Cyrus’s eyes skipped down the page as the same passage continued.
Of course I look back on the argument now and think about how positively over the edge I was at that moment. I never did find a secluded place with him because the dark elves burned Santir to the ground and invaded Termina. My home. My mother, dead, myself injured, and my hometown seized by the oldest enemy of our people. Add to that my father’s death a few days later and I’m surprised I was still able to move.
Recovering in the palace was a gloomy affair. Cyrus hovered at a distance, afraid to embarrass me in front of Arydni or Nyad. If I had still felt the same about him as I did the day we left to take the walk, I wouldn’t have cared if they were there or not, especially as I continued to mend.
But I didn’t. Every time I looked at him, I thought of the argument with Mother. The last one; the worst we’ve had. I’ve disappointed her on a thousand occasions. But the last time, the very last time we had a private conversation, to have her look at me like that...
She was dead less than twelve hours later. And all I can think of now is that look...that haunted, disappointed look...and it makes me feel like I’m fourteen again, and leaving her all alone in a house that’s too big for her.
He flipped a few more pages, skimming as he went, until he found one of particular significance. He clenched his hand and felt the cracking of his joints beneath the gauntlet.
We were caught. Hopelessly. Mortus stared down at us, and I knew in that moment that every one of us was dead along with any hope left for my people.
Except we weren’t. Alaric was a genius, playing upon the pride of the God of Death, using flattery in a way that few can, giving him golden words that must have cured like honey poured in his ear. I thought, just for a moment, that he would let us all go.
But hope failed as he forced a choice upon us—Curatio or myself; he would only allow the rest of them to pass if one of us stayed behind.
My thoughts were dark, jumbled. I had lost everything—home, Mother, Father. Mother’s words had settled in my heart, until the thought of holding Cyrus close to me was more bitter than the taste of ashes on my lips. I wanted him but I knew it was not to be and I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t want to tell him. All I wanted was for these overwhelming emotions to end, to give me peace, to let me sleep a full night, to not have my heart be filled with constant sorrow.
And there was Death himself. The eight-armed, four-legged representation of it, and he offered me a way out. By my death, I could buy the lives of the hundreds with me.
And I would never have to tell him.
Curatio, damn him for his nobility, spoke up first. “I have had a long and storied life. I will remain behind.”
“No!” I shoved my way to him. “You can give our people hope with what you know. You’re the only one who can read...it.” I stared up at my end, his face horrific, and I wondered how he would finish me. “I will remain with you, God of Death, as your sacrifice.” At that moment, I only hoped it would be quick.
Curatio tried to shove the parchment into my hand. “I’m not the only one who can read it,” he whispered, then raised his voice. “You are young, and have so much to live for.”
I shoved him away. “I do not. I am weary of this life, of living in a world that would take everything from you a piece at a time, until you have naught left.” Mortus met my gaze evenly, and I could see dark amusement in the eye that faced me. “If you would have me be your sacrifice, strike swift and true. End it—and be quick about it.”
“Done.” Knowing he had accepted my sacrifice, I felt my head bow and my body relax. The legends said a god could destroy a mortal in one blow. I could not have asked for a swifter end.
“NOOOO!” I felt something hit me, hard, in the chest, sending me reeling to the ground. When I looked back, I saw Cyrus with his sword raised, Mortus’s hand descending with the killing strike that had been meant for me. I had not the time to scream, though I felt it upon my lips, nor to cry, nor the strength to throw myself in front of him. He was going to die, for me, because everything Niamh had said was true.
He loved me. He always had. And I had felt the same, but he was out of my reach.
The God of Death hit him with enough force to kill, his palm landing on the edge of Cyrus’s sword. The warrior who I loved was flung apart and I saw him covered in light as the blow landed, pulling him back together, his body landing on the field a hundred feet away. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw him lift his head, dazed.
Then I turned back to the God of Death and I saw his hand was asunder, his black blood coursing onto the ground around him as he howled in anguish, and I knew that something was very, very wrong.
Cyrus remembered Mortus, the way he had staggered, the way he shrank as the battle had gone on. And finally, the way his crumpled body had looked in death, so pathetic that it was hard to believe he had been a god at all.
He didn’t awaken me when he opened the door to my quarters. I had been awake and thinking again about all the things that had been weighing on me for so long. The emotions had once more overwhelmed me like the waves of the Torrid Sea washing over a ship until she breaks apart and drowns. I wondered if that was to happen to me, awash in these horrible feelings that I couldn’t seem to control, this despair and sorrow that was unending.
He spoke quite a bit that night. The theme was the same—that my feelings would pass in time, and that he had felt pain such as this before. I tried to keep from fighting back with stinging words, but I fear I may have failed.
Finally, I told him the truth. Or at least most of it. I told him it would not work between us. I lied to him.
Because in truth, it would work fine. He would love me all the days of the rest of his life, I think, and I would love him all the rest of mine. Unfortunately, mine would last up to 5,900 years past his. I feared spending every day of them feeling about him the way I felt now.
