If you want to make excuses for yourself, find better ones. If you want to make yourself immune to such pains as you feel now, best get started. Either way, stop fooling yourself.” The dark knight turned and began to walk toward the door to the establishment, which was pushed open by a woman wearing a dress that exposed more supple, pink, flawless flesh than Cattrine possessed on her entire body. Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to it, even as the woman wrapped an arm around Terian’s waist, and let the door swing shut behind them.
Cyrus turned in his saddle to look down the column and caught sight of Cattrine toward the back of the formation with Ryin and Nyad, her horse shuffling along at a slow canter. His eyes took her in, her dark hair as well kempt as any time he had seen her, her riding clothes cleaned and in fine order. Her lips looked especially red, her scars well hidden now. She looked at the ground as she rode, despondent, though Nyad seemed to be chattering happily in her ear.
“The Baroness has an ill humor about her,” Odellan said, startling Cyrus as he appeared next to Windrider on his own horse. “A cloud hangs over her, some grief unspoken, I think.” He looked at Cyrus in curiosity. “As though Yartraak himself has settled darkness upon her heart.”
Cyrus stared at Odellan, trying to decide what to say. He finally settled on, “Keep your eye on the formation. I want our march in perfect order, and after today I want weapons practice for every one of our fighters; we’ll be ready if battle comes our way.” After seeing Od
ellan’s nod of acknowledgment, Cyrus spurred Windrider, who whinnied in anger at the rough treatment and took off at a run. “Sorry,” Cyrus said to the horse after a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure the horse accepts your apology,” Martaina said, coming alongside Cyrus. “Now perhaps you should turn those words in a different direction—”
“Perhaps you should keep yours to yourself,” Cyrus snapped. “Because as it happens, I recall about a month ago you told me that even with all your vast experience, you didn’t know what you were doing in relationships.”
“I can see you’re blinded in your pain,” Martaina began slowly, after a pause, “but let me bring something forward in your mind. In spite of our similar ears,” she said, pushing her hair back behind the points of her ears, “I’m not Vara. If you’re looking for a sharp-tongued reply or an argument, look elsewhere. I’m a little too old to slap back at you just because you swing an emotional gauntlet or three my way.”
“I only have two gauntlets,” Cyrus replied.
“Then that must be something else you’re swinging around,” Martaina said, deadpan. “You might want to put it back in your pants before someone loses an eye—like you, yourself.”
Cyrus bristled. “What are you trying to say? Be plain about it.”
“I’m suggesting that you might stop swinging around your …” she lowered her voice, “… pride, as though it were some sort of weapon to keep people at bay.”
“My …” Cyrus started to shout, but lowered his voice, “… pride … doesn’t seem to get me in anything but trouble of late, as I follow its lead from one woman who stabs me in the front to another who lies to me.”
“I don’t think we’re talking about your pride anymore … sir.” Martaina said. “We’re either talking about your groin or your heart, and you might want to differentiate. Because if it’s your groin, it probably would have led you in the same direction as Terian went just now. If it’s your heart, then you can’t really fault it because you don’t choose the direction it goes anymore than you could choose what direction you went in as an orphan, dropped off at the front door of the Society of Arms.”
Cyrus felt the slap of her words, a surge of memory at the reminder of the first time he walked through the gates to the Society—and the first time he left after that, running through them in the snow, as fast as his six year-old legs could carry him. He felt a blinding flash of anger and the desire to lash out again, to get Martaina away from him—the sting from her knowing too much. The wall of ice dissolved and made cold fury in its stead. “Your counsel is not needed, ranger. And it occurs to me that your efforts at bodyguard haven’t gone terribly well, either, considering not a month ago I got my brains dashed out by a dwarf with a hammer, and you did nothing to stop it. Be gone—I’d have you go back to what you were doing before, taking care of the animals, joining scouting parties, anything else.”
“And who will watch your back in these unpredictable lands?” Martaina asked, cool, but her words carrying the unmistakable hint of venom.
“I’ll watch my own, thank you very much,” he said. “I can’t do a much worse job of it than you have.” He urged Windrider on, this time sparing the spurs. “Why don’t you try keeping an eye on Partus as we travel?” he asked. “I don’t much care if he lives or dies, after all.”
As he rode away, he heard her say something, low, almost lost under the sound of hoofbeats, but there nonetheless. “How do you feel about you, yourself, dying?”
Cyrus felt his eyes narrow at her words, and he leaned forward to ride faster. “I don’t much care if I live or die right now, either.”
Chapter 26
The journey to Enrant Monge took over three weeks, during which time Cyrus was once again as he had been during the first leg of their trip from Sanctuary. He took his meals alone, gave orders only when he had to, and ignored the few accolades directed his way from soldiers in his army until the word had circulated that the general had sunken once more into a black mood at which point the army went silent whenever he would ride by.
The officers also left him to his own devices, supping without him when they made camp for the day. Cyrus was frequently invited to dine with the King in his own tent. He declined every occasion, often sending one of the other officers in his stead, wordlessly handing off the parchment invitations that seemed to be delivered to him every day in the morning, at the noon hour and when evening came.
