66.
Alaric
In spite of Jena’s presence, the days passed in the dark of the Yartraak’s Saekajaren Sovaren—his mining city beneath the soil—with infuriating slowness. I assumed my enthusiasm for Jena would fade, associated as she was with the irritation I felt at being cast out. I had never been easy to deal with; after the news that I would be staying for an indeterminate amount of time, I felt certain that sooner or later, I would lose my temper with Jena over something trifling and perhaps be sent on my way.
But somehow she avoided setting me off, disappearing during the times I felt particularly on edge—to give me space, she said—reappearing during the times when my despair required reassurance or other, more physical, ministrations, which she performed in the darkness, breathing in the silence, her eyes the only part of her I could see. In short, she became something of a miraculous companion, and one that Ulric Garrick could not have hoped to find anywhere in Luukessia. The fact that her skin was blue as the night sky made her all the more incredible to the part of my mind that resisted the fantastic changes I’d been subject to in the last months.
Time trickled slowly through the hourglass. After three weeks, I tried not to ask the days any longer. I lasted two days, and then started inquiring once more. The Yartraak’s guards were unfailingly polite, as though cut from the same cloth as Jena herself. I could not even find it in myself to take out my petulant anger at being treated like a child on them—which was also a new experience for the former Prince of Luukessia.
It was just at the close of my first month imprisoned that Stepan came to visit me, ushered in to my surprise on another cool, musty day in the mines. He wore a new tunic, much like the one I’d received when I’d entered the service of the House of Garaunt, and his usually impassive mien was broken by a very slight smile as he came into my room and stood at attention—such a marked change from how he’d looked at me before we’d left home.
“It is good to see you,” I said sincerely. Even my father’s advisor was a welcome sight now, imprisoned as I was in a rocky cage.
“And you as well, my prince,” he said, bowing his head, doing me honor he never had before.
“How are the men?” I asked. I’d had occasion to think about them in my time of solitude and reflection and found myself dwelling often on their fate. I didn’t think Chavoron would have them killed, or even treated badly, but I wondered what would befall them next.
“They are well,” Stepan said with another slight smile. “We find ourselves in the service of your master.” He slapped a hand on the sword hilt resting in a scabbard at his side, and I stared. Chavoron had armed them?
“What’s going on out there?” I asked, near a whisper. The Yartraak had been kind to me, as had Jena, but every attempt I made to inquire about the empire at large and the events outside the mines had been politely, and often cleverly, rebuffed.
“The Protanians we speak with call it dark times,” Stepan said, the momentary satisfaction in his voice fading. “There is a tension in the cities, angry eyes and words flying everywhere in the streets. There has been talk of murders, of both slaves and blue men.” He looked around, as though expecting a Protanian might take umbrage at using their skin tone to describe them. “I don’t know how much of it is true, but it seems we are being prepared for … war, I would say. Guard duty, at least.”
All this information raced in my ear and through my mind, round and round like a chariot in a hippodrome. “Then our actions in Zanbellish have had the effect Chavoron predicted,” I mused out loud.
“Perhaps,” Stepan said, taking a step closer. “Perhaps not. The matters of these people … while fascinating, are not our concern.”
I looked up at Stepan, feeling like a stupor had claimed either him or I or both of us. “We are here, Stepan. We are in their service, are their slaves, their prisoners, or perhaps their pawns. They concern us at least a little.”
“They don’t concern me,” he said, and by the slight tremor in his voice I could tell there was a conflict in his loyalties. “I have been given leave by Chavoron to undertake a different mission.”
I straightened, my breath caught in my throat. “What mission is that?”
“He wishes me,” Stepan said, smiling ever so slightly, “to return to Luukessia with the aid of one of his people in order to bring a message from you, of your choosing.”
I blinked. “A … message?”
“Indeed,” Stepan said, clearly more pleased about this than I. “Any message at all.”
