Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “I can do something more with it,” Quinneria said, and then her fingers crackled with spell energy. The stone shifted, metamorphosing into a grander monument, granite shining and visible through the spell. It started to settle, the light dying down, and Cyrus could see names carved on the stone. He started at the top and stopped every time he reached a familiar one. “Raifa Herde,” he said. “Pradhar. Erkhardt …” he paused, and looked at his mother. “Sometime … perhaps you can tell me what happened to those last two.” She nodded, and he went back to reading. He felt a sorrowful tingle as he reached Narstron’s name, the air suddenly as chill as it had been in the caves that night in Enterra. “This … this is …”

  “Everyone who died in the service of Sanctuary,” she said, her head bowed in mourning. “I didn’t feel we should leave anyone out.”

  Cyrus read on, stopping as he saw Niamh’s name. He closed his eyes and imagined he could see red hair, bright as dancing flames. He opened them again and kept on. He paused when he saw Chirenya’s name, and looked at his mother, who shrugged. “She died in the service of Sanctuary,” Quinneria said simply, knowing just where he was reading.

  Cyrus kept on resolutely, the reading of the names feeling like someone was scraping his guts with a sword. His skin crawled as he looked over the dead of the battles in Luukessia, the siege, and Leaugarden, and then onward to those who had fallen in the Dragonshrine. His eyes glassed over toward the end, he had read so many, and then, at the last line, he stopped, and his breath left him.

  Vara Davidon

  Shelas’akur

  Beloved Wife

  His knees went weak beneath him, and Cyrus stumbled to the side. A gasp arose behind him and he held up a hand to stave off anyone coming to help him. “I’m … fine,” he said, not convincing even himself.

  “It’s all right to not be all right,” J’anda said quietly. “None of us would fault you for it.”

  Cyrus opened his mouth to reply, but no words came forth.

  “You can show weakness,” Ryin said. “You’re not a warrior of Bellarum anymore, you know.”

  Cyrus turned to see the druid staring at him from out of the small crowd. “I know that.”

  “Maybe in your head,” Terian said, his helm under his arm, his cheeks wet. “But I think your heart struggles with it, especially now, knowing you’re going to have to face him.”

  “Perhaps we could hold off this discussion for another venue,” Cyrus said coldly and turned back to the stone.

  He waited a long moment, and then spoke. “I feel as though I should say a few words … but I can’t think of any,” he lied. The words were welling up from his heart but he put a cork in the gushing sentiment threatening to overtake him. He pretended he saw a wall of ice constructed around his heart as though by spellcraft, chilling his feeling and leaving him numb, at least for the moment.

  “May … may I?” Aisling said, stepping up to his side.

  He turned his head to stare at her. He could feel the deep furrows in his brow, the disbelief etched heavily in his face. “Are you jesting?”

  “No,” she said with a simple shake of her head. “I … just let me say something,” and she walked past him without so much as a by your leave.

  “This is going to sound truly strange coming from me, of all people,” Aisling began, stray strands of her white hair blowing in the wind, “but I knew you all, as an outsider and, yes, a spy. I watched you all, and knew your hearts, for that was my task.

  “I came to this guild under the falsest of pretenses,” she went on. “I came steered by the God of Darkness himself, by his allies and proxies, came to lurk and watch, to insert myself into your lives, and to report all I had seen.”

  Cyrus could feel the weight of eyes on his back, waiting to see how he responded. Aisling, for her part, continued as though she were not aware that everyone was holding their breath as she spoke, afraid to see where this would go, and trying fathom how it could go anywhere but in a horrible direction. Why is she even here, other than the momentum that propels us all? She’s caught up in our wake, like debris down a river that can’t escape the same eddies as the rest of us.

  “I learned much,” she said, “for I was a good listener. I told the God of Darkness, through his minions, all about you. I told him the facts, the things he wanted to hear, twisted in the shape I knew that he and …” she twitched, then looked down, “the way his servants would want to hear it. I told them tales of Sanctuary’s rangings, far and wide. I told them of the great running battle in Enterra that we very nearly lost, of the fight across the bridge in Termina, where Cyrus was nearly brought low by … loyal servants of the Sovereignty,” she appeared choked at this, and Cyrus glanced behind him to see Terian’s eyebrow raised in vague amusement, “and of the fight with Mortus … and all that happened after to take us into new lands.

