Longwell turned slowly back to Cyrus, all the fight drained out of him. His pale face was hollow of expression, and his lip quivered in a way that Cyrus had never seen from the dragoon. “There are so few of us left,” he whispered. “So very few. And with … Emerald Fields, and Leaugarden, and now … now this … and more could …” He choked a little.
“Samwen,” Cyrus said, trying to hold himself up as a stone wall though his legs felt heavy bearing the burden of his body at the moment. “We are going to do everything we can to protect your people. But your men aren’t—the ones we’ve sent to Leaugarden and the pass—they’re not farmers.” Cyrus felt the sag of his lips as emotion weighed them down. “None of us are. We’re fighters. Soldiers. We go to war. And this … this fight with the titans, it’s reminding me what real war is, without the safety of the armor of magic and healing and resurrection spells.”
“There are just … so few …” Longwell pitched back, his rump hitting the chair nearest him, and he landed on the floor with a short bounce. “So few …” Now the hot tears were running down his face.
Unsure what to say or how to say it, Cyrus walked over to the dragoon and knelt next to him, placing a strong hand on his shoulder as the last living King of Luukessia wept openly in the middle of the Council Chambers.
52.
“That was a bit of downer,” Andren said as he walked the streets of Reikonos off the square with Cyrus at his side. The healer’s stride was lighter than his bearing, and evening was already starting to settle on the world. Autumn was in full effect, the cool breeze blowing through the streets, the few trees in the city shedding leaves that whipped along down the dirt and cobblestone avenues.
“He’s had a rough run of luck,” Cyrus said, adjusting his belt, feeling for Praelior’s hilt instinctively. They had waited with Longwell for quite some time, until the dragoon pulled himself together, wiped his eyes, and offered Cyrus a half-hearted apology before he made his retreat.
“That’s the truth,” Andren agreed as they took a turn down a shop-lined street, glass windows glinting in the last light of day as the sun moved into the west. “Martaina told me that he’s quite the weepy fellow when, uh … engaged in the business, you know.”
Cyrus frowned. “No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
“You know,” Andren said. “He and Martaina … in Luukessia … they …” The healer arched his eyebrows.
The answer hit Cyrus like a titan fist. “Oh! Oh, gods! I didn’t need to know that about your paramour.”
“Well, you were with her over there,” Andren said. “You must have known she did a bit of dabbling.”
“I tried very hard not to discuss it with her more than the once or twice it came up,” Cyrus said, quickening his pace as though he could leave this particular conversation behind if he walked fast enough. “Why is everything so focused on sex of late? It feels like every conversation tends that way sooner or later.”
“Stuff of life, mate,” Andren said with a twinkle in his eyes. “What else is there? Battles, sex, food—I mean, that sounds like a warrior of Bellarum’s whole bag right there.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “There’s got to be. That’s a hollow life, my friend.”
“Well,” Andren said cautiously, “some people go in for the drink—”
“More than that,” Cyrus said.
“Such as?”
“I don’t know,” Cyrus said, trying to look at the buildings they were passing. Shops were giving way to some houses, broken by businesses, taverns and the occasional small lot for farming, or communal ovens. “Love? Companionship? The bond of the brotherhood and sisterhood of our guild—”
“Bleargh,” Andren pronounced with a finger shoved down his throat. “You’re getting a bit sappy as you’re hovering toward settling down—again, I might add, as if you failed to take away a single lesson from your first marital experience.”
“Says the man who’s about to tie the knot.”
Andren’s eyebrows arched upward in surprise. “Say what?”
Cyrus froze in the middle of the street. “She told me you’d talked about it.”
Andren frowned, clearly befuddled. “Who? Martaina?”
“No, Aisling,” Cyrus snapped back. “Of course Martaina.
“Hey, it could have been that dark elven minx. Based on the number she did to you, though, I’d be a bit warier in my approach, maybe try and—”
“Martaina came to me and said she wanted me to perform a marriage ceremony for you,” Cyrus said. “For the two of you. Said you’d talked about it.”
