Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  He made his way without comment, amid a sea of whispers, to the officers’ table at the front of the room. It was a simple, circular thing, not unlike the one in the Council chambers, but situated as near to the far wall as it could be—and far from the kitchens, Cyrus reflected. He did not tilt a gaze in that direction, knowing that Larana would surely have made something for him. His stomach, though, was surprisingly sated with the simple stew and bread, lighter fare that had settled him. Even a meat pie held little appeal at the moment; he feared he would look into it and imagine how many mouths it might have fed in the Emerald Fields.

  “So kind of you to join us,” Vaste said from his place at the table. They were all there, waiting, plates in front of them in various states of disassembly. “It almost feels like there was some reason you should have been here today, something you might have missed by your absence.”

  “The voting is done?” Cyrus asked, his gaze drifting over a silent Vara and a surprisingly bubbly Ryin. He took note of Erith, fidgeting in her chair, and then realized J’anda was sitting in his seat, still and silent, trace of a smile upon his thin lips.

  “I don’t suppose you thought to cast your ballot before you left this morning?” Vaste asked.

  “I did not,” Cyrus said, taking his seat beside Vara. It made no protest at the addition of his weight, and she made no move to acknowledge his presence. Her meal was barely picked at.

  He met Curatio’s gaze across the table, the elder elf with a cup in his hand. He raised it to Cyrus in silent salute, and Cyrus bowed his head in acknowledgment of the quiet gesture. Once he had settled it, the healer kept his gaze on Cyrus. “And what mischief have you been up to today, General, that has your eyes as lively as I have seen them in some time?”

  “I went to the Emerald Fields to inspect the results of our patronage,” Cyrus said, staring at the empty place in front of him, curiously satisfied with the lack of plate and cup, “and I found things there much to my liking.”

  “It is not all gloom and darkness the world over, then?” This from Longwell, who wore a canny, surprisingly sly smile, his dark steel helm riding on the table next to his meal, which was entirely finished.

  “I am pleased to report that there are places where the sun shines and the crops grow, unfettered and unchallenged by this war and this famine,” Cyrus said, that trace of a smile matching Longwell’s own. “Where people eat in fellowship and celebrate each other’s company, grateful to have what they do, remembering that there are many who have none.” Including their lives, he did not add.

  “I find a healthy pinch of gratitude leavens the bread of life,” Curatio said, his cup in hand. “Is that not so?” He looked to J’anda.

  The enchanter stirred. “The contrast provides all the glory to the painting of life; what is brightest day without blackest night? What is the light without the dark? We should celebrate our lives, our moments, for those who cannot.” He raised his own cup at that and drank deeply from it.

  Cyrus thought about saying something, about asking the question on his mind, but Nyad pre-empted him. “You haven’t asked about the election.”

  He let his eyes drift to the wizard, her blond hair arranged in careful ringlets around her bronzed skin. “I assumed someone would tell me if there were anything of import I needed to know.”

  “We were just about to announce the results without you,” Vaste said. “Should we tell you first, or make it a surprise?”

  Cyrus blinked, considering it. “I enjoy a good surprise.” He looked at Vara, catching her eye, then to Ryin. “I wish you both the very best of luck, and I want you to know that I will follow either one of you and serve this guild as best I can, regardless of the result.”

  Ryin almost flinched. “Well. That is … magnanimous.”

  Cyrus watched him carefully. “Do you know who won?”

  The druid shrugged. “Of course. But I accept your kind words for what they are—the sincere gesture of a true servant of Sanctuary.” He met Cyrus’s gaze evenly. “Which, I hope you know, I have ever been as well.”

  Cyrus gave him a slight nod. “I believe that with all that is in me.”

  Ryin smiled faintly, and Cyrus turned to Vara, who did not look at him. “I wish you all the best as well, Lady Vara,” Cyrus said.

  “I know that you do,” she said.

  Cyrus turned his gaze to J’anda, upon the cup he held in his thin and creased hands. “What brings you to our table this night, J’anda? Spying for Sovereign?”

  “Indeed, he shows great interest in this election,” the enchanter said. “However, I have other business to discuss with you; but it can wait until the morrow.”

