The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion

by Robert J. Crane

  “I—” He didn’t finish before the door was shut. He stared at it, amazed it was still in place after the battle.

  As the sun rose over the wreckage a few hours later, he reflected that Chirenya was right—he did not move until well after sunup.

  Chapter 18

  Isabelle emerged sometime in the late morning. She looked at Cyrus with surprise as she closed the door behind her; he caught a glimpse of Vara, asleep in a chair in the corner of the room. “I didn’t expect you to be out here all night,” she said. Warriors from Endeavor lined the stairwells and greeted her with enthusiasm until she gestured for them to quiet. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied. “How’s Vara?”

  “She’ll be all right.” Isabelle flashed him a reassuring smile. “Vara doesn’t come apart like that very often so it’s all the worse when it happens.”

  “No, she doesn’t show much emotion. Other than irritation.”

  “Walk with me,” she said with a smile.

  “Well...” He could feel the internal tension rising. He glanced at the door.

  “My warriors will keep watch.” She started down the steps and paused, turning to look back at him. “Come on then.”

  He followed as she strolled to the second floor. Having not seen it in the daylight, he paused, amazed at the damage. All the windows were broken and blood streaked the floors where the bodies were dragged out of the house during the night. There were holes in every wall, glass was scattered on the floor, couches were ripped, paintings knocked from the walls, and chairs overturned and smashed.

  Isabelle moved closer to the window, looking into the house across the way. Several of its windows were also shattered. Cyrus caught sight of Martaina in one of them, her bow in her hand, watching. She nodded then returned to watching. The sound of ringing bells filled the streets. The tolling was constant, a melodic noise in the distance.

  “You were fortunate to weather the attack with no casualties.” Isabelle turned to give him a reassuring smile, then moved closer to the windows to stare down at the street below. Cyrus followed her and was amazed; the columns of Termina guards remained below, still in formation. At its head, standing at attention, was Endrenshan Odellan. On the side of the road was a wagon piled with bodies; the remains of the members of the Hand of Fear, stacked one on top of the other.

  “Luck was on the side of Sanctuary.” He bowed his head. “I’m sorry about the loss of your people.”

  He watched her pale cheeks for any sign of rage, but there was none. “These assassins are dangerous when they catch you by surprise, but after facing the Hand of the Gods, the Hand of Fear doesn’t seem quite so frightening.”

  “I suppose it was different for Endeavor when you went through the Trials of Purgatory, but…” Cyrus stared out. “The Hand of Fear has killed more of our people than the Gatekeeper or the Trials ever did.”

  “We lost very few in conquering Purgatory,” she said, “as we had several members of Amarath’s Raiders advise us on how best to handle them.”

  Cyrus racked his memory, trying to remember what Vara had told him about their conquest and the subsequent purge of their ranks. “They came to you after Archenous killed their guildmaster?”

  She nodded and looked to him, eyebrow raised in mild surprise. “She told you about that?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I suppose I am. She rarely speaks of it to anyone. It’s a good sign that after Archenous’s betrayal, she’s beginning to trust another man enough that she can talk about it.”

  Cyrus stiffened, sensing there was more to the story than Vara had told him and unsure of how to respond. “Well...when you’re...betrayed, as she was...one would tend to take it...personally.”

  Isabelle laughed, a crackling noise lacking in any mirth. “I think you might be understating it, but yes, being betrayed by your first lover, a man who is to be your husband; being gutted and left alone to die in a place like Purgatory is the sort of thing most people would take personally.”

  A cold winter wind ran between the buildings and Cyrus felt the temperature drop in his armor, something that had precious little to do with the weather. So that’s what happened.

  Isabelle seemed to catch sight of something on his face that was unexpected. “She...didn’t tell you all of that, did she?” Her head dropped as a hand came up to her forehead, hiding her eyes from his sight. “Bollocks.”

  Silence passed between them before Cyrus spoke. “Before that, was your sister...I mean, has she ever been...” He fought for the words, not sure how to ask the question on his mind.

