Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  Chavoron was taking Curatio’s tongue-lashing with surprising good nature, listening intently, his fingers smoothing the material of his trousers as though petting himself. They both sat at the table where Chavoron and I took our meals when we were in the tower. “Now Curatio,” he said when the elf took a pause for a breath, “placing our portals in your major cities as we do will allow unfettered trade between our peoples, which will help bring a measure of peace—”

  “It will help you in the event of a war,” Curatio said darkly, “by allowing you to send soldiers directly into our cities.” He bristled in fury. “As though the callous action of your Yartraak against us a few years ago was not warning enough—”

  “That was …” Chavoron spread his hands out placatingly. “He was insulted, he acted hastily and foolishly. I have apologized on many occasions, and we made sure that no harm was done—”

  Curatio’s face turned a scarlet shade. “He nearly started a war with every single city-state of the elves because he was offended that we did not rally together to send him an appropriate gift for his damned wedding.” The elf lightened a shade and lowered his voice. “He’s not even married to that woman anymore, dammit. His intemperance—”

  “I am well aware of the Yartraak’s personal … problems,” Chavoron said, sounding a little tired of the discussion. “But you must acknowledge that if you’re going to expect us to differentiate between your people’s various city-states, you could at least do me the courtesy of acknowledging that this was an action of House Varsonne alone, and not our entire empire.”

  My ears perked up at that; Jena’s father had started a feud with all the elves over a wedding gift? He certainly seemed the type.

  “This is emblematic of larger problems between our two powers,” Curatio said, raising a fist to pound the table between them.

  “Of course,” Chavoron said, settling himself back in his seat; I got the feeling he knew he was in for a long diatribe and was determined to be as comfortable as possible for it.

  “Your city in the northwest is another active insult,” Curatio said. “You have enslaved the native people of the swamps, turning them into another source of forced labor, in flagrant violation of our border at the river, to say nothing of the floating monstrosity you have created off the coast in order to trade with those damned merpeople—”

  “These are minimal presences,” Chavoron said, dismissing the complaint, but I caught the stiff reticence in his manner that suggested to me, now that I’d known him for a while, that he was uncomfortable with these outposts himself. “A harbor city and a floating town, both allowing us to trade with the lands west beyond the Placid Sea, shortening the time they take to get goods to Sennshann and other ports.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I suspect your cities along the coast and bordering the swamp have little complaint given how much gold flows through their gates because of us—”

  “These are the outposts of future conquest!” Curatio said, his face flushing again.

  “They are supply posts for overseas shipping,” Chavoron gently volleyed back. “As for the greenskins … I was under the impression your people didn’t even care for them. Like the titans of the south—”

  “And that’s another thing,” Curatio said, now wagging his finger. He was certainly alive with mannerisms today, I thought. “You are provoking conflict in the south. We have a peace with the dragons and the last thing we need is for you to provoke this new Dragonlord of theirs, Ashan’agar.” He lowered his voice. “If you think your Yartraak is intemperate, you clearly have not had many dealings with the dragons.”

  “Oh, I assure you,” Chavoron said, and now his face darkened slightly, “we have had dealings with them. The Pacem—” Chavoron turned apologetically to me, “—the minister of state—” he turned back to Curatio, whose eyes had widened slightly in outrage, probably from the interruption to their conversation brought about by Chavoron stopping to explain this to me, “—has had many unpleasant conversations with the dragons. In fact, just last year we had our first real conflict with them as we were expanding portals in the—”

  “There will be more conflict should you persist in the south,” Curatio said, ripping his angry eyes off me. I had the distinct feeling that having to speak in the human tongue for this meeting was grating on him, but then, from what I’d seen, his mood was unlikely to improve even if he’d been speaking in elvish, such was the topics of conversation. “You seem hell-bent on expanding your empire to every corner of the map, even the corners that push you back.”

  “We do not go where we are unwanted,” Chavoron said, and in this I knew he was lying.

