Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “Did you even hear me?” Isabelle asked. “Are you going to come in now? Or just sit there, ahorse, staring at the sidewalk ahead?”

  Cyrus looked down at the healer, and closed his eyes. With them pressed shut, it wasn’t difficult to see her as her sister, but when he opened them again the differences were so stark as to make him wonder how he could have mistaken her, even for a moment. “I’m sorry, Isabelle, but … no. I didn’t mean to disturb you—”

  “Disturb me?” She looked up at him in concern. “You didn’t—Cyrus, what are you doing here?”

  “Wandering through the past,” Cyrus said, clearing his throat. “I was on my way to Ilanar Hill.”

  She relaxed the slightest degree. “To your mansion there?”

  “I thought I should see what it looked like,” he said, unsure why he felt the need to lie, even now. “Perhaps a change of pace is in order … I’ve been wandering Arkaria for a while, you know.”

  “I do know,” she said gently. “Come see me again? While you’re in town?”

  “You’re not going back to Endeavor’s guildhall?”

  She made a weak hmmph-ing noise. “I go back every week or so, but … no, I don’t expect I’ll be found there much longer. I think those days, for me, have ended.”

  “I know that feeling well,” Cyrus said, drawing up tightly on the reins.

  “Come see me again while you’re in town,” Isabelle said, an imploring note barely audible in her voice. She stood with a hand shading her face, and he had to shake his head again to dispel the idea that she might have been Vara.

  “I’ll try,” Cyrus said, urging Windrider forward again, wanting to be away from her, from the cold knife of her familiarity, like a blade on his flesh. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I was planning to keep heading north and—”

  “You don’t have to be alone, Cyrus,” she called out as he continued off, away from the house where Vara had grown up. “She wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone, any more than you would have wanted her to be—”

  “I know, Isabelle,” Cyrus said, “but she’s not here anymore, and thus her opinion counts for little unless she wants to come back and enforce it on me herself. Which I would welcome,” he said quietly, knowing she would hear it.

  “Take care, Cyrus,” she called after him as he looked back a last time. Now he saw once more, that resemblance to Vara, and he turned away, not daring to speak, for fear he might say something to her—say all to her—that he wished he could say to his wife.

  122.

  Cyrus

  Cyrus barely noticed the path up Ilanar Hill, nor did he fully regain his senses until he had nearly reached his own mansion, which he knew by the numbering he had seen on the post at the end of the road leading up to it. He had never been here before, but could tell even in the stupor brought on by the long day’s ride that it was grand. There were columns and gleaming marble and arches aplenty that in the past might have overawed a poor boy from the Society. Cyrus felt no stirrings of amazement as he once might have, however, and he knew it was not merely the fatigue. We’re edging nearer to the end, now. Closer and closer …

  He rode up under the portico covering the entry, the sound of fountains tinkling out front. A footman hurried down the short steps from where he’d been standing at attention just beside the door and took hold of Windrider’s reins, bowing his head. “My Lord Davidon. My name is Greenan. I am your humble servant.”

  “How did you know I was coming?” Cyrus asked.

  Greenan looked up at him. “I didn’t.”

  Cyrus stared at him. “You were waiting beside the front door on the off chance I would stop by?”

  “Or that someone would call upon you, my Lord of Perdamun,” Greenan said. “The latter is obviously more common, being as you have not visited this domicile until now, but I like to be prepared for all occasions that might arise …” He offered a hand to help Cyrus swing down from his horse, but Cyrus ignored it and dismounted in the opposite direction, armor squeaking upon the settling of all his weight. “I will tether your horse here for now,” Greenan said, lashing Windrider to a post, “and then make certain he’s attended to in the stables later, after I’ve seen to anything you need of me, if that’s all right?” Greenan hurried alongside Cyrus up the steps to the house, throwing the doors open to him just before he reached them himself.