  “The questions always came, of course, about what the leaders of Sanctuary were thinking,” she said, looking down as she spoke. “Always, they wanted to know intent, and when I would answer, I could feel their … the smug assurance that I must be wrong. So often that I started to change my answers, to shape them to fit their perceptions.” She looked up, mournful. “Because … there was a never a question of the courage of Sanctuary. That much was obvious. Even a fool in the service of the Sovereign, blinded by the dark, could see that Sanctuary would go places and do things that no other guild and few armies would dare.

  “What they couldn’t understand … and what I couldn’t make them understand … was why.”

  Aisling took a breath and seemed to surge with energy. “Why would Sanctuary stick its neck out and battle the Dragonlord? The answer came back, sure, from Yartraak—self-interest. Saving Arkaria would mean saving your own selves. Then, when Enterra came along, the explanation came back even more blind—pure self-interest. Taking in refugees after the war began? Why, that was to grow our numbers through good will, plainly. Fighting in Termina? We were casting in our lot with those we were most closely tied to, for surely we must have smelled the intent of the Sovereign to stretch his hand forth over all Arkaria.”

  Cyrus listened, drily amused at her use of the word “we,” as though she had been a part of it all along.

  “Try as I might,” she said, “I could not make them see it, for they did not wish to. And that is the difference between Sanctuary, in what it was, and everyone else.” She stared straight ahead. “I never respected the paladin code until I saw it lived in a guild that saved us all. Try as I might to minimize it in every report, I couldn’t ignore it completely. I watched this guild do things that no one else would have done in the name of protecting Arkaria and its peoples.” She looked sidelong at the marker stone, and her eyes settled on that last name at the bottom. “I came to understand Sanctuary because I watched her—her code, her way, her rigidly inflexible adherence to the idea that in spite of … torturous wrongs done in the past, that there was a good in people. That one didn’t need to speak it aloud to see it, and live it, and react to it.” She lowered her eyes again. “That you could be the hardest person on the outside, but inside … the desire to do some good even in the sea of darkness in which we swam, it would live within, until given a chance to be let out to do its work.” She looked up at Cyrus. “Sanctuary was more than a place, it was the people that called these walls home. Their example lives on in us, if we should keep it close within our … hearts …” Aisling’s voice cracked, and she stopped, returning to the crowd behind him, pausing only at his side for a moment to say, “I’m sorry,” in a whisper, before she rejoined their ranks.

  “Abounding shits,” Terian said, “I don’t think I could have said it any better myself … so I’m not going to try, save but to say … Sanctuary was the best, noblest part of my life, and yes,” he looked at Aisling, “I will carry its lessons with me always.” And with that, the dark knight nodded, once, to his wife, and Cyrus saw the Sovereign warring to hold in his emotions. Kahlee cast a spell, taking them away, along
with Aisling, Terian turning his head at the last, unable to hold his emotions in any longer.

  “I came to Sanctuary before many of the rest of you,” Cora said, stepping forward, drawing her aqua cloak around her carefully, her eyes already red. “I called it my home when few did, and forged friendships here that … stay with me to this day. Never did I see us become ignoble in purpose, even in the days after I left. Even as you grew into the largest guild in the land, never did I see you become like the other guilds, with their perfidy for loot and treasure. Sanctuary took its conquests, certainly, but did not live for them as others do.” She held her head high. “I am proud to have been a founder of this guild, and I only regret I lacked the strength to … see it through to the end.” Her voice cracked, and she raised a hand and disappeared in her return spell.

  “I came here an outcast,” Mendicant said, “and you all welcomed me as one of you in a time that I would not have been welcome anywhere else.” The goblin held his head high on his short frame. “I may be from Enterra, and to Enterra I will return when this is done, but I will never forget that Sanctuary is my home—and that without it, I would still be an exile.” He held aloft a glowing hand that carried him away as well.

