“You must have a tour!” Mendicant said, rising to his feet, robes swishing around him.
“I’m afraid I don’t have time for that,” Cyrus said, smiling. “I need to be on to the next leg of my journey. The hour grows late and … you understand.”
“Indeed I do,” the goblin said with a faint aura of disappointment. He stood there on the raised dais. “Still … if ever you come our way again, please do return. We would welcome the opportunity to show you what we have wrought with the gift of our freedom from the Imperium.”
“If ever I pass this way again,” Cyrus said, now feigning that smile, “you can be certain I will take you up on that.”
116.
Cyrus
Cyrus’s next stop required no ride at all, just a simple teleport back to Reikonos, where he led Windrider along the slanting roads and alleys toward the Guildhall Quarter of the city. Evidence of the attack by Rotan, Virixia, Enflaga, and Ashea was hard to come by these months later. Even when looking, Cyrus could detect no hint of damage left unrepaired, at least not where he walked.
The sun had nearly set when he reached the crossroads in the Guildhall Quarter, glancing down the street toward the portal that led out of the Realm of Purgatory. He stared at the ovoid rock, the familiar glow at its center absent. It only lit when someone was coming through, and to his knowledge, no one had attempted the Realm of Purgatory in years. “I bet the Gatekeeper is a sad and lonely bastard now,” Cyrus said to himself with a malicious smirk. The long alley leading to the portal was similarly empty, the cobblestone road’s only occupant a discarded piece of parchment whose corner barely flapped in the light evening breeze.
Cyrus glanced at the abandoned guildhall of Goliath, its walls shabby and the front door hanging off its hinges. How long has it been since we watched them marched out of town? he wondered with a smile. Six years? The smile faded as he thought about the eventual fate of that guild, dying in a blast of magic to sate their guildmaster’s unquenchable thirst for power. “Hell of a way to go,” he said to himself.
He looked around, paying only a moment’s attention to the similarly abandoned Guildhall for Amarath’s Raiders. It, too, looked careworn, its windows smashed out and no lantern or hearth light within. There was no spark of life within, and this, too, stirred a smile, though only a small one, at the thought of Archenous Derregnault exploding upon the tip of Vara’s sword.
He finally turned to see the guards at the guildhall for Endeavor staring at him. They were two trolls, most probably the same two that Cyrus had seen when last he’d come here, and he rolled his eyes and sighed before setting out toward them once more. He braced himself for them to stall him, but to his surprise, when he was within ten feet of the front door, they both took a knee and bowed their heads, thrusting the hilt of their swords out at him wordlessly, as though pledging themselves to his service.
Cyrus stood there, halted in mid-step, the reins dangling loosely from his hand. Windrider whinnied loudly enough to shake him out of his shock, and he said, in a voice shot through with uncertainty, “Arise.”
The trolls got to their feet, replacing their mighty swords in their scabbards, but kept their heads bowed as though afraid to look him in the eye for fear of losing their souls. “Lord Davidon,” one of them said, and the other mumbled similar assent. “What may these humble warriors assist you with?”
“I’m looking for Zarnn,” Cyrus said, frowning at this bizarre treatment. Last time they looked indifferent; this time they’re treating me as though I’m one of the dead gods.
One of the trolls hurriedly tore the door open and shouted, “ZARNN! Lord Davidon comes to see you!” He waited, staring inside a moment before turning back to Cyrus and saying simply, “He comes.”
Zarnn appeared a moment later, enthusiasm on his face, earrings jangling, scanning hurriedly for Cyrus. When his eyes alighted upon the dark-armored figure, the troll burst forth and lifted Cyrus up before he could react, picking him up under the armpits like a doll. Cyrus caught a glimpse of the faces of the troll guards; they appeared scandalized on his behalf. Zarnn set him down quickly, twitching like an excited puppy.
“Lord Davidon,” Zarnn said, barely able to contain himself. Cyrus almost felt compelled to take a step back out of fear that the troll might lose bladder control along with his composure. “What bring you here?”
