But … really, hadn’t they done more to hold up their end of the bargain? She’d offered them nothing and they’d pledged help. While she had little to show for it, it wasn’t for their lack of trying. They’d plowed through three Machine strongholds, which was three more than she’d ever heard of anyone else doing.
“They’re crazy,” she whispered to herself, passing a man in a silken vest who looked at her strangely for talking to herself. “But … they could perhaps help.”
She immediately dismissed the thought. They’d offered to help blindly, before they’d realized how unstoppable the Machine was. But they’d run across its true power—or hints of it—at the mill, and look at them now. Why, they were sitting around a table trying to decide what to do next, as surely as if it were Shirri, any of the times she sat at her own table back at home, thinking through what options she had available. It was simply a matter of truth that when someone was struck, good and hard, they had to take a moment to re-evaluate, and that was what this lot was doing now, around their table in that … hideout of theirs.
And Shirri knew the conclusion they had to come to, for it must be as obvious to them as it was to her.
The Machine was unstoppable. To continue to throw themselves against it would mean death, and Shirri wanted no part of death.
“But they have secrets of their own,” she whispered to herself, then stopped short of saying the thing that would have followed after: And I have secrets of my own.
No, she didn’t dare say that aloud, not in the streets of Reikonos. That little detail had already sparked the Machine’s interest in her to begin with. She didn’t need to set a fire in front of her and fan the smoke so that they would come running. Best to leave it alone.
“Mother’s … probably already dead,” she said, with a cresting burn of shame. And even if she weren’t …
Well, even with those strangers' help, it didn’t seem likely Shirri would be seeing her again … ever.
All that could happen now, Shirri thought as she passed a knot of strangers who could almost be Machine thugs—if they were dressed a little worse—was that eventually the Machine would get her. This was Reikonos, after all. There was nowhere to hide here.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, damning herself for her cowardice. But there just wasn’t anything she could do. Even if she told those weirdos her secrets …
It wouldn’t make a bit of difference.
The Machine was too big. Too strong. Too …
Unstoppable.
So when Shirri hit the next cross street, she turned north. It’d take her a little over an hour to make it to the airship docks if she didn’t take a train. And she’d need every piece of gold she could spare in order to pay for a one-way flight to Firoba. She wouldn’t make it that deep into the continent; Binngard, maybe Vanreis if she was lucky, or sunny Suijnara if they had some sort of discount, or she caught the right cargo transport looking for passengers.
She didn’t even care at this point. Desperation choked her. There truly was no hope left in Reikonos, and so she let her feet guide her, heart in her stomach, as she walked to where she could make her final escape—with but a quick stop along the way to pick up something she didn’t dare leave behind.
36.
Cyrus
With Vaste, Birissa and Shirri gone, the table had fallen silent—not that Shirri made any noise, Cyrus reflected as they sat there in silence, the light streaming down from the stained-glass window. No one spoke; they simply stared at the table, or each other.
“Someone should show Hiressam to quarters,” Curatio said at last, breaking the silence as he stretched. “I assume he’ll be staying with us?”
Hiressam perked up at that. Cyrus was surprised that a several-thousand-year-old elf could manage such a youthful look. “I had assumed so, yes,” Cyrus said. “If he’d like to …?”
“I would be honored,” Hiressam said, bowing his head toward Cyrus, then each of the others in succession. “I have very few things and am staying at a local inn—”
“Why don’t I show you to your quarters, then,” Curatio said, rising, “and if you wish, you may retrieve your things from your inn and rejoin us.” He glanced at Alaric. “It seems we are fated to do nothing for a short interval … is that right?”
Alaric stirred at his place at the table’s head. “So it would seem,” he allowed. “We could marshal our forces and march through the streets, but I suspect our general would suggest that is counterproductive.”
“Better to have a target,” Cyrus said. “We already probably risk ambush just walking down the street, but now that we have no idea where we’re going and we know that Gaull is out there … if he’s got half a brain and any sway in that organization, the Machine is going to pull back for a moment, too, while they start planning on how to remove us as their new chief problem.”
“We will need a strategy soon,” Alaric said. “We have hit them, but only close at hand. This city is massive and sprawling; surely they have not felt it at the other ends.”
“You’re probably right,” Cyrus said, letting his helm thump against the back of his chair. “But I need a target first. The most powerful sword in the world is useless with nowhere to swing it.”
“I will see what I can do about that,” Alaric said, dissolving into soft mist. A moment more for him to filter into particulates so small as to be nearly invisible, and he was gone.
Cyrus looked over at Hiressam, and he was smiling. “I have missed seeing magic in the world,” the elf said, when he caught the glance.
“Come, Hiressam,” Curatio said, waving him forward, “I will show you to quarters. And then,” the elder elf said, with a wry smile, “I intend to enjoy the most luxuriant of mortal pleasures.”
Cyrus froze in place, eyes closed. “Don’t ask—” he accidentally said aloud.
“A nap,” Curatio said, already on his way out the door. “You two are young, and have so much to learn.”
Cyrus looked to Vara, who was already looking at him, one of her eyes tightly shut. “I was thinking the same thing,” she said, and opened her eye.
