“I am Cyrus Davidon,” he said, gritting his teeth between every word to keep from shouting. His voice wafted over the stunned crowd unchallenged, and he parted his cloak at the front and let them see his black armor and both swords hanging from his belt as he stepped up onto the lip of the fountain where Angelique had been addressing them. He avoided the ice that was already freezing upon the stone lip, stared down at her for but a moment. “Shut up and stay down,” he ordered. She swallowed heavily and dropped back to sitting in the fountain, shivering in its chill waters without a word of opposition.
“Listen to me,” Cyrus said, turning his attention back to the crowd. “Perhaps you seek adventure. Perhaps you’re bored at home. Maybe you just want a fraction of glory of the kind you’ve heard about—maybe the kind you’ve heard attached to my name. ‘Oh, Cyrus Davidon this, and Cyrus Davidon that,’” he raised his voice in mimicry. “Whatever your reason for wanting adventure, be assured—it will end in no good. Adventurers die young or they retire too late, with all their friends and loved ones dead before them.” He infused every word with the bitterness that had grown thick in his heart. “You either die in ignominy, forgotten, in the clutches of some imp,” he glared back at Angelique, who was shivering furiously, “or you live long enough to see the people you care about die. If that doesn’t bother you …” He looked them over and saw the sudden reticence sprung up in the faces before him, “well, go join a guild, and you can adventure with at least the assurance of a professional at your back rather than a moron who has more rubies in her breastplate than sense in her head.” He looked scornfully once more at Angelique, whose teeth chattered. “If I catch you putting together an expedition ever again—I don’t care if it’s even a worthy one, like challenging the gropers of the markets—I will kill you, Angelique.” And he stuck out a hand and let loose a small burst of flame that snuffed as it hit the water next to her, causing it to bubble as she shrieked and scuttled to the left.
“Go home,” Cyrus said quietly, turning back to the awestruck crowd. “Go home while you still have one, go back to your loved ones.” He stepped down from the lip of the fountain and the crowd parted before him, easing away to allow him space. He saw them staring and ignored them, passing between them without another word, his cloak trailing behind him. They said his name, a few even reached out to him, but with his hand on Praelior he moved quickly enough to avoid any touch, ignored any call, and continued on his path, disappearing down one of the side streets, fading from their sight, finally sure of the undone thing he needed to do before he could pull the stopper in that vial and down its contents at last.
108.
Alaric
Curatio and I appeared at a windswept portal, on a flat plain, with dry patches of grass that reminded me of the steppes north of Enrant Monge, empty and sweeping. The sun was high in the sky, beating down, warmth radiating enough to tell me that I was in warmer environs; not quite Zanbellish, but not as temperate as Sennshann had been. It was somewhere between, and I felt the hints of sweat starting on my back, the humidity heavy beneath my armor as I stood there in the glaring heat.
“This portal was the access point for a town that was situated there,” Curatio said, nodding at an empty space where a small bevy of Protanian-made stone buildings stood half-destroyed. I wondered what type of spell that they had used upon them, and suspected it was most probably the less destructive magics that had been applied to Sennshann.
The spells that Jena’s barrier had turned aside.
“I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that we weren’t destroyed along with the empire,” I said, though I did not feel lucky at all. I could tell by the look on Curatio’s face that he felt much the same; having seen Caraleen walk away from him, her eyes drifting over him as though he were not even there, had wounded him, though he kept enough of a lid on his feelings that it was not obvious how deeply he’d been scarred. I gave it a moment’s pondering—he had gone with me, aided me, joined in my cause to save people all at her suggestion, and for his troubles received … nothing. Not so much as an acknowledgment.
“They may have called you gongh-ete,” I said softly, and Curatio’s head snapped up, “but they were the real butchers.”
The intensity of his gaze faded into regret. “Your people are going to be entrapped into a different sort of servitude to them now. Your people and the other slaves. Whatever grand plans they might have for how it will be different this time, they plan to invest mortal, fallible people with the same awe that they required as the masters of slaves. They may not whip their backs or compel them to action by threat of direct violence any longer, but they will control their thoughts, press them in the direction of their godly will … the yolk will be invisible, but it will be present, and these former slaves will have little defense against that power.” He leaned toward me again. “Whatever you say, I was a butcher. I killed your people, killed others in that Coliseum … I see the wrongness of it now, the view of your folk as insects, but it is a view shared by their new overlords.”
“Not by all,” I said. “Not by Caraleen.”
He stiffened slightly, staring straight ahead toward the horizon. “Perhaps not.” He blinked, as though trying to chase a vision from before his eyes. “But you … you could be of aid in this. You are a human with power, and could teach your people, give them strength to resist.”
“I have seen what resistance to that power brings,” I said, thinking again of Jena falling, of the cities of the Protanians razed to the ground. “It was not your strength and mine that enabled us to survive the night.” I remembered her pale flesh, all the life run out, pooled into a child that I held in my arms for but a moment before turning him loose to be raised by those better suited than me—by those simply better than me. “I am a weak man by their standards; weak in spell and sword, and have not the power to stand against them, these gods. If that is what they wish to be called, then to save my people from their wrath I will name them that and accept the lighter yoke they now offer.” I felt a contraction in my throat.