I lost my home, my mother and my father.
My first lover stabbed me in the back, killed my friends, and left me to die.
I stabbed the man I loved more than any of them through the heart, saw the emotion wash over his face while I watched, impassive, a small voice inside me screaming what a fool I was to do it.
But I made a decision. Mother would have approved. My sorrow over losing him after a long, full life together would be worse than losing him before we had even begun. If I loved him this much now, how much worse would it get given a hundred years to compound? Putting an end to it now would hurt, certainly, but would I even notice next to all the other emotional agony I was experiencing?
He left. And I found out.
The answer was yes. Yes, I did notice.
And it made it ever so much worse.
Cyrus blinked back the tears again at her words. She felt the same way then as I did. Dammit. He brushed them away and turned back to the next passage, trying to keep his thoughts on what he was reading.
I watched him leave, with all the pomp and circumstance that Alaric could arrange. Cyrus rode out on that beautiful horse he always uses. I saw him go through the gate and look back. I could see him, and I could swear he was looking at me. After only a moment, he turned and rode away. I watched the formation halt a short distance from the wall, and a wizard teleportation spell swept them onward.
The next days were dark. I didn’t leave my room or my bed. J’anda, Vaste and Larana kept showing up, the latter bringing food every time she appeared. She never spoke, but I saw the pity and sorrow in her eyes every time she looked upon me. I’ve heard it said she pines for Cyrus, and I knew every time she appeared that it was true. She would try and clean my quarters when she showed up, and she never fussed about talking, unlike the others.
After a week I found the strength to leave my quarters. All right, I was forced out of them by that relentless harridan, Erith. She stopped by and harrassed me until I finally cleaned up, put on something cloth and went down to the lounge one afternoon. It was abuzz with activ
ity when I got there (damn Cyrus for putting that word in my mind) yet she and I found a quiet place to sit and talk. Nothing deep—mostly superficial things—but I had a cup of ale, and it was the first time I’d felt...alive...in forever.
I noticed a dark elf standing by the door. He was tall for his sort, lanky, with distant eyes but a familiar look. I saw Alaric cross the foyer and speak with him at some length, taking an envelope from him. Then the dark elf departed.
I have known Alaric for...years. Years and years. He remains mostly an enigma, even to me, but this time I knew something was wrong. His hand hung at his side, and even with his helm on, I could almost see him flinch.
I walked away from Erith in the middle of a sentence. Alaric seemed not to notice me, even as I drew close to him. He continued to stare at the words on the page. “Hello, lass,” he said. “It’s good to see you up and moving again.”
“I could hardly stay down forever.”
“No,” he agreed, “you could not.”
“What have you got there that has you so distressed?” I stared at him, watching for his reaction.
He forced a smile. “Good news, certainly. We only ever get good news around here. Especially of late.”
“We rarely get good news around here,” I said, snatching the envelope out of his grasp. To his credit, he didn’t try and stop me. “Especially of late.”
“Let me summarize,” he said. “Terian’s father has died.”
I started to hand the letter back. “That’s a tragedy. Are you going to send a messenger to deliver it to him?”
His eye flickered, and I caught a hint that made me stop before giving it back to him. “I think not,” he said.
I don’t know why, but I felt a sudden chill, perhaps from standing in front of the main door. I looked at the parchment I held in my hands, and something told me—compelled me, really—to read it.
Dearest Terian,
I am writing to inform you that your father was killed in action with the dark elven army during the invasion of Termina. He fought and died with so many of his comrades in arms, taking the Grand Span that allowed our forces to march into the center of the city. As the foremost dark knight in our country, the Sovereign immediately declared a holiday in his honor, and pronounced whoever killed him a war criminal of the worst kind, and surely marked for death.
Unfortunately, his priceless sword, the one passed through our family for generations, was lost with him...
I looked up from the parchment, looked at Alaric, and I knew he saw the despair in my eyes. “Was it you?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “I fought him, certainly. He was a beast, the strongest dark knight I’ve ever battled. He set upon Cyrus when he was wounded, and nearly killed him before I intervened. He almost killed me as well but Cyrus stabbed him through the back.” I blinked in disbelief. “We had no idea he was Terian’s father...”
“Nor could you have,” Alaric said. “Terian and his father parted ways many years ago, and on less-than-agreeable terms. I know after he left us two years ago, Terian attempted a rapprochement with his father that did not go well for either party, but...” He shook his head. “I do not know how he will take this news.”
“That’s why you’re not sending him a messenger,” I said. “You’re afraid of how he’ll react. When he sees this letter, he’ll know it was either me that killed his father...” I let my words drift off.
“Or Cyrus,” Alaric said. “Or some combination of both. I would rather wait and control his reaction, to have him here, surrounded by those of us he has known for so long when he finds out, rather than have him learn of his father’s death by Cyrus’s hand at some ill-timed juncture, when he might be predisposed to...” Alaric paused, searching for the right words, “...reckless action.”
“You mean revenge.” The words were cold when I said them.
