Cyrus halted and Odellan walked another pace before stopping. Cyrus’s eyes narrowed at the elf. “Some of that was funny, and I can’t decide how I feel about that.”
Odellan raised an eyebrow. “Only some of it? I was trying to keep a playful tone throughout.”
“The ‘Cyrus the Unbroken’ bit was a tad grim; otherwise you succeeded.”
“Ah, that,” Odellan said, looking back at him. “It seems there’s a story that goes along with it, though I’ve yet to hear it told the same way twice.”
“And the rumors about the reason I’m as black in the mood as an elvish artisan? Are those told the same twice, or do the details vary with the telling?”
Odellan cast his eyes down. “Those seem to be almost the same every time. A dashing young warrior, a rising star in the Sanctuary firmament, casts his eyes upon an elven paladin of legend, spills the secrets of his soul to her, and receives naught but anguish for his reward.” Odellan tilted his head, his expression pained. “It would be hard for even the most accomplished embellisher of stories to mistake a tale so plain as that one.”
“That’s never stopped rumormongers from trying.”
“As you can tell, the broad strokes of that one convey all the important bits,” Odellan said. “Whether anything else happened, we all get the gist.” Cyrus caught a flicker of something behind the elf’s eyes, some pain within. “Heartbreak is no great joy for any of us, but no one will disturb you if you don’t wish to talk about it-”
“I don’t,” Cyrus said, resuming his walk. “It’s nothing personal, but my … adversities are my own.”
“Well, that would make it personal, wouldn’t it? Still, I understand completely.” The elf gave Cyrus a curt nod. “And I shan’t bring it up again.” Odellan hesitated. “Save but to say that if ever a day comes when you wish to discuss it … I am the soul of discretion.”
Cyrus felt the muscles in his body tense and then relax, the full effect of Odellan’s offer running through his mind. “It’s kind of you, Odellan. I doubt that day will come, but I appreciate the offer.”
“A kindness I fear is all too small a repayment for those you’ve done for me.” Odellan’s silver boots had begun to collect small clumps of wet sand, and the shine on the top of his metal-encased feet was not nearly so polished as his breastplate. “After all, you saved my life and the lives of countless of my people in Termina and then brought me from exile to a place where I can do some small good, I hope.”
“More than small, I would think,” Cyrus said as they passed the embers of the fire he had slept beside. The sun had risen in the western sky and was hanging high above the sea, day in full and glorious bloom.
The smell of roasted pig was in the air, and Cyrus could see Martaina Proelius next to a boar that looked to be fairly intact, and the ranger gave him a smile as he approached. “Hungry?” she asked.
“Indeed I am,” he said, his voice suddenly scratchy. “How’s the boar?”
“Oh, he’s dead,” she said, taking a knife from her belt and carving a slice from the haunch. “But tasty. It’s nice to see you seeking the company of others again, sir, even if it is only for a meal.”
“Well … not only for a meal,” he said, eliciting a wider grin from the ranger. He took a bite of the meat she had given him. “That is good.” He shifted the meat around on his tongue, tasted the curious flavor of something beyond meat and fat. “There are spices in this.”
Martaina grinned with obvious pleasure. “I found some familiar plants over the berm; it made seasoning these beasts all the sweeter.”
“Well done,” Cyrus told her, beginning to turn away. “Well done indeed.”
“General,” she said, causing him to turn back. “Remember that you’re among friends here.”
He gave her a wan smile and turned back toward the officer’s fire, Odellan at his side. “Even if I forgot, there seems to be no shortage of reminders.”
“These people love you, General.” Odellan said it with quiet certitude. “The veterans, the ones who came to help you train the newest, they have been through fire and death with you and have followed you off the very map.” He shook his head. “I wish I had commanded such loyalty when I was in charge of the Termina Guard.”
“I daresay you commanded more in your last battle,” Cyrus said. “My people have a very good chance of resurrection if they should fall. Your men knew that the fight for Termina would cost many of them their lives and they stood with you anyway.”
“They fought for King and country and for their homes, for the lives of their brethren,” Odellan said with a quiet shake of his head. “That is a powerful motivator, and one that is lacking in guilds such as Sanctuary. At first blush, I should think guild life would be the purest sort of mercenary company, a people banded together for mutual gain, undertaking adventure, exploration and battle in the farthest and most dangerous reaches of the world for the wealth and riches they can reap. Yet it is not so.”
Odellan’s mailed fingers rested on his helm, his eyes seeming to trace the lines of the carving upon it. “I watched Sanctuary stand against the God of Death-a god! Something not seen by living eyes in generations of your people! Yet it was not Sanctuary that broke but Mortus. Of those who stood with you, only one of them shouted in fear, and none of them lost command of themselves or ran. I should imagine that any mercenary company would have trembled when he descended from the air above us. I would think that even the Termina Guard, who held against the certain death that the dark elves levied against us, would have quailed at the sight of a god, of death, of the endless sleep.