“You looked a little like Alaric there for a second,” Cyrus said, looking once more at his plate. The thought of food brought little satisfaction.
“Tall and handsome, stately in my way?” she asked, teasingly.
“Heh,” Cyrus let out a low guffaw. “I had a thought.”
“Gods,” Vara said, “tell me it’s not about—” And she pointed up.
It took Cyrus a moment to realize it was their quarters she was pointing to. “Huh? No, not that.” He paused a beat. “I mean, that’s not what I was thinking, but if you wanted to, I could definitely get there—”
“Perhaps later,” she said softly. “I am not recovered from a fresh wound as yet.”
“Given the dearth of healing magic and our propensity for fighting everyone, everywhere, all the time,” Cyrus said, “we might never be recovered enough for—”
“Your original thought, please?” She looked mildly impatient.
“Oh.” He put a hand on the table. “I was thinking we should at least try to talk to Longwell. If he runs the city—”
“Weren’t you the one who just mentioned we now risk ambush anytime we go out?” Vara asked.
“I did, but—”
“Do the Machine not own this city from one side to another?” Vara asked. “Do you not think they have spies upon every corner, aware always of everything happening within the city walls?”
“Probably, but—”
“Pfeh,” Vara said, balling up her napkin from her lap and tossing it upon the plate. “I agree we should talk to Longwell. But I don’t think we should rush out ourselves. Come on, General,” and here she reached up and brushed his cheek with a bare hand. “We must not run these sorts of risks now that have always gotten you in trouble before. Recall the time that Malpravus, Orion and a few of our other choice foes laid a trap for you using your ex-wife as bait. If Gaull kn
ows you are Cyrus Davidon, then surely he knows of your association with Samwen Longwell. I imagine the one thing Gaull would wish to prevent than any other—”
“Would be Longwell becoming apprised of the situation on the streets,” Cyrus said, letting out a deep sigh. “Tell me, Vara … how could Reikonos get to this state? And under Longwell’s rule, no less?”
“How did Sanctuary become infected with spies during yours?” she asked, prompting him to blush. “Or thick with assassins during Alaric’s?” She laid her hand upon his. “Even the greatest leader cannot watch every corner of their city every hour of the day. If it truly is Longwell that is Lord Protector, he has been alive for over a thousand years and been ruler of this city for nearly all that time. Surely his every thought is not focused upon it after that long.”
“Fair enough,” Cyrus said.
“We’ll find a way to get word to him,” Vara said, “though I suspect it will not bring immediate relief. We should go after Alaric returns, or once Curatio has woken from his nap. We could take a walk to the Citadel and return quickly, should we not find easy entry.”
“It seems unlikely they’ll make entry easy,” Cyrus said. “We could always take the tunnels up, the way Curatio always brought us.”
“Provided they still exist, yes,” Vara said.
Cyrus leaned back in his seat and blew air between his lips. A wave of fatigue had passed over him, settled upon him, down to his bones. “So much has changed. I feel as though I barely got a look at the city before … well, before we started knocking down doors and breaking skulls and fighting with swords again.” He looked up at her, and gave her a wan smile. “I would wonder at why we seem to get no peace, but … we just came from a thousand years of it.”
“It seems all the more fleeting once removed from it, doesn’t it?” she asked, pensive. “As though we were never quietly in the ether at all, but rather skipped straight from fighting guilds and nations and gods and went directly to fighting street gangs and thugs and some arsehole with a purloined godly weapon.” Her expression darkened. “It feels like a bit of a come-down, doesn’t it? From gods to this?”
“Well, I did kill all those gods,” Cyrus said. “I don’t suppose we can resurrect them in order to give you and I the battle we truly deserve—”
“Arse,” she said lightly, slapping his pauldron. “The God of War killed me, you know.”
His face darkened. “It would be impossible to forget.”
She sat in silence with him for a long moment. “As tempting as it would be to dismiss this Tirner Gaull as a lesser threat than Bellarum … he may be more dangerous in his way.”
“What …?”
“We are hobbled here,” Vara said quietly. “Without magic at its full effect, should any of us die, it may become a permanent state—provided we’re not at Sanctuary at the time. We are not full ghosts, as Alaric is, not fully part of this place. If we were to die beyond its bounds—”
“It wouldn’t be able to … rechannel—reform us—whatever it did to you,” Cyrus said.
“Correct,” she said. “This is a truth I simply know in my bones, like a warning Sanctuary has written into my mind.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said slowly. “I feel it, too. The limits of our immortality.”
“And that makes Gaull even more dangerous,” Vara said, “for it’s not as though we can simply challenge him here, inside Sanctuary—”
“Why not?” Cyrus asked with the trace of a smile. “Why not let them know where we are, and have them come for us like the sieges of old?”
Vara rolled her eyes. “I thought you were a master strategist. They have the numbers, my husband. We have a secret stronghold. Should we lose the ‘secret’ part of that, then we have a stronghold—and a siege. I have done a siege before, and I don’t wish to again, especially now that teleportation magics are likely ineffectual.”
