Sanctuary 5.5 - Fated in Darkness

by Robert J. Crane

  “After the choices you made,” Curatio corrected. “For I assure you, Alaric held no ill will against you. You became the person you aimed to become, choosing to direct your efforts in less serious ways than Cyrus did, to better the guild less than he did, to build credibility with the members less frequently than he did.”

  “He was the General, Curatio,” Terian said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t compete against that.”

  “You did not even try,” Curatio said. “You chose to cede the race, you chose the easier path. You were an officer, and once the Elder, and you absolved yourself of doing the work that Cyrus did. And it was a fine choice, but you cannot complain after the fact that the result was unfair when you never took it as seriously as he did. If redemption is a path that must be walked daily, you must factor your detours into account when the time comes to tally mileage.”

  “What would you have me do, Curatio?” Terian asked, throwing his arms wide. “What? What can I even do?”

  “Fight,” Kahlee said, leaning toward him now, her eyes burning. “As you have never done since the days of old, when you chose to partake in the soul sacrifice. Fight for the glorious society you naively believed in before the death of your sister burned it out of you. For the days of the Sovereign and that sort of sacrifice are over, and will be over for all time, if we prevail against Shrawn and Malpravus and all the rest of the would-be tyrants.”

  “I would,” Terian said, looking at his wife, “if I but stood a chance. But it’s me, now, Kahlee. Me alone, against three factions with armies and anger and weapons.” He looked down at his chest, and it looked sunken in the V where the cloak met below his pectorals. “There is no chance, not for me.” He tasted bitter defeat, and it was like old brew gone sour on his tongue. “There is no hope.”

  The door to the office opened then, and Cattrine Tiernan re-entered, two men following behind her. They struggled under the weight of the burden they carried, draped in cloth, and Terian peered at them, curious. It almost looks like a corpse. They set it upon the wood floor with a hard thump, and it settled with a sound of clanking metal. It stood upright, the cloth still covering it, and Terian looked at it as though he could see past the cloth cover. What the …?

  “‘Hope,’” Curatio said, “to borrow a phrase from someone of our mutual acquaintance, ‘is a light that shines in the darkness when no others can be seen.’” He sidled over to the thing that Cattrine’s workers had brought in. “I can give you hope, Terian—but just a small one. The start of the path, if you will. Where you go from there … well, it’s entirely in your hands.” With a flourish, the healer tore off the white cloth, and Terian sat, breathless, chills unrelated to the weather running down his skin. “Well?” Curatio asked. “What do you think?”

  Terian swallowed, hard, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle before him, a nearly complete tableau that lacked only two small things. “I think … I have nowhere else to walk, so … I might as well go the way a seasoned guide tells me to.”

  “Then you can walk your path with the aid of this,” Curatio said, and only glanced at the armor of Alaric Garaunt at his side, complete save for the helm and the sword of the old knight, “and may it protect from all the harm that will come your way … just as the Ghost of Sanctuary would have wanted it.”

  63.

  J’anda

  One Hundred Years Earlier

  He awoke to the sound of Trimane dressing, the warrior’s armor clinking at the side of his bed as he fastened it on, his dull, colorless armor such a contrast to the man who wore it. Trimane had flair, had humor, personality that bulged at the seams. His armor, on the other hand, J’anda thought, was everything that was wrong with the Sovereignty—no differentiation, just a people who walk in lockstep, afraid to look or act in a way that doesn’t fit with the crowd.

  “You’re staring again,” Trimane said, voice ripe with amusement as he slipped on his gauntlet. “Best not look at another man too long, lest someone get the idea you’re a deviant.”

  “I have no idea where such a notion could come from,” J’anda answered him, not half as entertained by the concept as Trimane. That was part of the warrior’s draw, he figured; others he’d known in this way were frightened, afraid to so much as jest about the secret and forbidden ways in which they partook. The threat of the Depths was a joke to Trimane, a man as fearless as any he had ever met. He takes this serious matter and makes it funny in his way. Or is it simply gallows humor?

