The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion

by Robert J. Crane

  “It wasn’t black lace,” Curatio said, looking up at Vara. “It was a spell that produces a similar effect. And it had nothing to do with what’s happening now.”

  “Sorry, but we don’t have time.” Vara stood, a hint of impatience sneaking into her words. “I need to get to Termina to speak with my parents.”

  “Yeah.” Cyrus reached for his breastplate, strapping it on as he attempted to stand, eliciting a murmur of protest from Curatio.

  “You’re not fully healed—the black lace is still in your system; the rotweed only removed the effects where I was able to touch—”

  “You put something called rotweed into my wound?” Cyrus paused, halfway to his feet, leaning against the wall of the inn for support.

  Curatio shrugged. “Either that or watch you bleed to death.”

  “Fair point.” Cyrus fastened the last strap and lifted his arms to put his pauldrons back on, but the pain elicited a cringe.

  “The rotweed allowed me to heal most of the damage.” Curatio’s hand reached out to help Cyrus as he stood. “You’ll need additional healing over the next hour as the rotweed works its way into the portions of the wound it hasn’t affected yet.”

  “Great,” Cyrus said, struggling into his armor. “Either you can come along to Termina or she,” he pointed at Vara, “can do it along the way.”

  “You should go back to Sanctuary.” Vara’s expression was tender. “I appreciate your concern, but you’ll need time to recover.”

  “I could help,” Aisling spoke up, sliding into place at his side. “I’m a very capable nurse. I’d have you up and active in no time. And eventually,” she said with an undisguised grin, “you might even leave your bed again.”

  Vara’s nostrils flared as she fired back at the dark elf. “On the other hand, perhaps you should come to Termina simply so you don’t die of venereal disease.”

  Cyrus pushed off the building and drew his arms back from those around him. “I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

  Alaric moved forward, his hand coming to rest on Cyrus’s unwounded shoulder. “Larana will teleport you to Santir. Thad and others will accompany you across the river until you reach Vara’s home. Do not linger; be quick about your purpose.”

  “My mother is stubborn,” Vara said, her lips drawn in a thin line. “This may not be as quick as we could hope for; she has lived a long time and is set in her ways.”

  Alaric looked back at her, exuding a calm that only hinted at the deadly threat hanging over her. “Convince them. Do it quickly and get out of the Elven Kingdom. Every moment you wait gives the Hand of Fear more opportunity to target them—and you.”

  Chapter 11

  The winds of the teleportation spell died and Cyrus urged Windrider forward, leading a small Sanctuary force ahead at a slow walk. Every time his horse set a foot down, pain shot through Cyrus’s wound. “This way,” Vara spoke from beside him, leading them to the west, the sun hanging low in the sky.

  “I don’t understand,” Cyrus said, looking around the square. The portal where they had appeared was a stone ovoid laying with the long side down, runes inscribed around it. It sat in the middle of an open square, mostly wooden buildings surrounding it, in the heart of the human city of Santir. Ahead, Cyrus could see the dirt avenue leading to a massive bridge over the river Perda.

  “You’ll have to narrow that down,” Vara said. “I don’t have time to mull over all the things you don’t understand in order to try to find a way to explain them to you.”

  Cyrus gestured around him. “Santir is a human city, with...I think...a couple hundred thousand people. It’s not very old.”

  “About a hundred years old,” Vara said. “It was the site of the final battle in the last great war, the one between the humans and elves on one side and the dark elves on the other. What don’t you understand?”

  “Termina has a population of over a million, and it’s across the river,” Cyrus continued. “Why didn’t we just teleport there?”

  “Termina doesn’t have a portal,” Vara replied. “Rather impossible to teleport somewhere that doesn’t have a portal.”

  Cyrus frowned. “We teleport into the Sanctuary foyer all the time. There’s no portal there.”

  “Actually, there is,” Vara said with a smile of self-satisfaction. “It’s built into the floor. There’s a room in the dungeons—just down the hall from your accommodations last year—you can go in there and if you look up, you’ll see it, mounted to the ceiling.”