“It is a terrible thing—and one I never thought I would give voice to,” Curatio said slowly, “but I pity these freed slaves. I pity what they went through then, and I pity what they go through now. They had no hope before, and they could sorely use some now.” He looked at me again expectantly.
“I have no hope left to give,” I said with a wan smile. “I was a spoiled prince and a terrible leader, a man with almost all the power in my own land and no decency. Then I came to a place where I had no power and no decency, and now that I have acquired perhaps a smallish amount of decency, I can see that I still hold no power—not over the minds of men, not against those who would control them, and barely over myself.” I raised my face to the sun. “I am not the man I wish to be. Certainly not the one Chavoron saw in me, or Jena—I am not the worst I have been, but I have no hope that I could deliver what would be needed to break the chains in this land. You are right, they need hope—and I am without any.”
Curatio stared at me for a long moment, adjusting his armor. “I don’t see much from where I stand, either, and yet … I cannot bring myself to surrender the last sliver of it. My life is long, and the days ahead … they could be much brighter, though I suppose it would be little comfort to you, for it would likely happen beyond all your days.”
“Indeed,” I said with a nod.
“So will you seek hope?” he asked, his eyes trailing downward.
“I will do the last thing that was asked of me,” I said, removing my helm from my head. It was warm and stuffy, here on this oppressive, barren stretch of wasteland. “After that … I do not know.” I took a breath of the hot air. “There is … perhaps one more thing I would ask of you.”
He nodded curtly. “Ask it, and if it is within my power, I will see it done.”
“My people,” I said, “the ones that fought with us in the Citadel … not all of them will seek to serve the new gods as Stepan chose to.” I stretched, cra
cking my back. “Go to them, if you are allowed, and offer them a passage back to Luukessia.”
“This I can do,” Curatio said. “There is a portal by the bridge. I can escort them there, and even across it, if they so wish.”
My breath caught in my throat. “With that portal … these new gods could walk across that bridge, take their power into my homeland …”
Curatio seemed to give that a thought. “I doubt I presently have the spell power to destroy that bridge, but … I could remove that portal nearest the bridge, make it so that they would have to construct a new one there. Perhaps, given all that they have ahead of them, it might stymie for a time any attempts they could make to invade Luukessia.” He drew a sharp breath. “It is not much, admittedly—”
“It’s more than anyone else could offer,” I said, and extended my hand to him. He took it, and we shook firmly, and in his eyes I saw a man filled with repentance so heavy that he glanced away from my gaze when his own flicked over my black-patched eye.
Curatio took a long moment to respond after that, finally nodding slowly when the pain of looking at my patch left him enough that he could meet my gaze once more. “Should I … check back on you at some point? Make certain you’re all right? This is a long way from … anywhere, really.” He studied the horizon for a moment. “A man could starve to death here.”
“Magic can produce all the water and food I need for sustenance,” I said. “And I can cast a teleport spell, even lift the pall of death, though that would do me little good, I suppose.” We shared a chuckle. “I will be all right out here, and … if I find what I seek …” I stopped speaking, lost in thought, in possibility.
“Search me out if you do find that miraculous hope,” he said, and the green light glowed as he started to cast a spell. “For I could use some as well.” And he disappeared in a blaze of spell-light.
I took a deep breath of the dusty air, the sun pounding down on me. The sky was a deep blue, giving me no cover from the warmth of the day. I stood where Curatio had left me, the peculiar weight of a chain and amulet upon my neck that hadn’t been there before, and I looked down at the thing left at my feet—the last command Chavoron had given me, the last thing I needed to do—the wooden ark waiting for me yet unopened on the deserted, empty ground where an empire had once bloomed.
109.
Cyrus
“Are you ready to go home yet?” Vara asked.
“Soon,” Cyrus said, stirred out of his momentary daydream, bright sunshine fading as he stirred back to the oppressive gloom of the caverns of Saekaj. It was almost like waking from a dream he could touch, save that Cyrus had been standing upright when it came, like a distant memory, with even the sense of salty sweat upon his lips, though he was hardly hot here in the damp coolness of the throne room of Saekaj.
He had paid a wizard to teleport him into the caverns, where a surprised guard had greeted him with deference in the city’s dark and circular cavern of a courtyard and hurriedly escorted him down to the Grand Palace as soon as he made the request. He’d walked with his cowl down, helm on, refusing entreaties from the guards to summon a carriage. He’d kept his footing on the downward slope to the upper city’s gates, eight guards walking around him like he was some honored guest in need of protection. In another time, he might have been amused by the escort. He knew the path and was perfectly capable of finding his way to the Grand Palace of Saekaj on his own, but if the soldiers wanted to walk along with him, he wasn’t going to stop them.
More heed had been paid to him at the palace, courtiers and servants bowing as he walked through the wood-encased foyer and was shown through to the throne room beyond. There he waited, politely ignoring the viziers and courtiers who offered him company, indicating that he preferred the silence of the throne room.