  There was an impressive foyer beyond, and Cyrus gave the marbled floors and the burning hearth a look before settling his attention back on Greenan. “How long have you been here?”

  “I was here throughout the reconstruction, my Lord,” Greenan said, “and stayed on once that was done.” He stood stiffly at attention. “I volunteered for this duty, actually—”

  “That’s all very good,” Cyrus said, waving him off.

  “Would you like to sit?” Greenan asked. “There’s a study just through here,” he gestured to the right, “and I could make you something in the kitchens if you’re hungry. We don’t keep anyone other than myself on staff at the moment, but if you’re going to come to residence here there is an ample allowance for me to hire a cook and other full-time household help—”

  “Why don’t you go take care of my horse while I sit in silence for a while?” Cyrus asked, looking toward the door Greenan had indicated.

  “Ah, very good, sir,” Greenan said, and bowed. “If you need anything, anything at all, I’ll just be right outs—”

  “Go on, then,” Cyrus said. “I won’t starve to death in the short space of time you’re taking care of a horse.” And he moved off, making his way toward the promised study.

  “I suppose not,” Greenan said, chuckling weakly. “Still … come and get me if you need anything.” His voice faded as Cyrus entered the short hall to the study.

  The study was more of a library, filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves. A small couch and some well-appointed chairs formed a small circle in the room, as if ready for an intimate group of friends to gather for conversation. Cyrus made his way over and settled himself down in a plush, thickly padded chair. He removed his helm, setting it on the table beside him. The back of the chair extended up as a brace for his neck, as though it were made for someone of his height. It hit perfectly, allowing him to rest, the fatigue settling in on him, giving him the sense that he just might be able to fall asleep right there.

  The squeak of a shoe on the marble floor caused Cyrus to open his eyes, and when he did he immediately leapt to his feet. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, drawing both Praelior and Ferocis, holding the blades out before him, in spite of the fact that the man standing before the window ahead was unarmed.

  “I’m not really supposed to be anywhere, anymore,” the man said, lacking the characteristic arrogance Cyrus had come to expect of him. “You saw to that.” The Gatekeeper of the Realm of Purgatory turned on Cyrus with lips pursed, looking almost bored, his long nose still high in the air. “After all, what’s the Hand of the Gods to do without any gods?”

  “Die, I think,” Cyrus said, “like any good hand once it’s severed.” He started to take a step forward to do some severing of his own, but the Gatekeeper held up a hand to stay him.

  “Or I could help you,” the Gatekeeper said, and he looked just serious enough, lacking any of the sarcasm, bitterness, or fury that he had shown on every occasion that Cyrus had met him, that it stayed his hand.

  “I don’t need anything you have to offer, Gatekeeper,” Cyrus said, and readied himself once more.

  “My name is not Gatekeeper—or at least it wasn’t always,” he said, with a deep-seated weariness. “It was once Stepan Thomason. And there is something I can do to help you—something I would do to help us both.” He looked almost concerned, and he looked down his pointed nose without a trace of his old sneer. Instead he wore a pensive look, almost worried. “I want to help you save an old friend.” He drew up, serious and solemn. “I want to help you free Alaric Garaunt.”

  123.

&nbs
p; Cyrus

  “Stop and explain yourself,” Cyrus said, following behind the Gatekeeper over the first rocky hill in the Trials of Purgatory. The air bore traces of a chalky dust that threatened to make Cyrus gag, and the entire realm was coated in twilight, no sign of a sun in the sky. The land before him was made up of small islands that fell off into nothingness, and Cyrus gave the empty space to his left a sidelong look before turning his attention back to the Gatekeeper, whose long, golden cloak rustled behind him.

  “I already explained,” the Gatekeeper said, neatly pacing Cyrus. “The man you know as Alaric Garaunt is being held prisoner. I wish to free him, and you are going to help me.”

  “Why couldn’t you just free him, then?” Cyrus asked, hiking up the small hill before him, boots clanking against rock and pebble with each step. “What, did you become a gelding when the gods died?”

