Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “I know,” Cyrus said, with the trace of a smile. “If I stayed in a place more than a minute after people recognized me, perhaps the maidens would have time to do something of that sort. As it is, I leave so quickly they’re stuck throwing themselves in the road behind me.” He gripped the reins tightly. “How fare you, Calene?”

  “I fare well,” she said, then stopped, looking up as she thought. “Wait. Did I just tell you ‘farewell’? I didn’t mean it like that. I mean I’m doing well.”

  “The sun and green of Emerald Fields seems to agree with you,” Cyrus said, noting the darker shade to her complexion.

  “Being a ranger in Emerald Fields isn’t a particularly exciting duty,” she confessed. “Though last week I did have to track two lost heifers. The week before it was a stray goat. Had a troll scare there, for a minute. I’m going on a long-ranging patrol along Rockridge toward the Heia Pass starting tomorrow.” She grew solemn. “We ended up with Lord Fortin’s territory, per his will.” She puffed up with a little pride, her arms still folded. “I guess I’m head ranger around here, though there’s hardly a formal title or anything.”

  Cyrus smiled. “I’m pleased that you’re pleased.”

  “It’s hard not to be pleased,” she said, stepping up and rubbing Windrider along the neck. The horse whinnied and she smiled at him, scratching behind the ear. “I am disappointed I’m going to miss the First Harvest Festival, though. I guess there’s always the Second Harvest Festival come autumn, though. That’s the big blowout anyway.” She shrugged.

  “Always looking for that silver lining,” Cyrus said, dismounting as he swung a leg over. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”

  She smiled at him from under the horse’s chin. “Good to know I haven’t disappointed you, Lord Davidon—”

  “Calene,” he said, “we’ve killed gods together. You can call me Cyrus.”

  “Well,” she said, blushing slightly, “I don’t know if I can, but either way—I’m glad I haven’t disappointed you, not seeking out adventure again after … after all that happened.”

  “Hard to top what we’ve done,” Cyrus said, kicking at the dirt beneath his feet. “You don’t see me out there joining a guild, tilting at—whatever it is they tilt at these days.”

  “It’d be a bit of a comedown, after gods and death and all that,” she agreed then lapsed into silence for a moment. “And how about you? You doing well?”

  “As well as can be expected,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral and working to put a thin smile upon his lips.

  “That’s good.” She flashed him a quicksilver grin and took hold of Windrider’s reins. “Let’s get you to town. I expect an awful lot of people are going crazy right now, what with the warrior of legend coming their way, you know? We should probably get you there.”

  “We probably should,” Cyrus said. He followed her along as she led the horse, but his steps grew slow, his anticipation for what lay ahead dampening by the minute. He had his answer for the kind of reception he was going to receive, and to his lack of surprise, knew it would leave him cold no matter how warmly he was greeted.

  119.

  Cyrus

  “Quite a night, isn’t it?” Samwen Longwell asked as he and Cyrus sat a distance back from a great bonfire, surrounded by villagers celebrating under the influence of good drink and good company. A band played, its instruments’ strings producing a lively melody that even Cyrus could appreciate. The fire was lighting up the night, reminding him of other nights, on distant shores, when armies under his command had gathered around smaller fires, waiting for a coming battle.

  “You Luukessians certainly know how to throw a party,” Cyrus said, ignoring the wine in his cup. It was too sweet; he didn’t care for it.

  “You should see the celebration after second harvest,” Longwell said, taking a sip from his own flagon. “It gets twice as raucous than anything you’ve seen this eve.”

  “What have I seen this eve?” Cyrus asked, eyes tracing the line of celebrating crowds, stray gazes from many of their number meeting his. He could see the admiration in the men’s eyes, and something else, something that made him uneasy, in those of the women. “Other than drinking and lauding and feasting.”

  “Well, there’s the dancing,” Longwell said dryly. “Admittedly, such pastimes are not to my taste, but for those more fleet of foot …”

  “That’s not for me, either,” Cyrus said quickly.

