“That’s right,” Vaste said. “Leave the troll behind. We wouldn’t want any delicate elven sensibilities to be offended by the sight of a mighty green god of healing riding through their city.”
Cyrus turned, keeping his expression straitlaced. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with the other activities you have planned for this afternoon, such as bilking unsuspecting warriors of Endeavor out of their drinking money.”
He turned from the laughter and halted on the front step, less than an inch from colliding with Isabelle, who looked into his eyes with amusement. “Fortunately, our warriors are paid a rather large stipend, enough that they can afford some ill-considered wagering and be none the poorer for it.”
The laughter evaporated behind him and Cyrus turned serious. “That was a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Isabelle said, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “Your troll friend is an expert at counting cards. I heard you talking about it in the street.”
Vaste looked at her, slight alarm on his face. “I didn’t see you anywhere on the street, m’lady, or—”
“Or you’d have curbed your tongue?” She laughed. “I won’t tell my warriors. If they’re dumb enough to underestimate you, then they deserve to lose their coin. And you didn’t see me on the street because I wasn’t—I was upstairs, by my father’s bedside.”
There was a murmur behind Cyrus, then Martaina spoke. “Yes, Thad dear, our hearing is that good—in fact, she heard you whisper that question to me.”
“You are going to meet with Odellan, I believe?” Isabelle stared at him, eyes now cool.
“Yes,” Cyrus replied, not bothering to lie.
“I’ll accompany you.” She pivoted and walked back down the steps to a waiting horse.
They made their way along the boulevard in an informal column two wide. Cyrus found himself riding next to Isabelle. “You spoke with my sister,” she said, leading them onto a major thoroughfare.
“I did,” Cyrus replied, uncertain of how to respond.
“I have never seen her this despondent.” Isabelle’s cheery disposition had faded; not quite to the depths he had seen with Vara, but she was muted. “Even when we were children, if mother issued an order she did not care for, she would not hesitate to fight back.” Her blond hair stirred in the chill breeze. “I hate them for that, this Hand of Fear.”
“Not to mention they slaughtered a bunch of your guildmates,” Thad said. Cyrus whipped around and the human flinched in consternation. “I’m sorry,” Thad said. “It just popped out.”
Isabelle remained still on her horse, riding with a serenity Cyrus could not imagine he would have felt in her situation. “You speak the truth,” she said, her face hard as flint. “I cannot fault you for that. They died because of my command and I put them in place knowing the risk.” She turned to glance at Cyrus. “Still, it does not assuage the guilt.”
“You seem to be handling these deaths better than Vara,” Cyrus said.
“I’ve been doing it longer. I’m also older and more in control of my emotions,” Isabelle said. “I have been an officer in Endeavor for nearing thirty years. In that time, we climbed from being a guild much like Sanctuary was a few years ago to become the most powerful in Arkaria save two—and perhaps, someday soon, three,” she said with a nod to Cyrus. “Within that rank—Amarath’s Raiders, Burnt Offerings and Endeavor—is the most brutal competition you could imagine.
“We each push ourselves to outdo the others, mounting harder excursions, more taxing invasions of godly realms, and even participating in the occasional cutthroat guild war; though,” she said with a shudder, “thankfully it’s been years since the last of those. I have seen hundreds of our own die in my time, perhaps even a thousand or more.” She shook her head. “It would be cold to say I don’t feel the effects of those deaths last night, but I’ve seen so much worse, I suppose I’m numb to it.”
“Worse?” Thad said again. “What could be worse than your people slaughtered?” Cyrus blanched and shot the warrior another glare, matched by Martaina behind him. “Sorry,” Thad said. “Again.”
Isabelle seemed not to hear him. “What could be worse than that?” Her voice was far away, dreamlike. “What indeed.” She became quiet, and Cyrus thanked Bellarum, hoping that Thad would have no more chances to put his foot in his mouth.