  “No,” the Gatekeeper—Stepan, he had called himself—said, a little of the familiar irritability now apparent. “My power remains as it was before, a fraction of that of those gods you killed, sliced off long before their deaths and imbued in me in much the same way as the power contained in your blades—impervious to their end or other misfortune. But,” he said, and the annoyance seemed to die, “I am forbidden to interfere in the trials, and further forbidden to use my powers on—”

  “Wait,” Cyrus said, cresting the hill, “the trials are still functi—”

  He did not get to finish the question, as from the ground broke three golems, ripping the dirt and soil asunder in their rise. It was like watching the soil give birth to creatures of rock, solid, growing swiftly from the ground before him. Cyrus’s hands raced to Praelior and Ferocis, drawing them just as swiftly and launching himself at the first of three golems.

  “Did I forget to mention?” the Gatekeeper asked with mild amusement. “I need someone to defeat the trials.”

  Cyrus struck at the leg of the creature, burying Praelior in it and then swung Ferocis upward, sinking it into the golem’s gut all the way to the tip. He acted without thought, channeling a force blast down his blades, and an eruption of living stone battered his armor, tiny pieces of rocky debris spanging off the metal as he turned his head. He could hear the shower of pebbles against the side of his helm and then he fell back to the ground, one foe defeated.

  “You could have warned me!” Cyrus shouted as the second golem charged at him. He threw up Praelior and channeled an ice spell down the blade. In his rising alarm he shaped the bloom of the cloud of frost as wide as he could, and concentrated hard on drawing all the freezing cold out of the ether that he could. The result was a frosty breath of wind that blew hard from his sword, engulfing the charging golem. Cyrus stepped aside just before it broke through the cloud, shrouded in ice from top to bottom, frozen solid, and it came crashing down like a statue pulled from a pedestal, shattering into a thousand pieces under its own weight when it hit the ground.

  “This is very impressive,” the Gatekeeper called, but Cyrus was focused on the final threat. The last golem came at him, so much closer than the last, and this time Cyrus brought both swords around, lining them up to point directly at the head of the creature. He blinked as he drew his bead on the rocky beast, and then cast his spell. A gout of flame burst from the sword tips, this one concentrated and focused, no more than the size of his own head. It leapt forward and struck the golem in the center of his faceless head, and the inferno played across the rock for but a moment before melting its way through, molten stone dripping down its chest, until it fell over only feet before him, still at last.

  “I do have a question, though,” the Gatekeeper said, descending out of the air to stand next to Cyrus as he caught his breath, standing over the last defeated golem, “how did you know—given that it’s a monstrous and rocky beast—that blasting it in the head would kill it?”

  “I—I wasn’t thinking about it,” Cyrus said a little crossly. “It came at me, I didn’t have time to freeze it, so …” He waved a hand at the downed golem.

  “Well done,” Stepan said mildly. “When your mother, Curatio, and Alaric challenged the trials on their own, it took them much longer to defeat the golems than you did.”

  “It might have been quicker if I’d been prepared,” Cyrus snapped.

  “Why were you not prepared?” Stepan asked with a querying eyebrow raised.

  “Because I assumed after killing the gods themselves, perhaps their creations would trouble me no more,” Cyrus snapped. “You put an enemy in their grave, you just figure that the fight is over.”

  “That is a foolish assumption,” Stepan said, frowning. “You of all people should know that your enemies seldom die, putting an end to the fight. Defeating one enemy spawns another, as one seeks revenge for the fall of their fellows. Very few people manage to simply go down the line and cross all who oppose them off the list, as it were. There are consequences to your behavior, after all, costs to these sort of vengeful transactions—”

  “As though I don’t know that,” Cyrus growled.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve felt it,” Stepan said. “Are you ready for the pegasi and the Wind Totem?”

