“—wasn’t a threat so much as a promise—”
“—perfect representation of your ‘all-groin, no-brain’ leadership style—”
“—a leadership style it sounds like you’re missing, you prissy little tree-loving—” Cyrus rose to his feet, enraged. Days of fatigue had taken their toll, and all the time spent without a target to fight had left him ready to battle anyone. And this prancing little nebbish just happens to be the first to strut my way.
“This was worth getting glared at by every elf I passed on the way here,” Erith said with obvious glee.
“May I suggest we tone down the discord between officers of Sanctuary?” J’anda had stood and had both hands extended at Cyrus and Ryin, who was still seated.
“I’ve got no desire to fight him,” Ayend said, “but if he takes another step toward me I’ll defend myself.” His hand was extended as if he were warning Cyrus to stop, but the warrior knew he kept it at the ready to cast a spell.
“A fine way to convince me to come back and lead Sanctuary in battles, pointing at me in a threatening manner,” Cyrus snapped at the druid.
“I’m smaller than you and a spell is my only defense should you try and lay hands on me.” The man’s nose twitched.
Cyrus glared him down. “I’m not going to strike you, but I haven’t ruled out grasping you by the neck and shaking you until I get tired of seeing your eyeballs rattle.”
Ayend matched his glare. “Try it.”
“I’m not leaving,” Cyrus said, heated. “I’m not leaving Termina until Vara and her family are safe.”
Vara stood silent a few steps behind him, looking around at the new arrivals, keeping her eyes from meeting Cyrus’s. “What other news do you bring?”
Nyad spoke, wringing her hands. “Alaric has received a request from Pretnam Urides and the Council of Twelve; the Human Confederation has asked for Sanctuary’s aid in defending Reikonos.”
A moment’s silence was pierced when Vara spoke. “I trust he declined?”
“He did,” Nyad said. “He told them that to intervene would violate Sanctuary’s neutrality and make us a target for the dark elves.”
Cyrus felt his jaw clench. Before joining Sanctuary, the Council of Twelve that ruled the Confederation had been a mythical and wise decision-making body in his mind. Now that Alaric has shown me their pettiness, I know that at least half are utter fools; reckless, stupid and responsible for the war that is ruining their lands. Our lands.
“Alaric believed that keeping us out of the war was the wisest course for now. To act precipitously,” Ryin said with another superior sniff of his nose, “might bring an unnecessary doom. Of course the Council agreed.”
“What’s left of it, you mean.” Vaste wore a sour look—somewhat intimidating when on the face of a troll.
“The Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar will come knocking on Sanctuary’s door at some point if he wins this war,” J’anda said. “He still wants me dead, along with the rest of our dark elves.” He shuddered. “And he does not forget his grudges.”
“It matters not, for now,” Vara said. “We have force enough to defend this place, even when Endeavor’s troops leave. I...” She stumbled in her words, her voice breaking. “...thank all of you for your assistance.”
Ryin Ayend stood, bowing his head. “Though I did not support sending additional forces, know that I volunteered to come here myself to aid you. Nyad as well. We would like to see this order of assassins dealt with. After all, we’re edging close to the new year, and shortly thereafter, the winter solstice—it would a good tiding for the season.”
Cyrus looked up from studying the lines of his gauntlet. “What’s that?”
Ryin Ayend’s voice rang out with a stark, derisive amusement. “It shouldn’t surprise me; they don’t teach you much in the Society of Arms, do they?”
Cyrus felt his soul blacken with rage at the druid’s slight. “They spend their time focusing on what’s important. Things like fashioning a weapon out of a severed arm and strangling an opponent with their own intestines.” His voice became sharp as a blade. “Or your own, if that’s what’s available.”
The shocked silence returned, broken once more by Vaste. “I bet that’s come in handy.”
The gathering broke shortly after that. The new arrivals greeted Vara with smiles and warm words, and in the case of Nyad, a hug that made the icy paladin stiffen like a cat about to be thrown into a tub of water, her expression a mask of annoyance.