I looked at Stepan, feeling a blanket of cynicism settling over me. “Any message? Such as … I will be home in mere months, with an army of unstoppable power behind me, ready to take up my throne?”
Stepan’s eye twitched slightly. “I suggested a slightly more … temperate version of that message to him, and he consented to both it being sent and also to upholding the promise within it.”
My mouth fell open. “I …” The implications here were immense. “With … all of us?”
Stepan nodded. “He was clear. All of us, and any others he could muster who had been taken.”
I could go home. With my people.
My army.
Stepan stood stiffly, the enthusiasm he’d brought into my chamber vanished as though I’d ripped it away from him like a child’s plaything.
“Take that look of disappointment off your face,” I said, turning away from him, “I have no intention of usurping my father’s throne.” There was a taste of bitter ash in my mouth even as I said it; the idea, so appealing only months before, now felt obscene. I imagined myself charging an army through the gates of Enrant Monge, sweeping down upon any opposition, and disgust welled up inside me at the idea of bringing war to my own lands. They would be mine by right when the day came, and there was no need to batter my father aside and rip them out of his hands.
“I am glad to hear that,” Stepan said, sounding genuinely relieved. “Does that mean you’ve learned something in your time away?”
“As my father wished, I suppose,” I mused quietly. I thought about our rift, my chosen words. I hadn’t even revisited them of late, but when I recalled them to mind they seemed the declarations of an arrogant child, brash and furious, insecure in his own power because while he was promised all, he little felt he deserved it.
“Perhaps you could create a new set of words on your way home,” Stepan said, and now he had that faint smile again, “but first, I must deliver your message as instructed. Chavoron is not yet ready to send us home.”
“I imagine it would be politically problematic for him, yes,” I said, thinking it over. “Yes, by all means, carry a message to my father from me. Tell him … I will return as soon as I can. Ready to take my place as his heir, with far, far more wisdom and humility than when I left.”
Stepan’s eyebrow quirked up. “And no mention of your strength? The power you’ve found? The men who will now follow you?”
“I don’t presume to speak for them,” I said. Until my current imprisonment, I hadn’t presumed to ask about them, either. “If they want to follow, they may. I will offer them a choice, and if they choose to return to their homes or even stay here rather than come to Enrant Monge with me, I will happily allow them to call their service completed.” I nodded. “Those who came with us have suffered more than they should have. They deserve to be free, if they want.”
“It is a curious and much-welcome change I find in you,” Stepan said, nodding once. “I will depart immediately. I have an escort who will take me to the new bridge, nearly complete, and from there we will cross the remainder of the Sea of Carmas by flight and horse. It will still be several months’ ride to Enrant Monge from the shores of Actaluere, but with my escort I shall be able to return swiftly to Sennshann once my message has been received in our halls.”
“Good,” I said, feeling somewhat cold. The message itself seemed more than reasonable. Chavoron had given me leave to announce my departure, so why wait? I had wa
nted to go home since first arriving here, and clearly I had a reached a point where accumulating power in the Protanian Empire was no longer to be my fate. I was a pariah in this land, and the tides of war were lapping at the shores. It would be best to take my men and depart this place before it arrived, to bring them home to their families, and myself to mine. I would sit in those dimly lit halls and consider, ponder the way that Chavoron did, perhaps try and sharpen my wisdom for the days when I would be king and need to rule with fairness in my father’s stead.
Jena would not take the news well, I knew, and I resolved immediately not to crush her hopes until I was certain I would be leaving. “I wish you good luck,” I said to Stepan, reaching forth and taking his hand firmly in mine.
He met my eyes, and the years of bitterness between us melted away in that instant. We clasped hands, and he said, “I will deliver your message and return presently, Ulric Garrick. Take heart,” he looked around, giving my gilded prison a somewhat disapproving once-over, “for our days in this place are drawing to a close, and soon enough we shall be home in Luukessia, as we men were intended to be.”
67.