Cyrus stared into the pooling darkness beyond the small throne, remembering a time when he’d been hurled bodily through the wall into this room. He cracked his bones with a subtle popping noise as he straightened. How many scars do I have now that I lacked on the day I joined Sanctuary those years ago? How much weight on my shoulders—guilt, pain, or simple metal—he felt the chain beneath his armor catch one of the hairs on his chest as he shifted, pricking his skin slightly as it tore free—has been added since the day I tied my fate to Sanctuary?
“So it’s true,” came a voice behind the throne as Terian came striding out of the darkness, clad in his full armor, axe hanging behind him, “Cyrus Davidon has returned to my humble halls after these months of long absence.” Terian stopped, leaning against his throne, armor clanking faintly. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again, and here you are.” Terian pulled off his helm and put it squarely in the middle of his throne, his expression burgeoning into a grin. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit to the deep of Saekaj?”
Cyrus had practiced his reply to this very question carefully. “I wanted to seek out our old friends,” he said. “I’m considering … pulling them all together, or at least those who might be willing. Perhaps … find an adventure or two. I was hoping you could tell me where they all are.”
Terian raised an eyebrow. “That … wasn’t the answer I was expecting.”
“What answer were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” Terian said. “As I said before, I didn’t anticipate seeing you again after the Realm of War.”
“And why is that?” Cyrus asked.
“Because you never came back for your horse,” Terian said coolly. “He’s been here—well, above, in our stables—all this time, waiting for you to come claim him.”
“You knew I was still alive, Terian,” Cyrus said, feeling a sudden burst of chagrin at forgetting Windrider in his descent into self-pity.
“Of course,” Terian said. “And that you’ve been living in the barn—”
“It’s a barracks,” Cyrus said, and when the paladin gave him a cockeyed look, he said, “it was converted from a barn before I bought the damned thing.”
“It started its life as a horse barn,” Terian said.
“And you started yours as a dark knight and a whoremongering jackass,” Cyrus said, “yet you’ve shed the trappings of the dark knight and the whoremongering, and so we all acknowledge you as a paladin.”
“But still a jackass?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Terian smiled. “You’re right, I do keep track of our old friends, through the whispers of my spies. It pays to make sure they’re keeping out of trouble. I can have a list made, point you in the right direction.”
“Thank you,” Cyrus said. “I figured I’d find a few right here in Saekaj Sovar—”
“Well, in Saekaj or Sovar,” Terian said carefully, “there is a difference between the two, though less than there used to be. And you’re quite right. I’m here and Aisling is … in the lower chamber, most of the time.” He hesitated, a pained expression taking hold of him. “And … J’anda …”
“What?” Cyrus asked, and a surge of worry he no longer knew he could feel suddenly tugged at him, leaving him with a lurching sense that he’d just lost his footing from a strong push. He waited for Terian to compose himself and answer. But he already knew by the look on the Sovereign’s face that a terrible truth awaited, an axe blow about to land, and he could not steel himself enough to brace against its fall.
110.
Cyrus
There was a quiet little wooden cottage standing at the edge of a field, windows open just a hair, curtains of bright cloth within stirring at the hint of breeze. Cyrus could see them as he rode up on Windrider’s back, the horse’s steadiness reassuring even as the same quality in Cyrus’s own legs seemed oddly lacking. There was a hint of spring in the air, something sweeping in from the south, but all Cyrus smelled was death. He dismounted, leaving behind the guards who had come with him here, to the surface not far outside of Saekaj Sovar’s entrance, to this quiet cottage at the edge of a glade, and walked to the door, afraid of what he might find within.
He knocked once, haltingly, and the door was opened almost immediately by a dark elven woman of youthful appearance. She did not seem surprised to find a tall human clad in full black armor standing before her but simply nodded once, unspeaking, and stood aside for him to enter.
The cottage was not as small within as it appeared to be from without. Brightly dyed quilts hung from a rack on the wall, and were spread out over the large bed that occupied one of the walls at the far end of the single room, shrouding the small figure hidden beneath them. The air was warm, a hearth crackling near the bed, and a chair waited beside it, with a book resting there, opened to a page somewhere in the middle.
Cyrus took hesitant steps inside, and the woman closed the door behind him. His eyes danced over the bed, noticing at last the long staff with the purple orb that leaned against the side at a slanting angle. His gaze lingered on it, feeling something akin to a gentle rending of his heartstrings, if such a thing was possible. He took another halting step forward, and at last he noticed the smell of strong herbs that he’d always associated with ailing lingering in the air as he stopped a few steps from the foot of the bed.
The lines of the person lying within were barely visible through the several heavy quilts piled one atop the other. Cyrus approached slowly, with greater caution than if he knew a trap were about to be sprung upon him.
“Come in, my friend,” came the faint voice of J’anda Aimant, staring at him from eyes nearly closed in sunken, skeletal cheekbones. Cyrus felt a vague repulsion, a bizarre association with Malpravus that caused him to hesitate. Even though he heard the voice of an old friend it felt like death was calling him onward, and just like his refusal to unstopper the vial and drink its contents, he could not urge himself forward at first.
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