  Isabelle looked back at him, now impish. “Calm? Peaceful? Sweet?” She chuckled. “No, even before Archenous she was just as acerbic and more guarded than most.” The amusement left her eyes and she became cold in an instant, as if all her joy had been taken by a single memory. “But he made her untrusting and sapped the vibrancy from her.” Isabelle turned to him. “You have to realize that although to humans Vara is a woman, to elves she’s still a child; not even lived a half a year if she had the lifespan of your people.”

  “That’s...” He blinked. “Staggering.”

  “And yet she is a woman, mature—in spite of what our mother thinks—and able to make her own decisions.” Isabelle straightened, her chin pointing as she looked at the building across the street. “I daresay that Vara has had to deal with more at her age than most elves ever have to, because of who she is and what it means.”

  “Because she’s the shelas’akur?”

  Isabelle turned to look at him, curiosity filling her eyes while her face remained cool. “Do you know what that means?”

  “Only in the literal sense,” Cyrus said. “‘Last hope’.”

  The hint of a smile blossomed into a wry one. “You could have bluffed me. I might have believed she had told you.”

  “Twice in a row?” He shook his head. “You knew better this time.”

  “Probably, but I’m surprised you didn’t make the attempt.”

  “I will find out,” he told her. “Someone will let it slip, not knowing I’m around. Probably someday soon, since I’m surrounded by your people here.”

  Her fingers brushed against the destroyed glass hanging in one of the windows, causing it to fall and break. Without any visible reaction, she said, “When you do, I hope you’ll keep the secret, for reasons that will become obvious. But about Vara...she has tremendous pressure on her, of a kind that may be henceforth unseen by anyone, even the Royal family members in the line of succession.” Her finger carressed another piece of broken glass.

  “What kind of pressure?” Cyrus stared at the blond elf, who seemed fascinated by the shattered glass.

  “Three kinds. The first is societal. The shelas’akur is recognized the Kingdom over. They adore her for who she is.”

  “I’ve seen that,” Cyrus said. “Elves have made mention of her being shelas’akur, even having not met her before.”

  “There’s political pressure as well,” Isabelle continued. “The King would love it if Vara were in Pharesia, operating as a member of his court.” Her smile thinned, becoming less genuine and more rueful. “I doubt he’d feel the same after a week of her being there. She’s never said it, but I know that’s part of the reason why she left the Kingdom to study in Reikonos when she did.”

  “Huh?”

  “By all rights, even with her magical abilities she shouldn’t have gone to the Holy Brethren until she was nearer to thirty or forty; in fact, given her status, she would have been given instructors from the Leagues and allowed to train at home. Instead, she left for Reikonos at fourteen to become a paladin.” She scoffed. “Realize that she took advantage of human standards when doing that—after all, humans may train from the age of six in a League, but that’s not normal for an elf. I didn’t start with the Healer’s Union until I was nearing fifty.”

  “I didn’t realize she had been trained in Reikonos,” he said. “I assumed she’d lear
ned in Pharesia or Termina.”

  “None of the Leagues train here,” Isabelle mused, staring at the shard that she had plucked from the window. “Not anymore.”

  “In Termina?”

  “In the Kingdom,” she said. “Anyone who needs training would go to Reikonos. Which is why she was able to play off the humans who were in charge of the Holy Brethren in Reikonos, in spite of what I’m sure were screaming protests from the elves in the faculty about her being too young. Of course, that’s nothing compared to the last source of pressure on her.”

  Cyrus waited a beat. “Which is?”

  “Mother.”

  “She wasn’t happy when Vara left?” He ran his gauntlet across the sill, brushing shards of glass out the window and onto the street below.

  Isabelle’s head turned to favor him with a pitying look. “What do you think?”

  “She left to study in the human capital?” Cyrus rubbed the stubble on his chin in thought. “Your mother probably went rabid, foaming at the mouth.”

  “I did not.” Chirenya’s voice came from behind them, startling both Cyrus and Isabelle, who turned to see her staring at them from midway down the stairs. “But neither was I pleased that my daughter, barely capable of wiping her nose without assistance, took a horse from the stables—”

  “One which was given to her as a gift,” Isabelle said with muted annoyance.