“You say that these people stand with you because they know there is a chance of resurrection if they fall. I remind you that many of them stood with you then, in the Realm of Death, when there was no chance at all if they died. It is not because of King or country or riches or gain that the army of Sanctuary stood with you then or that they are with you now, here beyond the edge of the world.” The fire in Odellan’s eyes burned brighter. “They believe-in you, in the cause, in what we are doing here. The veterans believe enough that they would die for it.” Odellan turned his head and looked back to the still-burning fires that littered the beach. “The newest have been sent here to find that conviction for themselves.”
Cyrus stopped and looked with Odellan down the beach, at the thousand souls under his command, waiting for his word to march forward on the morrow, into battle, pain, and possible death. “I don’t know what kind of belief I can give them.” He shook his head, and the little mirth that he had felt when talking to Martaina dissipated like a wisp of smoke after a fire has been put out. “I’m carrying a weight of my own right now. I’ll do my duty, help forge them in battle and keep them from danger as best I can, but … belief?” Cyrus shook his head. “That’s something they’ll have to figure out for themselves.”
“You’re right, they do,” Odellan said. “But you will show them the way.”
“I don’t know how I can do that,” Cyrus said, “when I’m not sure what I believe in anymore.”
“You still hold true to duty-honor-purpose. These are things you wear like your armor.” Odellan stared at Cyrus, and Cyrus looked back at him. “You are here at a time when you’d almost assuredly like to be elsewhere. You’re doing your duty to your guild and holding true to a friend who asked for help.”
Cyrus cleared his throat. “It sounds pretty when you say it like that, and I told myself the same when we were leaving Sanctuary, that I was here to do my duty and fight for the guild and what we stand for.” He looked back at the bridge, the long stone causeway that stretched over the horizon, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “But I had a long time to consider it on the bridge. I don’t think that’s why I’m here anymore.” Cyrus heard a hollowness in his words, in his tone, something brittle and empty, and the slow dawning within him of something he had yet to fully admit to himself.
Odellan stared back, impassive. “Why do you think you’re here?”
But not back to the bridge. Not over it.
“You certainly said it well when we left,” Odellan said, jarring Cyrus away from his thoughts. “You spoke of duty and nobility of purpose, of helping others in need, and you said it with conviction enough that I believed you.” The elf didn’t look judgmental, and he said it matter-of-factly. “So if that’s not why you’re here, then what is it? What compelled you to lead us over the bridge, if not your honor and desire to help a friend?”
Cyrus saw in his mind’s eye the image of himself on Windrider’s back, of a long gallop down a winding road in a far off land. He saw villages, mountains, forests and cities. Castles passed him by and he rode through jungle and swamp. Nothing he saw was familiar yet all of it was. Behind him, all the while, was the specter of something else, something that drove him onward, that would not let him rest.
Her.
“I meant it when I said it to them,” Cyrus whispered, meeting Odellan’s gaze at last. “I just … I don’t know that I believe it anymore. I feel … empty inside, like all the wine has been poured from my cup and there’s not enough left but to ripple at the bottom when something happens-as though the littlest things can bring me only the slightest of joys now. A month ago, a year ago, I would have come here for duty, for honor, for all those things.” He shook his head ever so slightly and a pained expression crossed his face, anchored in place by the realization that had now fully formed within him. “But that’s not why I’m here now.
“I’m here because I’m running-from her.”
Chapter 8
“General,” Odellan said in a low whisper of his own, so low it was almost inaudible to Cyrus’s ears. “You are wounded, sir. You are wounded in a way that no healing spell can cure. The cut runs deep, to the quick of you. That is to be expected. But you are still the same man who undertook this mission, and whatever your reasons, I know you and I have seen what you believe borne out by what you do, which is the truest guide.” Odellan’s finger came to land on Cyrus’s black breastplate and tapped on it, twice, for emphasis. “This wound will fade in time, and you’ll be left with what was inside all along-a purpose forged in fire. No matter what else happens, you’ll do your duty. I’d stake my life on it-and I have.”
“I hope you’re right,” Cyrus said, not feeling the same certainty as the elf. “I certainly hope you’re right.”
Cyrus shuffled to the officer’s fire and noted a few others standing around it-Nyad, her red robes billowing around her like a cloak, Ryin Ayend standing next to her, too close to merely be considered friendly or familiar. Curatio and J’anda were there, J’anda watching Cyrus, a light smile upon his blue face. Samwen Longwell waited with them as well, the long handle of his lance resting against his dark blue armor. He was careful to avoid running it across the white surcoat he wore over his ensemble. “General,” Longwell said with a nod.
“This is where I take my leave of you,” Odellan said in a whisper.
“Stay,” Cyrus said, turning back to him. “I’d like you to sit in on this.”
Odellan hesitated, clearly torn. “I’d certainly like to. But I am a new recruit in this guild, and it would be improper for me to be sitting in on a war council not a week into my tenure here. Other recruits would be most aggrieved if this particular honor bestowed me came to their attention-enough so that it would cause complaints to come your way, surely-”
“Send the complainers my way,” Cyrus said in a low, gravelly voice. “I may even invite them to sit in as well, if ever they’ve led an army against a horde of dark elves.” He smiled at Odellan, causing the elf to return one weakly before Cyrus turned back to the waiting Council. “Hello, all,” Cyrus said, then paused. “J’anda,” he said to the enchanter, who inclined his head and smiled back at Cyrus, “I don’t recall you being with us when we left Sanctuary.”