“I’m looking for you, Zarnn,” Cyrus said. He glanced past the troll. “I figured I’d talk to Lady Isabelle afterwards as well, since I’m here, but … I came to see you, mostly.”
“Lady Isabelle no here,” Zarnn said with a shake of the head. “Be back in a week, she said.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Cyrus said. “How are you, Zarnn?”
“Zarnn well,” the troll said, putting a hand upon Rodanthar’s hilt. “Zarnn foremost warrior in Endeavor, and in any guild. Show them all how it done—the Sanctuary way. The Brotherhood of the Savanna Cat way.”
“That’s a good way,” Cyrus said.
“You come join Endeavor,” Zarnn said, “Zarnn stand back for you, let you step forth. You best warrior in Arkaria. Show them how it done even better than Zarnn.” The troll had a hopeful look to him, still dancing around slightly, his massive feet hidden in matching plate boots that clanked as he moved. Oh, how different he looks now, Cyrus realized, clad in the armor of a true warrior—such a change from when he came to us in ill-fitting plate …
“I don’t think so, Zarnn,” Cyrus said. “I suspect soon enough you’ll be known as the foremost warrior in all Arkaria, not just the guilds.”
“No,” Zarnn said, shaking his head most vociferously. “Everyone know best warrior Cyrus Davidon.”
“Everyone know,” one of the troll guards said, nodding hard.
“It for true,” said the other guard, nodding so vigorously Cyrus wondered if his head might fly off from the force. “No doubting.”
“Yes, but if I’m not around …” Cyrus said, trying to lead the troll along.
“You be around,” Zarnn said.
“No one can kill Cyrus Davidon,” one guard said.
“Impossible,” agreed the other.
Cyrus started to open his mouth to disagree. One person can kill Cyrus Davidon, for certain, and he’s standing here in my armor. But he did not speak it, not to them.
“Whatever happen to ark you look for?” Zarnn asked, changing subjects so quickly that Cyrus felt a little unbalanced.
“I … don’t know that it ever existed,” Cyrus said, squinting, his brow furrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Lord Davidon look like someone has stolen his favorite goat,” Zarnn said.
“Grave crime!” proclaimed one guard.
“The worst!” bellowed the other. “Unforgivable!”
“Could use some hope, Zarnn thought,” the troll said, looking at him innocently. “So … ark. Sad if it doesn’t exist.”
“I suppose it is sad,” Cyrus said. There was a discomfort in him, a nettled feeling in his belly at the mere thought of the ark. “So … you’re the foremost warrior in all the guilds. Are you happy?”
“Very happy,” Zarnn pronounced. “But would be happier if Lord Davidon joined us. Or reformed Sanctuary. That would be even better.”
“New Sanctuary,” one of the trolls muttered. “I would join that.”
“Me too,” said the other.
“Sanctuary’s gone, Zarnn,” Cyrus said, his expression softening on his face like bread soaked in milk.
Zarnn frowned. “People still here. Could build new Sanctuary. Have more adventures.”
“I don’t think so,” Cyrus said quietly.
Zarnn made a low rumbling sound. “Sorry to hear. If change mind, Lord Davidon, Zarnn be here, waiting. When you come back, Zarnn be ready for you. Join you again. Make you proud.”
“I’m already proud of you, Zarnn,” Cyrus said, and the troll saluted with a fist across his chest. “Be well.”
“You also, Lord Davidon,” the troll said, the f
irelight catching his eyes as Cyrus started away from him and the other two while they watched him retreat, down the street, with his cowl up over his head, ready to leave his fame behind once more and lose himself in the anonymity of Reikonos.
117.
Cyrus
Are you ready to go home now?
After a restless night spent in his bunk in the barn, Windrider maintaining a surprising silence tethered inside with him, Cyrus awoke to daylight streaming once more through the planks above him. Blinking against the blinding bursts of daylight, he had a momentary lapse in remembering why he was here. Part of him wondered if he’d just awakened after the calamitous destruction of Sanctuary, but his only company was his horse, not his mother or Vaste, as on that occasion. He half-expected to hear Andren and Narstron speaking in hushed tones, but there was naught but silence to greet him as he got out of bed and dressed, focused on undertaking the next leg of his journey.