  “I’m off to war,” Trimane said, finishing with his other gauntlet. “Or possibly court, today. Hard to tell the difference, really. What are you up to?”

  J’anda rolled over, the silken sheets of his small cottage at the edge of Saekaj entrapping him in his bed. It was a luxury, an extravagance he would not have been able to even consider were he still a simple instructor at the Gathering. Being a war hero and the current favorite of the Sovereign carries a special set of rewards, I suppose. “I may be at court. I may not. I am not certain. The Sovereign chooses peculiar times to have his consultations about the war, and they always come at a moment’s notice.”

  “Agreed,” Trimane said, leaning in close to him. “I look forward to seeing you at court, if I see you there. And perhaps, if not, I’ll run across you on the battlefield, if we end up going to one on this day. And failing any of that …” Trimane smiled. “Dinner tonight?”

  A glimmer of nervousness twinged through J’anda’s stomach. So bold, this one. Not even afraid to eat together in public, keeping up the facade we are mere friends. “Are you not … afraid?” He caught the hint of hesitation in Trimane’s eyes. “Of being caught? Of being … known?”

  “One should not live one’s life in fear,” Trimane said with a smile. “Even for us, our lives are too short to dwell in such a place.” He stood, nodding at J’anda. “Right?”

  J’anda smiled weakly. “But of course,” he said, going along with it. “Of course you’re right.” The smile faded as soon as Trimane was out the door, quietly, into the dark of Saekaj, and the silken sheets picked up the chill of the caves once more. But he was not entirely sure that Trimane was right, when he thought about it further, and it left him with that same sense of unease all the day long.

  64.

  Aisling

  So this is what an insurrection looks like, Aisling thought as the crowd roared again. It was not a quiet thing, that much was certain, and she did think of the crowd as a thing. It was not a gathering of people, not anymore. It had taken on a life of its own at the steering of the people on the stage—Xem, Coeltes, and now Norenn. They told stories, they rallied support, and the crowd—the thing that was alive—grew hour by hour, and even minute by minute as word of the Sovereign’s death faded from shock into a feeling of “What’s next?” that was punctuated by hunger.

  “They have spared not a thought for us in all these years,” Norenn shouted, voice still sounding a little thin from his weakness. He had not slept; he’d had no time. He carried on with a fire in the eyes, driven by something that his newfound freedom had let loose along with his body. “No one in Saekaj has worried about us in the years of war or the years before, has worried about our children starving in the streets …”

  “He really does have a delightful manner about him,” Genn said, drifting next to her at the base of the stage. She stood at the base and watched the crowd, afraid to watch Norenn do his talking. When she heard Genn’s voice, she did not even turn to face him. “I can see what drew you to him.”

  “And I can see what draws you to him,” Aisling murmured, sure he would catch it even if she hadn’t spoken at all.

  “Am I that transparent?” Genn asked, sounding mildly offended.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Well, let me ask you this,” Genn said, amused again, “why are you still here?”

  She didn’t have to ponder to find an answer that worked. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  “See, I don’t think that’s it,” Genn said, slip
ping in front of her, smile reaching up to his eyes. “We both know why you’re here.”

  “Do we?”

  “We do,” Genn said, “one of us is just a little afraid to admit it to herself.”

  “Oh, do tell,” Aisling said, glancing behind him into the crowd. It roared with approbation at some exhortation from Norenn, and a look over her shoulder revealed him basking in the adulation. When she turned back, Genn had circled to her left ear, giving her an unobstructed view of the continually growing crowd.

  “Let’s be honest,” Genn said. “Just put it all out there, since you already know me, and I already know you. You enjoyed the work that Shrawn put you to. You enjoyed learning how to watch, how to fight, how to kill. It was like the nectar of life poured across dying lips. You were bored as a socialite; it’s why you followed this thief to Sovar. You loved playing the people, playing the game, even worming your way into the hearts of Sanctuary’s members was a thrill. You found adventure of the sort you didn’t know you were seeking, and backing it all was a mission that no one even guessed at, threaded with enough deception, danger and threat to keep even the quickest mind entertained.”