“Indeed I was not,” the enchanter said with his customary smile, “but after a day or so of contemplation, I realized that heading into an unfamiliar land, filled to the brimming with men and armies, you may have need of my particular skills.” He bowed with a flourish.
“Well,” Cyrus said with a slight shrug, “I can’t say I’m sorry to see you.” He looked around the impromptu circle. “Before we get started, I want to apologize for my … reclusiveness on our journey thus far.”
There was an air of discomfort around the fire, the officers shifting their gazes to each other, wearing pained expressions, until Terian spoke from behind Cyrus. “Somehow we’ve managed in your absence, oh great and mighty.” The dark knight brushed past Cyrus, the point of his pauldron clanking against Cyrus’s armor. “I think we all expected that what happened between you and Vara would put you out of commission for a while longer.” His eyebrows arched upward, almost leering. “Did you manage to put her behind you or does she remain on top-metaphorically speaking, of course,” Terian said with a wicked grin. “We all know that you didn’t actually get that far-”
“He didn’t?” Nyad turned to look at him, her mouth agape in a way that made her look slightly mawkish. “I’d heard you and she had finally consummated your torturously prolonged courtship after we got back from Pharesia!”
Cyrus felt a flush of red run through his cheeks and looked down.
Before he could answer, Terian spoke again. “Hah! The last time Cyrus had relations was probably back when there was only one position.” There was a glimmer of spite in Terian’s eye as he turned to look at Cyrus, something beyond the give and take that they exchanged along with their usual banter.
Cyrus shook it off, pasting a fake smile on his face as he feigned amazement. “There’s more than one position now? What new devilry is this?”
“That’s enough,” Curatio said, stern in a way Cyrus hadn’t heard from the elder elf before. “We have things to discuss, and I’m certain that if Cyrus wishes to talk about his personal matters in Council … well, I would immediately suspect he was some sort of enchanter masquerading as Cyrus.”
“It wouldn’t be me,” J’anda said. “I have many less depressing people to be if the mood strikes.”
“Thank you, Curatio,” Cyrus said. “I think there was a word of support buried in there, somewhere. But you are correct, we have matters to discuss. We enter hostile territory tomorrow.” He looked to Longwell for confirmation.
The dragoon swung his lance around and buried the three-pronged head into the sand, where it stood upright. “We are already within the bounds of the Kingdom of Actaluere, but their nearest village is quite a few miles from here and we’re unlikely to run across any patrols this far out. Tomorrow, and every day that follows as we go deeper into their Kingdom, the greater chance we stand of running into hostile forces.”
“Can we go around their Kingdom?” Nyad asked. Her face was screwed in concentration, as though she had other questions waiting to bubble forth. “After all, as I understand it, we’re not here to combat these people.”
“You are correct,” Longwell said, his lilting accent stirring the words pleasantly. “My father’s Kingdom-called Galbadien, by the way-is not at war with Actaluere. But neither are we allies. The King of Actaluere is Milos Tiernen. He is a younger man than the other two Kings of Luukessia, and cunning. He spent a few years on a galley trader, doing business with the gnomes across the Sea of Carmas, and he learned to be even more shrewd than he already was. He controls the area north of here for quite a distance yet, and we’d have to skirt a very narrow border between his land and the northern King’s-that’s the one my father is at war with. The northern Kingdom is called Syloreas, and is ruled by a very grizzled man named Briyce Unger. He is completely without guile, a conqueror born, and he and my father have squabbled over their borders si
nce each of them took the throne only a few years apart from each other. His men are the ones we are here to fight.”
“What can we expect in terms of resistance as we cross Actaluere?” J’anda shifted his sandaled feet on the beach.
“Hard to say,” Longwell said, looking at each of the Council in turn. “Each of the keeps throughout the Kingdom would fight for its own defense unless they summoned aid or the King were to call them together for some purpose-invasion, war, whatnot. Each of the three Kingdoms in Luukessia is much the same, more fragmented and feudal than Arkaria by far. The Kings rely on their barons and dukes to keep the order in their own lands.”
“So even after we cross their borders, it would be a while before they could bring their full might to bear-if they were of a mind to,” Odellan said, his fingers resting on his chin, deep in thought.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I thought this was to be an officer’s meeting?” Ryin asked. “May I ask why a new recruit is here?”
“Sure, ask away,” Cyrus said. “The fact that they’re so divided works to our advantage. We’ll be halfway across Actaluere before they can put up an army worthy of our concern.”
“Do not rule out treachery,” Longwell said. “I would not put it past King Tiernan to attack us in the night, when we least expect it.”
“That would be to our advantage as well, I suspect,” Odellan said.
“Excuse me,” Ayend said in annoyance. “But I’ve yet to get an answer to my question.”
“Yes, you did. You didn’t ask why Odellan was here, you said, ‘May I ask why a new recruit is here?’” Cyrus shrugged. “Subtle distinction but important to getting the answer you seek-in one case you’re asking for permission to ask a question, in the other you’re asking the question.”
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