  “How did we manage that?”

  “I don’t know. I would presume Sanctuary was built in the days when the portals were.” She paused. “Or somehow Alaric moved a portal into our cellar.” She gave it a moment of thought. “Upon reflection, I wouldn’t rule that out.”

  “That brings us back to my original query,” Cyrus said. “Why doesn’t Termina have a portal of its own?”

  Vara’s hands gripped the reins of her horse. “No elven city has a portal within its walls, yet all the larger ones have portals nearby. They’re all well outside the gates, even in Pharesia.”

  Cyrus let his tongue run along his teeth, searching for the place where he had bitten it in the battle. “Maybe a defensive measure? To keep someone like the dark elves from teleporting into the heart of your city?”

  Vara chewed her lip. “Perhaps, but I doubt it. There is a spell that can be used to render a portal inactive if one fears invasion. Surrounding it with soldiers also allows invasion forces to be routed a few at a time as they appear. Every elven city with a portal is thousands of years old; it is more likely an aesthetic decision.” She glanced back to the stone ovoid. “After all, they are rather ugly.”

  They lapsed into silence as Cyrus took in the scenery of Santir’s main avenue. Dirt roads, wet from a recent rain, lay underneath the shoes of his horse, filling the air with a soft sucking noise. People filled the street, shopping from carts and wooden storefronts. Most of the buildings were comprised of wood, as though they were temporary.

  Cyrus glanced behind him. Their small Sanctuary army was in tow, spearheaded by Thad and Ryin Ayend. Larana was visible as well, but when he glanced at her she looked away, giving Cyrus a charge of amusement. Her dark hair was tangled around her tanned face, giving her a bedraggled look.

  As they approached the bridge, Cyrus noticed a striking change in scenery. The bridge, in addition to being enormous, was composed of beautiful stonework, with statues every few feet along the sides.

  Looking down the river Perda, Cyrus saw docks stretching out into the water, with small fishing boats and even a few larger craft at the port to the north. In the distance on either side, Cyrus could see smaller bridges to the north and south.

  As they reached the crest of the arching bridge, Cyrus’s eyes fell upon the elven metropolis of Termina for the first time. Buildings stretched over the horizon as far as he could see. Tiles dotted the sloped rooftops, red with the aura of sun-baked clay. All the buildings that he could see were built of stone, all made to survive the seasons that occurred in this part of Arkaria.

  The avenue in front of him could not have been a more marked contrast to Santir; cobblestones lined the streets and trees were planted every few feet on either side of the road. From where he sat on the bridge, a half dozen squares were visible on the main thoroughfare, each with a fountain. Aquaducts ran across the tops of buildings, greenery hanging from their sides.

  In the center of the city, Cyrus could see a structure reaching a dozen stories into the air, capped by a beautiful dome made of shining metal. The stonework glistened in the light, and it was by far the tallest building in Termina.

  “The Chancel of Life,” Vara said, drawing his gaze back to her. “It’s a temple to Vidara, the Goddess of Life. She’s the most worshipped deity of the elves. Her temple is largest to reflect her place in our hearts.” Her finger traced a line to another building, a mile or so south of the Chancel. It was not so tall but stretched over a space large enough to fit the Chancel of
Life within it. “That is the Great Bazaar, the largest market in Arkaria.”

  Cyrus frowned. “I always thought Reikonos had the largest market.”

  “Yes, well, being a human you would, wouldn’t you?” Vara said in a teasing voice. “This market is the largest, but only because there is more than one market in Reikonos. So, we have the largest market, and you have the most markets.”

  He looked down the slope of the bridge once more at the Bazaar. He could see the bridge south of him connected with an avenue that ran straight to the enormous market. “I suppose that’s an important distinction to make...to someone.”

  She looked back at him impishly. “Yes, to me. Because it still puts my hometown in front of yours.” Before he could respond, she pointed again at the horizon, this time to the north of the Chancel and a square building, devoid of any artistic elements. “See that one?”

