The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion

by Robert J. Crane

  Fountains burbled and after nearly an hour’s walk they arrived at the trunk of the tree. It grew out of a large fountain, its trunk forked into a hundred pieces as it neared the ground. The bark-covered base twisted and expanded at the bottom of the trunk, like a cypress tree Cyrus had seen in Nalikh’akur on the edge of the swamp. But unlike that, this tree trunk was a hundred feet wide in the middle and rose up in the air a thousand feet, stretching above all the buildings in the city.

  The fountain that it was planted in showed no sign of cracking, which Cyrus thought curious until he saw the bottom was dirt. The whole area carried a more earthy aroma than the flowered part of the garden. This deep in the gardens no one appeared to be about; they had not seen a living person in almost half an hour.

  “I was worried you wouldn’t come.” Cyrus turned at the sound of a voice from behind them. The King strolled up, his pace leisurely as he passed a pot of green plants and stopped to pick at them. “After all, the request of a steward hardly carries the same weight as the command of a King.”

  “I was more worried that it wasn’t you that sent it.” Cyrus kept his hand on his sword and the King noticed it and nodded, a very slight smile curling his lips.

  “It’s wise to remain prepared in such times. Did I hear correctly—you offered Odellan a place in your guild?”

  Cyrus looked back at him. “I did.”

  The King pursed his lips before he replied. “Good. I have a message, and it comes to you because of your friend Odellan.”

  Because of him? Cyrus waited, the tension returned, and he gripped the hilt a little tighter.

  “The bequest I gave your people—the mansions in Termina,” the King began, his hand resting on his chin. “I could only give them because of the deaths of their original occupants, almost all of them without a clear heir.”

  “Ah,” Cyrus said. “The ones that died by the Hand of Fear.”

  “Yes,” the King said with a subtle hiss. “Odellan’s father gave me a list of their names, and this is a place where once more I owe your new guildmate a debt.”

  “You could try pardoning him,” Cyrus said.

  The King winced, and Cyrus could see the monarch’s regret. “If only I could. But these dead, I knew every one of them.”

  “Because they were part of your court, yes?” Vara spoke up. She sat on the edge of the fountain and a clank of armor on stone distracted Cyrus. I’d like to see her with her armor off again, he thought, mind drifting.

  “They were,” he agreed, his words hushed. “At various points throughout the last few thousand years, I counseled with each of them—in the early days of establishing the Kingdom, every one of them was vital; my most fervent supporters. They were the wealthiest and wisest among us, the last remnants of a group that cast support behind my grandfather 10,000 years ago, allowing him to establish the foundations upon which my father built and which I used to unite our people into the modern Elven Kingdom. With their deaths, this group has been nearly wiped out.”

  Cyrus frowned. “Do you mean to say that this group had forerunners that supported your grandfather? Or—”

  “No,” King Danay said. “These elves—these men, mostly—they supported my grandfather during his days, then my father during his, and finally me.”

  Vara looked at the King with great concentration. “If you mean to say these men lived 10,000 years ago...that is impossible. Elves do not live that long.”

  Cyrus felt a sense of awe as a piece fell into place. “Except the old ones.”

  “Quite so,” the King breathed.

  “I don’t believe it.” Vara leaned to her side, resting her hand on the fountain’s edge.

  “But that Hand of Fear assassin said he’d kill you and the old one.” Cyrus looked from Vara to the King, his eyes wide. “You said ‘nearly’ wiped out. How many are left?”

  “Only one now,” the King replied, his face reserved as he seated himself next to Vara and ran a hand through the water, admiring the ripples that came from it.

  Cyrus leaned toward him. “The last old one—their life is in danger. Who is it?”

  The King did not look up from where he held his hand under the water. “I cannot say; I remain bound to a promise I made three thousand years ago to keep their secrets, one that they extracted from me before they helped me gain the throne. I cannot give away the identity of the last of them, not so long as they yet live.”