He led Windrider out onto the quiet slum streets, closing and locking the door to the old guildhall behind him. It made a satisfying click, like he was shutting the door to a chapter of his life and sealing it against further intrusion on his future. He had the vial carefully stored away in a padded pouch in his saddlebag to guard against breakage. When he mounted Windrider, he gave the old barracks a long look back, knowing he would never see it again.
He thought about saying something, but what was there to say, and who would even hear it? The slum street was almost empty, a handful of people hurrying back and forth down it before the heat of the day set in. The building itself had sheltered him, true, but it would have sheltered anyone else just the same. It was the memories made within that counted, the long conversations with Narstron and Andren; the remembrance of the day spent plotting in defense of the Citadel against the theft of Amnis, returning here after the sack of Reikonos to find the hall still standing strong in spite of the destruction.
Cyrus gave the old barn one last look then urged Windrider forward. He turned away from the old guildhall and did not look back, guiding the horse toward the square, where he knew he would find a wizard to carry him forward, not back.
The square was bustling, busier than the slums, people already transiting to and fro in front of the fountain, caravans appearing at the portal and then making their way off on rattling wheels. Cyrus started to move in toward one of the wizards who had just appeared when a warrior in flat steel plate stepped in front of his horse. Cyrus caught the young man’s eye, a burning anger visible in his expression.
“Excuse me,” Cyrus said, keeping his hand within his cloak, carefully resting on Praelior.
“No, I won’t,” the young man said, not taking his eyes off Cyrus.
“I beg your pardon?” Cyrus asked.
“You won’t get that, either,” the young man said and drew his own sword, painfully slowly to Cyrus’s speed-enhanced eyes. “Get off that horse and fight me, you bastard.”
Cyrus assessed the young man for but an eyeblink and then leapt from the back of Windrider, sending the horse charging off out of the way as someone gasped at the sudden disturbance in the square’s peace. When Cyrus landed, he drew Praelior instinctively, not even bothering with Ferocis. “You want me to fight you?” he asked.
“Damned right,” the young man said, voice quivering as he tried to master his fear. The blade’s tip shook slightly as it hovered in the air, ready to strike. Cyrus recognized the form; it was classically taught in the Society of Arms. “You killed Bellarum. I’ll kill you for it.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow, holding his sword tight at hand. “You worshipped Bellarum, then? He was your god?”
“As he was yours, before you betrayed him!” The young man came at him with a slow, obvious, but well-practiced strike.
Cyrus turned the attack aside without even using his sword. He raised an elbow and his armor clanged against the side of the blade as the young man swung past. Cyrus gave the warrior a hearty shove and he took a few stumbling steps before recovering his balance. “Aye, he was. And I killed him. I killed the god you worshipped. That’s why you’re angry?”
“Yes,” the warrior said, holding off on his next attack, looking for an opening. Cyrus did not envy him; he left many openings, almost too many to choose from, but his advantage in speed meant that all of them would close before the young warrior had even a chance to strike true.
“Let me tell you why what you’re doing here is stupid, then,” Cyrus said calmly as the boy came at him again. It was a clumsy move, and the young man overcommitted. Cyrus stepped aside and let him go wide in his attack, not even bothering to knock him asunder as he went past. “You worshipped him as I did, as a god, as the embodiment of war—preeminent in power, unchallenged and unconquered.” Cyrus kept his tone light, for he felt a sharp sense of pity for the boy—and he was little more than a boy, freshly turned out from the Society, Cyrus knew. “Except I challenged him, and I conquered him. You worshipped him as the strongest, yet I beat him. And here you are, challenging me.” The boy attacked again, apparently not hearing Cyrus, and Cyrus simply battled his blade aside with Praelior, slapped him hard in the wrist, rattling the vambrace hard enough that it stunned the lad’s hand. Cyrus knocked the blade free from the boy’s grasp and then brought Praelior’s edge up to his neck.