  “Sanctuary saved my people,” Longwell said, “offering me path and shelter when I sought both. Whatever else we’ve done, I believe we’ve been a force for good in Arkaria, always making the choice that we thought was best for everyone. I’ve looked back on every one of those decisions a thousand times, played in my head, wondering about the road not taken and how it might have turned out.” He shook his head. “The conclusion I come to is … I wouldn’t change a blessed thing.” The wind blew through and stirred the ceremonial cloak he wore, causing it to billow in the breeze like a flag as he stepped back.

  “Nor would I,” Ryin said. “Long had I argued the other ways, the other paths, but I see now that when we made our choices, we were doing as we could, as we thought best … and all along,” he sounded like a thin layer of rage hid under his words, barely covered, “we were being manipulated, pushed, turned about. We made the best choices we could under the circumstances we had … and while I don’t think I was always wrong, I often was.” He bowed his head.

  “Zarnn came late to this place,” Zarnn said, stepping forward, massive hands crossed in front of him. “Did not see the glory days, but have heard them spoken of. Lord Fortin, the Grand Knight, talked in glowing terms about the things done here. I fought with the dark elves in the war.” His eyes glistened dangerously. “Saw them lead. Saw the way treat trolls. Livestock. Animals. Trolls not people to them, they … soldiers without souls.” Cyrus blinked, surprised to hear the troll speak so eloquently. “Here,” Zarnn said, “we were among others. Few of our kind, but many who treated us well. Not like the dark elves. How you treated my people, even invading Gren … was as people.” The troll nodded his large head once. “This … this is Sanctuary. And I will remember it always.”

  “I went to foreign lands with Sanctuary,” Calene Raverle said, her cloak wrapped around her, rustling as she stepped forward. “Once, on a scouting expedition, I had happen to me what every ranger fears—I was captured, tortured …” She went silent for a moment. “I wondered if I’d survive. We were grabbed for ransom, see, as hostages against Sanctuary leaving that land. But the men that grabbed us, they were laughing and being cruel, and I heard them admit—we weren’t going to see home ever again, even if Sanctuary went along with what they wanted. Because they were going to keep us forever as wards against future invasion.”

  She raised up fiery eyes. “That very day, our General came calling to the gates of the keep where we were being held. The man who held us thought we were weak westerners, weaned on a diet of magic, afraid to see real death. Thought we were soft. Terrible things happened that day, things I’ll never forget so long as I live.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “But I’ll also never forget as they threw me over that rampart with a rope around my neck, that my army and my general were sitting right there. And before I hit that snap that caused everything to go dark, I felt this peace … this calm fall over me in those last inches before the rope went taut. Some people might have turned to their faith in the gods at that moment.”

  She looked right at Cyrus. “I had my faith in Sanctuary, because you were there, and I could see you, and I knew you were coming for me and my people. I saw the look on your face as I went over,” she said, right to Cyrus, who felt a strange quiver in his knees, “and I knew that raw bastard had no idea what was coming for him, how bad he was about to be gutted because he’d messed with the wrong guild, the wrong family.”

  Calene wiped her eyes with her cloak sleeve. “I’ve been proud to be part of this guild since that day. Others talked about quitting, leaving, tried to convince me to go with them. Every time they did, I’d tell them what happened in Luukessia. ‘Who else is going to come for you?’ I’d ask. They’d hem and haw, say something about us being heretics, about the world being against us, the gods turning on us like Bellarum in the jungle.” She shook her head, eyes afire as they looked straight ahead. “‘The world’s against us anyway,’ I’d say. ‘Leave, and now you got no certainty at your back, no Sanctuary in the storm, no people coming to find you if something bad happens.’” She shook her head. “You’d think they’d have learned, after we came for the Daring in Gren, and how hard we worked all these years to make sure no one got left behind … but that’s Sanctuary to me.” She wiped her face again. “It always has been. And that’s why it’s home.” She looked out over the crater and her lips went stiff, as though she were seeing the devastation for the first time, and she looked away, shielding her face from it.

  “We should go,” Ryin muttered, drawing Calene closer to him. Longwell shuffled over to the druid, as did Scuddar, who looked at Cyrus once, but said nothing of his own to add to the other accounts already spoken. With a motion of Ryin’s hand, they disappeared, leaving Cyrus alone with J’anda, Quinneria, and Vaste at the edge of the crater.