  Cyrus felt as though his lips were cracking as he spoke. “What do you expect us to do with this information if we can’t speak with the last of the old ones? They may know why the Hand of Fear is after her!” He pointed to Vara, who sat silent.

  The King removed his hand from the water and shook it off, causing droplets to fall. “I expect you to return to your guild and inform your Council of all you have learned. I will get word to this last one and see if they wish to be revealed to you. Absent that, perhaps this information can give you some insight into these assassins and their intentions.” He wore a look of tiredness and regret. “I thank you again for your service to the Kingdom...” He turned to Vara, and nodded, his face suffused with pain. “...and I pray that you will come through these dark times unscathed, my Lady.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Vara said with a sadness of her own. “But I thank you for what you’ve done—sheltering, protecting and honoring us. And now, giving us what you were able to tell.” She blinked, and Cyrus saw the light catch on a few droplets of water in her eyelashes. “I thank you.”

  “As with all of our meetings,” the King began, back in the hunched posture of the steward, “the pleasure is all mine.” He reached for her hand and kissed it, then turned and walked a long, meandering circle around the tree to disappear behind the trunk.

  Cyrus waited with Vara, who stood staring down at the water. He moved forward to embrace her, but she held up a hand to halt him and turned away. He watched a few drops fall from her eyes and cause tiny ripples of their own in the fountain. “I’m fine,” she said at last. “We should get back to the others; they’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Not without us,” he said. She still had a hand out to keep him at arm’s length, but he grasped at it with both his own, the plate mail around his fingers clinking against hers. She did not stop him, but finally pulled away and began walking toward the path they had arrived on. They walked back in silence. She led from a few paces in front of him and after he had tried three times to walk beside her, he gave up because every time she increased her pace to keep him from drawing even.

  They arrived back at the palace to find Alaric and Longwell standing at the edge of the gardens, waiting for them with Nyad. “Ah, good,” the Ghost said upon catching sight of them, “now we can leave.”

  “How did you know where we were?” Cyrus asked in puzzlement. The Ghost held up the small slip of parchment with the King’s note. “Didn’t realize I dropped it.”

  “You didn’t,” Alaric replied. “Aisling pulled it off of you and gave it to me once you departed.”

  Cyrus thought about it. “I didn’t even notice.”

  “Hard to believe, engaged as you were with her thrusting her pelvis into you at the time,” Vara said in a voice of quiet accusation.

  “I didn’t...” Cyrus started to say. He stopped when he realized that her voice had been as dead as her look. “Never mind. We need to meet with the Council.”

  “I am afraid that will have to wait until the morrow, when Ryin Ayend returns to us. Let us go home, my friends,” Alaric said with a soothing demeanor, and turned to nod at Nyad, who seemed to awaken at his words and nodded back before casting a spell.

  The light of the magic swirled around them and Cyrus felt the tingle as it consumed him, and he closed his eyes. When the bright flashes stopped, he opened them to find himself in a familiar setting that he hadn’t seen in over a month. The fire roared in the hearth of the foyer and a pleasant buzz of activity filled the room.

  In the lounge he saw Andren, a h
orn of mead in his hand raised in salute to Cyrus. He turned round to look into the Great Hall. No refugees were visible but he caught a glimpse of Larana within, who froze at the sight of him, staring unabashed, her face awash with relief. He turned from her, embarrassed, after nodding in greeting, and felt Alaric’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. The Ghost had a hand on Vara in a similar manner. “Go to your quarters if you’d like; I’ll send for you once I’ve assembled the Council for our meeting on the morrow.” He gestured toward a couple of familiar warriors who were standing nearby at attention, and they both fell in line behind Vara as she made her way to the staircase.

  “Vara,” Cyrus called out, and watched her stiffen and turn to him.

  Her face was wrought of all emotion, even the hostility that she wore in the early days he had known her. She had fallen once more to the exhausted, weighted state he had seen her adopt in Termina. “Perhaps later,” she said, and turned away without further explanation. Her guards followed her up the stairs, Nyad a few paces behind them.

