“Oh?” Cyrus felt a stir of hope. “They haven’t told us anything in weeks; do you have news?”
“I do. The battle rages around Reikonos, though the line is holding. The elves have managed to keep the Sovereign’s forces contained in Termina and have made excellent progress in pushing them back. Fully a third of the city is back in elven hands, though the price has been high.” The Guildmaster made a fist. “I doubt the dark elves will easily surrender such a choice foothold; we’ve been told that more dark elven forces are marching to assist their brethren in holding the city, which bodes well for the Confederation, as it removes forces that might otherwise have been moved against their capital.”
Cyrus felt lightheaded but oddly relieved. “This war is spinning out of control.”
Alaric stared down at his clenched fist and when he answered, his tone was flat. “Wars are not known for being exercises in control, brother.”
“I know that; I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.” The Ghost unclenched his fist. “The Sovereign, on the surface, seems to be overreaching. Starting a war on two fronts seems foolhardy, yet the dark elves have won every battle that matters thus far. The best thing that could happen for Arkaria is for the Sovereign to have overextended; however, I fear that he may not have. One would think that when the Human Confederation aimed to begin this conflict, they would have been better prepared for it.”
“I had never known, in all my years living in Reikonos, how petty, vain and power-mad the Council of Twelve was until you brought me before them,” Cyrus said with no small amount of consternation.
Alaric wore the hint of a smile when he answered the warrior’s statement. “Why should they—and Pretnam Urides in specific—be different than any other mortal? Are we not all petty, vain, and power hungry in our own ways? When you came to our doors looking to gain better weapons and equipment from our expeditions, were you not seeking to expand your influence for your own gain?”
A flush of embarrassment caught Cyrus by surprise. He always does this. “I suppose, but—”
Alaric interrupted. “The difference is means and motive. If you fight only for yourself, if you are willing to kill innocent parties to get what you want—only disaster can follow. There’s nothing wrong with wanting, so long as you work for it and don’t put your desires before everything else—including other people.”
“That seems like a pretty big difference.”
“Whether you kill one or a million innocents with this intent, you are still a murderer. The only difference is scale.” Alaric scratched at his beard. “But we have other things to discuss. I was told you were reluctant to attend the ceremony?”
“I was,” Cyrus said, feeling the muscles in his jaw tense. “The Elven military has caused the ouster of a genuine war hero and I don’t care for it. But I’m willing to go along with the King’s wishes since we’ve taken shelter here.”
“Very good.” Alaric gave a perfunctory nod. “I realize that it might be difficult for you to understand that kings and councils make grave decisions that are sometimes unrelated to their own personal desires, but it frequently happens. And it rarely has anything to do with honor.”
Cyrus felt the unease once more, thinking of Odellan, left to scratch out a life for himself wherever he may, never to return to his homeland. I felt that, last year. I would not care to see anyone else have to suffer it, especially someone so undeserving of that fate.
“I sense your unease,” Alaric said. “But the King has accepted the judgment of his generals, and his generals have made your Endrenshan the scapegoat. Much as you might wish to change that, you cannot.”
“I realize that,” Cyrus said, shaking his head.
“Your uncompromising loyalty toward your comrades is admirable,” Alaric said, turning away from Cyrus to face the balcony. “This Odellan is a hero, obviously.” He turned back to Cyrus. “Yet, with the dark elves sure to number us among their enemies, we need ties to the nations that fight against our foes. Do not judge the King too harshly for what he must do to protect his country. Accept his accolades with grace.”
“I will,” Cyrus said, still reluctant. “But I don’t have to do it with a song in my heart.”
“If you did, you would not be Cyrus Davidon,” Alaric said. “All that aside, you have missed quite a bit in your absence. We have purged what I believe to be the last of the assassins from our ranks. However, it would be difficult to be certain as we’ve had a massive influx of new recruits in the last month or so. We’ve taken pains to tighten security, and I think Vara will be well-protected in our midst now.”
“We need to track down this Hand of Fear.” Cyrus tightened his hand inside his gauntlet.