  Curatio fixed his eyes upon me, and here I saw a gleam of triumph below his hatred. “Do you agree with that, human? Do your people want imperial slavers dragging you out of your lands?” I didn’t take the bait offered, and his lips twisted in a smile. “What if they came south? Or across that massive bridge they’ve been building? Do you think that will endear your people to them?” His smile faded, loathing pressing to the front. “How thrilled do you think your father the king will be when he finds out that there is an invading empire ready to come across the sea, to swarm down out of the north and make all your people slaves like his heir—”

  “That’s enough,” Chavoron said, his countenance darkening. For my part, I was stunned, and sat there mute, without the ability to speak even if I’d known what to say. “You know my predecessor put all those plans in place, and his dead hand steers them to their completion. I would not import another slave into this empire were it up to me.”

  Curatio made a scoffing noise in his throat. “I find it fascinating how small your power indeed is, First Citizen—at least when it comes to affecting things that you protest you don’t want done. Yet you seem powerful indeed in other moments. It is a curious contradiction.”

  “What’s a curious contradiction?” came a voice from the stairs. I felt a small surge of relief as Caraleen, Chavoron’s daughter, made her way up the steps, her robes dragging the ground lightly.

  “Ah, Caraleen,” Chavoron said, getting to his feet but not nearly as quickly as Curatio did. “You must have gotten my message.”

  “I did,” she said lightly, wearing her ever-present smile as Curatio stared at her, then dropped his gaze in some embarrassment. “Rin found me just a short while ago. I came as soon as I could.”

  I blinked. I had seen Rin leave, but I had no idea that Chavoron had sent him for Caraleen. It made a certain amount of sense, though, as Curatio seemed to relax his apoplectic state in Caraleen’s presence. He became rather sedate, in fact, compared to his normal, sputtering-with-rage self.

  “Caraleen,” Curatio said, mustering his dignity around him like he was gathering up the tattered remnants of shredded clothing. I found it amusing, his attempt to be calm and humble.

  “Curatio,” she said with a polite smile. “What brings you to my father’s chambers on this day?” She looked past him, out the open balcony, the sun shining down, a temperate and pleasant warmth creeping into the room.

  “Matters of state, I’m afraid,” he said, as stiff as a corpse. “I was sent on behalf of the city-states to raise certain … complaints.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt you,” she said, easing into the chair across from me. She caught my eye and threw me a wink that told me she knew full well what her father was playing at inviting her here, and she seemed a willing participant. “My father and I have lunch planned in a short while, but certainly we could entertain your worries until then.”

  I held back my frown; she and Chavoron had made it clear he’d just sent Rin to find her with a message. While that didn’t rule out the idea of a lunch appointment, I wondered if Curatio would try fitting these pieces of information together and find them a poor match.

  “I wouldn’t want to interrupt you,” he said hastily. If he had doubts about the legitimacy of their luncheon, he apparently didn’t presume to question her. Or perhaps even if he knew t
hey were lying, he was simply not disposed to say so.

  “You wouldn’t be a bother at all,” she said, still smiling. I caught an implication there—Curatio hadn’t said anything at all about being a bother; she’d brought that up herself. It was very smooth, but I suspected it went right over his lovestruck head.

  “Well, perhaps …” he said, not even looking at Chavoron.

  “By all means,” Chavoron said. “Join us for lunch. We’ll have a full table.” He indicated me with a wave of his hand.

  Curatio’s eyes flashed up at me and he grimaced, very slightly, and then forced his expression into a smile. “It would be my very great pleasure … if it’s not too much trouble for you.”

  “Not at all,” Chavoron said slyly. “And let’s make sure you we get all your worries out while you’re here.” He wagged a finger at Curatio, whose smile had faded as he realized he was about to have to communicate all his complaints in the presence of a woman whom he didn’t want to raise his voice in front of. “I want to be sure we have a full accounting, so that you don’t walk away and let these concerns build on your mind. It’s not healthy, stopping it all up inside,” Chavoron said with a subtle glee.

