The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion

by Robert J. Crane

  He moved to the side of the road, bypassing the fleeing citizens of Termina and ignoring calls from weary passersby to leave Vara’s horse. There was a hunger and desperation among the elves, and their piteous cries asking him for some mercy, for help, but mostly for food fell on deaf ears as he navigated the roads, which grew fuller. It was clear most of them had left as quickly as urged, without consideration for food, drink or shelter of any kind. Many of the refugees even lacked for a decent coat, as though they had run out the door without taking any heed of the weather.

  Every hour or so he would pull back the dressing and check Vara’s wound. All this riding can’t be good for her. I need to find someone who can actually treat her.

  As sundown approached, the refugees became thicker and thicker. Most of the elves were piteous by now, crying out for food where there was none, and arguments broke out along the road. Cyrus rode on, passing countless quarrels, ignoring pleas to “Just leave me the spare horse!” and hiding Vara’s face the entire time, her eyes covered by the cowl of the cloak.

  Cyrus was weary as the darkness crept in. Ahead was a crowd thicker than those spread out along the road. As they grew closer he saw a tent set up ahead, the shadowy outline of it visible in the dimming light. Its angular lines jutted up above the nearby trees. It was gargantuan and possessed multiple spires, with small flags at the tip of each.

  As they drew closer, Cyrus saw the crowd in front of it. Food was being given freely, served by the bare-chested priestesses of Vidara. Without conscious thought, he steered Windrider toward them. He pulled back the cowl from Vara’s head and spoke as the crowd grew thicker. “Shelas’akur,” he said, “shelas’akur.” Cries filled the air as the elves took up his call, and the crowd parted for them, hands reaching out and brushing her as they passed. He heard women wailing at the sight of Vara’s pale face, waxy and still. He stopped and a hue and cry went up from the priestesses as the word was passed to them that the shelas’akur was wounded.

  He lowered Vara from the back of Windrider and carried her forward. Priestesses gathered around him and the tent flap opened. A hand emerged and beckoned him forward, the figure silhouetted in the light of a fire burning inside the tent. He lowered his head and carried her through as the shadow moved aside to admit them.

  “Over here,” came the soft voice of the figure, leading them to a corner where a bedroll was piled with pillows. Cyrus set her gently upon them, brushing her hair out of her face as he did so, reminded of how he had done the same for Niamh when she died. He swallowed his emotions and looked up to see Arydni, the High Priestess of Vidara. “You’ve done well to get her out of the city in such a state.”

  “For want of scant seconds, she wouldn’t be injured,” Cyrus said. “And her mother wouldn’t be dead.”

  “Chirenya?” The High Priestess’s face had not looked so lined only days earlier when he had seen her. He could see by the light of the fire and the lamps hung in the corners that she still wore garb similar to what he had seen at the Chancel, her bare bosoms somewhat hidden by the shadows the flame cast.

  “She helped us defend the bridges and evacuate the survivors of the Termina Guard,” he said as he rolled up the chainmail to Vara’s midsection and began to peel away the bloody shirt from her side. “An assassin attacked her after our party teleported away; Vara and I were left behind facing the dark elven army. She managed to kill the assassin, but he struck a final blow.” He pulled the cloth from her wound. “A dagger covered in black lace—she couldn’t heal herself.”

  Arydni knelt down on all fours and sniffed the wound, then called for brandy in elvish. “Care for a drink?” she asked with a drawn smile as she dabbed some on a cloth.

  “I don’t think that will do much for me right now. If my friend Andren was here, he’d be quick to take you up on it.”

  “You know Andren?” She smiled as she placed the cloth on Vara’s wound.

  “He’s my oldest friend.” Cyrus frowned. “You know him?”

  Arydni smiled. “I should. He’s the father of one of my children, after all.”

  “Wait...what?”

  “It was long ago. He was very young, only a hundred or so, and I was much older, and a priestess. We stayed together long enough to raise our daughter to the age of maturity and parted as friends.” She looked wistful as she dabbed at Vara’s wound. “How is he? I haven’t seen him in so long.”