“Oh, that’s a fair point,” Cyrus said, casting his eyes down. “But we should make ready for a siege nonetheless. It will likely come at some point.”
“‘At some point,’ I can live with,” Vara said. “Provided we make the siege our fallback position, the one we go to when all other plans have failed. Putting us into a defensive position now—”
“Means we lose the initiative and the ability to dictate where and how this war is fought,” Cyrus said with a sigh. “Sorry. Perhaps my brain lost all sense for a moment.”
“A frequent occurrence,” she said, leaning in to press her forehead against his. “And why I am here. Honestly, I don’t know how you survived conducting a war against the gods themselves without me.”
“Well, I did have other help,” Cyrus said. “Help which is sorely missed these days.” His eyes lit up. “If Longwell is alive … do you suppose some of the others could be as well? Gaull is hundreds of years old, after all—”
“I am certain some of our old friends are out there, yes,” Vara said. “Still clinging tightly to their prizes of war and the immortality they bring. How long did your grandfather live again?”
“Alaric said he fought with him in the war of the—well, whatever you want to call the fall of the Protanian Empire,” Cyrus said. “So … probably some ten thousand years, or near enough? Since my mother met him and knew him on the other end of that timeframe.”
“Yes,” Vara said quietly, “I think it very likely that more of our friends are out there, somewhere.” And here she smiled, an aura of mischief falling over her. “Somewhere out there, like Hiressam, just waiting, living their lives … and when word reaches their ears of our return …”
“Our sundered company may come together in union once more?” Cyrus asked.
“Indeed it may,” Vara said with a faint smile. “But until then …” And the resolve ran over her once more. “We have battles to fight.”
“A war to win,” Cyrus agreed.
“And that bastard Gaull’s head to remove,” Vara said.
Cyrus stared at her, with her flushed cheeks and dancing eyes. “Gods, I love you.” And he swept in for a kiss, which she did not deny, pulling him in closer. When they broke, he added, “Minus that ‘gods’ business. Need to break that habit, since I broke them.”
“Just remember, it was nearly the opposite,” she said, and now caution fell over her fair features. “Let us not carry their hubris into our next battle with Gaull—lest we see the same or a worse outcome.”
“Agreed,” Cyrus said with a sharp nod. “We’ll need to be smarter. More determined. Seek other help, like Longwell.” He let out a heavy breath. “We need to find the hiding places of this Machine, root it out …” Cyrus clenched his fist, “… and crush it, once and for—” He paused, cocking his head to the side. There was a sound in the distance, a deep grunt, followed by another, then another, echoing through the halls. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t kn—” Vara started to say, then her eyes widened, and she went red from her hair down to where her neck disappeared into her armor. “I don’t believe it.”
Cyrus stared at her. “What do you think it—oh.” It went on, a steady cadence, the sound of a troll—or two—being not at all quiet in their exertion. “Oh.” He blinked. “You don’t think … that’s …?”
Vara’s eyes found the floor, and she nodded. “Yes.”
Cyrus just blinked, the noise rising, as his lips curled in distaste. It came from somewhere above, and there was no door between it and them. He cringed. “Seriously?”
37.
Vaste
“I didn’t expect that,” Vaste said when it was all done, his clothes strewn all over the floor and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. Birissa lay beside him at a small distance, breathing in and out in a slow rasp. “I mean—not that I’m complaining. It’s just … I barely know you.”
“And now,” Birissa said, shifting the sheets, “in this way, at least, you know me better than you’ve known anyone before.” She turned to prop herself up on her elbow, cool amusement turning up the corner of her
lip. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Vaste. I haven’t seen one of my own kind in a long time, and neither have you. I know why you knocked on my door. I might have done the same if I’d seen you first.”
“Yes,” Vaste said, “but—”
“No ‘but.’” Birissa rolled onto her back, eyes pointed toward the ceiling. “Don’t make more of this in your head than it is.”
“And …” Vaste said, head still reeling, “… what is it? Exactly?”
“What I needed,” she said, throwing off the covers and rising up. She was so unlike the other troll women he’d seen before. There was not an ounce of fat upon her, her sculpted muscles rippled beneath her skin. She stooped to retrieve her clothing with a graceful motion and rose just as athletically. If he were to bend like that, he might need help getting back up again. “What you needed,” she went on. “What more is there?” she asked, looking right at him.
“Some … other stuff,” Vaste said. “Love. Marriage. Babies.”
“I’ve only known you for a few hours,” she said, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Just because we might be the last two of our kind here—”
“I didn’t think you were from Arkaria,” Vaste said.
“I’m not,” Birissa said, not looking up as she shimmied back into her underclothes. They fit … well.
“Then how do you know, in this wider world I’m hearing about—places like this Firoba—that there are no more trolls?”
“I don’t know it for sure,” Birissa said, now slipping her armor back on. It was thin, well-made, mostly chain linking together larger plates, very different from what Cyrus or Vara wore. “I just know that I haven’t seen any of our sort.”
“Do you know where you came from?”
She shot him a quicksilver smile. “Deep question, that. Not sure I’d go probing that one if I were you.”
“I meant literally, not philosophically,” Vaste said. “I mean, you could answer that, too—”
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