  I watched Curatio for only a moment more, and then I realized that Caraleen was looking right at me even though her face was turned to the elf. She was looking sidelong across the table at me, her face frozen in a smile. She didn’t look away when I caught her, either, as Curatio guffawed at some minor jest Chavoron had made, the elf now completely at ease. Caraleen laughed along, light and lilting, but her eyes never left me.

  And deep in the back of my mind, behind the smile I was keeping up front, I contemplated the thought of what might happen if the empire continued south out of Syloreas, or decided to cross the bridge over the sea when it was done.

  And I worried.

  45.

  Cyrus

  “I’ve been a little busy,” Cyrus said to Ryin Ayend, who hovered in the air, flame spell drenching the Goddess of Water with its fury, driving her back down the street of the slums of Reikonos. “I’m noticing you now, though.”

  “Better than nothing, I suppose,” Ryin said. “The gods have gone mad, then?” The druid’s face twisted and he lifted his hand, the fury of his spell intensifying so that Cyrus had to blink away from the heat. “They’ve decided to expand beyond what they did to Sanctuary?”

  “Aye,” Cyrus said, clutching Praelior close. “We’ve killed five of them so far today. We get the elemental ones, and we’ll be done with all of them save for Bellarum, I think.” When Ryin cocked his head inquisitively, Cyrus said, “He’s running this show.”

  “Then I guess he’s marked for death,” Ryin said, and his flame spell sputtered out. “A little help, here …?”

  “Sorry,” Cyrus said, lurching forward again, fighting against the multitude of pains racking his body. He felt his Falcon’s Essence drop from being on him too long, and he recast it as he ran, flying up into the air as Ryin’s fire spell disappeared in a last breath of residual smoke.

  Ashea staggered, her flesh blackened, and she threw out a hand toward him. Cyrus dodged as a blast of intense water shot past him faster than a falling boulder, and he heard Ryin scream over his shoulder. He glanced back and saw the druid’s arm engulfed in the powerful stream, and when it subsided the man’s shoulder had disappeared all the way to the collarbone. Cyrus tossed a healing spell back at him and watched Ryin drop to his knees as the flesh began to regrow, making a strange whistle as he moaned through a perforation in his lung.

  Cyrus went low on Ashea this time, aiming for the blackened spot where he’d stabbed her before. She was shrinking, just as the others had, but she was still immense, her arms and legs seeming to lengthen the smaller her body got. She swung at Cyrus and he ducked, her wrist skimming the top of his helm and rattling it again as it made contact with her wrist bone. He caught the bottom of her upper arm with the tip of Praelior and let the blade drag across her flesh, ripping it open as she passed.

  He plunged the tip of his sword into her chest, aiming for the heart. She screamed and swiped down at him, grazing him as he ripped the blade free and dodged out of her way before she could batter him into the ground. He struck at her hand and cut it, notching a gash several inches wide into the meat of her palm as he stepped back.

  “You can’t beat us!” she shouted as she lashed out at Cyrus and he dodged back again, just out of her reach. He skinned a few inches of flesh off her knuckles as her hand passed him, and then he leapt in beneath her defenses and thrust Praelior between her bony ribs, which showed through her pale skin.

  “I’ve been beating you all along,” Cyrus said, running around her back as she spasmed in pain. The blade ricocheted between the ribs as he pulled it along, tearing a trench around her side. “I’ve been killing you assholes all night.”

  “But you can’t—” she started, when an arrow hit her in the eye.

  “He can,” Martaina called, standing atop a nearby roof, her breath coming with slow precision, her hand plucking another arrow and loosing it. It struck Ashea in her other eye, forcing the lid open. The goddess shrieked in agony and outrage. Martaina ignored her. “He will.”

  “Nice of you to finally show up,” Cyrus said, leaping on Ashea’s back as she fixated on Martaina. Can’t have her go after Martaina; without a godly weapon, that fight would get ugly fast. He ripped and tore at her, and Ashea bucked to drive him off without any luck; Falcon’s Essence held him aloft, not any grip he had on her.