  “He’s well. He’s one of our healers.” Cyrus searched his mind for details he could tell her. “He...uh...well, he drinks a lot.”

  “Really?” She furrowed her brow. “He never touched the stuff in the century we were together, but that was almost two thousand years ago.”

  Cyrus tried to put aside what she was telling him. “Will Vara be all right?”

  “I don’t know.” Arydni snapped her fingers and spoke words in elvish, and one of the priestesses brought her a small box. It was red, covered with cloth, and when she opened it a needle and thread were within. “I need to close her wound now that I’ve cleaned it.” She muttered more words in elvish and the Priestesses brought lamps and candles closer, casting Vara in the flickering light. Her face was relaxed, and Cyrus could see the small perforation in the skin where the dagger had slipped into her.

  He watched as the High Priestess moved her fingers with the delicate precision of a seamstress, slipping the needle in and out of the skin. He held Vara’s hand the entire time but the paladin never stirred. When Arydni finished, she handed the needle and thread to one of the other priestesses, then walked to the corner where a basin of water stood. She immersed her hands, taking a few moments to rinse them. She raised them out, and a priestess stepped forward with a cloth and dried them for her; then she walked back and knelt next to Vara, shaking her head.

  “I remember when this one was born,” Arydni said in a hushed tone. “Her sister, as well. Never was a baby birthed with greater ease than Isabelle. This one, though...” Her hand brushed the blond locks off Vara’s head. “Her mother’s labor was long and hard.” She wore a small smile. “Of course, Chirenya was cursing the whole time.”

  He swallowed hard, bitterness nearly choking him. He had not enjoyed Chirenya’s company, true, and she had been unkind, but... She was Vara’s mother. And she sacrificed more than anyone at the bridge.

  If the Priestess saw his emotion, she ignored it. “She was a miracle from Vidara herself,” Arydni murmured. “A true miracle, the lightest spot since this curse began.”

  Something stirred in Cyrus. “Curse? Are you talking about the infertility of the male elves?”

  She looked at him, shrewd, her age and wisdom visible more in her eyes than in her firm and supple body. “She told you, did she?”

  “Her father accidentally gave me the words and Vara confirmed it.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “She said nothing of a curse.”

  The Priestess’s face bore a flicker of amusement. “How would you expect an entire race of men to go infertile but by a curse?”

  Cyrus shook his head. “Is there any spell caster powerful enough to curse an entire race?”

  She stared back at him, her eyes looking at his; a knowing look that told him that she knew more than she would tell him. “No. There is no spell caster that could do such a thing.”

  “Then how...?”

  His voice trailed off as Arydni leaned low over Vara, kissing her forehead and caressing her cheeks. “Thank you for saving the shelas’akur, Cyrus Davidon. I know you love her and would fight to your death for her.”

  “I suppose that to Vidara, to fight is a sin.” He lowered his head and his lips brushed Vara’s forehead. Still, she did not stir.

  When he raised his head back up, Arydni stared at him. “To protect life is the highest calling. To be a white knight dedicated to such cause is to be a paladin, a holy warrior in the All-Mother’s service. Some fight for greed, willing to kill another to take what they have; others for love or for lust, and still others for revenge or out of anger. Every day o
f life is a fight. You can acquiesce in these greater and lesser battles, and find yourself soon enough dead—or dead inside. Or you can fight for what is important to you, struggle for what matters, with word when possible and sword when necessary, and risk death to shape your world such as you would have it.”

  He took a deep breath and watched the shadows play on the walls of the tent. “How is that any different from...uh...” He hesitated.

  “You worship the God of War, do you not?” She stared him down, using her eyes to compel the truth from him.

  “I do,” he said, though not proudly. Shame burned his cheeks at the thought of the imminent revulsion from the priestess.

  “The God of War cares not what your motives are for conflict; he only craves it. You know that to Bellarum, mercy, compassion and tenderness are weaknesses to be purged. Vidara would raise those up as virtues, and commend any who practiced them. It is the same,” she went on, “with death. All creatures die and it is a part of life that the All-Mother accepts, for it makes the time of living more valuable and cherished.