  “Yes?” The building she was pointing to was boxy, unremarkable—ugly, even.

  “It’s the center of the elven government in Termina. Did you notice the design?”

  He squinted. “It’s smaller...and kinda ugly,” he said, almost apologetic. He leaned back in his saddle, shifting his attention back to her, waiting for the inevitable eye roll.

  It never came. “Indeed it is. You see, all three of those buildings make a statement about Termina. The tallest is the Chancel, placed at the center of the city and the widest or biggest in terms of square footage is the Bazaar. The city designers made it so,” she lectured, “to show that the heart of Termina was the love and worship of the Goddess of Life, and that the width and depth of our souls were in worship of her and pursuit of commerce.”

  “And the government building?”

  She laughed. “Ugly, shapeless, and well out of the way of the other two. Termina is the only place in the Elven Kingdom where that attitude about the monarchy would fly.”

  “Are you...happy to be home?” Cyrus asked with hesitancy.

  “I am,” she said after a short pause. Drawing a deep breath, she elaborated. “I do miss this city and all its charms.” She shifted her gaze from the horizon to him, and he tried to remove the hand he had rested on his own shoulder, as if he could massage the aching pain out of his muscles through the armor. “You need a healing spell.”

  She raised her hand and under her breath muttered words so low that, like every other spell caster, he couldn’t come close to discerning what she said. A tingle ran through his arm and across his chest, as though a warm wind were soothing some of the pain away. “Did that help?” Her voice was an octave lower than usual and filled with concern.

  “Yeah.” He raised his arm to swing it in a slow arc. “A few more heals, it’ll be fine.”

  “We only have an hour to get it right,” she said. “After that, healing spells will have no effect. I need you strong—at your best and ready for what comes our way.”

  “You’re worried about more assassins?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow.

  Her jaw tightened. “There are other dangers we’ll face that you’ll need all your strength for.”

  “Like what?”

  “My mother.” She looked away as she said it.

  He scoffed. “I’ve faced the dragonlord, servants and defenders of the gods, and the imperial leaders of the goblins. I doubt I have much to fear from an elven woman.”

  She turned back to him, eyebrow raised in amusement. “We shall see. Make ready.”

  They made their way down the wide avenue, taking a left turn several blocks before the Chancel of Life. Their horses cantered along the tree-lined boulevards as the cobblestone roads narrowed. “That wide avenue that led across the bridge? That’s called the ‘Entaras’iliarad’. It means ‘The Way of the Spirit’. It leads to the Chancel of Life; all the main roads in Termina do.”

  Cyrus pondered that. “So the Goddess of Life is the main deity of the elves? No others?”

  “There are pockets where other deities are worshipped, and they have temples.” She used the reins to steer her horse around a cart. “Several of the elemental gods are represented—Ashea, the Goddess of Water, for instance, has a loyal following in the Kingdom. Levembre, the Goddess of Love also has a faction. Virixia of Air and Sinaa, Goddess of Peace, have temples in the outskirts.”

  “Any followers of Bellarum?”

  Vara laughed. “Few here, if any, follow the God of War, and they’d all worship in secret. The same with the Gods of Darkness, Death and any of the other ‘evil’ deities. The Kingdom frowns on the activities and rituals that those gods require in their worship.”

  “Explains why I’ve never heard Terian list here as a place he wanted to visit.”

  She led them down the stone streets, past buildings that were well-maintained and timeless in their design. “This is the old district,” she said as they passed a row of homes. “These buildings are several thousand years old, but they’ve all been refinished.” She swelled. “It’s the most exclusive area of Termina, with the exception of the mansions on Ilanar Hill, where the greater royals and wealthiest citizenry live.”

  “So the lesser royals live here?” Cyrus deadpanned.

  “Quite a few, yes,” she replied, her thoughts elsewhere and missing the sarcasm in his remark. “This is where I grew up.”

  “Impressive. What did your father do, to be able to afford such nice dwellings?”