  “I heard once you were a fair dancer,” Longwell said, taking another swig from his drink.

  “In days long past, perhaps,” Cyrus said.

  “Did you lose all you believe in again?” Longwell asked, plainly spurred by drink.

  “No,” Cyrus said. “I lost my … my belief in Bellarum, I suppose, some time ago, but … no, I didn’t lose all I believe in. It did leave a hole in me, though that pales in comparison to all else I lost.”

  “I’ve heard said in my homeland that the reason people believed in their ancestors was that it helped them cope with the losses of life,” Longwell said, too far in his cups to be tactful. “Maybe your faith in Bellarum going missing at roughly the same time as your … other loss …” He hiccupped, then looked chagrined. “Well … anyhow. You could still believe in the God of Good if you were of a mind to. Seems he’s the only one we’ve heard is still standing, wherever he might be.”

  Cyrus stared at the fire in the distance, the villagers dancing around the orange, leaping flames like tiny shadows. “What good is there left in the world?”

  Longwell stilled. “Surely there’s some … hope?”

  Cyrus brought his own cup up and took a reluctant sip. “I’m sure there is,” he conceded when he finished swallowing. “I mean, look at this place. People are living their lives, they’re happy, they’re surrounded at last by abundance, by decent neighbors. The elves are no longer a threat to them, the gods who would have seen them dead are gone … absolutely there’s hope in the world, and in great supply.” He took another small sip of the sweet wine.

  “You sound like you actually believe that,” Longwell said, sounding vaguely impressed.

  “Why should I not believe it?” Cyrus asked. “Even when you didn’t believe in the gods, you believed that we believed in them, didn’t you?”

  Longwell’s face contorted as he tried to think his way through the question. “Yes … I think?”

  “Just because a thing is not right for you doesn’t mean you question whether other people believe in it,” Cyrus said. “You might question why they believe in it, as I often did for the followers of Mortus, but it’s hard to question another person’s faith once you’ve seen their devotion.” His eyelids felt suddenly heavy, and he put aside the wine on a nearby trestle table. “Hope is all around you, like sweet flowers in the air in spring.”

  “Take a breath of it, then, Lord Davidon,” Longwell said, unsteady on his feet. He clapped Cyrus on the back and nearly fell over himself the in process. “Take some of it in.”

  “How could I not?” Cyrus lied, smiling at Longwell as the dragoon raised his own cup to his lips again. “Being here with you lot.”

  “Will you stay for a while, then?” Longwell asked, slurring his words. “Here in the fields? It’s a simple life—a bit dull, really—but there are good things here, as you said.” His gaze caught that of a line of maidens dancing by in a ring, holding hands as they moved.

  “Are you bored, Longwell?” Cyrus asked, watching the dragoon’s attentions follow the maidens.

  “No,” he said, and then nodded after a pause. “Perhaps a bit.” He met Cyrus’s eyes, his own watery. “I could go with you.”

  “Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” Cyrus said, and shoved Longwell out, where he caught the hand of one of the maidens dancing by. He seemed surprised, but joined in quickly enough in mirth and celebration that—try as he might—Cyrus simply could not feel anywhere inside.

  120.

  Cyrus

  Cyrus knocked on th
e door at the top of the stairs when he saw light filtering through the shade. He was rewarded a moment later with an answer: “Come in.”

  He went in and found himself in a warm office, a fire blazing in the hearth in spite of it being late summer. The smell of the wood was sweet and smoky, and Cyrus found himself enjoying its scent as the warmth washed over him.

  “I wondered if you would come see me, Lord Davidon,” Cattrine Tiernan said, sitting behind her desk with a glass of amber liquid sitting before her. There was an ornate glass bottle atop her desk as well, filled halfway with liquid that matched that in the glass. Cyrus stared at it until she took notice and lifted the glass, saying, “Spiced rum from the Isle of Remlorant back home.” Her eyes glittered with amusement. “As it turns out, they and some of the other islands that used to answer to Actaluere are still doing quite well, as some boats from our fishing and lumber harvesting village in the southeast determined when they pulled up to the shores of the isle.” She clinked a fingernail against the glass. “A little piece of home.”