When she broke free, to his surprise she came to him, her eyes brighter than when last he’d seen her. “My father,” she began, and halted.
“Is he all right?” Cyrus felt a tremor of worry; not so much for the elven man lying on a bed across the street, but for Vara.
“He’s...better,” she said. “Still dying, but conscious and coherent. He has asked to speak with you.”
Cyrus stood still until the words sunk in. “Me?”
“Yes,” she said with no lack of sarcasm. “Were I on my deathbed, I should seek to avoid you until the last, but he has called for you after Isabelle and Mother told him you have been my ‘stalwart protector’.” She frowned. “Their words, not mine.”
“Of course.”
He followed her across the street, into the illusory facade of the house next door, nodding in greeting to the warriors of Endeavor, stern and standing in a line, no longer playing cards in the corner. Something was different, though he could not put his finger on what it was. The warriors seemed...discomfited somehow. The dwarf was edgy, twitching as they passed on their way to the stairs.
The cellar’s light seemed even dimmer, reflecting off the walls around him, the stones wet from moisture forming on them. A gleam could be seen in certain places, a yellow reflection of the torchlight on the wetness of the walls. Cyrus looked around and saw two of the spots glowed red. He paused, something waking in the back of his mind, and his hand fell to his sword.
“Too late,” a voice rumbled. “If I’d meant to kill you, you’d both already be dead.” The ground seemed to shake as a shadow taller than Cyrus separated itself from the wall and moved toward them, eyes glowing crimson. “I thought that sword was supposed to give you faster reflexes, but it appears to have made you slower and less wary.”
“Fortin,” Cyrus said with a nod. “For about a second there, you startled me.”
The light shone upon the rock giant’s torso, illuminating his craggy skin. Cyrus knew the truth, that although his flesh was near rock-hard, there was no rock anywhere on him, just a skin that could fend off swords and magic better than any mortal, other than perhaps a dragon. The smell he gave off was of dirt and mildest sulphur; earthy, an aroma that was pleasant but carried fearful memories that reminded Cyrus of facing the Dragonlord for the first time.
“For a second?” The rock giant’s words carried annoyance. “I could give you another reason to be startled, this time for longer...” He feinted at Cyrus, who stood still and watched a rocky hand speed at his face, stopping an inch from his nose. “How was that?”
“Unconcerning,” Cyrus said. “But be assured, if I didn’t know you, I would have run screaming from the room.”
The red eyes squinted down at him from the darkness. “No, you wouldn’t. You are a warrior through and through, taught from an early age not to flinch from even the most devastating blow, yes?”
Cyrus looked to Vara, who was watching the exchange without interest. “I was.”
Fortin began to recede, taking steps back to the wall of the cellar. “You would not have run; I am intimidating, I know. You were not merely trying to impress the Ice Princess, as some men would.” A deep, booming laugh rumbled through the room and the rock giant seemed to bow, as best he could. “Ice Princess, your new garb displeases me; where is the metal skin you don for battle?”
“It waits for me, above,” Vara answered. “But I am not sure that I want to keep wearing it.”
Fortin nodded. “You’ve doubtless found one s
tronger. Ice Princesses seem to get many fine gifts; Fortin receives none.”
“No, I haven’t received a stronger set of armor,” Vara answered him with a frown.
“Then what would you wear into battle?” The rumbling voice was baffled. “Surely not this flimsy cloth-skin; it exposes far too much of your soft flesh.”
Cyrus caught the flash of danger in Vara’s eyes and she wheeled on him, her glare warning him. “Say nothing.” He held up his hands in surrender and kept his mouth shut.
“What would you wear into battle, then?” Fortin continued, ignoring her outburst.
“I’m...I’m not certain I’ll be going into battle for the forseeable future.” Her voice was weak again; the fatigue had set in once more.
