Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  “On the morrow, then,” Cyrus said and started for his door.

  She clucked her tongue at him then wagged a finger. “Your quarters are upstairs now.”

  Cyrus blinked; he had quite forgotten that Alaric had had his own quarters. “Right. I suppose I should …”

  “It seems only fitting,” Vara said, and she opened her own door quite stiffly, just as she had done everything else thus far in their conversation. She paused just before she shut the door. “Congratulations, Cyrus,” she said and then disappeared behind the wooden planks and black-iron castings that made it a seemingly impenetrable barrier between the two of them.

  He stood there for only a moment before turning. He opened the door to his old quarters and gathered his things wordlessly. There was little enough to gather, he found, just his clothing and few possessions. He placed them all into a bag, regarding his massive bed with one eye. I’ll have it moved tomorrow.

  As he turned to leave, he saw a fleeting shadow in the arch of his door. He recognized the figure, thin and slight, her white hair glistening in the torchlight. He gave her only one look and felt something sink within him. “Not tonight,” he said and walked past her without another word. She did not follow.

  Cyrus found his new quarters already opened, an entire floor with four massive, sweeping balconies open to the night air. A strong breeze blew through as he settled his bag upon the stone floor just above the terminus of the winding staircase. The night wind blew upon him, chilling him under his armor, and with a glance he saw a fire start in the hearth, roaring, filling the room with its warmth and a sweet, wood smell. The torches lit at his presence as well, casting their illumination over the quarters of Sanctuary’s Guildmaster.

  Cyrus stood there, in the middle of the floor, in the dark of night, stars glistening in four directions around him as though he were standing out on the plains themselves. He walked to the nearest balcony, passed through the doors that were opened and anchored, the breeze not disturbing them at all.

  His hand found the railing with a gentle clink, and he took off his helm with the other. The wind swept through his hair with force, blowing it behind him as he looked—north, he realized. He could see the outline of the Waking Woods in the distance, the moon shining down on still plains. Fires were lit in a line along Sanctuary’s curtain wall, and he could hear the voices of the guards, the watchers, at their task.

  And now watching over all of this is my task, he thought, one hand on the rail. It was a heady sensation, being up this high. The sense of weightlessness that had found him in the stream at Emerald Fields was gone, replaced with something else entirely. He did not feel weightless, that was certain.

  We are none of us alone. The words came back to him again, unbidden. Uninvited.

  The Guildmaster of Sanctuary stood there until dawn broke over the eastern horizon, watching the day leach the darkness from the Plains of Perdamun bit by bit. He had duty, he knew, he had tasks before him.

  And he had never felt more alone in his life.

  Chapter 52

  When Cyrus strode into the Council Chambers at the hour appointed for their meeting, he found the entirety of the Council, new and old, already assembled and awaiting him. Applause greeted his ears, soft and congratulatory, not quite the deafening roar he had heard in the Great Hall the night before.

  Cyrus demurred, trying to show them by word and expression that he was not worthy of the pomp and circumstance. It was all velvet draped on his shoulders to him, unnecessary, unwanted. He circumnavigated the big, round table, deftly avoiding the habit of gravitating to his old seat, which was now taken up by Odellan. Instead he wove around, passing each officer in turn. He strode by Longwell, Vaste (who harrumphed significantly as he passed), Thad, Nyad and finally Vara before arriving at the high-backed chair that he had stared across the table at for … years.

  Cyrus hesitated at the arm of the chair, pulling his gauntlet off, letting his fingers run down the time-pocked surface of the chair’s arm. He felt suddenly self-conscious, as though aware that he could never quite fill the seat, embarrassed to even try. He had a vision of himself sitting in Alaric’s chair the way a child would sit in an adult’s when they were absent; he saw his legs dangling, failing to reach the floor, arms not long enough to even touch the rests.