  Cyrus began to frown, but Curatio rose at his place and a silence fell in the Great Hall. Despite the assembled crowd, it had a curiously vacuous feeling, as though all the air had been purged from the chamber. “I stand before you now,” the healer began, “in my role as interim Guildmaster of Sanctuary, to declare the results of the vote placed before the membership this day.”

  Curatio cleared his throat, a curiously dramatic sound. Cyrus noted the presence of a twinkle in his eye and wondered whether it was relief knowing his time as Guildmaster was at end or excitement at the prospect of what would follow. He had little time to judge, though, as Curatio went on: “The self-determination of Sanctuary is our greatest uniqueness. Other guilds may beat us in sweep of power, but we are tied to no city, have our loyalty and fealty irrevocably sworn to none, and our Council rules at the behest of our members. We chart our own course, our choice of destination is entirely of our own making. To that end, I directed our officers to carry out a vote to determine the members’ wishes on the following matters:

  “One, the disposition of several candidates for officership in Sanctuary.

  “And two, the candidacy of three officers deemed worthy to ascend to the role of duly-elected Guildmaster.”

  Curatio cleared his throat again, and this time Cyrus realized it was a theatrical trick; a moment’s pause to let his words sink in for desired effect. “The election was carried out in compliance with the procedures laid down in the Sanctuary charter,” Curatio said, “and administered with the impartial supervision of Erith Frostmoor, Samwen Longwell, Nyad Spiritcaster and myself.” He straightened his back.

  “The following individuals were elected to officership in the Sanctuary Council—Andren.”

  Cyrus blinked, scanning the crowd until he found the bedraggled elf, who was halfway to a sip of his flask when the attention of everyone in the room fell on him. His face was frozen, as if he were listening for something that he had missed, his dark, tangled hair and long beard giving him his usual disheveled look. “I’m sorry,” he said, in his drawling, lower-class elven accent, “did someone say my name?”

  Curatio’s eyes twinkled. “Congratulations on your election to officer, Andren.”

  There was a stark silence, which was broken by Andren’s half-shocked cry of protest. “I didn’t even put my name forward!”

  “Your name was submitted by the membership,” Curatio said, “and approved by a seventy-five percent vote.”

  There was a ripple of laughter that ran through the crowd, and Andren made an audible gulp, his flask forgotten. “Oh, you lot are in for it now.” His face turned to a scowl. “What a dirty trick, giving me responsibility.”

  “If I may continue,” Curatio said, back in full command. “Other officers approved, without delay and in full haste—Thad Proelius, Odellan, Mendicant.” Cyrus found each of them in turn, quickly and quietly. He watched them receive their congratulations, more quietly and less comically than had Andren. Mendicant, in particular, looked pleased. Odellan, humble as always, simply looked rather shocked.

  “Here endeth the officer candidacies,” Curatio said, “and we turn now to a decision of the utmost import.” His eyes surveyed the room, grey, serious, gravity apparent with every syllable. “Of our three august candidates, only one could be chosen, though all are loyal servan
ts of Sanctuary and able in their own ways.”

  “Get on with it!” came a bellow out of the back of the room, followed by a loose laugh from all quarters. Cyrus frowned at the blatant disrespect, but Curatio showed only a faint amusement.

  “As you wish,” the interim Guildmaster said with a muted smile. “The winner and Guildmaster of Sanctuary is—”

  “Congratulations,” Vara said, leaning to his ear the moment before the announcement was made. Her breath was warm, her voice was cold. His eyes flicked to her, caught her as she left her seat and disappeared into the crowd as a roar filled the Great Hall, a throng from every table on their feet and cheering with such noise that Cyrus wondered if his eardrums had burst.

  Dully, he felt the slap of hands upon his back, his attention still focused on finding Vara where she had vanished into the assemblage. He found Vaste suddenly at his side, a sea of motion to his right as the entirety of the guild loudly celebrated his ascension.

  He looked up at the troll, who wore a satisfied look. “How did you do that?” Cyrus asked over the clamor.