  “He was...given several businesses to run,” she said. “Unfortunately, my father is not skilled at such things, and so he ran each of them into the ground in turn, for varying reasons.”

  “Ouch. Were his benefactors upset?”

  “I suspect at least a little, but there were no shortage of others willing to give him the opportunity.” Her eyes had settled in the distance. “He finally conceded he was not disposed to try again and accepted a position with a shipping concern with much less responsibility. It pays well enough, and he’s content at his work.”

  “It’s good that he understands his strengths and weaknesses,” Cyrus said, shifting once more in the saddle, the pain fading from his wound a little at a time. “Most people don’t. But if your father ran several businesses into the ground, how did he afford to live in this—exclusive, as you put it—district.”

  Vara tugged the reins, bringing her horse to a stop. “We’re here.”

  Cyrus looked up. The building Vara had led them to was three stories tall, sandwiched on either side by residences of similar design, built to share common walls and mirrored on the other side of the street. Tall trees stretched above them to shade everything from the evening sun, giving the avenue a darkened feel. Without exception, every one of the buildings on the street was flawless, the stonework detailed and intricate, unlike anything Cyrus had seen in any of the other cities he had traveled to.

  He followed her to the door, five stone steps leading off the street, Thad and the rest of their Sanctuary allies remaining behind as Vara reached the door. Cyrus watched her hand freeze, hovering over the long handle. He stopped a couple steps behind her, watching as a cascade of emotions ran over her profile. He started to reach out to her but stopped. “Are you...?”

  “I’m fine.” Her head turned and she nodded back at him. “Steel yourself,” she warned as her hand closed on the door handle. Before she could finish her thought, the door swung open.

  Chapter 12

  Framed in the doorway was a woman, her eyes slitted in the same manner as Vara’s did when they narrowed. A burgundy blouse and black breeches hung on her, revealing a woman who was still well in shape. Were she human, Cyrus would have guessed her to be in her thirties, but the points of her ears betrayed her elven heritage and made hazarding a guess impossible. Her resemblance to Vara was uncanny.

  “Oh, look, our wayward daughter returns,” the woman said, her voice crackling with sarcasm. “I heard you were being chased by an order of assassins?”

  Vara stood, unsteady, as if she were off balance. “I am.”

  “How kind of you to come here, bringing
danger and death to our very doorstep!” Her mother’s face was devoid any mirth, but her tone was mocking and ironic. “I know I told you that I hoped you would visit more often, but I didn’t realize I had to include a disclaimer that it would be best to do so when not in mortal peril.”

  Silence hung in the air. Cyrus felt a sense of awkward embarrassment for Vara, who maintained her stoicism as her mother lashed at her.

  With a flick of her eyes, Vara’s mother’s gaze fell on him, blue diamonds that glittered with all the brilliance of the sun sparkling on a prism, and Cyrus wished that he could make himself small enough to sink between the cobblestones. “And who is this?”

  “Cyrus Davidon, this is my mother,” Vara said. “She’s an overly dramatic, reprehensible old shrew whose mastery of laying on guilt is comparable to a farmer’s spreading of manure, and just as prolific.”

  “But I smell much more pleasant,” her mother continued, indifferent to her daughter’s insult. With a sniff, her face turned down and her eyes honed in on Cyrus again. “Which is more than I can say of some of us. He’s taller than the last man you brought home. But he has the same air about him, the smell of blood and glory and bile so common on a dog of war. It all smells like rot to me.”

  Cyrus, unsure what to say, caught Vara’s eye and mouthed, “Last man?” She shook her head. He took a deep breath through his nose, wondering if she had been speaking about his smell in a literal or metaphorical sense.

  “I see you’ve retained your inimitable charm, Mother,” Vara said with an air of impatience. “I need to speak with you and Father if you’re quite finished with your initial volley of verbal arrows.”

  “My dear, my initial volley is plenty to ward off all but you and your sister; why, look, your barbarian friend is cowering.” She raised her hand toward Cyrus, who blinked in surprise.

  “I’m not cowering...just, uh...”