“Uhm … you carry quite the blade,” he said, looking at the flash of a scabbard that her motion had revealed.
She stepped back self-consciously, trying to disguise it, but it was far too late for that. She was only a little shorter than he, and the blade she wore on her belt went almost to her ankle. It was longer than Praelior, longer than Aterum, longer than Ferocis—maybe almost the length of any two of them combined, and at least one and a half times the width of any of them.
“I—” she started to say, and here he saw a flush of embarrassment.
“You don’t have to explain,” Vaste said quickly. “If I had a sword and I were answering the door in a strange city, I would surely be wearing it. Hell, I might even greet whoever knocked with it already drawn. People are a suspicious lot, after all, not exactly the most accepting of those who are somewhat different … taller … greener … prettier …”
“You think I’m pretty, do you?” She sounded almost amused by it. That impressed him further; it took real wit to be amused, to approach the compliment with humor. Any idiot could take it onboard sincerely; it took brains to twist it around and throw irony into it.
“I do,” Vaste said, trying to gallop on past that, “but I’m more impressed with your mind right now.”
“That was clear from the syllable counting,” she said.
“Where I come from … I was an outcast from my people,” Vaste said. “And an anomaly, because I liked to … think.” He let his eyes dart, because the way that had come out was far too superior for his taste and comfort.
“I find thinking a wonderful alternative to not,” Birissa said, eyes flicking over him with amusement. “It’s your very great misfortune if you were raised in a place where that was frowned upon.”
“I know, right?” he said, letting it out like a great gasping breath air surging back into his lungs, like he was finally able to exhale after a decade of keeping something in. “It was a nightmare! And—” He started to say more but was interrupted by a sudden burst of mist appearing in the hall. “Uh oh. Something weird is about to happen, just—don’t let it scare you.”
“What are you t—oh.” Birissa stared as Alaric formed out of a column of misty grey. “Who is this and what is he doing in my hallway?”
“We’ve encountered a problem,” Alaric came straight to the point.
Vaste swallowed hard. “I’m sure you have. There’s always a problem to be had with Cyrus around.”
“Indeed,” Alaric said, and a dark glimmer of amusement passed over him. “We have to return to Sanctuary immediately.”
“Alaric,” Vaste said sharply, nodding his head to Birissa, who watched them both with something between amazement and curiosity, with perhaps a speckling of horror. “I’m rather busy at the moment.”
“Who’s your friend … who can appear and disappear out of a cloud of fog?” Birissa asked, looking over Alaric.
“Birissa, this is Alaric,” Vaste said hurriedly. “Alaric, Birissa. Now, go evaporate, will you?”
“We require your presence immediately,” Alaric said. “Things have taken two rather dramatic turns.”
Vaste sighed, a noise of exasperation and annoyance. “Again, with Cyrus, I don’t see how they couldn’t, but—I really need some time here, Alaric.”
“For what?” Birissa asked, one eye watching him more intently than the other.
“Bring her as well,” Alaric said, eyeing Birissa. “She carries a large sword; perhaps she might like to use it.”
“Don’t assume she’s violent just because she’s a troll—” Vaste started.
“I do like to do a bit of hacking and slashing when warranted,” Birissa said.
“Well, shit,” Vaste said, sagging. Then, to her, he said, “You really are perfection, aren’t you?”
“Thank you, I think,” Birissa said.
“Meet us back at Sanctuary,” Alaric said. “We’ll be in the Great Hall. There are things to discuss.” And with that, he was gone in a puff of smoke, the mist reeling itself back out of a nearby window through the permeable crack around the sill.
“How the hell did he even find me?” Vaste asked, throwing up his hands.
“We’re two trolls in the middle of city that lacks our class and wit and sophistication,” Birissa said, shrugging. She drew the door closed and produced a key with which she locked it. “Your friend seems interesting. I’d like to go hear him out.”
Vaste let his own eyes narrow at her. “Because you find yourself intrigued by me, as a person … or because you’re drawn to the violence he’s apparently promising?”