Andren gave it a moment’s thought. “I suppose we did at that.”
Cyrus waited for the reaction. “And?”
Andren just shrugged, the shadow of a nearby house disguising some of his expression. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll marry her.”
“What?” Cyrus could not avoid the tug of disbelief. “Just like that?”
“Well, yeah,” Andren said. “I didn’t know she was serious.” He broke into a goofy smile. “It’s kind of an honor, being asked by a woman like that, you know? Clearly she has plenty of options available, and she wants to marry me. I’m flattered.”
Cyrus stood there, thinking that one over. “That’s a … unique perspective.”
“You don’t live as long as I have without gaining an appreciation for a good compliment,” Andren said, starting down the street again. Cyrus had to hurry to catch up once he’d recovered his wits. “I mean, after all, she’s got her pick of all these men in Sanctuary, she could maybe go for that bloke in Amti—”
“Gareth?”
“That’s the one,” Andren said lightly. “I guess they grew up together or something? Anyhow, it’s really quite flattering to be chosen out of all those.”
“I suppose,” Cyrus said, inclining his head as he fell back into step alongside the healer.
“Kind of like you with Vara,” Andren said. “When are you going to chain that little lady down?”
Cyrus’s mouth fell open. “I … don’t know.”
“You want to, don’t you?” Andren prodded. “Eh? You’ve wanted nothing but her for years, really. So why wait?”
“Because of reasons,” Cyrus snapped, though he could not think of a single one.
“Oh, yes, the reasons,” Andren said, straight-faced, nodding. “The reasons being you’re afraid she’ll say no.”
Cyrus froze again, and Andren began to outpace him. “Are you calling me a coward?”
“In battle? Gods no. In love … well, if the boot fits …” The healer looked down at Cyrus’s feet. “Those are mighty big boots, I might add. Probably difficult to find in the right size.”
“Well, they were my father’s,” Cyrus snapped, “so I suppose they’re rather one of a kind.”
“Much like your elven paladin, the shelas’akur,” Andren said with a twinkle in his eye as they approached an intersection. “Might want to—put her on or—or something,” he started to get flustered, and finally gave up. “Just marry her already.”
Cyrus bit back the hard reply that he wanted to spout. “I’ll consider it,” he said instead.
“Swallow your pride, idiot,” Andren said, looking around the intersection before nodding at the tavern that had been the Rotten Fish. “If she says no, just realize it’s her pride talking, and that makes the two of you even more perfect for each other.” He broke into a jog as he crossed the empty intersection, heading toward the pub.
Cyrus hurried to catch up, the sight of the pub causing him to divide his attention between the discussion they were having and the reason he had come here. “Your advice is noted.”
“Yeah, you file that away for later,” Andren said. “Where are we going here?”
“This way, maybe?” Cyrus pointed down the street. “I don’t know that I have a hope of finding my actual house, since—I think the last time I saw it, the roof was caving in.
It could be rubble, or more probably, long gone by now. I just want to see if anything looks familiar.”
“Mmhmm,” Andren nodded. “And how’s that going so far?”
“All the houses look different,” Cyrus said, “same as last time.” The thatched roofs all blended together, and Cyrus frowned the further they walked from the pub.
The smell of night and the city was in the air, the smell of horse dung and baked bread heavy in Cyrus’s nose. The autumn breeze of evening whirled around him, finding the cracks in his armor and cooling him where he’d sweated earlier in the warmer plains air. The houses were becoming shadowed now, a few souls still sitting outside here and there, watching the passersby. They took one look at Cyrus and did double takes, or let their jaws hang open.
“Not exactly inconspicuous, are you?” Andren asked.