Cyrus
Cyrus’s days after his awakening were long and excruciating. He could barely walk, hobbling about on legs that pained him, bones all over his body tender as though ground in a mill. He stayed in the dark room in Saekaj, his disposition growing increasingly surly despite constant attention from a never-ending procession of visitors. He held his acidic tongue in for as long as he could, but seemed to find himself abusing each in turn until they left, and then another would come and sit with him. He had done this sequence with J’anda, Quinneria, Vaste, and even Cora. There was regret afterwards of course, for the harsh words, the irritability that bubbled from him like a wellspring, but none of his visitors seemed to take his jibes personally. They each left in peace, wishing him well, saying they would see him later, and passing beyond the door, soon to be replaced by another visitor.
“Good evening,” Samwen Longwell said as he thumped through the door of Cyrus’s room, his lance in hand. He took the weapon and set it in the corner, rattling his armor as he seated himself and setting Cyrus’s nerves on edge. Cyrus had not seen his own armor or weapons since he’d arrived here.
“Not that much good about it,” Cyrus grumbled. He glared at Samwen’s armor and lance in turn, feeling the jealousy rise inside.
Longwell followed his gaze. “You’re wondering about your armor and Praelior, aren’t you?”
“No one else seemed to realize that,” Cyrus said, looking straight ahead at the dark wall. “Spellcasters all, they couldn’t figure out why I wanted to know about my things.”
“Oh, I understand,” Longwell said, nodding. “You’re worried they’re broken or not here?”
“Well,” Cyrus said tightly, “I can’t fight at the moment due to injury, and my means to do so are not even in my sight. So … yes, the thought that my keepers are lying to maintain my morale has occurred to me.”
“The reason they’re out of sight,” Longwell said, “is because your keepers were afraid you’d snatch up Praelior and inflate your own sense of ability under its effects. Terian’s physicians suggested it best that you just leave those things alone for a time, give your body a chance to heal under its own ability before armoring up and grabbing a sword again, charging off into hopeless battle.”
“Apparently no one’s listening, then,” Cyrus said, shifting his gaze from coldly straight ahead to coldly at Longwell. “I know the fight is lost. I have said so. I intend to go nowhere, to fight no one, but to have my weapon taken from me is an indignity.”
“Aye,” Longwell agreed after a short pause. “I’ll see if I can have them bring it all in, provided you promise not to go charging off, half-lame, into oblivion without the rest of us.”
“Well, I’m not charging off into oblivion with you,” Cyrus said, blinking as he turned away from the dragoon once more. “Though at present … I don’t plan to charge into oblivion at all.”
“That won’t last,” Longwell said, settling back in his chair. The wood squeaked under the pressure.
“I can’t beat him,” Cyrus said wearily. “We can’t.”
“So I heard,” Longwell said. “But that’s never stopped you before.”
Cyrus swiveled his head around and found Longwell sitting there, watching him with an utter lack of concern. “I’ve never fought a full god before. Not just one of the other gods … This is one is powered with the strength of one of the gods beyond.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too.” Longwell shrugged.
“But you don’t understand,” Cyrus said, looking at the dragoon levelly. “I know you had a hard time cottoning to the idea of these deities of Arkaria—”
“Because they’re not deities.”
“—but they’re beings of power,” Cyrus adjusted. “Beings of extreme power.”
“That can be killed,” Longwell went on.
Cyrus let out a breath of mild, almost amused exasperation. “Yes, but—”
“By us. Clearly, since we’ve wiped out so many of them—”
“—but that’s not the same as—”
“As killing a god beyond, I got that,” Longwell said, leaning forward. “Except … it can’t be that different, because one of the so-called non-deities killed this God of Evil. Bellarum did it. And he wasn’t always what he is now. Once he was like Malpravus, or Aurous, or any of the others we’ve slain.” He leaned back, a slow smile of satisfaction on his face. “You see, you think we’ve reached the end of the road, and I know why. It looks hopeless. You’re staring down the face of a rugged mountain, wondering what to do now that the path’s come to a cliff. Well, there’s ways down cliffs, and just because a road comes to an end doesn’t mean your journey’s over. What we need now is a new way.”