“The assassins we have captured have said nothing that would betray even a hint of who their master or masters are.” Alaric leaned against the railing of the balcony. “They appear to be fanatics, true believers in their cause, whatever it might be.”
“We need a plan,” Cyrus said, stroking his chin. “They seem to have limitless numbers. We can’t hold back these maniacs forever. Not at Sanctuary, not here. They will eventually get a lucky shot, and Vara will die.”
“Aye,” Alaric said. “Nor would we want to adopt the policies that the King has put in place to protect her here.”
“What policies?”
The Ghost winced. “Let us call them...severe. Should anyone unapproved approach your suite, they are killed if they cross beyond a certain threshold.”
Cyrus felt his stomach turn in disgust. “That is...barbaric.”
“Too true,” the Ghost said. “But it has resulted in the killing of two confirmed assassins. And one very confused gardener in search of a privy.”
Cyrus nearly choked. “They killed...an innocent man?”
“It would seem. The palace guard is not to be trifled with.”
“That...horrible!” Cyrus recoiled in disbelief. “We can never tell Vara.”
“Agreed. This is all the more reason we should return to Sanctuary as quickly as possible,” Alaric said. “We will continue to try and find this Hand of Fear organization when we return. All appearances to the contrary, they are surely not a bottomless pit of recruits and they must be hiding somewhere—they are not an ethereal menace, after all.”
“And you would know, being something of an ethereal menace yourself.”
With a smile of slight amusement, Alaric started to speak again, but stopped at a sound from the other room. Cyrus turned and opened the door to find a herald who bowed to him. “The King of Elvendom awaits your most gracious presence in the throne room.” His message delivered, the man withdrew.
“We will speak again later,” Alaric said, passing him as Arydni, Nyad and Vara joined them from the other chamber. “Now is the time for you to accept your rewards with all the decorum I’ve come to expect from you.”
“Or at least the decency not to start a blood feud with the entire Elven Kingdom.” Vara’s words were sharp, and she did not blink away when he looked at her with mock offense.
“Am I correct that after the ceremony, you’ll be returning to Sanctuary?” Arydni looked at them with her usual serenity, the sunlight from the balcony windows giving her a kind of tired luminescence.
“Yes,” Vara said, her voice quiet.
“Then this is where we part,” Arydni said. “I am pleased that you have mended, shelas’akur, but you have no more need of my ministrations.”
“I cannot thank you enough for what you have done,” Vara told the priestess.
“It is the duty of the All-Mother’s servants to take scrupulous care of her greatest blessing,” the priestess said. She turned to Cyrus. “It was my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cyrus Davidon. I hope that Vidara will bless you in all your endeavors.”
“My thanks to you,” Cyrus said with a bow. “I cannot bring myself to think of what might have happened without your assistance.”
“You are too kind,” she said. �
��I wish the best for all of you; I would not presume to say that we have seen the last of each other, but rather to say farewell for now.” With a bow, she exited the room. Cyrus realized after she left that she had been clad in the same priestess garb for the last two weeks that she had worn when first they met—and he had scarcely noticed.
The walk to the throne room was long. Cyrus marveled at the complement of eighteen guards that surrounded them. Nyad walked with them and Alaric trailed slightly behind Cyrus and Vara, who were side by side. Vara stared into the distance, clinking together her gauntlets, but the sound was lost in the noise of plate boots clattering on marble floors.
The air carried a sweet smell and Cyrus couldn’t help but notice vases filled with flowers throughout the palace. Trees filled earthen planters as they entered a hall larger than Sanctuary’s Great Hall, the floors marble with circular patterns, seals and crests everywhere. He could scarcely see the far edge of the hall, and the roof was hundreds of feet in the air, supported by pillars that were as large in diameter as two horses lined up front to back. Vines and plants grew out of shelves that ringed each pillar and the walls were covered by three tiers of planters filled with trees, flowers and the odd pond and waterfall.