She paused, thinking for a second. “It’s more the latter than the former, honestly. I don’t know you that well yet, and you seem strange. But I’m new in town and my skills run toward violence.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”
Vaste just blinked at her a few times. “You know what? I’ll take it. Let’s go,” he said, and off they went, her trailing in his wake, and a little smile on his face as she followed him down the stairs.
33.
Cyrus
The sting of the wounds Tirner Gaull had inflicted had not faded by the time Cyrus had returned to Sanctuary and settled in one of the seats in the Great Hall. The physical wounds certainly hurt, there was no denying the truth of them, no matter how many times Curatio attempted to knit them closed.
But worse than the physical wounds was the sting to pride, and the knowledge that Gaull—that bastard—had killed Zarnn and taken Rodanthar.
Cyrus stared at a dish heaped with buttery mashed potatoes, pieces of the red skins still within, and found himself wishing to shove them away in spite of a pressing hunger. Vara, next to him, seemed similarly preoccupied. She smelled of sweat and of blood and wore the same grimace as Cyrus, more pain that wouldn’t depart.
Curatio sat across from them, eyes flitting down the table to Shirri, who sat in the seat closest to the door, at the far end of the table. A more conspicuous and isolated spot she could not have chosen. Hiressam was the only soul near her, and he was a couple seats closer to Cyrus. Shirri’s was face partially occluded by the shadows that came from the flickering of the flames and the incomplete light that shone down through stained glass windows behind Alaric.
Alaric sat at the head of the table. There had been no argument this time, just the Ghost taking his rightful position, in Cyrus’s eyes, though he did evince a measure of distaste at the configuration of the table. Cyrus guessed it was the rectangular nature; Alaric had always preferred a circular arrangement.
“We can change the table, you know,” Cyrus said, stirring the Ghost out of a long, silent stare that he’d directed at an unresponsive Shirri.
“Later,” Alaric said, dismissing him with a wave of the hand. “There are more important matters.”
“Yes,” Vara said, stirring, another grimace pulled from her lips at the mere motion. “There are. Such as what is hobbling my magic so thoroughly that I can barely cast two near-ineffectual healing spells before I run out of magical energy.” She held up her hand and it glowed faintly red for a moment before fading away.
“I used to be able to push the limits of my magic when I had Praelior in hand,” Cyrus said, slapping a hand onto his scabbard. “Now I can hardly cast anything, as Vara said.” He let his hand slip from the scabbard further around; he’d lost all but one of his pistols in the fight at the mill. With his magic hamstrung, he felt the loss acutely, and cursed Tirner Gaull under his breath once more.
“One of our number didn’t seem to have much difficulty casting a rather strong spell,” Curatio said, turning his gaze to Shirri.
“What did I miss?” came a singsongy voice from the entry as the doors thumped closed. Cyrus turned to find Vaste striding across the room.
“Tension,” Hiressam answered under his breath as Vaste came into the Great Hall, someone trailing a few paces behind him. “Mostly tension.”
“Oh, good, I love tension,” Vaste said, and now Cyrus could see the figure trail
ing behind him. It was a troll woman, probably as tall as Cyrus if not slightly taller, a cloak of the old style draped over her shoulders and neatly closed at the front with a simple clasp of brass. Vaste threw himself into the oversized chair next to Curatio and the troll woman followed with a little more reticence, slipping quietly—amazingly quietly, given her size—into the seat next to Shirri’s end of the table. She studied Shirri with a flicker of brief interest, then turned her attention to the food in front of her.
“Hello,” Cyrus said to her with a tight smile.
She looked right at him. Like Vaste, her lower fangs protruded from behind her lips, giving her a jutted-jaw look. “Hello,” she said, simply and with more careful elocution than Cyrus had heard from any troll other than Vaste.
“I’m Cyrus,” he said.
“Birissa,” she said, and then her eyes fell to the rack of rib in front of her. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she picked up the whole of it and put it on the plate before her with a grunt, then daintily picked up her silverware and cut a massive piece, shoving it into her mouth while the others watched in a stunned silence.
