Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus let out his breath slowly, and the answer bubbled up easily from within along with a warmth that went much farther than skin deep. “Yes,” he said, sure that he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

  “Then let’s go,” Vara said, eyes dancing as she brought her horse about and he followed. Her visor shaded her face as they came around, and Cyrus could see that they were atop a hill. As he came about, the shadowed tower on the horizon caught his eye; an awe-inspiring sight stretching out of the plains into the sky like a titan looming above. His gaze fixed on the top of the structure, the tallest point at the tip of the roof in the central tower, and he felt a pull toward it in the distance, like a lodestone had taken hold of his armor and was inching him forward happily.

  Windrider went into a gallop, as if he could feel his master’s desire drawing them onward. Vara cut out in front with a smile, a catch-me-if-you-can look as her horse broke into a run. She laughed as he spurred his horse to follow with a smile of his own.

  He chased her across the plains under the sapphire sky, the thump of hooves and the laughter of his elven lover echoing in the quiet under a natural breeze. Cyrus could feel the wind in his face, kissing his cheeks where the warmth of the sun lingered. It slipped through the cracks of his armor and teased him like a precursor to his wife’s touch. She kept casting looks back at him, urging him forward.

  The walls of Sanctuary swelled in the distance, gates open and welcoming. Cyrus could see the individual stones as they got closer, the other towers swelling as he rode under the open portcullis. He passed under the shade of the arch and came to a slow halt just outside the doors.

  The smell of good food wafted out at him, the scent of meat pies and stout ale in the wind as distinct as if he were sitting at a table with them piled high in front of him. He closed his eyes again as he dismounted, standing in the shade of Sanctuary’s grand and open doors. He could hear faint noise from somewhere within, the sound of songs and glory being sung, and under it, distant voices that faded into the background like crickets chirping on a summer eve.

  A strong hand grasped at his armor and pulled him forward as he opened his eyes in surprise. He found himself nose to nose with Vara, her lips upon his, soft as the caress of moonlight. Cyrus flushed warmer, felt the swell of excitement and something else, and closed his eyes as he returned the kiss, feeling—

  —so cold—

  The warm day had faded for a moment, and Cyrus startled, pulling back from Vara as he took a hard breath. It came out ragged, like he’d woken from a nightmare, but the disorientation had remained.

  She stared at him in mild concern with those blue eyes, her hand still gripping his armor. “What is it?”

  “I …” His breathing ran hard, as though he’d just covered the distance of their run without Windrider beneath him. “I … don’t know …”

  She stared at him, her red lips pursed in concern, and—

  darkness and chill washed through, erasing the warmth of the day, the distant voices near—

  Cyrus—

  —he’s in terrible condition, I just don’t know if he’ll—

  —Cyrus!

  “Cyrus?” Vara asked, and her fingers threaded into his, their gauntlets clinking together. The sensation felt somehow alien to him, even though they’d held hands with their plate on many times, and it was perfectly natural to him. “Are you quite well?”

  “I’m—”

  —cold, so cold—

  “—not—”

  —pain rushed in like water when a dam broke—

  “—sure.” He stared at her, the flashes of dark leaving her face mired in shadow. He couldn’t fully see the blue eyes anymore, and he looked up to the facade of Sanctuary, wondering if the sun was merely trapped below its spires and arches—

  —darkness, like night had closed in and erased the sunny day—

  And suddenly the sun was back, out from behind a cloud. He could see Vara clearly again—but just for a moment, and then she was fading like mist in the morn, her hair losing its golden shine, her breastplate’s gleam turning dull, her blue eyes losing their luster.

  “Are you ready to go home?” she asked again, but her voice sounded distant, as faded as the rest of her, as though she were slipping beyond his grasp.

  Cyrus reached out and found her fingers gone from his. She was within the foyer now, her hand outstretched, watching him, reaching out for him—

  But she was so far away.

