Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “Here?” I asked, my voice slightly hushed. There was a part of me, naturally suspicious, that worried I was returning here to stay for good, to fight in the Coliseum for the rest of my days as an amusement. The thought raised every hair on the back of my neck, and I was sitting up far too straight in the carriage, my fists clenched at the thought of facing Curatio the Butcher on the arena’s sandy floor once again. If it came to that, this time there would be no mercy for me.

  “I thought you might like to talk to your men,” Jena said softly. It allowed me a breath of relief, a sigh; Jena was not the treacherous sort, and if she meant this to be a visit, then surely it was a visit only. Unless someone else had other plans …

  In truth, my mind whirled at that moment with all those possibilities because I was hardly secure in my place in the world. Plucked from a life of slavery and constant battle after just adapting to it, being told that I was an instrumental player in transforming an empire I hadn’t even heard of a few months ago … it had all left me unsteady on my feet. Many were the nights I still dreamed of returning home with my new powers rather than thinking about the immediate future and what it held for me.

  Of course, when I did think about what was to come, it was seldom focused on any of Chavoron’s plans. I let my eyes run up and down Jena, her tunic and trousers fitting her form very well. I glanced away before she could see me looking, hoarding that memory away for later, when I would be alone. I thought of her often when I was alone.

  The carriage rolled up to the camp gate and it opened for us. Jena and I dismounted, my feet crunching on the rough dirt and pebbles strewn over the road. I closed the carriage door with a click as the mysterious and unseen mechanism within latched.

  “Marei,” said a man standing at the entry gate, his face bearing a scar all the way down to his neckline, greeted her with a warm smile, and a pleasant embrace when they drew closer. It was at odds with his mangled visage, this attempt at a smile, and I got the feeling he had pleasant feelings for her in a way he probably didn’t feel about his charges. Me he gave a rather indifferent look to. I didn’t exactly expect a hug from this man, who I recognized as the camp commandant, but I would have expected something.

  “Alaric Garaunt, this is Orovan Rodronn,” Jena said, introducing me. I still struggled with Protanian names sometimes and I wondered if I would remember his five minutes after parting with him.

  “I’ve seen you before,” I said, keeping my tone courteous because of my respect for Jena and Chavoron. Chavoron in particular had made clear that any affront to others would reflect badly on his house, since he’d adopted me into it.

  “And obviously I have seen you as well,” Orovan said, scratching at the scar on his face. Watching him do that, my missing eye and socket suddenly began to itch, but I refused to scratch them for fear of feeling a fool for following his example. “This way.”

  He led us into the camp, the yards empty. We walked past the back of the camp, where the small buildings waited for slaves to service bored Protanians. Jena gave them a look, but Orovan did not, keeping his attention straight ahead as he led us toward the front of the camp.

  I thought it odd at the time that he and Jena did not speak after their warm greeting, but then I remembered that when last I’d seen the two of them together, Jena’s father the Yartraak had been tearing a strip out of Orovan’s backside. Now I wondered again what it was about, that little dispute, which Orovan seemed to have gotten the worst of.

  “I believe you know the way from here,” Orovan said, giving Jena a genuine smile and me one that stopped before it reached his eyes. I could see the words of warning written there, the ones he didn’t dare speak to a member of the House of Garaunt, at least not aloud. I kept my repartee about how I’d know the way from the gates to myself, and nodded politely, walking beside Jena as we headed toward my old barracks.

  “He seems … affable,” I said once we were out of earshot.

  Jena let slip a ghost of a smile. “He’s under some pressure right now, thanks to you—and other events.”

  “I’m less interested in whatever misery I’ve caused him and more intrigued by the other pressures upon him,” I said, not breaking stride.

  “The empire is experiencing a labor shortage,” Jena said quietly. “My father, the Mortus, and some of the others expect to make it up partially with Orovan’s fighters. Orovan is charged with maintaining the Coliseum and its spectacles, however, and has argued repeatedly that depriving him of more humans will result in increasingly poor fights.”