Vaste was the first to speak. “Gods, you are impressive, woman. That is the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
“Yours is the life of a grotesque,” Vara muttered under her breath, so low that Cyrus hoped he was the only one that could hear it.
“Now that we’re all here—old and new,” Alaric said, removing his helm and placing it upon the table, “it seems we can begin.”
Cyrus sat there, déjà vu running through him. “This feels like the wrong room for such a conversation. Shouldn’t we adjourn to the Council Chambers?”
“I don’t believe they’re there any longer,” Vara said. “Did you notice when we went up the stairs earlier?”
Cyrus stared at her. “No, I hadn’t. My mind must have been elsewhere.”
She blew air between her lips impatiently. “What about after?”
Cyrus shrugged. “I was hungry.”
“Classic Cyrus,” Vaste said with great good humor. “You are quite the character, my friend. Why, your appetites are probably the reason why these people worship you, for who could fail to appreciate such drive?”
“Where do you suppose the archives are, then?” Cyrus asked.
“They will have moved somewhere appropriate, I am sure,” Alaric said, “but this is hardly the time to discuss—”
“I should like to do some journaling later,” Vara said. “I would hate to think that my diary was lost in the ether.”
“Yes, who knows who could be reading it, then?” Vaste asked. “All sorts of ethereal beings could be having many great laughs reading the comedic courtship of Cyrus and Vara.” He made his voice into a high imitation of hers. “‘Today I met a lunkheaded warrior who offended all my sensibility but still inflamed my loins in such a way as I have never felt since emerging from the ice baths of paladin-hood. Why, I think I might have even felt a stirring in that one tiny, special spot I discovered when I was alone in the dormitories after hours’—”
“I have killed many today,” Vara said darkly, “killing one more won’t make a difference to me.”
“I like you people already,” Birissa pronounced, her mouth full of a whole hen. It all stayed in her mouth as she spoke, though, not a speck flying out. Which was a mark in her favor as far as Cyrus was concerned.
“I feel like our courtship was more romantic than that,” Cyrus said. “It was as though were drawn together unstoppably—”
“Like your sword to an enemy’s entrails, I’m sure,” Vaste said with unfettered amusement. “Still, as fun as this may be, I feel like we’ve hashed it out enough in the last thousand years.” He settled his hands upon the table in front of him, watching Birissa eat out of the corner of his eye. “So, what did I miss?”
“Shirri cast an impressive lightning spell,” Curatio said. “Out of nowhere.”
“Zarnn was killed by a man who now works for the Machine,” Cyrus said, “and he wields Rodanthar.”
“His skill is impressive,” Vara said. “He nearly bested both Cyrus and me at the same time, with our godly weapons in hand. If not for Hiressam, he might have triumphed.”
Vaste nodded, face screwed up in concentration. “Indeed, indeed. What’s a Hiressam?”
“I … am Hiressam,” the elf said, stirring in his place nearly across from Vaste.
“Good gods, I didn’t even see you there,” Vaste said. “Oh! You!” He pointed at the elf. “I remember you now. You were friends with that smelly dwarf.”
Hiressam flushed. “He was … not smelly.”
“The hell he wasn’t,” Vaste said. “I went up to his quarters one time to deliver a complaint—I think it was the fourth or fifth he’d received, because we kept having to move people off his floor.” The troll threw his arms wide. “This is a mystical place with special magics and indoor plumbing, things the like of which most of Arkaria has never seen. Even it couldn’t keep the smell off your friend, I don’t know if he was taking mud baths in pig shit or what, but he had a stink problem.”
“It was truly terrible,” Cyrus said. “Like socks brewed in brine and worn on a long march.”
Vaste nodded. “And then used to wipe your arse after a heinous movement. And left to stew for six months.”
Vara made a slight gagging noise. “That’s enough of that, and I’m not even eating.”