The only people who didn’t give him a wide berth were J’anda (who attempted a conversation composed of sheer surface-level pleasantries with him at least once per day), Curatio (who only disturbed him to discuss disciplinary matters or things of other import to the army approximately once a week), and Terian (who wandered by for conversation whenever he felt like it; Cyrus could discern no pattern to the dark knight’s attempts).
The two people whom Cyrus actually wanted, in some deep place within him, to talk to said nothing to him. Both avoided him, going so far as to remain out of his sight whenever possible. Cattrine continued to ride with Nyad and Ryin, though he saw her speaking with almost all the officers at various points in time. She seemed to be trying to give him space, staying as far away from him as possible.
The other person he wanted to talk to had said nothing to him in a month; Aisling had taken to guarding Partus, who was forced to walk while tied to the back of a horse that cantered along. The dwarf looked somewhat ragged after the long journey. Though he was getting no more exercise than any of the other members of the Sanctuary army, he seemed worse the wear for it. He was ungagged only while the cessation spell was cast around him, he was never left unguarded, and his hands remained shackled at all times. The dwarf wore a perpetual scowl until such time as he became exhausted, which was almost always an hour or two into the walk for the day. Aisling seemed to be near him at all times, watching him through slitted eyes, a silent guardian. On the occasions when Cyrus had seen her, she had avoided any sort of eye contact, defying his prediction that when she heard about his falling out with the Baroness, that she would come directly to him. He tried not to read too much into it. Once burned, twice shy. When burned many times … well … I can identify with that.
Their path led them on a long, circuitous route, at first following the road that had led them to Vernadam. When they passed a massive lake, they turned north on a wide road; at the signpost Cyrus found he still couldn’t read the Luukessian language, and worse, he found he did not care. North, south, east or west, they all seemed much the same to him. We’ll settle this war, and then … he thought of Vara, and it still stung, like a dagger picking at an old wound. He thought of Cattrine, and the pain was fresh, like a sword biting at his innards. He pictured the wall of ice again, building it within him block by block and it seemed to soothe the ache, although it did not go away. I don’t know what we’ll do then.
Cyrus’s black misery did not seem to lessen as the days went by; if anything, time and isolation made it worse, like a festering wound. He went to sleep thinking of Vara and Cattrine, Cattrine and Vara, and he felt them trouble his dreams, the two of them, like predatory lionesses, circling him while wounded on a battlefield, each one striking in turn, taking a piece of him away until there was scarcely anything left.
Enrant Monge was on a plateau in the center of Luukessia. As they approached, the ground became hilly, the slope rising and falling as they navigated the hills. After a few days of this, it began to level, and Cyrus found himself looking upon the castle one evening as they were close to their end for the night.
“The King told me when I supped with him earlier that we’ll leave the army nearby,” J’anda said, stirring Cyrus from his silent reverie. “When we stop for the night, they’ll encamp there for the time that the moot takes place. He’s asked you and no more than five other officers to come along when he and the rest of the court goes to the moot.”
“Fine,” Cyrus said, his voice scratchy from disuse. “You, Longwell, Terian, and Curatio. We’ll
bring the Baroness as well, give her an opportunity to see her brother.”
“I can’t decide whether that will be a very good idea or a very bad one,” J’anda said. “But I suspect it will be one of the two.”
“Either Tiernan will be happy to see her or he won’t,” Cyrus said. “It doesn’t much matter to me which it is.”
“It would not much matter to you if you were being slowly picked apart by vultures on a battlefield, I suspect, “ J’anda said, prompting Cyrus to send him a look of indifference. “Thank you for proving my point, I think.”
“Impressive,” Cyrus said without feeling. “You sussed that out without even having to reach into my mind.” He laughed, a low, grim laugh that caused the enchanter to edge away almost nervously. “I wonder what you’d see if you cast a mesmerization spell on me now. What do you think my heart’s desire is at this moment?”
“I …” J’anda swallowed deeply, and Cyrus could hear the reluctance in his answer. “I don’t think I would care to know, whatever it is. Your thoughts are not your own, they’re the blackest sort of darkness. You look at a bright summer’s sky like we’ve had for the last three weeks and it looks bleak and grey to your eyes. You are covered in it; it swallows you whole, infects you in a way I have only seen happen to you once before—and this time, it may actually be worse. And since last time involved a death of someone dear to you, I would have thought that that would be impossible.”
“Well, doesn’t that just make you all kinds of wrong,” Cyrus said. “Before I just mourned the loss of a friend. Now I get to watch my faith in others gradually disappear.”
“I don’t think it’s others you’re losing faith in,” J’anda said. “I don’t think it’s that at all. I think you’re starting to lose belief in yourself, that that is what is really eating at you—your confidence is shaken because you feel betrayed. After all, how could this happen to you, twice in a row? You trusted them, you opened your heart to them, and they hurt you. You are wounded. You are licking those wounds. You may think it’s your belief in others that is waning, but this is a problem of you, my friend. You are taking it too personally; these sort of things happen.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 28