  “Are you not glad to be home, brother?” Alaric stood at Cyrus’s shoulder.

  “I am,” he said without enthusiasm. “But I can’t help but recall the night I left, and the events of that day.” He looked into the Great Hall, remembering the steps he had trodden with the burden in his arms, the red hair bouncing from his every step as he carried Niamh to her resting place.

  “Yes,” Alaric said, a pall hanging over him. “I was sorry that you missed Niamh’s burial.”

  “I was sorry about that too, but it seemed more urgent to get Vara out of here before it could happen again.”

  “Agreed. That this threat has persisted as long as it has is disturbing.” Alaric shook his head. “I cannot fathom the depths of this group’s desire to kill Vara. They have continued to attempt strikes here, even after it is obvious that she is no longer with us.”

  “What do you mean?” Cyrus felt a sudden and intense burst of curiosity. “How many assassins have you rooted out in the last month?”

  “A dozen,” Alaric said. “Aisling tipped us to all of them, one by one, and we observed them carefully, starting the day you left. When cornered they attacked, causing grievous woundings. I doubt Curatio has left the Halls of Healing in weeks, so busy has he been tending to the injured. The last, however, was the worst,” the Ghost said, “a female who posed as an applicant. She nearly killed Scuddar In’shara and hurt a half dozen others trying to gain access to the Halls of Healing.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes,” Alaric said. “We speculate that she thought that Vara had returned here after the fall of Termina and was trying to ‘finish the job’ as they say.”

  Cyrus felt his thoughts churning, in a jumble. “Makes sense. It wasn’t obvious where we were, I guess.”

  “Aye,” Alaric said with a small smile before clapping a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “You look weary, Lord of Perdamun. You should get some rest.”

  Cyrus frowned. He caught a glimpse of Larana, staring once more at him through the open door of the Great Hall, and he looked away, back to his Guildmaster. “Didn’t the Human Confederation give you a similar title to ‘Ward of the Southern Plains’ or somesuch last year? I’m sure I heard Pretnam Urides call you Lord Garaunt.”

  “Lord is an honorific in the Confederation, not a true title. They merely made me a steward,” Alaric replied, his smile enigmatic, “without ceding any claims they have on the lands. I’m afraid it’s not nearly as impressive as a Lordship and convincing a power that has claimed this land for some 10,000 years to cede their claim.”

  Cyrus waved him away, thoughts still swirling. “It’s hardly impressive. Other than the pissing-for-distance competition that the elves, dark elves and humans held here last year, a major power hasn’t held a serious claim to these lands for over a century.”

  “Still,” Alaric said, “ceding an ages-old claim is not something that the Elven Kingdom would do in normal times. I’m afraid things have become dark indeed for them, that King Danay is acknowledging that the elves are not equal to the task of holding anything beyond the bounds of the river Perda.” He shook his head. “A stunning admission. But a topic for another time.”

  Once more, he clapped Cyrus on the shoulder and the warrior felt the warmth of his Guildmaster’s touch; not physically, through the plate glove and mail that separated them, but the affection of the Ghost for his “brother,” in the way that Alaric Garaunt had always had for the charges under his command. “You are tired. Rest. I will send for you when I have assembled the Council.”

  “That’s...not a bad idea,” Cyrus admitted, letting his feet carry him toward the stairs. Every step was familiar yet foreign to him after his absence. How long was I gone? he wondered, his body still weary. I didn’t sleep well in the palace, that’s plain. Something tickled the back of his mind, some words spoken that he couldn’t remember. There’s something I’m missing, something I’ve forgotten. Gods, I wish I wasn’t so tired.

  His feet moved without his mind’s assistance, up the stone stairs, past the floors that held the applicant quarters, the members’ rooms, and the double doors behind which the Council met. The glorious stone that made up the walls and floors of Sanctuary blurred. The familiar smell of the wood fires burning in the hearths should have put him at ease, but all they did was remind him of Niamh, of the flash of red when she would whirl around, eyes aflame...