“There is no way,” Cyrus said, staring at Longwell in disbelief. How can he be so obtuse? “Do you not understand? This isn’t a cliff; it’s the edge of the damned world, and if we fall off, we’re done.”
“I don’t believe that,” Longwell said with another shrug. “We’ve come to too many places before where it’s been said, ‘That’s impossible. Can’t be done.’ And what have we done? Bloody gone and done it anyway.” He shook his head. “No, I won’t believe it’s over until we’re in our graves. We’re not dead yet, and Bellarum hasn’t come to murder us, so … we’ve got time. We’ve got some means—maybe they’re not enough, but we have them—and all we need to do is find a way forward through the impossible. Just like we have every other time.” There was a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. “Just like you have … every other time.”
“You’ve been in the dark for the last couple years, Longwell,” Cyrus said. “I don’t know if you think you’re seeing light, but—”
“Yeah, I see light,” Longwell said, eyes burning now. “I got hollow after all that happened, it’s true. But you spend enough time dangling on that edge, you start to see what’s what. You start to see who the people are who consistently lead you through the wastes, the dangers. That’s you.”
“Your faith in me is misplaced,” Cyrus said quietly.
“I don’t think so,” Longwell said. “Gods fall. You haven’t. I think my bet’s in the right place.”
Cyrus felt the cave chill infuse him. “And if you’re wrong this time?”
“Dead either way, so who cares?” Longwell asked. “Tell me … have you lost anything on this road so far?”
“Everything,” Cyrus said in a muted whisper, staring at the dragoon in intense silence. “You know that.”
“Then there’s nothing left he can do to you,” Longwell said. “You’re a man at the edge, nothing to lose, and Bellarum—he wants something. Something that involves you being alive. See, in this fight thus far, you’ve been the only one these last years crazy enough to run the storm, Cyrus. Everybody with a silver piece worth of sense knows to get in out of the rain and lightning. Meanwhile you’re running
out into it and tearing the clouds out of the sky while they rumble. And yeah, you lost. I know the rest are telling you to hang on and get through and get better.” Longwell shook his head. “I lost my damned land and you lot are all I have left—but we’re fighters, fated to die on a battlefield or get old and die weak. Embrace that. We’re none of us expecting to come through this alive, so let’s dig in. Nothing to lose, and against the cliff’s edge. There’s a way, and we just need to find it.” He settled back in his chair, passion spent. “There’s hope.”
“You been talking to Scuddar?” Cyrus asked, leaning his head back against the headboard. “All this thought of hope … I just don’t see it like he does, or the others do, like there’s life beyond for me. The way you say it makes more sense to my mind.”
“No day beyond this one,” Longwell nodded. “No next fight. This might be where we die, but dammit, if we’re on the edge of that cliff, we know the spell to fly, so … I lost my thread there.”
Cyrus frowned. “You … you may have a point.” He brought up a hand and held it over his face, then let it fall down his bare chest, empty of all armor, undershirt, and even the medallion he’d taken from Alaric on the Endless Bridge. “Maybe there is … some way.” He shook his head. “I just don’t see it.”
“Yet,” Longwell said, standing up, armor creaking. “You don’t see it yet. Keep dwelling on it, I think it’ll come to you.” He smiled. “I’ll see if I can get your sword and armor.”
As the dragoon slipped beyond the door, Cyrus sat there in the darkness, staring after him. “How do you defeat a god you can’t hit? How do you defeat a being so powerful, you can’t even strike at him, who can kill you and everyone in your army instantly?” Cyrus stared into the dark, in the silence, and waited for an answer. “Where do you find hope when your enemy has …?”
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