They arrived at the government center a few minutes later. Cyrus had seen it from the bridge and thought it to be ugly; up close his impression was confirmed. Most buildings in Termina had greenery growing from them, vines hanging down the side, even in the chill of winter. The squares had fountains in them that were flowing even now, though Cyrus had seen ice forming on and around them.
The square that held the government center had no charms to speak of. The building itself was a dull grey, with a flat roof and no accoutrements to give it even a semblance of the flair that the rest of the city had. It was as though they designed everything else to reflect the majesty of the city and decided the government center would be solely functional.
Cyrus led Isabelle through the front doors after commanding the others to wait with the horses. As they entered, he found the interior not much different from the outside; an uninspiring entryway where a female elf took their names and handed them to a soldier who led them through a series of hallways.
Odellan sat in an open space, his desk against the far wall, writing on parchment with a quill in his hand. Their escort cleared his throat, then bowed and ducked back the way he came.
“If it isn’t the hero of Sanctuary,” Odellan said, rising to greet them. With a nod at Isabelle, he amended, “And Endeavor.”
“You give me too much credit, Endrenshan, and her—” Cyrus gestured to Isabelle—“not nearly enough.”
“The General of Sanctuary is known for his strong swordsmanship,” Isabelle replied, “but not nearly so well as he should be for his silver tongue.”
“Please, have a seat.” Odellan gestured to chairs that were pushed against the wall on the side of the room. When Isabelle refused, both Cyrus and the Endrenshan remained standing. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to stop by.”
“No, we were in the area and looking for directions to a brothel,” Isabelle said with a straight face.
Cyrus blinked and looked at her. “I think you just channeled the spirit of your sister.”
“Bah,” the healer said. “I taught her everything she knows about acerbic witticisms.”
Odellan, seeming a bit lost, reached over to the desk and produced a long piece of parchment. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not involving myself in your verbal back and forth—some other time perhaps. I have here a list of the men—and the few women—who were targets of the Hand of Fear.” He held it out for them to see.
Cyrus didn’t even get a chance to read the first name before Isabelle snatched it out of his hand. “Nonwren, Vadir, Prokhot, Ulonne...” She read a few more names under her breath. “All have homes on Ilanar Hill, all some of the wealthiest citizens of Termina.”
Odellan nodded. “There’s another commonality, I think, one that’s less obvious.” He smiled. “If you don’t mind me taking a moment to compliment myself, there’s not another Guardsman in Termina—and maybe elsewhere—that would have picked up on this.”
“Oh, yes,” Cyrus agreed, somewhat bored, “very impressive, a list of wealthy elves.”
“Not just wealthy.” Odellan adjusted his uniform. “All of them are former counselors to the King—every single person on this list has been a member of the royal court.”
Chapter 22
“Isabelle,” Cyrus said, “you told me if the political elements had their way, Vara would be in the court right now.”
“She would,” Odellan said. “My father is Prime Minister—which is how I know these people were on the court. Every last one of them has had a close association with King Danay at some point in the last few centuries. Each served a term in their station then moved back to private life here
in Termina.”
“So,” Cyrus began, “why would someone be targeting former members of the court—and someone that would be wanted on the court? You both know more about elven politics than I.”
Isabelle exchanged a look with Odellan before she spoke. “No idea.”
Cyrus answered with practiced skepticism. “Really. And it doesn’t have anything to do with the shelas’akur?”
Odellan shook his head. “She’s being truthful. I see no linkage to Vara—at least nothing obvious. But that’s not the main reason I asked you to come here.” The Endrenshan’s eyes glowed with excitement. “I’ve been waiting for one of our local lowlifes—a gnomish smuggler who I caught with illegal goods—to get back to me with some information.”
Cyrus looked to Isabelle, then back to Odellan. “And?”
Odellan smiled. “There’s a man that lives on Ilanar Hill, was counsel to the King, and is now missing. I believed him to be in hiding. This gnome bartered his whereabouts in exchange for a reduction in a prison sentence.”