Alaric did not blink. “I mean revenge.” He took the letter back from me and tucked it behind him, along with his hands. “So long as we do not inform Terian, everything should proceed apace.” He shook his head. “Though I consider him a brother, the dark knight is dangerous and unpredictable at times and I will not have Cyrus or you anywhere nearby when the truth is told. By holding off, we keep him—all of you, really—safe.” He folded his arms. “They will proceed on their mission without news from us. It will be better for all if we hold off on this news until they return.”
Alaric is usually spot-on in his predictions. He has a keen observatory eye for the nature of us mortals, probably from long experience—or possibly some undisclosed skill that allows him to look into the heart of a person. In this case, though, he didn’t misjudge a person so much as he mistook an event. After all, he couldn’t have known that Aisling had brought back Terian’s father’s sword from Termina. He couldn’t have known that Cyrus had not only shown it to Terian, but given it to him, not realizing that he’d grown up around it, and knew his father’s sword when he saw it—and knew that if his father was parted from it, it wasn’t willingly. Or while he was still alive.
We didn’t find out until much, much later how very wrong Alaric was.
Cyrus closed the book. His mind was strained, having read for hours. He felt a throbbing behind his eye, a little pain that told him he was overwhelmed. Emotions tugged at him, he felt his breathing get ragged, and he felt himself reach for his sword in anger, then stop. Then he reached for it again and touched the hilt, felt the power surge through him, and he pulled it away only through sheer force of will.
I can’t believe she...didn’t tell me...I didn’t know...Thoughts flew through his mind, whirling, driving him to distraction. A flash of anger was hot, and he turned and punched the wall behind him, cracking the stone. He punched again, this time at a bookshelf, and it broke in an explosion of wood, splinters flying everywhere. She didn’t tell me...she didn’t...Another flash of pure rage took hold of him and he threw the diary as hard as he could.
It flew across the room and hit the painting that hung above the hearth. When it impacted, the frame splintered and broke in two. The bottom half fell, bouncing off the mantle to the ground. The top half hung at a tilted angle, and the painting that the frame had sheltered fluttered down, coming to rest facedown on the floor.
Cyrus blinked. Behind the hanging vestiges of the frame was an indentation in the wall that the painting had covered. A small shelf was secreted behind it. He crossed the gap to the fireplace and stared at it. The shelf was small, recessed a few inches; just enough to hold the contents.
A book. Worn, aged and ragged, he lifted it from the shelf and opened it to the first page.
Here begins the account of Alaric Garaunt, Guildmaster of these halls, and the first of my name...
He read the next page, and a feeling ran through him—a chill as certain as if he had run through the rains outside—and he sat down once more and let the fire wash over him as he read the old knight’s tale.
A Note to the Reader
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I wanted to take a moment to thank you for reading this story. As an independent author, getting my name out to build an audience is one of the biggest priorities on any given day. If you enjoyed this story and are looking forward to reading more, let someone know - post it on Amazon, on your blog, if you have one, on Goodreads.com, place it in a quick Facebook status or Tweet with a link to the page of whatever outlet you purchased it from (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple, etc). Good reviews inspire people to take a chance on a new author – like me. And we new authors can use all the help we can get.
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Robert J. Crane
P.S. Keep reading - as a bonus, at the end of this ebook you’ll find a preview of the first three chapters of my foray in ur
ban fantasy, Alone: The Girl in the Box, Book 1. I’m told it’s quite good, but let me know what you think.
Acknowledgments
Here we are again, the third time around (this series, not counting short stories), and I again have a mountain of thanks to dispense. So let’s get to it, shall we?
First, major gratitude to the inestimable Heather Rodefer. This time she not only fulfilled the function of first reader (again) but also was responsible for finding the cover art. For her extraordinary beyond-the-call-of-duty efforts, I hereby award her the designation of my Editor-In-Chief.
Next was the contributions of Shannon Garza, who once more contributed a weather eye (or two, she’s not Alaric, after all) to finding errors that no one else seemed to find. She also helped me keep on track with the emotion of the story, letting me know when if I was resonating the way I wanted to be. Also, I owe her my apologies, because Niamh was based largely on her. Sorry, Red.
Last of the editing trio, thanks goes again to the knowledgeable and brilliant Debra Wesley whose wide breadth of knowledge about all things, from the mundane to the arcane, helped me create a better manuscript. Who else would keep me informed about the running abilities of horses and the growing patterns of grasses?
Also, thanks to Kari Layman, who may or may not have read this book at some point in time; I’m not really sure. Better safe than sorry, though, especially with her. She will cut you.
I’d like to thank Patrick Ashton, Trevor Norman, Sam Best and Brittany Scott for helping to get my books out there in one way or another. Much appreciated, folks.
The cover art was once again handled on the second edition by Karri Klawiter of artbykarri.com, who has quite a prodigious talent for making my books look pretty.
Editing, formatting, all the stuff that holds the book together, was done by the great Nicholas J. Ambrose, as always.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 44