  “Let’s see,” Vaste said, speaking just loud enough for Cyrus to hear him, “you did extremely well with the goblins, the gnomes and Luukessians.”

  Cyrus felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. “Why?” he barely got out.

  “Apparently they’re still grateful to you for saving their lives,” Vaste said with only a little irony. “I try not to get hung up on those trifling details myself, but …” He paused, suddenly serious. “Also, someone circulated a rumor that you had a best friend who was a dwarf, and that he died.”

  Cyrus frowned. “I did.”

  “Honestly, you make this so easy,” Vaste said. “That got you the dwarves. You also won the rock giant vote, I hear.” He nodded his head out over the crowd, still applauding with thunderous approbation. Cyrus cast his gaze out to find Fortin, who nodded to him once he caught the red eyes. “Not sure how you pulled that off,” Vaste said.

  “I killed him,” Cyrus replied, giving Fortin a nod in return.

  “If only it worked that way for everyone,” Vaste said. “You lost the elves by an overwhelming margin, since one of the other candidates is something of a religious icon to them. If they were like rock giants, you could have had them line up and then kill them one by one.” Cyrus watched him for a hint of joking, but the troll delivered it all with a straight face. “Ultimately, they were irrelevant, though. You won the whole thing handily.” He proffered a massive, green hand. “Congratulations … Guildmaster.”

  His eyes met Vaste’s yellow ones, and he took the outreached hand in his own. “Thank you.”

  The volume swelled around Cyrus as he went from officer to officer, taking their congratulations. Ryin shot him a tight smile from where he stood, Erith wrapped him in a hug, pulling him down to her, whispering something laudatory that he could not hear over the roar of the crowd. J’anda raised his cup to Cyrus, unmoving, still seated.

  The room blurred around him, and Cyrus became dimly aware that Curatio was standing at his shoulder. He stopped and faced the healer, the smooth, alcoholic scent of a cleanser filling his nose as the interim Guildmaster offered his own hand to Cyrus. Cyrus took it and they shook. Curatio pulled him with a surprisingly firm grip into a careful, one-shouldered hug. “Now, the weight of all this is on you,” the healer said with a measure of glee. Cyrus broke from him embrace to find Curatio’s timeless face stretched in a wide grin. The healer reached under his robes and brought out a winding necklace upon a chain, circular pendant on the end of it. “Lower your head, if you please.” Curatio paused, then frowned. “Actually, it might be best if you knelt.”

  Cyrus took a knee, feeling every eye in the room upon him as a silence fell. He closed his eyes and felt the weight of a chain—light, cool to the touch—fall around his gorget as the healer carefully placed it around his neck. The pendant fell down the front of his breastplate, clinking there as Cyrus returned to his feet. The cheers swelled through the hall again, echoing with a jubilation he had nearly forgotten until that very afternoon.

  He raised his hands in signal for the assemblage to quiet, and they did in an instant. Seats were taken, and within moments no one but Cyrus was standing in the hall. Even Fortin’s considerable bulk was lowered as he sat down in the corner.

  “When I came to this guild five years ago, I was searching for a place to make my mark,” Cyrus said, trying to decide exactly what to say. It came out surprisingly easily. “I was looking to become … powerful. To grow my strength. To obtain better armor, to fulfill …” he let his voice trail as he searched for the right word, “… to fulfill a destiny that I thought was rooted in power alone. I wanted to be the foremost warrior in Arkaria.” He blinked, looking out across earnest faces. His eyes found Andren’s, and on the bearded healer’s face he saw the scarred expression of remembrance. “I drew a tight circle around those I cared most for, and I fully intended to keep it small.

  “That plan of mine did not last a week in Sanctuary. I lost one of those friends, one dear to me, and in his absence I gained … countless more.” Cyrus’s eyes swept to Erith, Nyad, Vaste and J’anda. “My circle widened of its own accord, the familial ties I lacked by circumstances of my childhood forged by the caring of those who came to me as strangers. My time in Sanctuary has been marked by a change in my ambitions. Where before I cared only for becoming the strongest, my aspirations were tempered by a voice of reason, a mentor who taught me more than anyone I have ever known.