“I suppose there will always be a strong warrior such as this one around,” Fortin nodded at Cyrus, “easily bent to your commands so long as you continue to display ample flesh.” The rock giant shook his head. “I remain uncertain what it is about the chests of women that so fascinate these ones, but they seem to worship those flesh mounds you carry in the front of your clothing; with them I think you could keep a constant guard surrounding you.”
Cyrus heard a grinding noise and realized with no surprise that it was Vara’s teeth, her jaw clenched hard enough that he wondered if bits of enamel were splintering in her mouth. “Thank you for that observation,” he said, and hurled himself through the opening in the wall before Vara had calmed down enough to respond. His boots clattered upon the stairs, but below he heard the softer footfalls of Vara’s leather-clad feet a moment later.
He slowed when he reached the second floor, where a quick glance revealed Isabelle’s door was shut and Chirenya sat in the chair that she had awoken him from the day before. She stared out the window, and even the sound of him behind her did not seem to stir her from her reverie.
“Come along,” Vara said as she passed him, her long legs carrying her up.
“Right behind you,” he said, taking a last look at Chirenya, who still had not moved.
She halted before the door to her parents’ chamber and turned back to him, one hand on the doorknob and the other held up, her index finger extended, her eyes aflame. “Do not assume that because I have required help in this matter, or that because I have grown weary of fighting, that I am some weak, defenseless princess, waiting for a strong man to come along and save me.” She snapped out every word.
“I have never thought of you as weak nor helpless,” Cyrus said, “as demonstrated by the fact that even though you are unarmed and wearing a dress that gives you one tenth of your usual strength in battle—not to mention coverage of your skin—I’m still backpedaling from your ire.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, as though she were searching for some sign of sarcasm. “Very well.” She moved to turn to the door, but he caught her hand and stopped her. “What are you...?”
He held up his index finger to his own mouth, as if to shush her, and he cut the distance between them to inches, causing her eyes to widen in surprise. “I have never doubted your strength or your courage. I am here to aid you not because you require my help or the help of any others, but because the loyalty and fidelity you have sowed in Sanctuary should be repaid at your hour of greatest need.”
Her look of surprise softened, but she still maintained an air of discomfort at his closeness. “I...thank you. But, if you could...” She gestured for him to take a step back.
“No,” he said. “I can’t.” He leaned in close to her and she made to take a step back in alarm, but stopped when her shoulders made soft contact with the door. His hand found her chin and he applied only the gentlest pressure to it, holding it straight. She did not fight him, though her eyes were wide as he brought his mouth closer; they closed when their lips met and he kissed her. He felt her hand against his shoulder, the gentlest pressure, and she leaned into him and kissed him back.
When they parted she looked up at him, breathing deeply, his forehead still pressed to hers, her arms wrapped around him. She swallowed and her hands left his back. She turned, placing her hand on the doorknob, but did not turn it. She paused then spun back to him, her countenance clouded with suspicion and her finger raised once more. “Did you do that because you see me as some sort of ‘damsel in distress’? Because, if so—”
He leaned in and cut her off with another kiss, and this time she relaxed more quickly, her arms wrapping around him and her tongue parting his lips, finding his, swirling around in his mouth to his surprise and delight. This time, he broke from her. “I didn’t do it because I see you as a damsel in distress. I did it because I finally plucked up the courage to do what I’ve wanted to do for the last two years.” He looked down at her. “And maybe a little because of that dress.”
Her hand rested on her breastbone, just below her neck as she tried to catch her breath, her face awash in conflicting emotions. The somewhat serene look turned once more into a frown. “You can face death countless times in the form of dragons, titans, spiders, rock giants, bandits, goblins, instruments of the gods and more without fear, but it took you two years to find the courage to kiss me?”
His mouth hung open. “I...uh...well...to be honest...”