  He coughed, breaking the spell of the vision, and pulled it back from the table. He found it surprisingly light and lowered himself into the seat without allowing for any more hesitation to settle upon him. It fit him well, and he scooted it forward on the stone almost noiselessly, removing his helm and settling it on the table, quite naturally, before even realizing that he had just mimicked a most familiar action.

  “Here we are,” Ryin said from his place three seats to Cyrus’s right, “ready for the coronation of our new king.”

  “I’m not a king,” Cyrus said, and his voice sounded hushed and hoarse to his ears. “Just the same ass you’ve always known, with perhaps a bit more weight lent to my words now.” He tried to smile, to take in the whole table, and swept his gaze left until his eyes found Vara at his immediate side. She was watching, not coldly nor warmly, simply there, attentive, the perfect officer at watch.

  “I think we can all agree with that,” Erith said from across the table. A little rumble of levity ran through some of the newer officers, and Cyrus felt the mood in the room lighten.

  “It would seem we have begun to settle some of the outstanding business lingering upon our door,” Curatio said from Cyrus’s immediate left. “Though obviously our recovery of the Daring did not go perhaps as well as we might have hoped.”

  Cyrus felt his cheeks grow dark, his forehead flush at the thought. “How many of them did we account for?”

  “Nearly all,” Erith said from across the table. “Some are in better condition than others.” She played with a strand of her white hair as she spoke. “Elisabeth is still in the Halls of Healing, her mind a bit … addled. Most of the rest have either joined us, taken their leave, or gone to Emerald Fields.” Her head bowed deeply, as though she could not face the dark thoughts swirling in the wake of her pronouncement.

  “Wow, that’s a bit grim this early in the morning,” Andren said from beside her. Cyrus looked at the elf and realized for the first time that he no longer had a beard. His cheeks were pink, his eyes were baggy, but his beard was completely gone.

  “Did you wander into a sheep’s pen last night and awaken to the shears this morning?” Cyrus asked, studying the elf.

  Andren’s face flushed a deeper scarlet. “I figured that I should look the part of a reputable officer of Sanctuary.”

  There was a pause until Vara spoke. “I suspect the next event of note ’round here will be the Goddess of Life not only returning, but declaring her candidacy for officer and offering to man the Halls of Healing.”

  “That does bring us back to the search for her,” Cyrus said. “We’ve made precious little progress in this matter—”

  J’anda broke into a wild fit of coughing, hands over his face. It was horrible sounding, wracking and deep. Cyrus watched the enchanter, who seemed a darker navy than usual once his hands came away from his face. Curatio rose and started to move to him, but J’anda waved him off. “I … apologize,” the enchanter choked out. “I am afraid that I … sometimes feel … utterly wretched.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed the enchanter’s words. No one wants to talk about his failing health, Cyrus thought. He tapped a finger upon the table, only once, and caught a meaningful look from Curatio. So that’s the specter lingering in the corner of the room that everyone pretends not to see.

  “Vidara?” Cyrus asked, diverting attention back to the matter at hand and away from J’anda’s coughing spell.

  Mendicant spoke up finally, his small voice a curious presence in the Council Chamber: “We are children playing in a ground that is inhabited by giants. We know nothing of that which we investigate.”

  Cyrus let that grim pronouncement hol
d sway for a moment. “I agree. But that does not absolve us of at least giving our best effort to finding her.”

  “I think we have given that effort,” Vaste said. “Some of us made great sacrifices, if you recall, in terms of rodents and genital biting—”

  “A pleasant change from goats, no?” J’anda asked.

  Vaste ignored him. “This investigation is at an end without further information. A snowy, forbidding realm filled with wild and nasty creatures is not much to go on.”

  “We also have the testimony of the Gatekeeper,” Vara said quietly.

  “Which is nothing to go on,” Vaste said. “Less than nothing, perhaps. He could very well have been lying. Every word from his mouth is suspect.”

  “Fine,” Cyrus said, dismissing the entire matter. “There is one thing left in regards to the Daring, though, before we consider that one closed.” He eyed the faces around the table. “Someone allowed those trolls to operate in human territory.”