There was a gasp in the crowd as Cyrus stood there with the blade against the young man’s neck. “Do—do it, then,” the warrior said.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Cyrus said, and he pushed him to the ground instead.
The young warrior looked up at him, dust in a faint cloud all around him, his steel armor marred with the specks where it had already come to rest. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t follow Bellarum’s teachings anymore,” Cyrus said. “I don’t believe in war anymore. There is no greatness to it. Necessity sometimes, but never greatness.”
“That’s fine for you,” the young man spat. “But who are we to believe in now?” There was a hurt in his eyes. “You? Because I once did, before you killed Bellarum.”
“Certainly not me,” Cyrus said. “I’m just a man, not a god. Gods demand things of you, and I need nothing from anyone in Arkaria, least of all worship. Try believing in yourself, perhaps.”
The boy looked up at him, and let a hand flop into the dirt, stirring more dust.
“It’s better than clinging to some rotting corpse of a would-be deity or my wandering, spectral presence in this land,” Cyrus said. “For soon I’ll be gone and you’d be left with nothing. No,” he shook his head, “it’s safer to believe in yourself. That’s the lesson I’ve learned.” He reached out for Windrider, and the horse came, separating itself from the watching crowd that had gathered around them, talking in hushed whispers.
“That’s a grim lesson,” the young man said, all the defiance drained out of him.
“It’s a grim world,” Cyrus said, swinging a leg up over Windrider’s back. “Why don’t you see if you can do a better job of lightening it up than I did?” He saw a wizard in the crowd and beckoned him forward, leaving the broken warrior behind in the dirt to contemplate what he’d said. Somehow, Cyrus knew, there would be no satisfaction found in the message he’d delivered. It certainly hadn’t satisfied him, after all.
118.
Cyrus
The green stretched along the horizon as far as Cyrus could see, putting the truth to the name of Emerald Fields. Crops grew all ahead and behind him, many he couldn’t even name, though he recognized corn and beans among them. Farmers were moving among them like beetles on a leaf, tiny figures in the infinite sea of green.
He’d been saluted at the portal, the residual guard posted there almost dropping their spears at the sight of him. He’d watched a druid standing nearby disappear in the twinkle of a return spell as he started off toward the town with Windrider and knew his arrival would be anticipated. The horse cantered along the dusty road as his rider felt a sense of trepidation growing in him, wondering what would be awaiting him
when he reached the town. Part of him hoped nothing would arise; the other part—the smaller part by far—feared that nothing would be waiting for him but a simple town going about its business as though it were any other day.
Cyrus came up over a slope in the road and heard a sharp whistle to his left. He looked, and there among the grasses was a smiling figure in a green cloak that covered her nearly well enough to hide the dark hair and the bow slung over her shoulder. There was no mistaking the lightning running down the claws on her hand, however, and even if he hadn’t seen the impish look on Calene Raverle’s face he would have known it was her by her bearing.
“So it is true!” she called out, coming down the hill, the weeds in the ditch between her and the road up to her chest, brushing her tunic as she rustled through. She kicked as she walked, probably trying to scare away any waiting snakes, Cyrus figured, and when she emerged from the wayside into the road, she looked up at him wryly. “I’d heard from Ryin you were making the rounds when last he came to town.”
“Is that so?” Cyrus asked, bringing Windrider to a halt in the middle of the road. He looked backward and then forward; there was no traffic for him to block with his presence there. “What else did he tell you?”
“That’d you’d been to Saekaj,” she said soberly. “Said you were checking up on us all, one by one,” Calene said, folding her arms in front of her, the lightning claws lancing quietly. “Sounded a bit funny, and a bit sensitive, really, being as he was talking about the conqueror of Kortran and—”
“Please don’t do some sort of recitation of my glorious victories,” Cyrus said. “My ears bleed from fatigue at hearing them extolled everywhere I go.”
“I expect by this point the maidens are throwing themselves in the road in front of you, begging you to take them,” Calene said, and then winced, as though she realized how indelicate she’d been. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
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