“You need a stronger stomach,” Birissa said, now extracting the chicken bones. She simply pulled them out of her mouth and it was as though all the meat had been boiled from them.
Vara stared back at her, just for a moment. “I’m sorry—where did you come from? Because we were given to understand from the man who nearly killed us that the trolls of Gren were wiped out some eight hundred plus years ago.”
“Wouldn’t know anything about that,” Birissa said, picking up a lump of aged, yellow cheese from a plate of them and sniffing it. She made a face but then shoved it into her mouth anyway.
Vaste mopped his brow, eyes fixed on her. “This is so … amazing.”
“Where are you from, then?” Cyrus asked as Birissa chewed the cheese. She seemed to be trying to decide whether she liked it or not.
“Not here,” she said, finally just swallowing it down. She stared down at the plate she extracted it from, eyes narrowed, pronouncing judgment. “Not bad,” she decided, and grabbed another wedge, white this time.
“Do any of our new guests have any information about the Machine they’d like to share with us?” Alaric asked. His face, too, was slightly shadowed, but he seemed less patient and more straightforward than usual, especially in council. New people, Cyrus decided. Their presence was probably throwing him off.
“Don’t know anything about a Machine,” Birissa said, finishing the second lump of cheese and making a face. “Just got to town last night.”
“It’s just as well,” Vaste said, practically gushing. He was practically falling all over this Birissa in a way that Cyrus could not recall seeing from the troll before. “They’re just a bunch of gangsters trying to choke the life out of the citizens of Reikonos. Not the sort you’d want to associate with.”
She paused as she started to pick up the sautéed breast of a duck. “I think I might have run into a couple of those when I came in at the airship docks. Tried to shake me down for money. ‘Give us some gold, or your visit is going to end in the local apothecary,’ something of that sort.” She stared straight ahead in concentration.
Cyrus’s gaze flicked to Hiressam, who nodded. “That … is the sort of thing that low-level Machine operatives would do. Shakedowns for gold, platinum, silver, valuables.”
“My goodness,” Vaste breathed. “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”
“Mmm,” Birissa said, the duck breast having evaporated from her fork. “Too bad they can’t say the same.” She spoke with the same near-indifference she exhibited toward Vaste.
“What happened to them?�
�� Vara asked.
“They stumbled headfirst into a running airship engine,” she said, swallowing without missing a beat or evincing any more emotion than she had at any point during the entire meal. “It exploded after the first went in, but I made sure the second followed anyway, crammed him right in there tight as a drum. Thought they should be together in death.” She surveyed the table in front of her and pointed at a bowl of squash. “What’s that?”
“It’s squash,” Vara said. “It’s a vegetable.”
Birissa made a noise of distaste and screwed up her face by sticking out her tongue. “No need for that, then.” And she stood up and reached for a suckling pig instead, drawing the entire thing over to her, the apple falling out of its mouth onto the table.
“This is just getting better and better,” Vaste said, a deeper shade of green than any grass Cyrus had ever seen.
Birissa shot him a tight smile and went to work on the pig as Cyrus averted his eyes. She had better manners than any troll he’d encountered save for Vaste, but that was not saying much and he had no desire to watch it any further. “So …” Cyrus said, redirecting his attention to the end of the table, “Shirri knows magic?”
Shirri did not stir, staring at the table before her, hand draped upon it, her plate still empty.
“So it would seem,” Curatio said. “The lightning spell she produced was quite impressive, given the constraints we’ve encountered on magic in this place. It was more than I would have been able to muster in similar circumstance. And furthermore, there was no trace of red glow upon her hand when she concluded it. It would surely have run any of the rest of you—save perhaps Vaste—dry of magical energy immediately.”
“Shirri,” Alaric said quietly, “magic has faded from this land. From where did you learn your spellcraft?”
“From my mother,” Shirri said, breaking her silence at last, though she did not stir from her statue-like position.
“This grows more interesting,” Cyrus said. “The same mother that the Machine has somehow taken?”
Ghosts of Sanctuary Page 23