  “I couldn’t recast my flying spell when it dropped,” Martaina said crossly, pausing to leap to another rooftop, rolling as the thatching collapsed and coming to her feet perched carefully on the stone wall. She let fly another arrow and then started to move again. “Having to traverse the city by foot slowed me down.”

  A blast of ice caught Ashea in the face, freezing her mouth over and anchoring the arrows in her eyes. It began to crack immediately, but Cyrus took advantage, swinging hard at the back of the goddesses’ neck. “Well, at least you’re all here now,” he said, watching Ryin throw another ice spell, this one catching Ashea in the lower back and crusting it over.

  “Indeed we are,” Martaina said. In constant motion, she plucked an arrow and shot, plucked and shot, aiming for the torso. Her arrows hit their target every time, plunging several inches into the thick skin of the goddess. Streams of her black blood ran down the flawless, shiny skin. Cyrus watched the arrows strike true as he tried his hardest to break Ashea’s neck, carving her to death with his sword. Martaina must be using quartal arrowheads, or else they wouldn’t even be sticking in the skin, let alone that far. He looked up at the ranger, her face tight with concentration, her aim unerring, as she landed another arrow near the goddess’s heart. I wouldn’t even be alive at this point if it weren’t for Martaina. How many times has she saved my life …?

  Too many. But they’re drawing to a close now.

  “One last hopeless battle,” Cyrus found himself muttering.

  Martaina tilted her head to look at him. “Don’t get grim on us now, Cyrus. It’s likely to be several more battles to see this through to the end, after all.”

  “Right you are,” Cyrus said, her words steadying him.

  She leapt to another building, a small wooden house, her balance perfect, but the structure started to teeter underfoot. She moved ably, to the center of its front wall, and it stopped shaking under her weight. She steadied herself and raised her bow, arrow nocked. “To the heart,” she said, but before she could let it fly, several things happened at once.

  Cyrus was attacking Ashea’s back, ripping another trench in the goddess’s neck as she stumbled forward, trying to keep him from striking the deathblow. She was tearing at the ice encrusting her face, shards of it falling off and plopping into the shallow moat of water that surrounded her legs. Ryin was running around to Cyrus’s left, clearly trying to get into position to deliver another spell burst when he stopped short, suddenly.
<
br />   The door beneath Martaina’s feet burst open, and a man stood there, highlighted in the night fires burning around them, the torches casting their ambient glow and the light of large blazes that had broken out to the west illuminating the sky. Cyrus saw the man’s face, mouth open in awe as he stood there, just beneath Martaina’s feet—

  Two children clutched to him, one under each arm.

  Ashea saw it too, Cyrus knew by the way she wrenched her arm up. She was just beyond his reach, the killing blow, and he was back on his heels after she’d just lurched forward again to escape him. He knew he would need to plunge for her, to throw himself desperately at her in order to gamble with the kill shot, but it would still be a near thing, if it worked—and it was just as likely not to.

  He saw the glow begin on her hand as he made his leap. She wasn’t going for a healing spell, something that might let her weather another attack; no, she was striking in spite and anger, in fear and fury, and her aim was true.

  Directly at the occupants of the doorframe.

  Cyrus saw Martaina make her leap, her bow cast aside like driftwood on raging floodwaters. He had never, not ever, seen her throw it away in the midst of battle, and it took him less than a second to realize why she’d done it. Less than a second for Ashea’s spell to leap from her hands—

  Martaina’s sudden, desperate leap caught Ashea’s eye as she released the spell; instinctively she moved her hand to counter the sight of something flying directly at her face. The blast of water shot forward with the same power and intensity that had washed Ryin’s arm and shoulder. The killing water spell went high, rushing over the heads of the man and his children—

  And struck Martaina squarely above the waist, turning the spray from a rushing white to a dull red in an instant, and washing away the ranger’s life as Cyrus buried his sword in the back of Ashea’s neck, the spell ceasing as he brought death to the Goddess of Water … and watched Martaina’s body tumble, the upper half missing and irreparable by any spell, to the sodden slum street.