A hundred gigantic chandeliers hung from the ceiling, each with candles flickering, casting light over the hall. Above, massive skylights were open, allowing light into the room. The edges of the hall were lush and green, the center impressive with mosaics on the floor and carefully shaded marble that was patterned into royal seals.
“This is the main hall,” Alaric said from behind him. “It is the entrance to the palace and where anyone who desires an audience with the King would wait. It was designed to be so large and intimidating that no foe could look upon it and think that the Elven Kingdom was anything other than a dominant force.”
“The ‘look at me! I have money so I must have power!’ approach,” Cyrus said. “How novel and free of insecurity.”
Alaric let out a low guffaw. Several of the palace guard shot him scandalized looks but Cyrus ignored them. Near the middle of the hall was a crowd—over a hundred people waiting. Cyrus might have ignored them if not for the fact that within their ranks were a tall, green-skinned healer and a figure made out of rock. He smiled as they were led near the entrance to what he assumed was the throne room, and the Sanctuary army that had helped him defend the bridges of Termina made their way forward, forming into lines that would allow them to fit through the double doors.
One figure in particular stood out, his surcoat much cleaner than when last Cyrus had seen it. “Longwell,” he said, breaking free of the guardsmen, who moved to allow him to pass and then drew tighter around Vara once he had done so.
The dragoon detached himself from the Sanctuary army. “Good to see you, General,” Longwell said with a curt nod, his accent lilting. “I was not surprised to hear that you escaped from Termina. I apologize for not remaining until after you, Vara and Lady Chirenya had removed yourselves from the field of battle. It shan’t happen again.”
“You could not have predicted what would happen,” Cyrus said to the dragoon, whose head was bowed, his helm carried in the crook of his arm. His brown eyes burned with the fires of contrition. “The fault was mine for not urging Chirenya to leave first.”
“Knowing her even the little I did,” Longwell said, “I doubt she would have heeded you. I saw in the moment I grasped the orb what was happening; knew as I reappeared at the portal north of Sanctuary that you’d not be returning with us.”
“There was nothing you could have done,” Cyrus said. “Your courage was exemplary in the bridge defense and I hope the King recognizes you for your efforts. Without your lance, I don’t know how we would have done it.”
The dragoon’s swarthy skin showed only the barest redness, but Cyrus could tell he was blushing. “The honor is in serving. All other awards are ancillary.”
Cyrus turned from the dragoon to see J’anda standing in the front row, his elven illusion looking particularly radiant. Vaste nodded and smiled, a gesture that seemed to be a compliment of sorts. Thad and Martaina stood side by side, the warrior’s red armor contrasting with the green hues of Martaina’s boiled leather, her hair done up in an elaborate braid, a radical departure from its usual muss. Lurking under a hood, Cyrus could see Aisling, and when he caught her eyes he couldn’t shake the feeling that she looked ready to dart away at the first hint of trouble.
The ground shook as Fortin made his way to Cyrus, who looked up at the rock giant in mild surprise. “Fortin. You were exceptional in holding the Southbridge; I’ve come to expect nothing less than excellence from you in every endeavor.”
The rock giant leaned forward with sudden speed and Cyrus took a step back, afraid Fortin might be falling on him. To his surprise, the stony warrior knelt and bowed his head in a solemn silence. Even kneeling, the rock giant was as tall as Cyrus. “Thank you, General Davidon,” his words came out in a rush. “Never before have I killed fifteen thousand of you fleshbags in a day.” His head raised and the red eyes glowed, his rocky mouth creasing a curved line upward on his face. “That. Was. Fun.” He stood as suddenly as he had knelt and turned, returning to stand at the back of the Sanctuary army. As he walked away, Cyrus could have sworn he heard Fortin whistling a tune.
“He’s bloodthirsty, even by your standards.” Andren’s voice cut through Cyrus’s haze and he turned to see the healer at his side, shaking his head at the back of the retreating rock giant.
“How did it go for you in the bridge defense?” Cyrus looked to his oldest friend. The circles under the healer’s eyes were darker than usual, likely the result of being awakened long before noon.