  “I can’t imagine how bad it will get for him if Chavoron and the others get their way and free all the slaves,” I said, a little nastily.

  “I believe it would be the end of his position,” Jena said. She did not sound particularly regretful at the thought. “He likely knows that, and worries as such. But then it would also, likely, be the end of the empire, with starvation and chaos to follow.”

  “Maybe your empire deserves to fall,” I said under my breath.

  “Perhaps,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she was agreeing with me or not. “But that brings about consequences of its own kind, as I’m sure Chavoron has explained to you.”

  “Starvation, lawlessness, death,” I said, nodding along. “He’s made clear his worries.”

  “Add this one to your list,” she said. “Elven invasion.” I turned to look at her in vague alarm. “They would surely seize land if they could, for there is no reason not to. Your friend the Butcher would see to it, for he has no respect for us or any other race in these lands, and certainly not the ones that we presently enslave.”

  “That … would be unfortunate,” I said, and truly meant it. In spite of their oppressive, slaving ways, I wouldn’t wish the fate of living under Curatio the Butcher to any of the Protanians I’d met thus far, even Jena’s father or Orovan.

  We came around the side of the barracks and found the door flung wide as always, one guard standing at the door, a little stiffer and more at attention than usual. When he saw us he got stiffer still, as though he’d spotted a threat. I suppose he had, seeing me coming, for one of his hands came to rest on his blade and the other subtly turned so that his palm was facing me, ready to deal some devastating magic should I step out of line.

  “Hello,” I said. I’d never gotten this guard’s name, and in truth, with their armor all completely uniform, they had all looked roughly the same to me. There were a few who were more easily differentiated—one had a jaw that was wide as a dinner plate, another had a face that was narrow like a candelabra. This one was just in the middle, his face similar to the rest of them, not exaggerated in any way to make him remarkable.

  “Alaric Garaunt,” he said, clearly taking pains to lean on the house name I’d been given. From his bearing I wasn’t sure how to take that.

  I nodded at him, unsure of his name, and he moved aside to let us pass into the barracks. I did so, and was greeted by a hue and cry.

  “He’s here!” a shout tore through the room, echoing off the walls, and I heard feet hitting the floor by the dozens, hands slapping down the bunk ladders in hurried descent. Dirty faces crowded up to me in my bright and clean tunic, looking me over with surprise and pleasure of the sort I had never engendered when we were back in Luukessia, nor when we’d first arrived here.

  “Ulric,” Stepan Tomason pushed his way to the front. My father’s vizier was looking healthier than he had when I’d left, as though he’d been fed better since they’d discovered humans could do Protanian magic. “You look well,” he said after examining me and apparently coming to the same conclusion I had in regards to him.

  “I am well,” I said, and watched Varren shove his way to the front of the crowd. He, too, looked well fed, but pale, as though he hadn’t been outside in a while. “How are all of you?”

  “They’re keeping us penned up,” Varren said before Stepan had a chance to say anything. Varren had always been a talker. His beard was still long and overgrown, but he
looked slightly less dirty than when last I’d seen him. “Feeding us better since that last fight, but we haven’t seen the sun save for out that door in months. He lowered his voice, making sure the guard wasn’t peering in. “We’ve been practicing in here, though. We know our reprieve won’t last forever.”

  “What has happened to you?” Stepan asked, pushing to the front of the crowd.

  “I’m … apprenticed to the … the king of this land,” I said, watering down the explanation in such a way as I thought they’d understand. “There’s trouble here, a split between those who think we humans and some of their other servant races should be freed, and those who think we should be kept underfoot forever. It’s …” I tried to find a way to deepen my explanation. “… It’s quite a mess,” I concluded without luck.

  “Are we going to go free?” Varren asked, hints of hope peeking through. “Like you?”