  “I don’t know that ‘entertained’ is the right word for it,” Aisling said tightly.

  “Oh, but it is,” Genn said. “You thrive on it, the chaos. It’s not like with Cyrus, where he throws himself into battle and adores it, whatever the cause. No, with you it’s the subterfuge, the deception. You’d be just as happy getting all the money and glory and the goal without having to actually fight at all. It’s the dagger in the night, the whispered word that turns the army in the direction of your choosing. You may have started out pushed and manipulated by Shrawn for his sake and that of his master, but damn if you didn’t up mastering it on your own account and twisting it against him for your own ends.”

  She shrugged the accusation off lightly. “Shrawn’s still alive.”

  The grin was obvious in Genn’s words. “For now. But it doesn’t even matter if he dies, and you know that.”

  “It doesn’t?” she asked coolly. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s the chaos that counts,” he said, “that delivers the desired result, that keeps it interesting. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that Shrawn, dead, bleeding in front of you would be a fun little scene, but … what would you do after that?”

  “I’m sure I could find something.”

  He laughed as the crowd roared, covering it, full of genuine glee. “I’m sure you could, too, and I’d love to watch it happen. But where you and I diverge on this is what we both think you’d be doing, because I think you still entertain this idea of some sort of glorious return to the days before you stole the Red Destiny the first time, as though that were a bridge you could simply cross to get back to who you were. It’s not, and you can never go back to who you were.”

  “Who said I wanted to?” she asked, pushing more feelings into the abyss unexamined. Not now. Not with him watching.

  “You do,” Genn said as she caught a hint of strange movement in the crowd. “It’s in your head. It’s a lingering doubt. Part of you thinks it could be that simple again, that you could go back to being that … dull. A simple thief in a simple place, with a complicated mind bored by all she sees.”

  “Do you know what I see?” Aisling asked, as the crowd roared again, hands thrown in the air—save for one. “Right now?”

  “Of course,” Genn said. “What I’m interested in, though … is what you’ll do about it.” She glanced to the side and he was gone.

  Aisling turned back to the crowd, feigning nonchalance, as though she were kicking at the dirt at her feet. Her eyes, though, flicked up and focused on the man snaking his way through the crowd with a purpose, ignoring the speech and absent the emotion of those surrounding him. His face was blank, focused, on the mission to get closer to the stage. A spy or an assassin—which are you?

  He drifted closer to the edge of the stage, creeping through gaps in the crowd that even she would have had trouble getting through. He shoved a little, pushed a little, and managed to work his way up to the fore, against the wooden platform and at Norenn’s feet. He looked up as he had the entire time, focused on his target with unblinking eyes as the crowd roared at his back once more, but the man himself showed no more interest in the crowd than if he were merely in an evening bath rather than an ocean of hostility.

  She watched him watching Norenn, and wondered when he’d act. If he struck him down, how would it play out? Norenn would die, right there on stage, delivering his message, his story of being a prisoner, of being in the deprivation of Shrawn’s dungeon in front of half a million angry people. That would certainly move them in a direction, but only one—fury.

  Shrawn didn’t hire this assassin, assuming he’s a professional. Her eyes darted to the stage where she caught Xemlinan’s gaze and he nodded at the man in the crowd as if to suggest what she should do.

  Dammit, you bastards.

  The man leapt as she moved, and she slammed into him just as he brandished a knife and nearly landed it in Norenn, who was standing there blinking in surprise at the unexpected attack. She hit him with her shoulder and knocked the knife clear of his grasp, sending him toppling into the crowd unarmed. She managed to preserve her own balance and stay atop the stage, placing herself protectively between her quarry and Norenn.

  It proved unnecessary.