  “Vara!” he gasped, and tried to move forward, but his legs were leaden, and the pain was so great he could not even move. He sagged to his knees like the ground had snatched him up, mired in its grasp, and he reached out for her, trying to take her hand—

  She vanished as the doors slammed suddenly shut in front of her, a hard rattle that echoed the length of the land, and Cyrus watched in horror as Sanctuary disappeared altogether, taking the only thing he wanted anymore with it.

  64.

  Alaric

  I never truly knew darkness until the day I set foot in the tunnels of the Yartraak’s chief mining camp south of Sennshann. I was escorted through a portal by a guard and handed off outside the camp to another who guided me silently into a gaping maw of a cave carved into the earth. Whether he was silent by choice or because he viewed me as not worth talking to, I did not know nor care to inquire. I was cloaked in misery, feeling that Chavoron had exiled me to this place because my hour of use had passed, and I felt certain that whatever reception awaited me—other than Jena’s—was bound to be frigid, to say the least.

  I needn’t have worried.

  We marched through wide chambers in earth lit by miniature versions of the kind of sun I’d seen in Chavoron’s domain. There was a burgeoning camp in the chamber I was guided through, and at the far end, we came to something akin to a palace carved in the rock, waterfalls flanking it on either side and giving it a majesty in spite of its location deep within the earth.

  I was led to the wooden front door of the palace and then ushered inside by my guard with a grunt that indicated I should go forth, so I did just that. Within, I found walls covered in hardwoods, almost as out of place here in this dark cave as the faux sunlight that waited just outside the palace door.

  “Alaric, my boy,” came a voice as I took the room in. The sound of someone speaking my name jolted me; the fact that it was not Jena was doubly vexing. I took a deep breath as I turned to my right and found the Yartraak waiting, arms extended awkwardly in what appeared to be him beckoning me forward for an embrace.

  I shuffled toward him, unsure, his smiling face strange in its gauntness. His skin tone was greyer than any of the other Protanians, and indeed, greyer than I recalled seeing it when last we’d met. He looked different somehow, thinner even than he’d been before. When I got close enough, he enfolded me in a spindly hug, pulling me close. He smelled of dust and a sweet, sickly scent, and after a moment’s embrace he placed a hand on each of my shoulders and brought me to arms’ length, then made a show of looking me over.

  “You’ve had a difficult few days, no doubt,” he said, licking his lips. “You will find rest here, a chance for your soul to recover.”

  “I … thank you,” I said, and he released me with a broad smile.

  “Jena will attend to you,” he said, in a way that made my skin crawl with discomfort. “The service you have done for us shall be commensurately rewarded.” Something about the suggestion, about the way he said it, put me in a mind to think he was offering his daughter as some sort of prize. I held in my revulsion, though a faint wave of nausea rolled through my stomach.

  The Yartraak swept a hand to the side and snapped his fingers. The door to my left opened and two human slaves came forth, heads down, clad in slightly more impressive tunics than the one I wore. They gently took me by the elbows and led me back the way they had come.

  “We will talk more at dinner,” the Yartraak promised. His voice was warm and eager, but at that moment I would have buried mysel
f in a collapsing cave to avoid meeting him again.

  The slaves led me through passages of near darkness. I cast a spell on myself to improve my eyesight and let them lead me. We passed corridors that were blocked and ended in rubble, apparently yet to be dug out, and turned corner after corner, until finally one of them bowed to me as they opened a door and ushered me into a quiet chamber before closing it behind me.

  “Thank goodness you’re all right,” Jena said, crossing a lushly appointed room and enfolding me in an embrace considerably warmer and closer than her father. She put her head on my shoulder and breathed relief down my neck. I felt some of my tension bleed away at her touch. Thus far I had played up my affection for Jena more than I’d felt it, but after the past day, I found being in her presence was the most soothing thing I could imagine.

  “It was a near thing,” I said without thinking. “If not for Rin and Olivier, I would be dead.”

  Jena stared at me. “Is Olivier not that contentious man who verged on rebellion?”

  I blinked. “He is. When I left Enrant Monge, he was my only friend. Now he hates me. But he decided to assist me in hopes of … getting far, far from me.” I shook my head. “I feel honor bound to arrange his will, and Chavoron has agreed to grant it—if we can find a house that would take him into their service.”

