Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Research?” Vaste asked, and Cyrus could see the troll’s mouth curve down, his enormous teeth still sticking out of his lips. “What sort of research could you possibly be doing about this?”

  Curatio sighed, and the healer’s face slackened. “I’m going to read some of my old journals, if you must know.” His neck straightened, and he cast an annoyed look at Vaste. “When you get to be seven or eight thousand years old, you realize that you can’t remember everything and start to write down as much as possible so you’ll have it available when necessary.”

  Vaste’s mouth became a thin line, punctuated only by his two largest teeth. “Somehow, I don’t think I’ll live long enough to have that problem.”

  Curatio’s eyebrows raised and his shoulders rose with them. “No, at the rate you go around insulting powerful beings, I expect you’ll be dead within the year.”

  Vaste sighed. “I just can’t help it. My mother always said that my mouth would be the death of me.”

  “She was probably referring to your diet,” Vara muttered. “Eating an entire pig at a sitting cannot be healthy.”

  “But it tastes so good,” Vaste said, a hand rubbing his ample belly.

  “Odellan, have a wizard teleport the army back to Sanctuary,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “I’ll need another wizard to teleport me to the Wardemos portal near the River Perda.”

  “Right,” Odellan said with a crisp nod. “I need a volunteer—a wizard to accompany the general,” he called out over the front rank of spell casters.”

  “I’ll go,” came a calm voice. A woman pushed her way to the front, wearing grey robes with a white vestment around her neck bearing the runes of a wizard. She also wore a pointed hat that was unlike anything Cyrus had seen on a wizard—or anyone else, for that matter.

  “All right, Verity,” Odellan said. “I’ll need someone to teleport the rest of us to—”

  “Hang on,” Verity said, adjusting her hat. Her fingers glowed and there was a flash as blue light filled the tunnel dome. Glowing blue orbs appeared in front of every person in the room, like circular balls of cerulean flame. They hovered in place, roughly a foot from Cyrus’s mouth, and he stared at it as members of his army began to disappear in flashes of light.

  Cyrus felt a rough hand on his shoulder, felt water fall on his neck as he turned. Vaste stood looking down on him. “Be careful.”

  Cyrus frowned at him. “That seems an odd thing for you to say.”

  “Well,” Vaste said, straightening up, the yellow flecks in his irises seeming a bit warmer than usual to Cyrus, “you know how I worry.”

  “I’ll be gone a few more days,” Cyrus said with a perfunctory nod. “Hopefully Martaina will have found some sign of the Daring by now.”

  “Just keep in mind,” Vaste said, drawing up to his full height, “that anything that can cause one guild army to disappear,” his hand came up to clutch at the glowing orb hanging in the air in front of him, “could cause another to disappear as well.” The troll’s massive green hand disappeared in a burst of blue energy that caused Cyrus to squint his eyes. As the light from Vaste’s passage faded, he turned to catch a glimpse of Vara, still standing in front of the portal, which was now dark.

  She stood, her armor’s gleam faded now that it was wet and dripping. Her ponytail was limp with dampness, and her pale face was drawn, almost tired-looking.

  “Are you going to tell me to be safe as well?” Cyrus asked. There were flashes around him as the last of the army vanished in the magical ether that would carry them home.

  “I don’t think I will be so trite as that,” Vara said, and her voice dragged like she had a great weight on her. “And you would not heed such advice in any case.”

  “True enough,” Cyrus said, and tried to force a smile. He knew by the feel of it that it came out wan at best. Feelings crawled through him, and he tried to push them down. A black coldness settled in on his heart as if he had brought something back with him from the Realm of Life, and his stomach churned as he looked at her.

  “Fare well,” Vara said, and she looked away abruptly. Her hand reached out and took hold of the orb, disappearing into a burst of spell energy. The chamber around him was silent, all others gone, and Cyrus turned to find the wizard, Verity, standing at his back, her arms folded under her grey cloak.