“Let’s go find him.” Cyrus turned toward the exit.
“Absolutely,” Odellan said with a nod. “I’ll get a few of my men and we’ll be on our way.”
They left and followed Odellan through another maze of corridors into a barracks, where he issued brisk orders in elvish to a half dozen men standing at the ready. They followed out a side entrance back to the street, where Thad, Andren, Longwell and Martaina waited ahorse. They were moving in minutes with a small column of elvish soldiers following behind them.
Odellan led the way, and the hushed military discipline of the soldiers seemed to carry over to their group; there was no talking as they headed east toward the river, following an avenue that led to the northern bridge that crossed to Santir. They took a right turn at one of the squares and began wending their way through a neighborhood of row homes that looked significantly smaller and much less well taken care of than Vara’s parents’ neighborhood.
“This is Var’eton,” Isabelle said in a whisper. “It’s called ‘The Lowers’ in the human tongue.”
Cyrus looked around. The streets were clean and well kept, though the cobblestone was more aged and cracked than in the other areas he’d been, and there was a smell in the air, something like meat. He crinkled his nose and tried to get a fuller sense of it.
“It’s the stew that the less privileged eat,” Isabelle explained when she caught sight of his wrinkling nose. “It’s made with the parts of the animals that no one else wants, and thus is spiced with arinder, a local herb that’s quite...pungent.”
They cantered along until they reached a house, a two story building made of old, crumbled brick with few windows. Cyrus dismounted and followed Odellan up the steps. “How do you want to handle this?” he asked the Endrenshan as they walked.
Odellan stopped. “He’s not a fugitive nor a criminal of any kind. We’ll just knock on the door and ask if he’d mind answering some questions. He’s in hiding for some reason if he’s here instead of at his mansion.” With a shrug, the Endrenshan knocked on the door.
Cyrus waited next to Odellan, but there was no response from inside. “Maybe he’s not home?”
Odellan chewed on his lip, still serious. “From what I’ve been told this is a man who has nowhere else to go.”
“Perhaps he’s not excited to see the law either.”
Odellan shook his head. “It’s possible he’s not excited to see anyone; this Hand of Fear is surprisingly capable. They seem to be everywhere and have incredible amounts of information.”
“How do you think they’re able to do that?”
“My guess?” Odellan asked before turning to knock on the door once again. “They have spies where I wouldn’t have thought it’d be possible to place them—the court in Pharesia, the heights of Termina industry, maybe even in the Chancel. It’s hard for me to believe it’s so easy to corrupt those institutions.”
“That would take a lot of money,” Cyrus said. “So where are they getting it?”
“Like so many other things in this investigation, I don’t know,” Odellan said as they heard a sound behind the door. There was the squeak of a floorboard and the door opened an inch, giving Cyrus a view of blackness from floor to ceiling in the house, with only a slight change of outline in the middle—and a lone eyeball, staring at him from out of the dark.
“I don’t accept guests,” said the man, keeping the door cracked.
“I am Endrenshan Odellan of the Termina Guard,” the captain began. “Are you Arbukant?”
The eyeball darted about, looking at Cyrus and then the Endrenshan. “I might be. What does the Termina Guard want with me?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions about some acquaintances from your days in the court. Perhaps you remember my father—”
“I’m sorry.” The door budged not an inch, the darkness within still hiding the elf from sight, and his eye slipped left to right, alternating between the two armored men standing on the doorstep. “I don’t want visitors.”
“I believe your life is in danger,” Odellan went on, “but you already know that. Why not let us protect you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arbukant said, eye wider now. “I don’t want to talk to you—not either of you. I have no words for the Termina guard and—” the eye rolled up and down Cyrus, taking him in—“whoever you are.”
“What about me?” A soft and familiar voice came from behind Cyrus. Vara stood at the foot of the steps, still wearing the red dress that she’d had on when he left her on the bed. Her eyes were slightly red, and her hair was tangled. “Do you have any words for the shelas’akur?”