  “Not really,” Cyrus said, but he started toward the second island’s gateway in the distance, where he could see a flat stretch of dusty land waiting in the middle of the emptiness that surrounded it.

  “Remember,” Stepan said as Cyrus skirted close to the edge of the land bridge between islands as he made his way forward, “if you fall off for any reason, you will be trapped in a sort of prison under my care until such time as the trials are bested again.” He made a face to indicate his distaste. “I will be forced to torment you.”

  “Because it was the command of the gods?” Cyrus asked, paying little attention to the Gatekeeper’s warnings, his thought directed toward how best to dispatch the eel and what lay beyond. I’ve done these fights more times than I can count, but it was always with thousands at my command … still, now I can use magic, better and more heretically than ever we could when attempting this in the past … and I do have two godly weapons at my command …

  “No,” Stepan said smugly, “because if you’re fool enough to lose your balance and topple clumsily off the isles like a great idiot, you will deserve it.” He changed tack, expression going back to curiosity interlaced with a steely reserve. “How do you plan to deal with the Wind Totem and his shockwave?”

  “Like so,” Cyrus said and charged across to the next isle. The dust beneath his feet was churned with every step as he charged into battle. He could see the small pack of winged horses again, pegasi like the ones that had been in the final battle in the Realm of War. They swooped down upon him, their pure white coats gleaming in the twilight, a storm of hooves raining down toward him, and he remembered a time when they had pummeled him furiously, nearly to death.

  “If Windrider was here,” Cyrus muttered, raising his sword as the first came at him, “I’d let him stomp the hell out of every single one you—” He swung his blade as the horse made to hit him, and cleaved its forelegs off, slashing the wing and giving it a solid shoulder check as it went past. It tumbled to the earth and flipped, the whinnying almost a scream as it collapsed, white coat marred with the blood and horror.

  The next he took the head from, another he blasted out of the sky with a force blast, turning it upside down so that it could not flap its wings with enough force to support its weight. It landed on its back and kicked, paralyzed, screaming while he went on to kick the next hard enough to send it sideways into two more.

  The Wind Totem appeared in a blast of pure energy, and Cyrus was thrown to the ground hard, but weathered the pain and cast a healing spell. He rolled out of the way just as the Wind Totem came down to finish him with a stomp. He took one foreleg with a swipe of his sword, then the other, and ran Ferocis across its white neck while it floundered, ending it as he rose back to his feet.

  A few force blast spells brought the last of the threats out of the sky, and he struck them d
own with his blades without further worry. He did not wait for Stepan to join him before striding forth again, leaving a host of pegasi dead behind him as he made his way to the isle ahead, the dark lake waiting for him, the waters sparkling in the perpetual twilight of the Trials.

  “If I hadn’t already said my damned goodbyes to all the people who could have helped me in this place …” Cyrus said, his own annoyance rising as he walked over the land bridge, giving but a glance to the infinite sky that stretched down either side of him.

  “Yes, you’ve become quite the isolated soul, haven’t you?” Stepan asked, reappearing beside him. “I wasn’t surprised you leapt at the chance to come with me immediately, and without consulting a single one of your so-called friends for help.”

  “Why are they my ‘so-called’ friends?” Cyrus asked, coming to a halt at the shore of the sea. It rippled, stretching out in front of him. “You doubt that they would have come if I’d actually called them?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they would,” Stepan said, “but you wouldn’t have called them. You have it in your head to say farewell to all—to them, the land of Arkaria, to the memories of your beloved wife. You know that they suspect—the canniest of them, which is admittedly few—what you are planning, to exit this life with that vial you keep in your saddlebag.” Cyrus looked at him to find the Gatekeeper smirking. “It’s obvious, you see.”

  “To someone who can spy without being seen, I suppose,” Cyrus said, casting Falcon’s Essence on himself. His feet left the ground as the tide rolled in a few inches in front of him, the lake disturbed by some movement somewhere beneath its surface.