Cyrus did not bother to answer. The distance they had gone seemed incredible, too far, really, and he was about to give up when his eyes perceived a gap in the houses ahead. He quickened his pace, half-expecting to find a field where farmers had a small patch here in the city. It was a simple space between houses, after all, but as he got closer he noticed the remains of the stone fence that had once parceled the lot, and the hints of a foundation that remained visible even though whatever had stood atop them was clearly long since gone.
Cyrus paused outside the fence and stared at the empty lot. A house had stood here once, he was sure of it. But to see it vacant now, and clearly for some time—it was a most curious thing in a city where housing was practically fought over.
Cyrus looked left and then right, to the houses on either side, and he saw movement in the dark, the light of a pipe flaring in the shadows at the entry to the house next door. Cyrus picked his way over, slowly, keeping his hands obviously visible. “Good evening,” he called, announcing himself in case the person behind the pipe was the suspicious sort.
“Evening,” a scratchy female voice greeted him. The woman stepped out of the shadows, and Cyrus immediately guessed her to be in her fifties. She wore a scarf over her head, along with simple work trousers and a shirt. She had the look of a laborer, and the weariness of a long day was apparent in her posture.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Cyrus said, placing his gauntleted hands on the stone wall that separated him from the woman. “I was wondering how long you’ve lived here?”
The question seemed to catch her by surprise. “Oh, long enough, I suppose,” she answered, and he realized she was trying to count it out rather than being intentionally deceptive.
“Long enough to remember the house that used to be here?” Cyrus pointed at the vacant lot next door, and the woman’s brows surged up.
“Not that long, no,” she said, shaking her head. “That house was falling to ruin when I showed up, and it got hauled off brick by useful brick within a year of me coming here from the other side of town.”
“Ah,” Cyrus said, feeling a pinch of regret. “So you don’t know who used to live there?”
She shrugged. “Not really. Some of the older lasses from this street might know. Joenne, across the way, perhaps.” She pulled her pipe out of her mouth, pointing its stem at the house across the street. Cyrus turned to look, but not a light was on in the windows. “She’s out of town at the moment,” the woman said. “Visiting family in the Northlands.”
“So how long have you actually been here?” Andren asked, furrowing his own brow in concentration. “By the count of years, if you remember exactly?”
The woman puffed her pipe as she gave it some thought. “I reckon I’ve been here … twenty years now?” she finally decided. “Since I bought this place from that elven dame.”
“Hmm,” Cyrus said, still feeling the pinch of disappointment. “Thanks for your—”
“What elven dame?” Andren asked. “Do you recall her name?”
“Like you know every elf,” Cyrus said under his breath.
“Well, I might,” Andren said with a shrug.
“Mmmm,” the woman said, taking another draw of the pipe as its red light flared with her intake. “What was her name? She was a stately one, seemed like the sort who’d act like she was better than you—you know, like elves do—”
“I have heard that about them,” Andren agreed. He nudged Cyrus with his shoulder, lightly. “He’d know. He’s about to marry one.”
“I am n—” Cyrus gave him a dirty look.
“Corinne?” The woman asked, drawing Cyrus’s attention back to her before he realized she was trying to recall the name of the elf she’d bought the house from. “No, that’s not it … Cora. That’s it. Cora. That was her.” The old lady nodded, seemingly sure, and took another smoke.
Cyrus, for his part, sat there in the street, his hands on the stone fence, skin gone cold, tingles working their way up the crown of his skull.
“Well,” Andren said with immense self-satisfaction, “as it turns out, we both know her. What are the odds of that coincidence?”
“So low as to not be coincidence at all,” Cyrus said, the chill wind wrapping itself around his skin like a blanket. “In fact, I would say it’s well-nigh impossible.”
53.
When Cyrus returned to Sanctuary, dusk had passed and darkness had fallen. He made his way through the grounds, around the ancient walls of the keep, the stones glistening in the dark from specks of lighter sand grains catching the reflection of the watch fires around the curtain wall.
He found her out in the garden, atop the bridge, staring down into the dark waters below. The pond was scarcely a few feet deep, but with the moon overhead and the watch fires burning, he could see her reflection where she looked down into the water as he approached.