“What are you doing here?” Cyrus’s words came out in a low hiss.
“Looking for answers,” Vara said without a trace of irony as she ascended to the step below Cyrus and Odellan.
The door opened a bit more and Cyrus caught a glimpse of the man inside; at least a portion of him. He looked middle-aged by human standards, and wore dark clothing that looked like a mass of black in the low light of his house. His face had a few wrinkles, and his jowls were exaggerated even though he was not fat at all. He opened the door enough for someone to enter. “I would speak with the shelas’akur,” he said. “But no one else. Step inside.”
Cyrus interposed himself between the door and Vara as she climbed the steps. “I’m her bodyguard. She doesn’t come in without me.”
“Are you mad?” Vara said. “He’s on edge; don’t antagonize the man. Let me see if I can get him to talk.”
“Absolutely not,” Cyrus returned, not bothering to lower his voice. “You don’t have your sword and without the strength granted by your mystical armor you’d have a hard time fighting off a kitten.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’ll regret that choice of words later when I unleash a bag of angry cats upon you while you sleep.”
“Be that as it may,” Cyrus said, turning back to Arbukant, “she’s not coming in without me.”
As Vara drew a breath to argue, the elf in the doorway stepped back to admit them. “Fine, fine,” he said, “but the two of you and no more!”
Vara shot Cyrus a nasty look that he ignored, and he stepped into the open door, pushing her aside to enter first. She made a grunt of impatience, which he also ignored. He rested his hand on Praelior’s hilt, feeling the additional strength and speed run through him. Time seemed to slow a degree while he stopped to look around the entryway.
The style of the house was similar to Vara’s parents’, but the size was much reduced; the hallways were narrower, the flooring was old wood, browned with age and use. There was a smell inside, pungent, and Cyrus thought again of the stew that Isabelle had remarked on.
As Vara passed into the entryway, Arbukant shut the door, casting the room into darkness. “The shelas’akur,” he said. “Long have I desired to meet you.”
“Yes, well I...” Vara looked around and Cyrus could tell by the way she squinted that her
eyes were still adjusting. His had already done so, and his eyes slid over the cracked walls, looking for any sign of danger. “...I’m curious what a man as wealthy as yourself is doing in a place such as this.”
“Surely you must know.” Arbukant gave her a nod as he locked the door behind them. Vara stood in front of the elven man and Cyrus positioned himself so that he could see anything that happened between the two of them.
“All I know,” Vara said, “is that a group of assassins are after me; and they seem to be the same ones that are after you.” Cyrus watched her as she spoke, saw the muscles in her neck tense, saw the muscle in her cheek clench with her jaw. “I have no idea who they are or what they want, but they pursue me without relenting.”
“Poor dear. You really don’t have the slightest idea what this is about.” Arbukant stared at her, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. “I have something for you,” he said. His eyes flicked to Cyrus and then he reached into the folds of his robe—
And came out with a dagger.
The elf moved faster than Cyrus would have thought he could; but it was the eyes that gave him away. They turned into narrow slits as he pulled the blade free and thrust at Vara, who began to flinch away.
Cyrus’s sword accelerated his reflexes so long as it was touching his hand and he had not let go of it since entering the dwelling. As soon as he caught the hint of movement from the old man, the sword was drawn. He had it raised and ready to strike before the elf had extended his arm halfway to Vara, and by the time he drew close to her, the edge of Praelior struck him at the wrist, its blade made of a mystical metal harder than any other. Cutting through flesh was no obstacle; nor was the bone underneath.
The old man’s arm was spiraling away before he realized it had been severed. Cyrus followed his strike by stepping into him, shoulder first. His pauldron clipped the elf in the jaw as he forced him into the door, his right hand under the neck and his left still holding Praelior.
“Aiiieeee—” Arbukant began to scream, but Cyrus cut off his airway with the metal of the bracer that wrapped his wrist.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 17