  “I’m working on it,” I lied, rather ably. “Right now I’m being taught more magic in hopes that I can convince enough of the people that humans are more than just animals to be whipped and used as beasts of burden. Should we succeed …” I smiled, trying to look optimistic, though I certainly didn’t feel it—or, really, care overly much. I was far, far too focused on following the next objective Chavoron had set before me. Looking around at all the eager faces before me, I felt … above them. After all, I had been the one chosen, as I should have been, and they were still here in the barracks. I’d broken the barrier and learned magic after becoming an able swordsman and their leader.

  Still, I wasn’t entirely free of feelings of obligation for them. They were closest thing I had to the army I’d intended to set out with, after all.

  “Oh, you’re working on it, are you?” This came from a quiet voice at the back of the crowd. There was no shoving this time; he wormed his way through the cracks between the men arrayed before me, and I caught flashes of his face as he moved. “Working hard, I’m sure,” Olivier said, and now he was close enough I could see the resentment glowing in his eyes. My oldest friend worked his way to about ten feet from me and stopped there, partially obscured by the taller men all around him. “And I’m sure you doing it all with the blue tart on your arm—or your lap.”

  It took me a second to remember that Jena was standing behind me. I whipped around to look at her; she had an eyebrow raised, locked on Olivier. She didn’t seem particularly outraged, but I felt my blood run hot at the challenge.

  “I’m working hard for the rest of them, Olivier,” I said, bringing my gaze back around to fix hatefully on him. My cheeks burned with the betrayal; how was it that the one man I’d brought with me to be loyal above all the rest was now revolting against me at the moment when the others had seemed to have finally come around to my side? “I’m now less interested in freeing you from any bonds you’re clapped in.”

  “Oh, you threaten me with a withdrawal of favor, Ulric?” It took me a second to realize that I’d grown accustomed to Protanian bastardization of my name, and the old pronunciation rang harsh in my ear. “I think I’ve had about enough of your favor to last me a lifetime.” He tugged at his shredded doublet, always less fine than the one I had worn, and now an absolute contrast to the new, flawless cloth that draped my chest. The rags that were left of his barely covered him, white flesh soiled with mud and twisted patches of hair visible through the many holes. Olivier looked near to tears. “I don’t expect we’re going to see you again.”

  “If I see you again, Olivier,” I said, responding to his insults in kind, “it’ll be too soon.” I looked at Varren, who was eyeing Olivier with a burgeoning fury. He was not alone; I felt a sliver of malicious satisfaction in realizing that once I departed, Olivier would not be having an easy time of things. “To the rest of you … I do hope to see you again, and with far better news when next we meet.” I nodded curtly and started to leave.

  “Wait!” Varren called, and I paused. I’d had a cold calculation in mind when I’d begun my departure; I figured the faster I left, if it appeared I’d been driven away, Varren and the others would let their anger run even hotter as they dealt with Olivier. In my mind I’d already written off his chubby face. If I’d come back and found out he’d died, the anger in my heart would have been happily satiated.

  “Yes?” I asked, not turning fully around.

  “We stand with you, our prince!” Varren declared, a bit over the top, I thought. I could hear other snapping to attention, with the palm-out salute of the Luukessian army.

  I hid my smile of satisfaction so that no one but Jena could see it, and then I turned in a crisp whirl, my tunic whipping in the spin. I saw them all at attention when I came about, both the soldiers and the civilians, their faces full of hope and awe, and I knew I had them.

  All but Olivier, a little island of resentment in a sea of loyalty to me.

  I saluted, and then broke crisply from it. I turned on my heel and left, walking past the unnamed guard with Jena in my wake like an aide-de-camp. It was a powerful illusion, the idea that one of the Protanians waited on me, now that I’d risen so high, and I liked the idea and the image.