  That was damnable, he thought. To lose her to some vile assassin... He felt a pang at the thought of the assassin hitting his true target. He remembered the night in Termina when they’d poured into the house of Vara’s parents, had killed so many members of Endeavor, and of the dawn on the streets, after the battle for the city, when a lone assassin had struck down the most forceful person Cyrus had ever met...

  And still they struck here in the aftermath of that. Attacked the Halls of Healing trying to get to Vara, because they didn’t know where she was. He shivered as he turned the knob and opened the door to his room.

  He stepped into the privy off his chambers. A small room, large enough for a tub, a metal plumbed shower in the corner, and a sink and full-length mirror. He stepped to the basin and turned the faucet, feeling the water run out as cold as a Termina morning. He splashed some over his face, which was still unshaven, and watched the droplets catch on his beard. He stared at his blue eyes in the mirror, eyes with dark lines beneath them. They didn’t know where she was...

  The buzz in his head was disrupted by a shock, and he straightened back to bolt upright. But they did know, didn’t they? They sent assassins to Vara’s chamber in the Palace; the guards killed two of them. How could they have sent assassins to her chambers, in an abandoned wing, if they didn’t at least have an idea of where she was? He felt himself grow cold as words echoed in his head; the last piece fell into place, and he sprinted to the door.

  Chapter 41

  Within a few minutes the Council had been summoned, absent the presence of Ryin Ayend, who was explained to be visiting family overnight in Reikonos. Cyrus looked at the small circle around the chambers—Alaric, his eye clear and bright, more visible with his helm removed; Curatio, staid but wan and with less sparkle in his eyes than he used to have.

  J’anda and Vaste sat in close attendance with Nyad nearby, all three looking slightly rumpled. Longwell, on the other hand, was stiff and looked somehow to be standing at attention even though he was sitting in his chair. Erith looked bored and tired, and had taken the seat to Cyrus’s left that had been occupied by Niamh until so recently. The addition of the officers gave the room a crowded feel, and Cyrus found himself bumping elbows with Longwell, who apologized for each occurrence.

  Terian Lepos stared at Cyrus with a smug, self-satisfied grin, after nodding at the warrior when he entered. “Good to see you, man in black. I’m guessing after fighting off a constant rush of assassins and the entire dark elven army, a couple weeks in a palace must have been quite the vacation.”

  “I didn’t f
ind it all that restful, sleeping as I was on a fainting couch.”

  “They have beds the size of a commoner’s house and you opted to sleep on the couch?” The dark elf shot him a look of revulsion and swung around to Vara. “I heard you finally caved in and locked lips with this lummox, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to let him into your bed?”

  Vara had remained silent thus far, her head down and preoccupied, but at the dark knight’s jest her blank expression was replaced by a scowl. “I’m sorry, I was rather more occupied with healing a wound I suffered in battle, mourning the death of my mother and father, and thinking of the other two people who shared the room.”

  “Nothing wrong with having an audience,” Erith said as she studied her nails. “It makes you perform better.”

  Alaric cleared his throat, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. “You summoned us with some urgency,” he said, looking to Cyrus. “Is this about what the King told you and Vara?”

  “No,” Cyrus replied, his fingers folded in front of him, mailed gloves laying on the table. “And yes. I mean, what he told us was incredible, but—”

  “It was nonsensical,” Vara said.

  “—I was just thinking,” Cy continued, “about all that’s happened in the time since we left, both here and to us in Termina, all the assassin attacks—”

  “Perhaps you might fill us in on what the King told you that was so damned important,” Terian said, his amusement gone.

  “In a minute,” Cyrus said. “But first, I have a question.”

  The dark knight threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Always with the dramatics. Can’t you just cut to the point when you have one of your ‘revelations’ instead of dragging us unsophisticates through your mental hoops?”