Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  The door to the throne room opened and he saw a flash of sea-green hair as Kahlee Lepos stepped out and someone closed the door behind her. She glanced up, and then up again until her gaze reached his eyes, and she favored him with a smile that was wry and yet still filled with obvious pleasure at the sight of him.

  “Lord Davidon,” she said, “what brings you to us at this hour?”

  “I couldn’t honestly tell you the hour,” Cyrus said, “even though it can’t be that many of them since I left the surface.” His expression darkened. “I trust you heard about—”

  “J’anda, of course,” she said, all the joy leaving her smile. “Arrangements are already being made for the services. Terian will tell you more.” She started to pass him, but he stopped her with an outstretched hand and she paused, looking up at him again curiously.

  “I’m leaving, Kahlee,” Cyrus said.

  “Now?” She looked at him, perplexed.

  “Now,” Cyrus said. “Keep him out of trouble, will you?”

  Disbelief mingled with annoyance flashed across her face. “Why don’t you assign me eight other impossible tasks, such as slimming the trolls to the weight of gnomes, feeding a hungry vek’tag with naught but my own spit, and pounding the arrogance out of the entire elven race with my tiny, bare fists?”

  “If anyone could do that last one, you could, I think.”

  Her irritation softened. “But why would you leave now? J’anda is to be honored as a Hero of the Sovereignty. Don’t you wish to see that?”

  “J’anda’s been a hero as long as I’ve known him,” Cyrus said, “and no honors or lack thereof would convince me otherwise.”

  She stared at him, and then nodded once. “He’s inside. He’s meeting with Bowe and Dahveed, but they’re almost done. I’m certain he’ll want to say farewell.”

  “Thank you,” Cyrus said, and she hugged him lightly around the middle. “I don’t think any of us could have predicted how well Terian would do for himself in marrying, and especially I wouldn’t have predicted you.”

  “I appreciate what I think is a well-buried compliment in there,” Kahlee said, “but you must realize something—a man is hardly complete when you find them. I saw Terian for what he was when we were wed—a good man in a terrible place. The whole of Arkaria might as well have been set against him for where he started out, and yet, with a great deal of work—a great deal—well, you see what we end up with. Perhaps he might have done some of the work on his own, also,” she conceded with a smile. She straightened up and became serious. “Take care of yourself, Cyrus Davidon, wherever the road may lead you.”

  “And you as well, Lady Kahlee.” And he bowed to her, and they parted as he entered the throne room.

  “Bah!” Terian shouted from somewhere ahead, past Bowe and Dahveed, each clad in their own colored robes, the druid’s topknot lacing its way down his back. Cyrus advanced quietly, but knew he’d caught the Sovereign’s eye when Terian called out, “Cyrus! Come here and settle this bone of contention for us.” Cyrus drew closer, coming even with the other two, who made room for him before the small throne, where Terian said, mailed fist on his chin, helm on his lap. “Would J’anda want a state funeral with glorious flowers and tributes and all manner of sorcery pyrotechnics or would he want a simple burial without any of the pizazz?”

  Cyrus thought about it. “He was a simple man … but with flair. Give him the pizazz.”

  Terian frowned. “That’s not quite what I was thinking, but maybe I was simply considering what I would want done.” He looked at Dahveed and then Bowe. “Fine, have it your way. Make it grand, make it glorious, and see that our brave friend is sent off in so spectacular a fashion that the people of Saekaj and Sovar will be talking about J’anda Aimant for the next thousand years.”

  “It will be done,” Dahveed said with a sparkle in his eye, and with a nod toward Cyrus, he started to retreat from the room.

  Bowe lingered a moment more, staring at Cyrus, until he finally stepped forward, bowed his head once, and said, “Davidon …”

  “Yes?” Cyrus asked. He couldn’t recall having ever heard the druid speak.

  “You fight well … but you should talk less in battle,” Bowe said, and then started away to join the healer already leaving.

  “Why?” Cyrus asked, frowning after him. “For my enemies’ sake?”