  “Assassin!” Xem cried in the stark and stunned silence, in a voice that carried across the crowd. A ripple ran through them after a moment’s pause, and a roar of their fury, unleashed, came a moment later. The mob surged, ocean upon shore, pushing toward the stage. Aisling watched the would-be assassin disappear under a flurry of blows originating from all around him as they fell upon him like dogs on a starving meal.

  “It had to be this way,” Xem said, whispering in her ear. “We wouldn’t have let any actual harm come to him, you know. There was never a chance this fellow was going to get close.”

  “What if he talks?” Aisling asked, turning her head just enough to feel his breath on her neck. “What if he—”

  “I don’t think he’s going to get the chance, do you?” Xemlinan nodded and Aisling turned her head to watch, unflinching.

  The man was already being torn to pieces, the mob shoving and fighting to get their chance at him, to vent years of fury on a symbol of that which they hated utterly. The roar was deafening, louder even than the cheers, and she could not hear the swearing of the assassin’s attackers even as the blood started to fly through the air.

  “This is just the beginning,” Xem said, pulling away from her ear to bask next to Norenn, who was smiling at the sight of the first of their many enemies getting what they so richly deserved.

  “And oh, what a beginning,” Genn whispered, unseen, in her other ear. “Can you even imagine how it will end?”

  She didn’t even need to ponder it for a second to answer. “In blood and chaos.” She drew a breath as the mob continued to rip apart the body of a man just feet from her. “Just like you want it to … Terrgenden.”

  65.

  Terian

  “How do I look?” he asked, feeling decidedly uncomfortable in the armor. It was a fear born of self-consciousness, of knowing that the armor had its dings, its flaws, that it showed its age, and also brought with it a clear recollection of its last wearer. Whose sword I am not fit to carry, nor whose helm am I fit to wear.

  “Very fine,” Kahlee said, looking him up and down. “Having your hair out and your face visible is a … bold choice that I hope you’ll remedy before going into a battle.” She wore a somewhat impish smile.

  “Alas,” Curatio said, back to standing next to Cattrine Tiernan’s hearth, “the helm is not so easy to come by. It rests in a shrine behind Sanctuary, whereas the rest of the armor was … misplaced, let us say.” The healer smiled, all enigma and no explanation.

  “When do I start to get the good secrets?” Terian asked. “Because I hoped they’d com
e with the armor.”

  “The only thing that comes with the armor,” Curatio said, “is the weight of responsibility.”

  “And a very slight smell of mustiness and salt air,” Terian quipped, taking a few steps experimentally. “It’s a little tighter in the crotch than I expected.”

  Curatio harrumphed, drawing Terian’s attention back to the healer. “Are you ready to begin?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Terian said, straightening up in his new armor. “But I have to ask, Curatio … do you have a plan to fight an army? Because I don’t. I mean, you can put me in front of them in this armor and I’m sure it’ll hold up reasonably well, but eventually I will get overwhelmed and die under the weight of the dead’s crushing numbers.”

  “Agreed,” Curatio said, nodding. “And I am taking steps to aid you in this regard.”

  “You know when I said that this was not Cyrus’s fight?” Terian asked. “I only meant it until I got my ass kicked. This can absolutely be his fight now, because I could really use the help of someone with his particular skills—”

  “No, it cannot,” Curatio said, shaking his head. “The stakes of the game you now find yourself playing are too high to have someone else come in and do the thing for you. This is your fight, and you will win it.”

  “I find it alarming to hear you say that,” Terian said, “if only because I’ve yet to hear where I’m going to get an army to do the fighting with, absent Sanctuary … or the humans … or the elves …” Curatio shook his head with each suggestion, “Dwarves? Gnomes? Goblins—Curatio, there’s no one left.” Terian threw his arms up. “I mean, I can’t command the dead myself.” His face twisted as he pondered it. “Unless I can.”

  “You cannot,” Curatio said, shaking his head. “Nor do you need to. Those poor souls need to be put to rest, not commanded by anyone mad enough to wrest them away from Malpravus’s clutching hands. I have outlined for you three great challenges, three tests, essentially, that you must pass to come to the end of your current road.”