  “That was painfully awkward,” Verity said. She raised her hand, a smooth, polished blackwood staff with a dark crystal affixed to the top of it clutched in her fingers. “Come along, then. Teleport to the portal of Wardemos, coming up—”

  “Hold,” Cyrus said, lifting a hand. “I need to retrieve my horse—and Nyad’s—from my old guildhall in the slums. He turned toward the arched entry in the far wall and started toward it, his boots sloshing with every step.

  “No, you hold it,” Verity said, and Cyrus felt a strong hand grasp his gauntlet. He looked back to see the wizard staring up at him from beneath her hat’s brim. “Why walk when you can fly?” She wore a slight smile, and her fingers were sparkling already. “Reikonos Square, coming right up.”

  The light of magic burned around Cyrus’s eyes, and he felt the world shift around him, sparkling and exploding, blinding him as the spell carried him onward.

  Chapter 19

  The world began to come into focus around Cyrus, bright sky hanging in the air above him. The blue of the heavens above was nearly blinding. A moment earlier he had been standing with Verity in the slums, holding Windrider’s reins while the wizard held those of Nyad’s horse, the dark, shadowed canyon slums blotting out most of the light. I could get used to having a wizard teleport me around, Cyrus had thought. Much easier than walking back to the old Kings’ guildhall to retrieve the horses.

  As the world resolved into focus around him, Cyrus saw the great, open sky above, replacing the tall shanties and woodwork buildings that blotted out any view of the sun above.

  He took note of something else as well—he was utterly surrounded by men with swords and spears, all of which were pointed at him.

  “This is a lovely thing to wander into,” Verity said disapprovingly from behind him.

  “Well, if it is not the General of Sanctuary, Cyrus Davidon,” came a voice from Cyrus’s right. He turned his head to look and saw a man in the uniform of the Reikonos Militia, a black tabard with a horse’s head on it denoting his unit. Cyrus recognized it as the Lyrus Guards, a horsed cavalry regiment that he’d come across once before. The man who spoke was also familiar to Cyrus, though his helm revealed only the center of his face. A new scar on the man’s upper lip left a pale line through the black stubble of his beard’s growth and made his sneer look especially puckered.

  “If it isn’t the resident jackass of Reikonos, Rhane Ermoc,” Cyrus returned. “I see you’ve acquired a new scar since last we met; you should take care to be less aggressive with your fork at mealtimes. The food isn’t going to run away if you take your time eating it, after all.” Cyrus kept his hand on the grip of Praelior but relaxed. He could feel the power of it coursing through him as he surveyed the small army that kept their weapons aimed at him and Verity.

  “Most people would perhaps not insult the man in charge of those pointing sharp objects at us,” Verity said in a low mutter.

  “This is why I’m the General,” Cyrus replied.

  “You’re going to get me killed,” Verity breathed.

  “I’ve got this under control,” Cyrus said under his breath. “Rhane Ermoc,” he said, raising his voice, “is there some reason your army is pointing their weapons at my wizard friend and I?” He caught a dirty look from Verity. “Companion.” The look did not soften. “This poor, unfortunate, random wizard whom I paid to bring me here.”

  “We handle all threats to the Confederation in such a manner.” The smugness oozed off of Ermoc, just as it had when last Cyrus had met him.

  “I’m a threat to the Confederation, am I?” Cyrus said with a nod. “I’m flattered, I think. I hadn’t received word from the Counci
l of Twelve that they considered me such.” He smirked and looked back at Verity, who was shaking her head like a mother chastising her child. “Again,” Cyrus conceded. “Because we proved our way out of the last one that you delivered, you know.”

  “You may fool the Council of Twelve,” Ermoc said with that same smugness, but the smile vanished from his lips, “but you don’t fool me. You continue to grow an army down in the Plains of Perdamun—”

  “Which was rather useful in repelling a large and aggressive dark elven host a few months ago,” Cyrus said dryly.

  “—unwatched and unchecked,” Ermoc said, his dark eyes narrowed. “Now I hear you’ve made inroads into elven territory, establishing a village in the south of their Kingdom.”

  “It’s not mine,” Cyrus said with a light shrug. “But some of my people do live there.”