  “So you’re not the last of the Luukessians?” Cyrus asked, standing in the middle of the warm office and admiring its touches.

  “They’re islanders, not true Luukessians,” she said, her green eyes sparkling like the emeralds that gave the fields their name. “Though that hardly matters, does it? Rather pedantic, given all that’s happened.”

  “I suppose,” Cyrus said, drawing closer to the desk. Cattrine opened the glass stopper from the bottle and made a motion, offering him some. “No, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, and the top clinked as she put it back on, her fingers slightly clumsier than usual. Her eyes were a little dull as well, showing the sheen of fatigue and drink mixed together. “I was surprised to hear you were coming our way today.”

  “Calene told me Ryin warned you I was wandering the land,” Cyrus said. “Why would you be surprised I would come your way?”

  “I honestly thought you were avoiding us,” she said, taking a sip and smacking her lips together quietly. “Or at least some of us.”

  “I don’t feel much need to avoid anyone or anything at this point,” Cyrus said, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling slightly.

  “You always were brave,” Cattrine said, raising her glass to him and finishing it off before uncapping the bottle and filling it half-full once more. “But then, I knew that from the moment we met at Green Hill, when you sieged that castle with a fraction of the men my esteemed former husband,” she said this sarcastically, “could claim. I wish I could have seen you storming over the battlements, coming into his room and running him through.” A smile curved one corner of her mouth, and she brought the glass up again to obscure it. “I think about it less and less all the time … but still.”

  “Why would you think about that?” Cyrus asked. “Those times … long past?”

  “Because like thoughts of my beloved city of Caenalys,” Cattrine said, staring into the distance before she looked straight at him, through him, “they grow fonder in memory.” She stood, and came around the desk, setting her glass upon its surface. She wore her usual cotton trousers, but he noticed for the first time that her blouse was not buttoned all the way to the top, the curve of her breasts just visible.

  He glanced away, embarrassed. “Does that mean you grow fonder of me in memory?” He felt unaccountably warm now, heated by either the office fire or his thoughts. It had been so long since Vara. A ghostly memory of days long gone stirred at him, and he remembered Cattrine’s naked flesh pressed against his body.

  “I’ve always been fond of you,” she said, coming off the desk now. She sipped again, then put the glass down, her thin fingers moving nervously once they came back to her sides.

  “I remember when it was more than fondness,” Cyrus said, his body rigid. She was barely a foot away, and he could smell the scent of the rum, strong and promising. She was looking at him with slightly watery eyes, her lips parted, anticipation suggested in the way she held her body.

  She blinked slowly, leaning forward, and he smelled the rich rum on her breath as she whispered, “Perhaps it still is.” She leaned in and pressed her mouth upon his, and Cyrus felt himself drawn back across the years. Her lips were full and warm and wonderful, and the mere touch was like spell-light spreading down his face, tingling its way across his scalp and down his neck. Her hands found his arms and held him close as she probed with her tongue and he let her. He flushed even hotter, feeling he was boiling within his armor, impossibly warm.

  His body craved her, and he put a gauntlet on her back even as she drew him in, her tongue working in his mouth. He closed his eyes, and it felt wonderful, so full of promise, all the way through him, and he kissed her back, felt her curl against his armor, her lips upon his, feeling so strange, until—

  In a flash Cyrus recalled the feel of his wife’s mouth upon his own, Vara’s lips on his, her blond hair glowing like spun gold. He opened his eyes as their lips parted, and he jerked away from Cattrine as though burned with a fire spell. He took his ragged breaths, saw the wounded look upon her face. “I’m sorry,” as he tried to compose himself.

  “It’s all right,” she said, though the look on her face told him it was not. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Cyrus said.

  “Neither did you.” She softened her tone. “Cyrus, she’s been gone for over a y—”

  “Trust me,” Cyrus said with a halting breath, “I know exactly how long she’s been gone.”

