“No,” Terian said. “I’ll be coming with you; send for Odellan to keep an eye on things in the castle here if you must, but I’m coming along.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that so? All right. I’ll need you three to go to the army. I don’t want Odellan to leave them; he’s proven himself far too apt at commanding them to pull him away from that now. Have Ryin and Nyad come here to watch the proceedings for us. I’ll want Mendicant and Aisling going north with us as well as a druid or two as can be spared. Make sure you leave at least a couple healers behind.”
“You’ll be needing to send a messenger to Alaric,” Curatio said. “We’ve been gone for over four months now.”
“We’re about to split our forces rather dramatically,” Cyrus said. “Let’s wait until we get back to send word. I don’t want anyone to have to anchor their soul here on Luukessia just yet; they may need the return spell to carry them back to Sanctuary at an inconvenient moment.”
“Very well,” Curatio said shrewdly, but Cyrus could see the argument in his eyes that the healer was saving for later. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll start culling a force out of our army to go north.”
Cyrus nodded, and watched J’anda and Terian follow the healer. “I’ll confer with my father, if it pleases you,” Longwell said, still somewhat despondent. “Make certain he doesn’t take our desire to go north the wrong way.”
“I could certainly use some help in that department, young Longwell,” Genner said. “Between you and me, King Aron seems quite changed from the days when he rode at the fore of the dragoons. More quick to anger, less quick to listen.”
“Aye,” Longwell said. “My mother’s effect on him is sorely missed. Let us go.” He gestured to Genner, who followed him. Aron Longwell was already making his way toward the tunnel which they had entered through hours earlier, leaving Cyrus alone with Cattrine and a few remaining delegates. Briyce Unger waited too, speaking with two of his men at the bench he had been sitting upon during the moot, his white robe colored orange by the tint of the torchlight.
Cyrus glanced at Cattrine and then walked away from her, stepping over the benches in front of him in a clumsy descent, avoiding the stairs and the line of people filing up them toward Actaluere and Galbadien’s gates. He stepped over the last and looked at Cattrine again; she was frozen, all but her eyes, standing in the place where he had left her, looking from him to where the Grand Duke Hoygraf watched her, standing with his walking stick, his face twisted in a smile that made Cyrus want to snatch away the cane and batter him with it until the man moved no more.
Instead, Cyrus continued on across the center of the amphitheater until he reached Briyce Unger, who had watched him during his approach. The smell from the corpse of the thing that waited at Unger’s feet permeated the air. The King stood at Cyrus’s eye level, and when Cyrus approached, the big man stopped speaking with his subordinates, eyeing Cyrus with cold brown eyes.
“Briyce Unger?” Cyrus asked. “My name is—”
“Cyrus Davidon of the guild Sanctuary,” the King of Syloreas said, unmoved. “I heard your name announced when you came in. My men who survived tell me it’s you that’s the hero of Harrow’s Crossing, not Ranson.”
“It was me,” Cyrus said. “Does that gall you, sir?”
“Can’t pretend it tickles me overmuch,” Unger said, still not registering much in the way of emotions on his bearded face. “Six months ago—hell, even three months ago—if Harrow’s Crossing had happened, I would have come after you with everything to avenge my men. Nothing personal, you understand—well, as impersonal as the heat of battle gets—but no one does that to my army and gets away with it.” The big man shrugged. “Now, with all this,” he nudged the remains of the creature wrapped in cloth at his feet, “I find myself hoping you and your army of western magicians will be on our side.”
“I’d like to be,” Cyrus said. “I want to go north with you, get a look at these things for myself.”
“I thought you said you already saw one,” Unger said, regarding Cyrus with some suspicion.
“I did,” Cyrus said. “When we went out to capture Partus after Harrow’s Crossing, we found him being attacked by one of them. If there’s more,” he leaned in closer to Unger, “I want to see them for myself.”