  “You should talk to my father about that.” Her brow was furrowed. “He has never yet refused the service of a human pushed his way.”

  “I doubt Olivier is looking to become a common mining laborer,” I said.

  “Not all humans under my father’s command labor,” Jena said. “Even in the strata of the slaves, there is more than one level. It is entirely possible my father would find a use for your former friend that Olivier would find palatable.”

  “It is curious to hear you talk about your father in a favorable way,” I said as Jena pulled from me. She held her body stiff, crossing her arms over her belly. She wore a flowing gown that joined just below her breasts, accentuating them and hiding her lower body in the folds. “I’ve grown used to hearing only the dismal, dark words about him.”

  “Those are the easiest to find,” Jena said, her back to me, “the others would require digging, and as you well know, I will not be taking over as the Yartraak, so why would I spare the time to mine them out?”

  “Still,” I said, easing up behind her, “at least he’s offered me a place to go for now.” I put my hands on her shoulders and she stiffened. “A haven in this—”

  Jena came around, her brow furrowed. “For now? Whatever do you mean?”

  It was my turn to stiffen, bristling, a tinge of worry working its way over me. “Well, I mean … that your father offered to take me in for the time being until things settle—”

  “He didn’t agree to take you in temporarily,” Jena said, her eyes closing, but not before she could show her concern through them. “Is that what Chavoron told you?” Her eyes opened again, and they welled slightly, wet.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, though I had a tingling feeling that, in fact, I did.

  “You won’t be staying here for a short while,” Jena said, looking over to the bed. There was furniture here, clearly new, as though this place had been only recently prepared for its occupant. My stomach dropped as though the Falcon’s Essence spell had just worn off. “Chavoron sent the word himself—you’re to stay here indefinitely.”

  65.

  Cyrus

  The pain was like an echoing voice in the distance, far off but becoming clearer as Cyrus started to drift out of the darkness. It grew nearer and stronger, his bones aching as though they’d been smashed with a hammer or crushed beneath the gargantuan feet of a titan. His chest hammered in pain where he’d been hit by the force of a god.

  A god? His thoughts came slowly, a touch behind the speed of the pain’s arrival.

  Cyrus opened an eye, fluttering in the darkness, hints of orange somewhere over the horizon like a sun preparing to rise.

  The pain settled on him like a troll sitting on his chest with the spiked greaves of a dark knight. Cyrus grunted, and it hurt, his rib cage radiating agony from the sternum down his sides. He considered trying to sit up and dismissed the idea immediately.

  “Do you come back to us now?” a calm voice asked in the darkness. A faint light glowed, and a blue face leaned in over him, age lines under snowy white hair leeched of its vitality now as the man reached the end of his days. He pushed against a purple-tipped staff and stood, slightly hunched over, looking down at Cyrus from his bedside with deep concern.

  “J’anda …?” Cyrus asked, and he groaned again as something ached in his hip.

  “It is I,” J’anda said, and his staff glowed slightly lighter, as though the enchanter had imbued it with the Nessalima’s light spell. It lit the corners of the shadowed room. Cyrus could tell by the ambient darkness and the chill he felt even through the thick blankets that he was back in Saekaj, in the palace. “How do you feel?”

  “Like Bellarum strung me up like a dirty rug and beat me until I was near clean or near death, hard to say which.” Cyrus coughed and pain shuddered through his whole body.

  “Your mother returned to Sanctuary to seal the portal against unwanted visitors,” J’anda said. “She found you in a bloody heap next to the crater.” He pressed his lips together, the wrinkled lines around the enchanter’s mouth deepening. “So it was the God of War?”

  “Either that or I fell under the paw of a rampaging dragon,” Cyrus said, feeling the cold chill as he remembered his conversation with Bellarum.

  “He didn’t kill you,” J’anda said. He sounded to Cyrus’s ears as if he were fishing for an explanation.