  Curatio adopted an inscrutable expression. “That is … quite a bold accusation. You have no proof, I assume?”

  “I have no proof, only suspicion,” Cyrus said, lowering his own head to stare at the nubs and knots in the table. They were different than the ones in front of his seat. “And my suspicions run immediately to the villain of my choosing—Rhane Ermoc was in charge of the Wardemos portal when I teleported there to join the search in progress.”

  “Casual cruelty is one thing, and obviously something Ermoc has proven himself eminently capable of,” Vara said, “but this is … something else entirely. He would be betraying the entire Confederation by allowing trolls to operate within their borders.”

  “It has the ring of nonsense,” Vaste said, “which probably means it’s true, since Cyrus is spouting it.”

  Cyrus felt his face crinkle in a frown at the troll. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You always put these things together,” Vaste said. “Like the goblins raiding the caravans, and Ashan’agar’s spiders stealing the godly weapons. You see the threads that lead from point to point and connect them before the rest of us. I would call it wizardry, but we all know you are bereft of magic. In any case, perhaps you do see the thread that we do not; I would not care to wager against it being so.”

  Cyrus blinked in surprise. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” Vaste said. “Though I will take odds on whether we’ll ever be able to prove it. That is such a tall order, it makes titans look minuscule by comparison. It would require having a human witness, because no one would believe a troll.”

  “Or the wizard that teleported them,” Cyrus mused.

  “Most likely a dark elf,” Vara said quietly.

  “Good luck tracking down one dark elven wizard in the midst of countless,” Erith said.

  Cyrus turned his head to look at J’anda. “Has word reached the Sovereign’s ears about the fall of Gren yet?”

  The enchanter stirred in his chair, looking as though he were coming back to life. “I do not believe so; his eyes are elsewhere, keenly centered on his eastern offensive at the moment. If it has gotten to him, he is keeping it very quiet, presumably to retain his tight leash upon the troll armies at his command.”

  “Because they’d come running at Sanctuary if the truth came out?” Ryin asked, a small measure of alarm in his voice.

  “Because they’d go running home,” Vaste said without expression. “They’d abandon his offensive as quickly as if he mandated compulsory bathing.” He waited a moment as the silence hung in the chamber. “They don’t like baths,” he added helpfully. “Well … mud baths, I suppose. Sulfuric ones—”

  “This adds nothing to the conversation, dear Vaste,” Curatio said gently. “It would seem our best interest would be in finding a way to get word of this particular coup into the ranks of the dark elven army, then, in hopes that it spreads to the trolls.”

  J’anda looked at Curatio warily. “I will … see what I can do. However, I have something else more pressing to attend to that may speed things along in this regard as well.”

  Cyrus looked at the enchanter, whose lined face was carefully neutral. “What’s that?”

  J’anda waved a hand. “I must discuss it with you in private after the meeting. Suffice it to say … we must take a journey.”

  Cyrus tried to keep the frown from showing. “All right.” He shook his head, dismissing it. “Any other business?”

  “Something rather surprising this morning,” Thad Proelius said, his face almost as red as his armor. “We received an envoy about an hour before the meeting.”

  “From who?” Andren asked.

  “From ‘whom,’” Vara corrected him.

  “Oh, feck off,” Andren said. “From whom.”

  “The dark elves,” Thad said. “They’re requesting the return of the bodies of their soldiers lost during the siege last year.”

  “Tell them to feck off,” Vara said, obviously quite put out. “Where was this request seven months ago, after the battle itself?”

  Cyrus watched her, splashes of red mottling her cheeks. “I agree, though perhaps not as adamantly as Vara. We burned those bodies months ago. Why would they come looking for them now?” He turned to look back to J’anda, whose face was covered by his hands.

  “The Sovereign …” J’anda began, taking time in selecting his words, “… is in the midst of many initiatives. One of them is the repatriation of all the corpses he can possibly get his hands on.”