  “No,” Bowe called back. “For your friends. It is impossible not to listen to your ridiculous banter during a fight. Very distracting.” And he disappeared into the darkness of the far end of the throne room, where Cyrus heard the closing of the doors.

  Terian let a low chuckle. “He’s not wrong.”

  “Of course he’s not,” Cyrus said, tearing his attention away from the door back to Terian. “But you’re the last person who should criticize.”

  “I do enjoy a good monologue before a fight, and of course a few dozen choice insults during,” Terian said, nodding soberly. He looked right at Cyrus and said, “So … you’re leaving before the ceremony, right? That’s why you suggested it be a full, formal, state occasion?”

  “He deserves it,” Cyrus said.

  “That’s not in dispute, so don’t pretend it is order to dodge my question.”

  “Yes, I’m leaving,” Cyrus said. “I could stay, of course, but … I’d be a distraction from the real point of this thing, which is to honor J’anda.”

  “You are somewhat renowned throughout the land,” Terian said, standing up before his throne. “So … are you off on the next phase of your adventure?”

  “I am,” Cyrus said with a curt nod. “And thank you, for helping me find … well, those you could.”

  “Of course,” Terian said, with a nod of his own.

  “I suppose I’ll be off, then,” Cyrus said, and started to turn away.

  “All right, let’s go.” Terian stepped down from the throne, axe across his back, as if to follow behind Cyrus.

  Cyrus watched him, warily, over his shoulder. “Where are you going now? Another meeting?”

  “No,” Terian said. “I’m coming with you.”

  Cyrus felt his eyes narrow of their own accord. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have a kingdom to run.”

  “Sovereignty,” Terian said, sounding mildly offended. “But don’t let quibbles about titling get in the way. Let’s go.” He started to step past Cyrus, but Cyrus caught him on the pauldron.

  “You’re not coming with me,” Cyrus said.

  “I thought you were assembling everyone for an adventure?” Terian asked. “Like in the days of yore, when we’d suddenly decide to go through the Heia pass or something ridiculous like that, just killing titans wherever we saw them—”

  “There are no more titans.”

  Terian rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Adventure! The call of the blood to get up and move, to crawl through some dungeon in a remote corner of the land where no one else dares go!”

  “Not too many of those left nowadays,” Cyrus said. “Though I did hear tell about an imp outside Taymor that’s hoarding treasure and killing people.”

  “See, that’s the kind of thing we should be taking care of.” He slapped Cyrus with his palm across the breastplate. “Let’s go.”

  “Terian …” Cyrus said, feeling a strange mixture of warmth and regret. “You can’t come with me.”

  “You keep saying that, and yet here I go, following you,” Terian said. He wore a lively look, affable and pleased. “You mean to find these people, and I have helped you thus far. I can help you further. I’m a white knight with a godly weapon and a hunger to do some damage.”

  “It’s not a question of damage,” Cyrus said. “It’s a question of responsibility. You have it. I don’t. You are a man who has grown beyond the … the need for questing across the land. You have people who count on you—and a wife. They look to you, for guidance, for steadiness. You’re a leader. A man of … well, you’ve grown into quite the hero, Terian.” He smiled. “I might not have believed
it when first I knew you, but … you’ve become a great man, Sovereign.”

  “The two are not mutually exclusive, then? Being a great man and also the Sovereign, I mean?” Terian asked, but there was an aura of wistful sadness in the way he asked it, and Cyrus could see that he was already relenting on his desire to follow along. That’s the difference between us—he has things to lose, to leave behind …

  And I don’t.

  “I would have followed you, you know,” Terian said. “No question.”

  “You already have,” Cyrus said. “Everywhere I could conceive of. Hell, places I couldn’t have imagined before we started down this road together. Thank you, Terian.”

  “For what?”

  “For … loyalty,” Cyrus said.

  “Not something you would expect to say to a person who nearly killed you,” Terian said, with just a trace of slyness. “The bonds of common fellowship bind us. Brothers to the last.”