  “I’m not so sure you’re right about that,” Cyrus said, and a searing pain ran through his fingers. He lifted his hand to find his gauntlet gone, two of the fingers bandaged together. “On second thought, I doubt death would hurt this much.”

  “Why do you think he let you live?” J’anda asked.

  “Said he wanted me to rule Arkaria as his right hand,” Cyrus replied, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Apparently he finds uses for me that I cannot find for myself.”

  J’anda seemed to consider this for a moment. “You have shown ample ability to kill his godly allies and enemies, but …”

  “But he could kill them himself if he wanted at this point,” Cyrus finished J’anda’s thought. “He presented this … offer … to me with the suggestion that he had other, better things to do than run Arkaria on a day-to-day basis.”

  “And in return for managing his affairs here?” J’anda asked, still probing gently. “You receive the gift of not dying?”

  “Clemency for the rest of you, too,” Cyrus said. “And … other considerations.” His whole body tensed at the thought of Vara, of what Bellarum had done. It’s not her, he thought, but the thought was not fully convincing.

  “I feel that is a generous offer, for my own sake, of course,” J’anda said, watching him carefully. “I also feel you are leaving something out.”

  “Something, yes,” Cyrus mumbled. He pondered it only a moment. “Bellarum went into the chamber beyond the Realm of Purgatory.” He closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness. “He resurrected Vara and killed the God of Evil, absorbing his power as his own.”

  There was a long silence, and Cyrus finally opened his eyes to see J’anda looking utterly horrorstruck. “You can’t decide which one of those things is worse, can you?” Cyrus asked.

  J’anda moved just slightly, grimacing in disgust. “It is a close-run race between those, yes. He has violated the spirit of our friend by bringing her back as a … what? Empty vessel?”

  “Supposedly.”

  “And he now has power beyond …” J’anda stared blankly into the darkness.

  “I couldn’t even touch him,” Cyrus said. “He was so fast … maybe if I had both Rodanthar and Praelior again, but …” He shook his head. “No. Not even then. I might as well have been standing still
given how fast he moved, how hard he hit.”

  J’anda pulled back, settling into the chair. “This … this is …” He brought up a wrinkled hand and placed it over his face. “This is not what I was hoping to hear after waiting so long for you to wake up.”

  Cyrus blinked in the darkness. “How long have I been out?”

  J’anda pulled his hand away. “A month. I have … had to keep you unconscious in order to allow your body time to heal from what was done to it.”

  Something clicked in Cyrus’s head, and he recalled at once the summer’s day, the ride through the gates of Sanctuary. “You’ve been using mesmerization to keep me subdued.”

  J’anda looked abashed. “I would have preferred not to, but … your wounds were … you moved around like a wild boar with a spear through its side, feverish and refusing restraint. I had no choice.”

  “Fine,” Cyrus said, voice tightening, thick with emotion. “But J’anda …” The enchanter looked up and Cyrus met his eyes. “Don’t do it again.” He swallowed and glanced away. “I don’t want to live in my heart’s desire any longer.”

  J’anda looked down. “So you’re one of those, then.”

  “Those what?” Cyrus asked.

  “When a disaster strikes, when we lose someone we love,” J’anda said, still staring down at his hands in the lap, “people have one of two reactions to a mesmerization. They embrace it wholeheartedly, wishing to dive in deep and live their life in the depths of the illusion.” He glanced up at Cyrus, meeting his eyes. “Then there are those who, once the illusion is broken, refuse to indulge that dream world any longer. It becomes almost a personal affront to them.”

  “I’m not affronted,” Cyrus said, staring at the darkness. “But it’s a waste of time, thinking about what … might have been.”

  “What could be again?” J’anda asked. “If you fall in line with the God of War’s wishes?”

  “He’s a liar and a murderer,” Cyrus said, looking down at his chest. There was still bruising along his bare skin, dark in the glow of the purple light. “He will say or do anything to get what he wants from me, from anyone, that he can’t get by force.” Cyrus swallowed heavily as the truth settled on him like a leaden blanket, and he sighed hard. “And I can’t—we can’t—beat him.”