“Hey,” he said, announcing himself. She did not look up, merely continued staring, her hands firmly planted on the stone railing that kept her from falling into the water below.
“Hello,” she said, a bit distantly compared to how she’d been of late. He sidled up next to her, planting his own hands against the railing and leaning. “I expected you ages ago, honestly.”
“I hope you’re not insulted that I’m late,” Cyrus said. “I wanted to give you some space, honor your wishes and all that.”
“I assure you I am not offended,” she said, leaning over to him and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Merely lost in my own contemplations.”
“About Alaric?” Cyrus asked, though he already knew the answer.
“About Alaric,” she agreed. “About where he might be if he is in fact still alive.”
“Well, when last I saw him he was in the Tower of the Guildmaster,” Cyrus said with a quiet smile. “But I expect you and I have, uh, explored every surface of that place over the last few months, and I don’t think he’s hiding in there now.” Cyrus paused. “Though if he is … he’s had quite an eyeful.”
“Indeed,” Vara said. “It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? The idea of searching for a man who can go as insubstantial as the mist. It rather boggles the mind when trying to decide where even to start.”
“I figure if he wants to be found,” Cyrus said, “he’ll let me know where to go. Until then,” he swept a hand toward the walls in the distance, and a hoot of laughter echoed in the night from atop them, “I have the responsibility he left.”
“I helped give away his armor to Terian,” Vara said, her face pinched.
“Which is strange because when I saw Alaric, he was wearing it,” Cyrus said with a shrug. “But then again, that was before Terian had it.” He frowned. “Maybe we should ask the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar his take on the matter.”
“Curatio gave him the armor,” Vara said with certainty. “I pilfered the helmet from the shrine once I heard what he was doing.” She nodded toward the small structure just past the bridge.
“And why did you do that exactly?” Cyrus asked. “I’m a little fuzzy on the logic there.”
“Terian was in need,” Vara said, and there was not a trace of doubt in her tone. “He was trying t
o make right a long series of wrongs, and he was without armor as he headed into a crucial battle. Whatever Terian did that caused us to cast him out, after Saekaj and Yartraak, I was convinced that he was making every effort to strive for the redemption he spoke of.” She lowered her voice. “Under those circumstances, I felt Alaric would want him to have the best possible chance at success.”
“Well, it seems to have worked out well,” Cyrus said. “He’s as changed a man as any I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s a curious process to watch it play out in reverse,” Vara said, her face a little haunted. “I watched Archenous go from paladin to dark knight right under my nose, losing his soul to the reckless desire for power.” She flicked her gaze to him. “You asked me earlier what I fear? I fear that. I have seen in you, since the beginning, the same threads of ambition that he wove into purest darkness. I have counseled you all along to walk the right side of the path, to steer away from vengeance, turning you from warrior of Bellarum to the nearest thing to a paladin without magic that I could.” She stepped closer, and placed a bare hand upon his breastplate. “I have watched you struggle under burdens that would crush lesser men, watched you make difficult choices that others would have made more simply, expediently, and utterly wrongly. You took the harder path, and I admire you for it.” She bit her lower lip lightly. “But still … I fear. I fear what you would become if you chose the path of the warlord that everyone has always accused you of wanting to be.”
“I’m not a warlord,” Cyrus said, his throat dry. “I’m a Guildmaster.”
“You’re the Lord of Perdamun,” Vara said, “unchallenged by any government in that title. You need but reach out your hand and this whole land would be yours, a territory that would stretch from Prehorta down to the Waking Woods, all the way to the Bay of Lost Souls and around to the Perda. You could be a King with but a command, and the peasantry that remain here would accept gladly the thought of protection that would come from so strong an authority.”
“Don’t I have enough trouble running a guild at this point?” Cyrus asked. “I mean, I can’t even get Vaste to shut up for more than five seconds unless you threaten him with lewd stories about our romantic interludes—”
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