  “Indeed,” Ermoc said, and his face twisted into a sneer that made his stubbly face look even crueler. “If one didn’t know better, one would think you were building an empire.”

  “And since you don’t know anything, let alone anything that could be classified as ‘better,’” Cyrus said with a slow, weary exhalation, “you of course are one of those ones that think I’m building an empire.” He raised a mailed finger. “Leave aside the fact that I’m not the Guildmaster of Sanctuary—”

  “A trifling detail,” Ermoc said, “for you are the General and control the army.”

  “—and I don’t have any control over the town of Emerald Fields of which you speak,” Cyrus said, going on.

  “A blatant land grab,” Ermoc pronounced. Cyrus listened but heard nothing from any of the soldiers in Ermoc’s army.

  “Yes,” Cyrus said, “a blatant land grab—of territory given to us by the King of the Elves.” He slowly nodded, layering on the sarcasm. “Indeed, we were too clever for him by half, prying those acres out of his reluctant fingers.” Cyrus clinked his thumb and forefinger together in as close to an approximation of a snap as he could with his gauntlet on. “Oh, wait, he gave that land to our people freely and without us asking. We must be truly impressive enchanters to pull that feat off.”

  Ermoc stared at him as a cloud, the bottom shadowed and grey, rolled overhead. “Indeed. You do have enchanters aplenty.”

  Cyrus restrained his eyeroll. “Are you going to sit here and bluster at me all day, Ermoc, or am I free to go?”

  Ermoc shifted his gaze left, then right, to the men that surrounded Cyrus. Cyrus’s eyes followed and saw humans with stubble and beards that told him they had been here on the edges for some time. Their eyes were clear and filled to brimming with anger. He saw squinting, narrowing, mouths twisted.

  They’re looking for an excuse to fight, something they haven’t seen here on the far end of the Confederation. They wish for a part of the war. He held tight to Praelior. If I have to, I can give it to them—all of them—in more volume than an army of dark elves. He estimated their number at less than a hundred and wondered if there were more in Wardemos, garrisoned in the town.

  “You may pass,” Ermoc finally said, his voice low and filled with loathing. “I shall be keeping watch on you, in case any convoys go missing.”

  “No, that was the goblins,” Cyrus said, urging Windrider forward. “I’m not surprised that you missed that detail, though, busy as you were hurling a helpless, armless one off the Citadel at the time.” He kept an eye fixed on Ermoc as he went by. “I did hear a guild went missing out here, though.”

  Ermoc stared back at him as though he’d just made a bland pronouncement about the weather. “Is that so?”

  “It’s so,” Cyrus said, steering through the small corridor of men on horseback that were moving aside for him and Verity to pass. “Since this area is presumably your responsibility, shouldn’t you know if Confederation forces are going missing within its bounds?”

  “I know naught of what you speak,” Ermoc said and threw a hand out to dismiss him. “I am charged with this portal, not the disposition of forces in the western Confederation. Leave me to my assigned duty and annoy someone else with your troublesome inquiries.”

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said as Windrider carried him past the edge of the ring of soldiers surrounding the portal, “I think I’ll go find someone who has some answers. Maybe I could try the local whorehouse; they’re bound to be better informed than you, Ermoc.” He kept on, listening to the silence behind him as Windrider’s hooves thumped against the dusty ground. “Better disposition, too, though that much is obvious.”

  Verity waited until they’d ridden east for almost five minutes before she said anything. “That was reckless. They could have killed us.”

  “They could have tried,” Cyrus said with a grunt. “And they wouldn’t be the first today, either, or the strongest.” The sun was shining overhead, beating down on him. It was a marked contrast to what he’d felt in the Realm of Life. He could feel the ire rattling through his bones as Windrider bore him along.

  “They could have done it,” Verity said, shaking her head. Her pointed grey hat shook with her. “Your arrogance was rumored, and now I’ve seen it. Humans.” She said the last bit with more than a little umbrage.

  “What?” Cyrus said then traced the brim of her hat to peer at her ears. “Ohhh.” He saw the point now, the top of her ear arching up. “You’re an elf.”