  “This is not an end I had imagined for this place,” J’anda said, his words nearly lost under the wind. “I came here … dispossessed, alone, distrusting of people and afraid to look at my own face in a mirror.” He held his head up, staring into the sky as though there were something beyond the clouds to look at. “I was a young man, and I believed in nothing. It was no magic of soil and stone in this place that turned me around, made me believe in the good of men again—it was Alaric. It was Vara. It was all the others, these people I started to believe in so much more than I ever believed in myself.” He turned his head down. “I was afraid for so long that if I showed them who I truly was, they would hate me for it as much as I hated myself in the dark moments. I expected them to turn on me … expected you to turn on me … but you never did.” He looked up, and his eyes were glistening, too. “I have never known, even in my youngest days, the peace of a home. Yet that feeling, the one that I found for the first time here, has spread, thanks to Sanctuary, to the place where I never thought I would be welcome again.” He did not put his sleeve upon his cheeks, merely let his tears roll down, proud and unafraid. “Thank you, my friends.” And with that, the enchanter vanished into the light of a return spell.

  “I suppose I’d better come up with something profound to say so that I can leave dramatically, too,” Vaste said, looking from Cyrus to Quinneria. “You know, before I’m left alone with Cyrus again. Best not to give more credence to those rumors about us, you know.” He cleared his throat. “Like J’anda, I didn’t know a home after my parents died. Gren was an alien place to me, filled with people who … well, frankly, couldn’t complete a sentence and gloried in the fact. They had no love for orphans and consequently, no love for me. I came into the world of men and elves, and found the amount of charity they had for a bright, young troll with dashing good looks to be as small as their genitals.

  “I was cast out of a lot of places,” he went on, “and found myself unwelcome in many more even w
hen they didn’t toss me out on my ear. No matter how many times I visited Huern or tried to drink with the gnomes, they were never going to accept me as one of their own, especially when I kept getting drunk and stepping on them—”

  Quinneria stifled a laugh by turning it into a cough, and Vaste gave her a sour look. “Oh, yes, laugh at my tale of woe and misery.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t include references to stepping on gnomes if you wish to be taken seriously,” she said, getting control of herself. “Just gloss over that part next time.”

  Vaste looked at Cyrus dully. “Why is it all the women in your life have this deep and abiding hatred of gnomes?”

  “I don’t hate gnomes,” Quinneria said. “They’re just … rather small and squishy, and … you were being funny as usual …”

  Vaste sighed, his great shoulders rolling up before sagging. “I can’t help it, I just am. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. Sanctuary was my home when nowhere else was. Losing it … is a blow. Where am I to go now? Back to Gren? I’m sure it’s changed, but I doubt by that much. Reikonos? I’ve never fit in in a city of men.” He bowed his head. “Where do you go when your home is lost?” That plucked a chord in Cyrus, resonating through his being with a song of sorrow. “What do you do when your best days, the ones in which knew your place and felt most at home, are behind you?”

  Vaste stood in silence for a long moment, then raised his fingers and disappeared in the light of his spell, leaving Cyrus and Quinneria alone, the wind making a strange noise as it gusted over the crater.

  “I found Sanctuary in my darkest hour,” she said after a long pause. “Declared heretic, alone … I had nowhere else to flee, and when I’d reached the end, here I was, calling out into the night for whatever help I could find.” She looked up at the sky. “It was dark, the clouds covered the moon, and my horse fell over dead, exhausted from the hard ride to escape the pursuit, and trapping me beneath him. I lay here and called out into the night, shouting every thing I could think of, desperate for help, sure none would come … knowing I’d never see you again …” She looked at Cyrus, then closed her eyes. “Then the clouds slid back, and the moonlight fell over the plains, and there, in front of me were gates open wide and welcoming. I saw a man in armor striding out. He held his helm under his arm, and I pawed at the ground, trapped beneath my horse, so weary that I was ready for him to end it—end me—if he were of a mind to. As he approached, I saw his sword on his belt, like those of the armies I’d led and them who’d turned against me, and was ready for him to finish me. I only hoped he’d be merciful.”