  Cyrus smiled, just a little. “Alaric would have liked to have heard you say that, I think.”

  “Maybe he did,” Terian said, and now his smile faded. “Fare thee well down all the roads you might travel, Cyrus. The doors of Saekaj and Sovar will always be open to you—so long as I reign over and under this land, you will be welcome in these halls.”

  With a bow, Cyrus turned, so that the Sovereign of Saekaj and Sovar would not see his face as he walked out of the throne room. But as he left, he thought he could hear Terian scuff his boot as he made a turn of his own, putting his back to Cyrus—but the warrior did not dare turn around to look.

  113.

  Cyrus

  Blowing sands surrounded Cyrus as he urged Windrider on at a canter across the loping desert road. The sun was hot again, early summer taking its full effect here in the Inculta Desert. The Oasis of Etro’mil sparkled on the horizon, past the dunes and the wending road, and Cyrus was gently rocked by the sway of the horse as he rode toward the town just shy of the blue waters of the oasis.

  The town was small, a series of packed huts made of straw-laid brick, maybe twenty of them in uneven rows. The roofs were palm fronds, the edges blowing gently in the wind. The air was a dry, hot breath, like a dragon had opened his mouth and let out a mighty blaze of fire that warmed Cyrus’s cheeks, nose and forehead.

  Children played in the town street, pointing up at him as he and Windrider approached. He was quite a distance from the nearest portal, a ride of a few days during which he’d had to conjure extra water for himself and Windrider.

  Now, having reached the outermost house in the village, he dismounted, and a crowd of little urchins scrabbled around him. Older children waited and watched at the margins, looking to see what he was doing, where he was going. Cyrus could see adults even further back, going about their business in the side yards of their houses but craning their necks to see him. Many wore scarves over their heads to protect them from the blazing sun.

  “Scuddar In’shara?” Cyrus asked the crowd of children that was bubbling around him, leaping up like little dogs in their excitement. They were talking in a babble he couldn’t quite understand, their dialect not something he was used to. But they pointed toward a house in the middle of the village, and followed him as he started to lead Windrider in that direction.

  He reached the door and tied Windrider’s reins upon a post outside before knocking upon the front door. The crowd of children receded save for a half dozen of them, still bumping around his legs, pointing at his swords. He kept a careful watch on them so they didn’t touch the weapons, but none seemed to want to do much more than lay a finger on the scabbards for but a moment.

  A woman answered the door, swinging it wide and staring out at Cyrus. A few of the children that were gathered around his legs separated themselves from him and flooded into the house, congealing around the woman and bubbling around her like they had around Cyrus only a moment before, chattering and trying to speak to her all at once.

  “My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he said, “and I’m here to talk to—”

  “Scuddar!” she called, turning slightly. She looked back at Cyrus and took him in with but a quick, appraising glance. Her voice carried the curt accent of the desert people, but her eyes suggested shyness as she looked away from his gaze. She opened the door wider and stepped aside, pushing the kids along with her. “Come in,” she said.

  Cyrus stepped into the small dwelling, his eyes adjusting to the sudden lack of blinding desert sun. It was shadowed and dark inside, the windows covered over by cloth hangings that stirred in the breeze. Some of the children waiting outside called to him, though he couldn’t understand what they were saying. He stepped in and she closed the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry, your name is …?” Cyrus asked.

  “Guruni,” she said quietly, and then she moved off toward a small area in the corner of the room, past a row of what looked like rolled-up bedding of the sort Cyrus used when he slept under the stars. There must have been ten of them, all rolled and pushed against the back wall, leaving room for a piece of wooden furniture that looked terribly out of place in the hut. She opened a wooden cabinet in the hutch above and pulled out a tray made of woven fronds, thick and sturdy. She opened another cabinet and pulled out a wheel of thick cheese and a loaf of bread, then started to cut them up and put the pieces on two plates that she pulled out of another section of the hutch.