“Oh, that.” Andren wore a look of mild embarrassment. “Wasn’t much to it. I spent most of my time hiding behind an upturned wagon. I think I might have cast one heal, and it was because I was bored, not because he needed it.”
A strong odor of alcohol wafted from Andren as he spoke, and Cyrus felt a flash of rage. “Are you drunk?”
The healer’s brow creased at the accusation and his eyes turned stormy. “Well, I wasn’t going to go into this royal nest of vipers sober now, was I?”
Cyrus looked back in astonishment. “Unbelievable.”
“You don’t know what it’s like being back here,” Andren said, lowering his voice. As Cyrus listened to him, it almost reminded him of pleading. “I hate this city and these high and mighty bastards that think they’re better than everyone. They lord it over you because their mom and dad were sixteenth generation members of some house that got land and a title ten thousand years ago when they handed them out and mine were from peasant farmer stock and grew the foods they ate while they didn’t work a day in their lives.”
“All right, fine,” Cyrus said in a hiss. “Do you want to leave?”
“Hell no.” Andren looked back at him in befuddlement. “I’m about to get an award from the King!”
“I thought you said you hated royals and highborns!”
“Well, yeah, but he might give me something—like land, or a title.”
Cyrus looked at him through half slitted eyes. “You just said you hated the people that got those things handed to them.”
“Well, that’s because I don’t have them, isn’t it?” The elf shook his head as though it were the most obvious point.
Cy felt a sudden urge to strangle the healer, but resisted it. “I’m constantly impressed by your ability to have lived two thousand years and still be utterly blind to your own contradictions.”
“Thanks,” Andren said. “I think.”
Voices behind him turned Cyrus back to the bevy of guards clustered around Vara and Alaric. The paladins spoke to each other in hushed tones along with a third figure, a member of the court. He rejoined them to find that the elf they were talking to was a minister of protocol, there to assist them through the ceremony.
Cyrus listened to the man, a gray-haired, foppish fellow named Erdnim, as he descr
ibed the formalities of the ceremony. Each of the members of Sanctuary that participated in the battle were to be given honors, a medal and ribbon, with a small award of gold. Larger awards were to be made to J’anda for his illusory army, Erith, Andren and Vaste for healing the front line of battle, and Aisling for slipping behind the enemy lines and fighting amongst the dark elves. They would receive a title along with their medal and gold. The largest awards were to come to Cyrus, Vara, Fortin and Longwell, for being the front line on the bridges.
“Along with each of these awards comes a granting of land and the title of Lord,” the protocol officer said, his perfumed smell forcing Cyrus to take a step back.
After a moment, the minister’s words sank in, and Cyrus blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say a land grant and a title?”
“Yes,” Erdnim replied, his pointed nose inhaling deeply as he raised it into the air. “The men will be Lords, the shelas’akur will be invested with the title of Lady, and each of you will be granted a parcel of land that the King feels would be appropriate given your stature.”
“So for me, it’s likely to be in the swamp outside Gren,” Cyrus said under his breath, referring to the troll homelands.
“Hardly,” Erdnim said. “That is not within the boundaries of the Elven Kingdom.”
The doors opened and they were ushered into the throne room in a procession. Vara’s guard melted away once they entered. Probably because the entire room is filled with guards. The throne room was long and rectangular, with members of the court seated on either side and the King’s throne against the far wall, by itself. Upon it was a figure covered almost entirely in robes.
The robes were multicolorored, with subtle hues of red, yellow, blue, purple and green. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t believe those colors could ever go together, Cyrus thought. Yet somehow they did, with the cloth achieving a shimmering sheen, glossier than even the finest silk. From this distance, Cyrus could see woven patterns in the cloth. The cloak covered the King’s head and hair to just above the forehead and the sides of his face from the temples down to his chin. Upon his head rested a crown of glistening gold, silver and other metals, shining more brightly than his robes, studded with precious stones that reflected the same colors as his attire. The points of the crown jutted almost a foot above the King’s head. That crown must be worth more than half of Reikonos.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 32