  “But the God of Death, Mortus, embraces the loss of life, but not life itself. Do you see the differences?” She waited for him to nod. “If so, you are wise beyond many priests and priestesses whose lives have been spent studying the gods and their philosophies.” She wore a gentle smile. “Vidara is the Lifebringer, and yet in defense of her own she does command death. Does that seem contradictory to you?”

  “Yes. But no more so than the God of Death loathing life, I suppose, for were it not for life, would there be death?”

  She laughed. “Another contradiction; I see you have grasped it. To be on a journey of the spirit and follow the path of any god requires either a rigidly inflexible adherence to dogma or a tremendous sense of humor; rarely are both to be found in the same person.” Her hand reached over Vara and rested on his shoulder. “You are tired.”

  He looked across at her, and for the first time since entering the tent realized once more how much of Arydni was exposed. “I am,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers, the fatigue settling over him like a warm blanket.

  “Rest, for a time,” she said. “We will watch over Vara, and tend to her.” She extended her hand and a priestess appeared at Cyrus’s shoulder. He stood, looking down at the figure of the paladin on the floor below him. He let the priestess lead him away and help him remove his armor, stacking it in the corner where a bedroll waited with another pillow. He lay down and she tucked him in, pulling the blanket up over his body, and he wondered idly when the last time was that that had happened. Before the Society of Arms, he thought. Back when...

  His thought did not finish; he fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 37

  He awoke to a gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him. When he rolled to his back, he saw it was one of the priestesses, a younger-looking woman with dark hair that hung well past her shoulders, tucked behind her pointed ears on either side. He had a moment of disorientation before the events of the last few days came flooding back to him. Light streamed into the tent from above and Cyrus rubbed his eyes.

  “Someone has come for you, sir,” the priestess said as Cyrus sat up. He stood and looked to the corner where Vara rested. She remained unmoving, Arydni at her side. Another figure had joined them, huddled next to the High Priestess. She wore red robes, stitched with patterns, and a scarf of black and red silk that lay across her shoulders, hanging to almost below her waist in the style of all spellcasters; the runes stitched into it would have told Cyrus she was a wizard if he hadn’t already known.

  He didn’t bother to put on his armor before walking over to her. “Nyad.”

  The elven woman stood to greet him, coming at him so quickly that he didn’t have a chance to step back. She wrapped her arms around him in a hug and he felt the warmth of her against him without his armor, before she pulled away. “I’m so glad you’re safe. I was on my way back to Termina when I heard the crowds on the road saying Vara had been injured and was resting here.” Her relief was tangible. “Did everyone else get out? Did Termina...” She let her words trail off, and he could see the pain in her face.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Everyone else made it out except Vara’s mother. She cast the area teleport spell, and an assassin struck her down as we were reaching for the orbs. Vara killed him, but not before...” He gestured to her, helpless. “We had to flee on horseback. When last I looked, Termina was overrun.” At his words, Nyad’s head bowed in sorrow.

  “You did well, getting her this far.” Arydni stood, joining them. “It’s too soon to be certain, but I think she’ll be all right; her wound has avoided infection thanks to the black lace.”

  Cyrus shook his head in confusion. “I thought the black lace was a poison.”

  “It nullifies magical effects, that’s true. But it’s hardly a poison. In fact, it has a sterilizing effect, so if you don’t die when attacked by a weapon coated in it, you’re unlikely to become infected later. We use it sometimes when treating natural wounds or ones that can’t be healed by magic.”

  “Can she be safely teleported?” Cyrus looked down at Vara, who looked as peaceful as she had last night. “We need to get her somewhere defensible.”

  “Yes,” Arydni said. “But she’ll need someone to tend to her. I think it best if I accompany you until she’s healed. May the Goddess strike me down for my immodesty, but I doubt you’ll find a better healer of natural ailments than I.”