“There’s more,” Unger said. “Plenty more. You’re more than welcome to come along; especially if you bring your western magics.” Unger cocked his head, and Cyrus saw the regret channel through the man.” We could use more than a little of it in Syloreas right now.”
“I take it you’ll be leaving soon?” Cyrus asked.
“Right now, if I could swing it,” Unger said with a laugh that sounded like a bark. “Most likely at first light.”
“I’ve already got my people assembling a force to ride out with you,” Cyrus said. “About thirty or so, all veterans.”
“Good enough,” Unger said, nodding. “And your King won’t be providing a problem?”
“He’s not my King,” Cyrus said. “I came to render aid because his son is my friend and an officer of my guild.”
“Heh,” Unger said with something that didn’t sound anything like a laugh. “Honor bound, is that it? To a fellow warrior?”
“Something like that,” Cyrus said. “Honor is pretty important in my guild.”
“Feh!” Unger waved him off. “Honor. I don’t begrudge anyone their honor, but I hear it come from the mouths of the dishonorable more often than those who truly show it. Victory is what’s important now, and I’d trade all my honor if it kept my Kingdom from falling to these beasts. Show me a man who’s obsessed with only his honor and I’ll show you a man who’ll be defeated time after time. Honor! Tell me about honor on the day you see your enemies marching into your towns, slaughtering your people.”
“Defending your people is a kind of honor,” Cyrus said. “These things are beasts, so the only honor here is protecting those who can’t protect themselves from these things.”
“Fair enough,” Unger said. “I suppose I was still thinking of it the way Aron Longwell cries about it. Wraps himself up in the word as though it could shield you from a thousand swords. But it doesn’t shield you from the reality of war, we’re seeing that now.” He nodded at Cyrus. “I’m going to go get myself an hour or so of sleep before I start having to make preparations again. Come to the north gate with your people at sunrise, and we’ll be off.”
“Count on it,” Cyrus said.
“Oh, I will,” Briyce Unger said with a toothy grin as he began to ascend the amphitheater stairs behind him. “I’m already planning my strategy around having some of your mystics to help save us from our troubles.”
Cyrus gave the man a nod as he left with the rest of his delegation, and watched him disappear from sight into the tunnel. When he turned, he saw that the amphitheater was empty, and the garden around him was quiet, save for the buzz of crickets in the night air. There was a very slight movement across from him and he realized that the last person in the amphitheater besides him was Cattrine. She sat on the bench in the same place she had been throughout the ceremony, watching him, as gravely as if someone had died.
Her skin held a certain flush in the torchlight, a warm, browned hue from all the travel of the last months. Her auburn hair was perfectly matched to the lighting, and he saw the slightest flicker of her eyes as he crossed the center of the amphitheater, heading toward the tunnel through which he had entered. “Going to stay here all night?” he asked her, pausing at the end of her row.
“Perhaps,” she said, quiet, calm. “I … can’t believe he’s still alive.”
Cyrus felt a sharp pain within. “I’m sorry.” She looked up at him in surprise. “Whatever else has happened between us, I’m sorry I didn’t free you from him. I may not care for the fact that you lied to me,” he felt his body tense as the anger came back to him, “about your brother and who you were, but I wouldn’t wish being married to him upon you, no matter what.”
/> “I don’t wish to go with him,” she said, and lowered her head. “I don’t wish to ever be subject to … to that man, ever again.”
“You won’t have to,” Cyrus said. “I won’t let him take you.”
“You would fight your way through the whole Kingdom of Actaluere to spare me?” she asked with a subtle smile. “You would go into the heart of the sea country, into the city of Caenalys and fight your way through the streets and over the bridges, and do so on my behalf?”
Cyrus felt the clench of his jaw and hated it. “If I have to, I will.”
She stood, then, and turned to him, watching him, her green eyes hard like emeralds and unrelenting in their pursuit of him. “Even though I didn’t tell you who I was?” She took a step closer to him. “Even though I lied by omission, as you say? Even still?” She stepped closer yet, and was now only a few feet away from him.