  “You look as though you have never seen a piece of furniture before,” came a quiet voice behind Cyrus. He turned to find Scuddar watching him with great amusement from the corner, where a wooden desk sat against the wall, something of elven origin with beautiful design and intricate carvings all along the sides, but burn scars marred the surface on the side and top. The desert man rested on a chair before the desk and the children stood surrounding him, now silent to the last of them, watching as well.

  “I—I think I just …” Cyrus let his voice trail off. He couldn’t find a way to express the thought on his mind without sounding insulting.

  “The furniture is unusual for this town,” Scuddar said. His balaclava was missing, and for the first time Cyrus could see that he had a head full of a thick, brown hair with the occasional lighter strand mixed in, almost blond. “Wood is in short supply, and thus craftsmen of this wood are in shorter supply, and so …” He gestured to the elven carvings on the desk. “But thanks to you, I am not solely of this town anymore, and can bring the goods of all Arkaria here to my home.”

  Cyrus glanced sidelong at Guruni, who was now bringing the tray over to the other side of the room, where a small table rested between a few chairs, of the sort Cyrus’s parents had in their house when he was growing up. She placed the tray upon the table and then hurried over to Scuddar’s side and shooed the children away, pushing them out the door. They grumbled in protest, but she ushered them out and followed, disappearing into the streets and leaving Cyrus alone with Scuddar.

  “We don’t get many visitors to the village,” Scuddar said, beckoning Cyrus over to join him at the table where Cyrus could smell wine in a pitcher that he hadn’t even noticed Guruni pour. “They saw you coming from hilltops away, a man all in black armor. My children came and warned me, but I could not believe it. ‘Cyrus Davidon would not come here,’ I said to them.” He looked carefully at Cyrus with his yellow eyes. “But I was wrong, and you are here, so—welcome.”

  “Cyrus Davidon has been here before,” Cyrus said, seating himself across from Scuddar as the desert man poured him a glass of wine from the carafe. “Though I suppose it was a long time ago, and I was … quite worn down by that point in my journey, I think.”

  “The question remains, though,” Scuddar said, picking up a piece of sliced cheese and holding it. “Why would you come back? What profits Cyrus Davidon coming to this village?”

  “What profits—? Scuddar, I never did much of anything for a profit,” Cyrus said. “That’s merchant talk.”

  “We adventured in places where we found gold and treasure,” Scuddar said
with a sly smile. “There is nothing wrong with making money, my friend.” He waved a hand to encompass his dwelling. “It is the reason I left my village, my family, to come to Sanctuary. You made me the wealthiest man in this land, able to provide for my wife and children, and even their children, I think.”

  Cyrus blinked at that. “I … never really thought … I didn’t even know you had a family.” He leaned back, feeling suddenly tired, as though this new information had come at a cost. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “There was nothing to say,” Scuddar said with a shrug.

  “You could have—I don’t know, mentioned they existed? We fought side by side in foreign lands, against gods and dragons and who knows what else—”

  “Their life was here,” Scuddar said, “and mine was in Sanctuary for the time that I was there.”

  “Did you even see them during those years you were with us?” Cyrus asked.

  “Oh, most assuredly,” Scuddar said. “I came back many times.”

  “It always seemed like you were around,” Cyrus said, trying to think back to remember any occasion where he’d sent someone to look for Scuddar. “Whenever I called for you, you came.”

  “Of course. I took my duty very seriously.”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said after a moment’s contemplation. “You truly did.” And he looked at the nearest window, the dark cloth shade fluttering softly in the wind, revealing hints of blue sky beyond its edges.

  “So what brings you to my door this day?” Scuddar asked.

  Cyrus thought about that for a moment. “I wanted … to make sure you were all right.”

  Scuddar nodded slowly. “You worry needlessly about us. I am all right. We are all right here.” He swept an arm slowly around, as if to indicate everyone else in all the lands. “They are all very fine, wherever they all have landed.”

  Cyrus blinked, not quite sure he understood. “I was just asking about you—”

  “But you are not just traveling to see me,” Scuddar said with a knowing look. “You are seeing the others as well, yes?”