  “But still you pine,” Cattrine said, holding herself stiffly, her face still, any hurt now carefully hidden. “I should have known.”

  “It was not yours to know,” Cyrus said, turning his face away, “but mine. I can still feel … feel her with me sometimes, like … a specter just out of sight … like a dream I just woke from.”

  Cattrine was silent for a time. When she spoke, she said, “Cyrus … I don’t think you know what they say about you. About how you wander the land, a spectral vision like you see of your beloved wife. Do you know what they call you, the smallfolk?” Her lips quivered slightly. “‘The Ghost of Sanctuary.’”

  Cyrus smiled ruefully and held in a bitter laugh. “Knowing the last man who held that title … I can say I’ve been called so much worse. It is apt.” Through her facade he could see her concern. “The rest of you are all going on, living your lives … and all I want to do is fade away.”

  “It need not be that way,” she said as he started to move away, to escape for the door. “You can come back to us. Leave this wandering behind and let yourself … be touched. Let yourself … feel again. Before you truly do fade away.”

  He stood in the darkness of the doorway, listening to her plea, though it was fruitless. He almost laughed, for it was no choice at all, really—

  “Goodbye, Cattrine,” he said, and he closed the door to the warmth, the light within, and disappeared into the darkness.

  121.

  Cyrus

  The road to Termina from Emerald Fields was long, and carried Cyrus north along the banks of the river Perda for many weeks. He found himself staring out across the Plains of Perdamun to his east, thinking of the crater somewhere in the distance. He knew his fate was to reach it, eventually, but the path ahead still loomed before him, and he had many miles to go before he reached its—and his—end.

  He entered Termina as the last hot breaths of summer were blowing out of the south. One long, weary day that followed a fitful night he came over a high hill on the riverbank, and there it was: a city reborn, laid out before him against the brown line of the water’s edge. He could see the bridges there, hanging above the sparkling waters—the Grand Span and its two smaller sisters, there on the edge of the alabaster glory of Termina. There was little sign left of the invasion; the market bustled now with antlike figures, and the avenues swarmed with activity. Further on, in the middle of the city, the Chancel of Life looked as though it had collapsed on itself onc
e more, as though it had been rebuilt more grandly and then fallen down, and Cyrus felt a pang, wondering how that might have happened.

  The southern road threaded between the buildings, leading Cyrus through the older districts. He let Windrider canter as he watched the architects and masons do their work, fixing some incomplete houses and patching damage to others. The worst of the damage looked to have been repaired, and now they were engaged in the final restoration. The debris that had lined the streets only a year earlier seemed nearly gone, though black banners were in evidence everywhere, and Cyrus did not need much imagination to guess at their origin. Still, they remember her as I do. Will they mourn as long as I would, though?

  In spite of that, the greenery and glory of Termina was back in full evidence. A lusty autumn wind did nothing to dispel the bright colors of the flowers that lined planters on the streets as Cyrus took a turn into the Old District, following streets he only half-remembered, ones that had changed in the upheaval of war and the sack.

  He found the place without realizing it; he saw the corner up ahead first, the one where he and Vara had first kissed. His lips burned at the memory of it, and his cheeks burned with shame at the thought of what he’d done with Cattrine more recently. He sat on the back of Windrider, at a halt, staring at the spot on the cobbled street where it had happened, until he saw movement out of the corner of his eyes and turned.

  She was there, blond and glorious, red lips emerging from the shadows, golden hair let loose around her shoulders. He could see the piercing blue eyes staring out at him even though she was partially shrouded in shadow in the frame of the door, and Cyrus felt lightheaded for a moment, as her words reached out at him on the street.

  “Are you ready to go home now?”

  Cyrus felt an unnatural chill, then a flush, and he snapped back to himself in embarrassment as the woman stepped out of the shadows fully, into the sun streaming down from above. Her hair did gleam like gold, and her lips were red as fresh-drawn blood, and her blue eyes did shine like the sky on a summer day, but it was not her. Cyrus shook the fatigue out of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Isabelle. I thought you were …” He didn’t even bother to finish the thought.