“I would.” He nodded. “All the way to their capital if necessary, all the way to their throne room, I would fight my way to your brother himself, crush all his guards and pry a promise from his lips to never pursue you or attempt to make war to honor his own name, under penalty of my return.”
She stared at him, still as a statue. “What a man are you, Cyrus Davidon. How deep must your conviction run, that you would do that for a near-stranger?”
He flushed, and swallowed hard. “You’re not a stranger, we’ve been—”
“I know,” she said, and took another step toward him, reaching out and running a palm down his cheek. “I almost thought you had forgotten, in your anger, as though you wanted to disavow ever knowing me, ever holding me …”
“What happened, happened,” Cyrus said, feeling the touch of her hand on his face. He could feel the roughness, where once it had been soft and smooth, now calloused from the ride and practice with her blade. “But it’s done now.” He felt a great pressure in his chest, a warmth within him at her touch, at the remembrance of nights and days in Vernadam. “You saw to that when you didn’t tell me the honest truth.”
“I didn’t lie,” she said, coming closer, her forehead nearly on his. “I wouldn’t have lied to you. But I feared that you would not fight that hard for me, for a near-stranger, or even for a lover, had you known who my brother was and what complications it would bring. How was I to know?”
“Because you know me now. Because you got to know me, the real me.” He couldn’t look at her. “You could have told me at Vernadam. Any time in the days we spent together, the infinity of blissful days that we held together.”
“I was afraid,” she said, holding her hand awkwardly, still touching his face. He leaned into her as she stroked his cheek. His breathing became suddenly slightly heavier, his heart thumped in his ears. “Afraid you’d be … upset. A fear that turned out to be accurate, I would point out.”
“But it wouldn’t have been,” he said, his voice low, his eyes now on hers, gazing into them. “Not if you’d told the truth before all the hell broke loose. Before there was threat of war. I wouldn’t have been angry if you’d told me then. If you’d been honest and not tried to hide forever—and we could have …” He took a breath, felt a pulse within him, the deep thrum of his desire. How can it have been less than a month? I wasn’t so on fire with need after years, but now …
“We still could,” she said, slipping closer, drawing her forehead to his with her hands then slipping her arms around him. “I still want you. I’ve missed you … the touch of you, the feel of you against me in the cold night air …” Her hands ran down his robes, clung tight to him, pulled him against her. “I want you,” she whispered in his ear, and her mouth found his earlobe and sucked on it gently, her soft breath against the side of his neck causing Cyrus’s entire mind to blot out any thought but her …
He was both acutely aware of every moment and yet it blurred around him as though he were in a stupor of tiredness. She pulled him down, onto the nearest bench, and he felt her hands lifting the hem of his robe, felt the rustle of cloth as she tugged her breeches down and he heard the sound of her leather boots echo on the floor of the amphitheater. Her kisses were tender yet forceful, and every one of them seemed to awaken some beast within him that had been locked away for the last month, clamoring quietly to get out, chambered in a room of bleakness and despair but now afforded a view of the sky and charging toward it with all its strength.
He kissed her back, roughly, and it was just as it had been at Vernadam. He craved her, kissed her on the side of her neck, sucked on the sweet skin there and heard her moan as he unlaced her cloth shirt’s collar and slid it up. She kicked off her breeches underneath him and it turned loose his animal excitement. Something froze him, for just a beat. “Won’t somebody see us?”
“They’re all gone,” she said. “Off to bed, and won’t be back to the garden until tomorrow afternoon.”
“But …” He sat there, feeling foolish but still wanting her, held back by an invisible tether. “You’re still a married woman.”
Her eyes were on his, and he could see that she wanted it too, wanted him. “That never stopped you before.”
“I thought you were a widow before.”
“So did I,” she said, pulling him closer, “but so little is my regard for the man that this almost seems more delicious than before.” She pulled him close and kissed him, and they melted together into action and activity, the cold night air made warmer by Cyrus’s skin pressed against hers, held by her embrace until they had finished.