  “Is anyone else extremely disturbed by the thought of the God of Darkness trying to collect corpses?” Vaste asked. “It just sounds wrong.”

  Curatio took the news with what almost seemed like amusement. “Long dead corpses are irrelevant. It’s most likely related to the famine. We know his people are starving, yes?” He looked to J’anda for confirmation.

  J’anda stirred. “It is true that Sovar is in dire straits, and that the army has consumed a large part of the mushroom and root crops that have been used to feed the poor until recently. The surface farms above Saekaj are working at their capacity, the slaves toiling harder than ever to try and keep up with the demands for increased food production. With winter coming soon, it will likely become more of a squeeze than before.”

  “There you have it,” Curatio said. “Famine drives curious behaviors, as a starving man will do desperate things for food. But we have no bodies to give them in any case, so there is no cause to fret.”

  “I have an idea about that,” Vaste said. “We could step outside the walls and piss in the dirt. That will clump it together, and then we shovel it into barrels and send it back to him.” He made a flourish with his hand. “And thus, we send the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar our piss in a barrel. With his dirt. And ashes. But mostly our piss.”

  Cyrus spoke first. “Vetoed. We may be at war with Yartraak and the dark elves, but we needn’t throw pointless, petty insults their way.”

  “Oh, yes,” Andren said, “because we wouldn’t want to step on their toes, would we? They might lay siege to us or something similarly terrible.”

  “It’s such a shame,” Vaste said, taking up where the elf had left off, “because when it comes to stepping on toes, there is no one better than I.”

  “Thank you for giving me an excuse never to dance with you,” Vara said.

  “I don’t see you doing much dancing in the nowadays,” Vaste said. “Or ever, actually.”

  “Thad,” Cyrus said, “please deliver a diplomatic reply offering our regrets, but that in order to keep disease and rot at bay, we were forced to dispose of the dark elven bodies with fire.” He waved a hand. “Something of that sort.”

  “It will be done,” Thad said, “diplomacy and all.”

  “Excellent,” Cyrus said, and his gaze swept the table. “Any other business?” He waited for a count of three under his breath. “Let’s call it a day, shall we?”

  “Sounds like a brilliant idea,” Andren said, “as I’ve developed quite the thirst.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, you wouldn’t want to miss your morning drink,” Vara said icily.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Andren agreed, missing the irony. He popped out of his seat as though moved by a spring, and disappeared through the doors faster than anyone else.

  “I find myself rather famished,” Vaste said, “though not perhaps for the whiskey that Andren is.”

  “Few are,” Erith agreed, disappearing through the door with the troll following shortly behind.

  “My compliments to the new Guildmaster,” Ryin said, standing behind his place at the table. His piercing eyes met Cyrus’s. “I may have opposed you, but you can be assured of my wholehearted support.”

  “And occasional passionate disagreement?” Cyrus asked, amused, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “But of course,” Ryin said, with a bow of the head. With a smile, he left.

  “Off to deliver bad news,” Thad said. “This dark elven envoy, I don’t think he’s going to take it well.”

  “Oh?” Cyrus asked. “Was he fearsome? Should I send assistance?”

  “He seemed rather pitiful, actually,” Thad said, scratching his head, red helm cupped under his arm. “I don’t think he’s going to be pleased to return with our message.”

  “The Sovereign is rather notorious about failing to discriminate between messenger and message when responding to displeasing news,” J’anda said quietly, also still seated.

  “Perhaps the envoy will need some of what Andren is partaking of,” Curatio said with a slight smile as he rose from his place to make his way to the door.

  “More likely he’ll run off and never be seen outside the bandit lands again,” J’anda said with a shrug. “I heard there is a booming trade for wizards willing to teleport dark elves to distant portals—Gradsden Savanna, the Inculta Desert, Fertiss, the Mountains of Nartanis and the last portal on the southeast beach are popular destinations.”