  “Quick study, you are,” Verity said. “No last name, pointed ears. Took you nearly an hour to suss that out.”

  “If I’d gone by attitude, I’m sure I’d have gotten it quicker,” Cyrus said airily, “but my mind was on other things.”

  “You have problems with elves, General Davidon?” Verity asked. Cyrus saw her eyebrow stretch up under the hat brim.

  “I have had some problems with some elves,” Cyrus said. “I don’t have problems with all elves.”

  “You know why you have problems with some elves?” The wizard asked, turning to face the road again.

  “No, but I’d bet five hundred gold pieces you’re about to tell me.”

  “You’re impetuous, like humans are,” Verity said, “and we older elves are wise enough to call bullshit on it.”

  Cyrus chuckled. “I’ve met a few humans willing to do that, too, and more than a few elves who don’t call me on it.” He thought about it for a second. “Also, the elf most likely to call me on it is only a year older than I am, so it’s probably not much to do with age.”

  Verity remained silent for a moment. “You speak of the shelas’akur.”

  “The very one.” Cyrus almost sighed from weariness, not longing.

  “You have a strange relationship with her,” Verity said after a moment. She still did not look over at Cyrus.

  “You don’t say.”

  “Always the sarcasm,” Verity said, “as though you don’t want to have a civilized conversation. Do you have a problem with people criticizing your decisions?”

  “I don’t love it,” Cyrus said and looked sideways at her. “I don’t know anyone who enjoys having their decisions criticized, do you?”

  “Having your actions examined is a part of life,” Verity said. “Expecting no one to ever question you is a very dim view for a leader to take. Especially one who has some fifteen thousand people following him.”

  “I’m not a l …” Cyrus caught himself before finishing the statement, and he looked to Verity to find her in the midst of a very small smile, filled with utter self-satisfaction.

  “You were about to say you’re not a leader,” she said, still smiling in that self-satisfied way.

  “I’m not the leader,” Cyrus said. “The guild is not in my charge except in a raid.”

  “Hem!” she said, and it sounded like a grunt to his ears. “If you can find another person that Sanctuary looks to in greater number—”

  “Curatio,” Cyrus said, not even bothering to let her finish. He steered Windrider along the rutted road, the ground made hard by days of sun and little rain. Dust followed from every step the horses made, and Cyrus’s eyes
swept the flat land of the horizon as they headed east.

  “In name, he is leader,” Verity said, her lips twisted at the end. “But leadership is more than a title.”

  “That’s nice,” Cyrus said. This is a pointless conversation.

  She held her tongue for almost an hour before speaking again. During that time Cyrus felt oddly at peace with himself.

  “You and the shelas’akur,” Verity began, speaking slowly.

  Cyrus braced himself, felt his muscles tense. “Yes?”

  “You have known each other for some time,” Verity said. Cyrus looked at her, but she did not return his gaze.

  “A few years.” He sniffed the air, caught the scent of horse, and the faint smell of the plains air with its mixture of dust and drying fields.

  “Only a few?” Verity asked.

  “Four years, I think,” Cyrus said. “Of course I was gone for over a year in there.”

  Verity took a long moment before she next spoke. “Curious.”

  Cyrus thought about snorting, about losing his patience with the wizard and her odd and nosy manner. “What is curious?” he asked instead, being as patient as he could.

  “I have seen the two of you exchange more in a look than most can in a life,” Verity said, and her every word came slow like rich cream poured over dried oat cereal. She glanced over at him and her face was open for once, regarding him with clear interest. “I say it is curious because it is close to a phenomenon we elves call ‘covekan.’ It is—”

  “I know what covekan is,” Cyrus said quickly.

  “Do you?” Verity said. “Do you, truly?”

  “I know it takes something along the lines of a century to form that sort of bond,” Cyrus said, letting his eyes fall along the flat horizon, taking in the occasional tree far in the distance. He could see some woods, but they were far off; it was miserable ground for any sort of ambush. “I know it’s a closeness that elves share with each other that a human could never …” He let his words trail off, felt the emotion well within him and suppressed it. “… never experience. Not at that depth.”