“You’re a man of commendable vigor,” she said, her voice muffled from her face being pressed against his chest. She reached a hand up and brushed her hair back so he could see her face, glowing, almost resplendent. Her shirt had been lost in the moments between her initiation of their second lovemaking and his arrival on the floor. He felt the stone chill against his back and bottom, but it seemed to soothe his hot flesh. “The Baron could never manage to satiate me in such a way as you have.”
“Don’t talk about him when you’re with me,” Cyrus said, but it came off snappish, and he saw her flinch from his words. “It’s been a month; of course I’d have some pent-up desire.”
“You have years of desire, my love,” she said with a sigh. “And your vigor is hardly something new; how many times did we engage in such things at Vernadam? I’m only pleased that you haven’t grown tired of me quite yet.” One of her hands slipped down as she smiled.
“Stop,” he whispered, imploring her. “Not here. Not again.”
“Why not?” she asked. “I used to come here as a child, you know. With Milos and my father, whenever a convocation was held. We had three of them, two within a year of each other. This is a sacred place to us, here in Luukessia, because of the connection Enrant Monge has to our ancestors.” She lifted herself off him, exposing her upper body, and causing him to bristle as she got to her knees, causing him to tremble at the sight of her nakedness, the scars that crisscrossed her body still visible to him now, obvious, inescapable signs of her torment, almost as though they were marks of her guilt. “I used to wonder if the man I would marry was in the crowd of nobles who would come with us to the moots.” She became ashen as she tucked her hair behind her shoulders. “As it turned out, he was—though not the man I would have picked for myself.”
“You’re talking about him again,” Cyrus said, sitting upright. Now the stone underneath his buttocks simply felt cold, uncomfortable to his touch. Cattrine remained on her knees, leaning back to rest her haunches on his thighs.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I meant to say that I hoped back then that I would meet a man like you—strong, brave, noble and true, one that would treat me decently, more decently than many of the ladies I knew in court were treated by their husbands.”
“So were you looking for a man to take care of you?” He eyed her warily.
“I was taught to take care of a man and he’ll take care of you—something of a lie, I realize now, but at the time it seemed reasonable enough.”
&n
bsp; He felt bile rise in his throat, heat on his face, and he recoiled from her, pulling himself free of her grasp. The sweat and the smell made him feel only dirty now, as though any clothing he touched would be soiled, ruined, unusable at any time in the future. The stickiness of his skin as it pulled away from the stones that he had sat upon felt as though his flesh had to be peeled from it the way the skin of an apple is removed, and the grittiness remained as he rose to his knees and clutched at the robes that lay only a few feet away.
“Did I not please you, m’lord?” Cattrine’s eyes were upon him, but the slight mocking undertone in her voice made him ill, made him feel dirtier still. “Is your tireless drive such that I need convince you of my affections once more?” She pressed close to him again, laying her head upon his shoulder from behind as he leaned over.
She still felt good against his skin as she pressed herself to his back, and he felt a momentary urge to turn, to hold her, but he pulled away instead, the fight won at last by that nagging sense of disgust that had welled up within him. It overcame the last of his desire, spent finally from all her efforts, and he felt the monster within’s clutches let loose of him, and a fearful anger took hold. “Get off me,” he said, and let his robe cover him and his shame.
Her face was a mask. There was no kindness upon it as there had been in the past, but some fear or anger crept out in slow measure, revealing itself subtly through the tilt of her eyes, the thinness of her lips as she regarded him. “Did I do something to make you angry?” she asked with the subtlest hint of insincerity. “Do you wish to hurt me now? Because if so, I do request you keep it below the collar and above the sleeves.” Her fingers traced lines over the flawless skin just above her neckline down to the jagged scars that ran across her breasts and along her arms, and down to her left thigh where a particularly heinous wound had left a half-inch indentation in her inner thigh where the skin was simply missing, as though someone had gouged a small cube of it out.
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 32