  “—and proceeded to travel hundreds of miles to a savage city with only a note to warn her parents what she was doing.” The elven woman’s hand was locked on the chipped and damaged guardrail as she descended. “Of course, I didn’t see her for almost four years after that—”

  “Because you were too stubborn to travel to Reikonos to see either of your daughters—”

  “—and after, she showed up only sporadically, usually when she was in trouble.” After taking her last step, Chirenya’s hand left the banister and her arms folded in front of her, her gaze cold. “Like now, for instance. And of course, she continues to associate with bandits—”

  “Excuse me?” Cyrus cut in, outrage edging his voice.

  “You’re excused; you may leave whenever,” Chirenya replied before continuing argument. “Everything that’s gone wrong in her life is all attributable to the choices she made from the moment she left.”

  Isabelle sighed, a deep, disbelieving noise. “I suppose if she’d continued to follow the path you’d laid out for her she’d be much better off.”

  Chirenya’s eyes narrowed at her eldest daughter. “She’d have less scars.” Bristling, she changed tacks. “Clean up; we’re leaving in a few minutes.”

  Cyrus caught the eye roll from Isabelle as Chirenya turned to leave. Casting a look back over her shoulder, the elder elf spoke again. “You too, ox. Find a working faucet and clean yourself up; if need be, use the pump in the yard. You’ll need to be presentable.”

  Feeling as if the rug had been jerked from underneath his feet, he stared at Chirenya, almost agape. “Where are we going?”

  She frowned. “Are you deaf, ox? Are those tiny ears of yours insufficient to the task of hearing? Men are already such poor listeners; I imagine women with human husbands must be doubly frustrated at their lot. Do you not hear the bells?”

  Cyrus listened, hearing the deep intonations ringing down the streets from far in the distance. “I hear them...”

  “We go to the Chancel,” Chirenya said. “They are calling in the city for morning worship.”

  Cyrus exchanged a look with Isabelle, who shook her head as if to suggest he not take it any farther. Ignoring her, he said, “I don’t know if you noticed, but your house was destroyed last night...”

  A surge of heat hit him. Whether from a draft of air or the fire from the elven woman’s gaze, he did not know. “Hundreds of years accumulating and collecting possessions in my home, only to watch them destroyed in a single night? It did not escape my notice. But neither has it escaped my attention that my family has endured. So we go to the Chancel of Life to give thanks to Vidara.” With that proclamation, she turned and marched back up the stairs.

  “My mother is quite serious about worship,” Isabelle said, following Chirenya up the stairs. “She’ll be ready to leave shortly and you’ll get an earful if you’re not ready.”

  “She’s serious?” Cyrus asked, alarm rising. “I don’t have anything to wear that’s not...” He looked down. “...black armor. Nothing that would be appropriate in a temple dedicated to life.”

  “Armor is fine,” Isabelle said in a reassuring tone as she began to ascend. “After all, you did preserve our lives last night with that armor of yours.” She paused. “But I would find a working faucet.” She pointed to his face. “You have a bit of blood on your face there...and there...and there...” She disappeared up the steps, leaving Cyrus with a growing sense of panic.

  Once she was gone, he descended to the first floor and hit the street, mind racing. She can’t expect me to go to the Chancel and worship Vidara, can she? I’m a follower of the God of War!

  So distressed was he that Cyrus didn’t notice when Odellan called his name, catching up to him as he reached the front steps of the house across the street. “You look like you’re in a hurry,” the Endrenshan said.

  “I’m in a bit of a bind,” Cyrus said. “I just found out I have to go to the Chancel of Life with, uh...them.” He pointed at the top floor of Chirenya’s house and saw her looking down from one of the broken windows, glaring at him.

  “Fifteen minutes,” she called down to him. “Wash up or I’ll have Vara push you into the horse trough.”

  “She is...formidable, isn’t she?” Odellan said in a muted whisper. “Let’s talk inside.”

  Cyrus shut the door behind them, nodding to Andren, J’anda and Vaste, who sat in the living room, looking across the street. “Gentlemen.” He looked to Vaste. “Troll.”