  “You have people to tend to here,” Cyrus said. “You’ve helped us so much, I don’t see how we can pull you from your duties any more than we already have.”

  “There is much care needed here, it’s true.” The High Priestess folded her arms in front of her, reminding Cyrus once more that she wore nothing to cover her breasts. It’s getting easier to forget that and fail to notice, the more I’m around these priestesses. Or maybe I’m just too tired. She drew his attention back to her. “But there is no greater duty than tending to the health of the shelas’akur.”

  “Very well.” He nodded. “Can you teleport us back to Sanctuary, Nyad?”

  “No,” the wizard said. “I have orders to bring you to Pharesia.”

  “Orders from whom?” I don’t much care for the sound of that...

  “From my father and Alaric, who believes one more assassin remains in Sanctuary, and they’re in the midst of rooting them out. He suggested the Royal Palace in Pharesia might be more defensible and my father would be happy to host you.”

  Cyrus thought about it. We can’t return to Sanctuary. Where else could we go? Fertiss? The gnomish lands? They’re not likely to have as much security as the palace of the Elf King. Our list of options grows very thin, and I don’t care for that. “What kind of security do they have? I don’t want to avoid Sanctuary for fear of an assassin and end up chancing into one in the Palace.”

  “My father has guards that he trusts absolutely, that have been with him since the beginning,” she said. “He has pledged to employ the tightest security measures. He will guarantee Vara’s safety should we go to him; and yours as well, for your part in the defense of Termina.”

  “All right,” Cyrus said. “What now?”

  “If there are people hunting you, you cannot go as you are.” Arydni placed a hand upon his pauldron, her pale skin standing out against the black metal. “You may be the only warrior in Arkaria that wears black armor, and would be recognizable as the man who travels with the shelas’akur.”

  Cyrus looked down. “This was my father’s armor. I can’t leave it behind.”

  Arydni shook her head, her expression as impish as a woman of twenty. “Nay. When we teleport, we’ll need a means to transport Vara; let us take a wagon with us. We’ll attire you in the raiment of one of Vidara’s Paladins, and I will wear my finest High Priestess robes. We can hide the shelas’akur in the back of the wagon. In this way, it will appear you are escorting me to the Palace to counsel with the King.”

  “Very wise,” Nyad said. �
��Such things are commonplace. No one will take notice of a Priestess of Vidara riding through the streets of Pharesia.”

  “Save perhaps any human men with a wandering eye,” Arydni said, not looking to Cyrus.

  It took them only an hour to make the preparations. The priestesses procured a wagon, which Vara was loaded onto under the careful watch of Arydni. Cyrus placed his armor with Vara’s in a heavy canvas bag that was loaded into the wagon and tied down so as not to roll.

  Cyrus stared at himself in the simple, freestanding full length mirror that stood before him in the tent. The priestesses didn’t leave much behind in the evacuation, he thought. Where his armor was normally black as the darkest night, it was now shining steel. Not quite as bright Vara’s, he thought, but she’d approve. He wore a helm that was cylindrical in shape, tapering to a near-flat top with two slits for eyes and a small opening for a mouth. One of the priestesses draped a surcoat over him; it bore the heraldry he had seen on banners within the Chancel of Life; a green field with two trees, a stream running down the middle, and a few flowers of varying colors underneath a blue sky.

  “You look very fine, Sir Cyrus,” the priestess who was attending to him spoke, her quiet voice carrying a whisper of suggestion.

  “I feel ridiculous,” he said, tugging on the surcoat. “I’m an instrument of destruction; I’m supposed to be fearsome. I feel like a bunny is going to hop across this coat of arms.” He looked down through the holes in his helm. Even through this...this bucket, I can see I look ridiculous, and I can’t see much of anything.

  “Nay,” she said. “You look splendid. Were you not the consort of the shelas’akur, I would show you the affection of a priestess for a man who wears the livery of the Goddess.”

  “You would?” He mused. “Wait...what?” He turned to her, but she curtsied and brushed out the nearest flap of the tent without answering him. “What does that mean?”