“If the next words out of your mouth are some variation on the idea that I am in some way scarier than all of those things—”
“It’s not that you’re ‘scarier’.” He picked his words with care, noting the danger in her eyes. “But if I died facing any of those things, I can be resurrected.” He took a deep breath. “If I tried to kiss you and found out that you didn’t feel the same way I did...” He let his words trail off.
She looked down. “I see. So you feared that I would leave you rejected? Cast off?”
“Yes. So what say you?”
She looked at him in confusion. “What say I about what?”
“A kiss returned under these circumstances could mean anything—it could be that you’re so weary that you don’t have the energy to denounce me the way you would if I’d attempted this on a normal day at Sanctuary. That I’ve caught you when you’re vulnerable, or in a rare moment of gratitude and you don’t want to say ‘no’. But I need—” his hands came to rest on her shoulders and he tried to look in her eyes—“I need you to tell me the truth.”
She gave him a subtle nod but did not meet his eyes. “Hm. Well.”
He felt as though he had taken a deep breath and was holding it, even though he was doing no such thing. The hopes he felt when she kissed him back were still just embers, waiting to catch fire. “Admit it. You have feelings for me.” He pasted a fake grin on his face, and hoped that she would confirm what he had always suspected.
She met his gaze after rolling her eyes. “Fine, I admit it. I do have feelings for you. Or at least a feeling—and it is called loathing.” She sighed after seeing the look on his face, the disappointment he was unable to contain at her words. “Oh, all right. I do. You...cause a great disquiet in me, upending my simple life and view of things. And it has been so since...” She hesitated. “Well, for quite some time.”
He cringed. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
This time her sigh was a sharp exhalation as she leaned forward, pulling him close to her, her lips finding his. He felt her hands on his cheeks, her touch causing him to warm from top to bottom. When she broke off, this time she wore the slightest smile. “My father waits for you within, you know. He told me to bring you to him so that he could thank you for protecting me—and our family.”
Cyrus took a breath, his face flushed with excitement, his stomach churning and the steady thrum of his heart in his ears. “I suppose I should go in and speak with him.”
Vara smiled at him—a long, slow one that spread to the corners of her mouth and lit her whole face in a way that he had seen few times since he had known her. She was resplendent, radiant, her skin carrying a flush of its own. “Yes, you should. But he can wait while I thank you for myself.” She leaned in and kissed him again.
He soon enough forgot about the old man waiting above, the rock giant below, his guildmates across the street, the assassins somewhere outside, and everyone else, as he lost himself in her touch, her kiss, her softness, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen, alive once more after being filled with despair for so long.
Chapter 27
He entered the room a few minutes later, and watching him from the bed was the elven man that he had yet to see conscious. Vara’s father wore a light silken shirt that split in a V, revealing his chest, sunken with age and spotted. He had gray hair around the sides of his head but none on top, and his skin was much darker than his daughter’s. His face was cracked with a smile as Cyrus entered. The elf waved him over, extending his hand in the customary human (not elven) greeting.
“I have heard much about you,” he said in thickly accented human. “My wife and daughters say you...” He struggled with the words. “...have protected them. Although if my ears do not deceive me, I suspect other...reasons?” He thought for a moment. “Motives,” he decided. “That is the word.”
Cyrus grasped Vara’s father’s hand and realized he did not know the man’s name. “I am Cyrus Davidon, and I have had the honor and privilige of serving with your daughter as an officer in Sanctuary over the last two years. She inspires such loyalty that it was only natural that we would come to her aid when needed.”
The old man studied him. “She inspires many things, and I am pleased that loyalty is among them. My name is Amiol—I doubt you would have heard it but through talking with Chirenya, as my daughters would call me—”
“Taedaron,” Cyrus finished for him. “In the Human language, we say ‘father’.”
Amiol nodded. “I am of the old generation. Fifty-seven hundred years old,” he said with pride. “I did not learn any of your language until nearly a thousand years ago, so you must...” He paused, searching for a word. “...forgive? Yes. Forgive me, but we did not trade with humans until then, and I have never been good with your words.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 20