  “Was that necessary?” Jena asked once we had turned the corner. The sky was now marred with a few clouds, darkness settling in with the grey tones, a blazing ball of light hiding behind one of them and turning it white. “What you just did to that man, Olivier? He’s going to be—”

  “I don’t know how else to handle it,” I said, and that was truth. I stopped and let her catch up to me, her eyes rimmed with worry. “He was my advisor before we left, and … well … the others have hope, and he is a … a festering tick on them, a disease that could spread easily, infecting them in these dark times.” I raised a hand to indicate the barracks. “They may be well-fed, but these men are the worst sort of prisoners in that place.” I put on a mask I had used in my youth, the one of feigned compassion. “I will not have their spirits be broken by a miserable malcontent, for such a fate is worse than death.”

  I saw Jena’s actual compassion war with her expectations, as she struggled to understand my callous behavior. “All right,” she said, apparently resigning herself to my explanation. She nodded again, solidifying her decision to trust me in this. “You know them best.”

  “Of course,” I said, switching to my feigned smile. I didn’t have to work too hard; being with her was the most enjoyable part of any day I’d had thus far, save for when I listened to Chavoron talk about working the levers of power in the empire. I gave her a moment, scanning around until my eyes rested on the old building where she’d taught me magic in our time alone. I smiled, faintly, and looked back to see her studying the same thing I was. “What were you thinking just now?” I asked, finding a curious trace of regret in the way she looked at it.

  “I … nothing,” she said after a pause. In that moment, I felt the surest suspicion yet—and I’d had quite a few, ever-increasing in their strength—that Jena had wished something else had happened in our time together in that place.

  Something that involved a different sort of magic.

  “Come with me,” I said, a little playfully, and I moved toward the building. She followed behind a few steps. When I tested the handle, I found the door unlocked and opened it, stepping inside.

  It was exactly as I’d remembered it in the days when my life had been in constant peril. I studied the walls, and my gaze came to rest on the empty bed, waiting expectantly for its next occupants.

  “Why are we here?” Jena asked, but she did not hide the hints of hope beneath her uncertainty nearly well enough.

  “Do you have any regrets?” I asked. I knew by the flush of dark coloration on her cheeks that I’d sussed her out.

  “In my life? Many,” she said quickly.

  “My greatest regret is here,” I said, and watched her out of the corner of my eye. It had been a long time; far, far too long since last I’d known a maiden’s touch, a kiss … and all else that followed from that. “With you.”

  “H
ow is that?” she asked, and she became terribly still, as though afraid of what she might hear.

  I wasn’t afraid, though. Her bearing, her manner … I’d seen in other women before. The scales had shifted, the balance of power that had kept me a slave and her my master had moved to make us something akin to equals. I had felt her restraint before, when she’d been focused on saving my life through teaching me magic, directed toward making me equal to her. She might have wanted it, but she would never have let herself have me when I was her lesser. Not because she considered me beneath her, but because she knew her power over me was total. “I have wanted you all along,” I said, “but I never allowed myself to believe a slave could be with you as anything other than a servant.”

  I was near enough to hear her breath catch in her throat. She let it out slowly, and I knew for certain I had her. “And now?”

  “Now … I’m not a slave anymore,” I said, and walked slowly toward her, drawing the door closed when I reached her. She said nothing, but closed her eyes, her chin tilted in anticipation.

  I kissed her slowly, and no more words were exchanged as we both gave in to desires we’d been longing to sate for many, many months.

  41.

  Cyrus

  A glowing ivory moon shone over still waters, the ocean beneath Cyrus washing gently, quietly. He sat with the others on empty air, any sign of sea monsters and immense sailing ships vanished beneath the once-stormy seas.

  There was an aura of calm that felt somehow unearned, as though he hadn’t just killed the God of Storms to break the spell of chaos that had permeated this realm. He listened to the sound of the still waters lapping quietly below, the whispered chatter of his fellows, and he stared at the moon, basking in its light.

  He held the Claws of Lightning in his hand, the occasional burst of soundless sparks rolling down the blades. “Fulmenar,” he whispered.