  Vaste feigned an offended look. “I, too, am a gentleman.” He chucked a thumb at Andren. “Moreso than this drunkard, anyway.”

  Andren stopped, flask raised almost to his lips. “Who are you calling a drunkard?”

  “You.”

  “Ehh, you’re right.” The elf shrugged. “Why deny such a beautiful love as exists between me and alcohol?”

  Cyrus coughed, embarrassed. “We have company.”

  Andren looked Odellan up and down. “Yeah, but it’s just a young Endrenshan; couldn’t be more than a couple hundred years old, if that.” The healer sniffed the air for a moment. “To be so young and an Endrenshan—you’re not from Termina. I’d bet Pharesia, born and bred, with parents that are mighty high in the court.”

  Odellan halted and the pleasant expression he had been wearing became a mask. “I can’t deny my birth,” he said, stiff. “As this is Termina, I hope you’ll judge me by my actions and not by my class. I’ll accord you the same courtesy.”

  Andren cackled. “Sounds like a better deal for me than for you, highborn.”

  Cyrus clapped his hands together, startling Andren into silence. “I only have a few minutes. Vara’s mother intends to go to the Chancel of Life this morning, and I don’t know whether she intends Vara to go with them.”

  J’anda, wearing the illusion of an elf, wrinkled his pale nose as he frowned. “What’s this Chancel of Life?”

  “It’s a temple where they worship Vidara, the Goddess of Life,” Odellan said. “It’s the tallest building in the city. You can’t miss it, straight ahead on the main avenue when you arrive. You must be an enchanter with an illusion, because every elf in the Kingdom knows that.” He regarded J’anda with suspicion. “Dark elf?”

  J’anda looked at the Captain coolly. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  Odellan nodded. “Excellent idea, using an illusion. Dark elves are not well regarded in Termina at the moment. We do far, far too much business with the humans. I’m afraid we’ve had a few instances of assaults, mostly by human workers on dark elven merchants. Best not to draw attention to yourself.”

  “Can w
e focus on what needs to be done?” Cyrus looked around the room. “I need a force ready to move in five minutes if Vara’s going to the Chancel.”

  “And if she’s not?” Vaste leaned back and the couch he was sitting on moaned under his weight.

  “I still need a force ready to move to protect her mother,” Cyrus replied.

  “Might I suggest,” Odellan said, diplomacy and charm layering his suggestion, “my troops and I come along with you, along with any elves or,” he nodded at J’anda, “individuals who look elven from your group. It will generate less attention.”

  “Because a column of Termina guards is discreet,” Andren muttered before taking a nip from his flask.

  “We’ll be able to disperse in the Chancel and blend more easily into the crowd,” Odellan said. “Easier at least than offlanders would. Weekly Chancel is a largely elven affair; you won’t find many non-elves in the crowd.”

  “Likely Isabelle will contribute some of Endeavor’s forces,” Cyrus said, mind racing. “We’ll need to leave some people behind, because I doubt Chirenya will leave Vara’s father alone and there could be another attack at any time—”

  A crack as loud as thunder filled the air and Cyrus froze, looking at Odellan in a moment of gut-punching unease.

  “What was that?” The Endrenshan’s hand was on his sword, as was Cyrus’s. There was a commotion on the floor above them and Cyrus turned toward the door, ready to bolt across the street. Frenzied shouting came from above.

  “Hold on!” There was the sound of footfalls on the stairs. “Everything is fine,” a feminine voice called down. Cyrus waited in the living room as the footsteps approached, until Martaina appeared in the living room, her hair tousled, her chainmail coif hanging off the back of her head like a cowl.

  “What was that?” Cyrus said.

  “That old biddy,” Martaina snapped back at him. “I was watching to make sure there were no threats and she took umbrage; told me to stop looking in her windows.” She ran a dirty hand through her hair. “I told her I wasn’t looking in her windows because she didn’t have any, and that I wasn’t looking but every few minutes, just to keep her and hers safe. She told me to stop it, and I didn’t, so she sent a bolt of lightning at me.”