  “I still hear his voice in the quiet moments before a tremendous decision. I hear his urging, caution and moderation, his wisdom and temperance, warning me against the rashness of action that is in my very nature. I hear his words about purpose, about power being granted to those who can best use it for the good of others, not themselves. These words stay with me long after the man himself has passed.” Cyrus turned to look at the empty seat where Alaric had once taken his meals.

  “When my friends and I considered coming to this place, we spoke of perhaps staying for a short while, filling our pockets, and continuing to ascend elsewhere,” Cyrus said, each word a confession that he signed with a little bit of his soul. “Now, I cannot imagine ever leaving. What Sanctuary has become is what each and every one of you have brought to it. The care and consideration of this army, bound for greatness, carrying a purpose nobler than any group of mercenaries or climbing guild, is what makes it special.” He placed his gauntleted hands flat on the table, knuckles down. “I am proud to serve as your General, and I will do my utmost to lead you as Guildmaster. I thank you for your support and bid you all good night. A long day awaits us on the morrow, with decisions to make for our next steps.” He smiled. “I look forward to seeing the new officers—and the old—tomorrow morning in Council.”

  He rapped his knuckle sharply against the table once, signaling the end of his speech, and was met with uproarious applause. He rushed to leave, shaking a few hands as he made his way down the aisle through the surging crowd. He brushed off a few more with a smile and a mumbled word of kindness, scrambling out into the foyer where he caught a flash of blond hair moving up the stairs.

  “Vara!” he called, hurrying after her. She must have stayed to listen at the back. He took the steps two at a time up the long, winding spiral, but she moved as though she had Praelior itself in her hand.

  He caught up with her on the floor of the Council quarters, sprinting out of the hallway to see her retreating back only two doors from her quarters. “Don’t run,” he said.

  She paused, straight of back, stiff of bearing, before turning to look at him. There was no measure of discomfort there, just stiff resolution. “I don’t think there is much to be said.”

  “I accept your congratulations,” Cyrus said, a little stiffly himself, “but …” His eyes searched the corridor as if the words he needed were written somewhere on the stones. “Dammit, Vara, I don’t want to lose you over this.”

  A flutter of eyel
ids was her response. “You cannot lose what you have never had.”

  He felt the sting most acutely but hid his response under neutral reply. “Sanctuary cannot afford to lose you.”

  “Sanctuary will not lose me,” she said. “Not at this time, in any case. I remain at the command of the Council and the Guildmaster.”

  He felt his eyes close, relief expressed involuntarily. “Thank goodness.”

  “You wish my counsel?” she asked, still formal.

  He opened his eyes, and she still stood there as stiffly as she had before. “For the sake of … yes, Vara, I wish your counsel.”

  She took an almost imperceptible breath. “The Princess of Pharesia, your ranger who dallies with endless sticks, and Erith the frosty dark elf—all of them are, so far as I know, more promiscuous than the dark elven quencher of your loins. Yet you never hear me cast aspersions upon them. Why do you think that is?”

  He tread lightly, sprinkling familiarity and levity into his response. “Because you’re jealous, of course.”

  She bristled, though it was barely visible under her facade of unmoving, steely calm. “There is a deeper problem with this thief of yours. I sense deception from her, some hidden scheming, some mean purpose that she would never admit to.”

  Cyrus felt a rush of discomfort, a swell of weariness that lay upon him like a weight. “Or it could be your overwhelming …” he stifled the first choice of word, “… emotions … clouding your judgment in regards to her.”

  “I would think you would be more complimentary of my judgment, given how many times it has been the only thing that kept me from disemboweling you.” She arched an eyebrow, and he saw a faint glimmer of amusement—the old Vara—peeking through. “As I said, I am here to serve the guild of Sanctuary and her Guildmaster. You make take my counsel however you like, and if you desire to throw it out the window like a discarded napkin,” she made the slightest motion toward a shrug, but in her reserved state it was almost as expressive as if she had broken into a dance, “so be it.” She bowed her head at him. “Good night, Master of Sanctuary. I shall see you on the morrow.”