“Where are Actaluere’s northern armies?” Cyrus asked Curatio, who hovered only a bit behind him, just out of arm’s reach, as though he were hiding the fact that like Martaina, he was lingering to save Cyrus from falling.
“A week’s march, by the accounts we’ve heard,” the elf replied, not stepping any closer to Cyrus. “They’re making haste, and Briyce Unger and Milos Tiernan have been planning the coming battle. Their intent is to throw everything at the enemy, with Sanctuary at the center and our healers in use to help stem the bloodshed and fall of their people. Once we’ve broken the scourge, we’ll march north through the passes to get to the cave where the portal sits.”
“Forgive me, Curatio,” Cyrus said, “but do I detect a hint of gloom in your voice?” He watched the elf’s normally sunny disposition change not a shade.
“No gloom,” Curatio said, “but perhaps some tempered expectations. I have been in many battles in my life, and I have yet to see a single one go precisely to plan. Things go wrong in war, and this enemy is even less predictable than most. I hope with all that is in me that we will crush them and drive them back as predicted. However, I would hope that our General might bring his own insight into our foes to the battle plan before we go into the fight, so that any troubles unseen by the esteemed leaders of Actaluere and Syloreas might be anticipated before we march headlong into the teeth of these beasts.”
“I doubt Briyce Unger would be foolish enough to lock me out of the discussions,” Cyrus said and coughed weakly. “Unless for some reason Milos Tiernan holds a grudge against me for what difficulties I’ve handed him.”
“None that I’ve seen during the planning sessions,” Curatio answered. “He’s been courteous and careful to listen to all our advice thus far. Unger has asked after you and when you’ll be able to meet with them, so I suspect that won’t be an issue.”
“Oh, good,” Cyrus said, feeling his loping steps lack some of the bounce that they had before he had been felled outside Enrant Monge. After a moment’s thought, he had to concede that any bounce had been gone long before that, probably before even leaving Vernadam. “The last thing we need is a turf war. Especially as we’re facing the ghosts of our past sins.”
There was no response from either Martaina or Curatio that he heard, but they carried on, the cool breeze encouraging him, the warm sun alternating with it, giving its heat when the wind would die down. It was a perfect sort of early fall experience, and the air held only the slightest hint of what winter might be like in this new land. At a normal time, Cyrus might have found it invigorating; now, it kept him going in spite of all that was on his mind. “You said that J’anda and Aisling helped retrieve me,” Cyrus said, turning to look at Martaina. “I haven’t seen either of them to thank them properly since I’ve recovered.”
“J’anda is quite busy,” Curatio said. “Odellan may run the troops, but J’anda keeps careful track of our spellcasters. He’s been helping them in pushing their boundaries—especially the newer ones—to build their capacity for magical energy.”
Cyrus blinked at that. “What?”
“Magical energy,” Curatio said. “The finite amount of power we have for casting spells? You are familiar with this concept?”
“Yes,” Cyrus said, “having seen a woman bleed part of her life energy out last year to go past the limit, I am familiar with it.”
“It can be grown over time and with mastery of our craft,” Curatio said. “J’anda is working to grow that ability before we go into the battle, especially with our healers.”
“How does one … go about such a thing?” Cyrus asked.
Curatio sighed. “It would be difficult to explain to someone who has not cast spells before. Probably the easiest explanation is to say that we go about it very much the same as you go about building muscle with which to swing your sword—repetition, effort, practice. Exercises can be done.”
Cyrus shrugged. “If you say so. Where is Aisling, then?” He waited for a response from either of them but got none. “Never mind. I forgot she doesn’t do well at being kept track of.”
Martaina gave him a slight smile as they made their way around some tents that had been brought by the Luukessians. As always, the army of Sanctuary seemed to prefer bedrolls for lighter travel and keeping the need for wagons to a minimum. Cyrus paused for a moment and stretched, taking his hand off Praelior. The lightheadedness came back, and he fought it, let it wash over him, tried to keep his bearings as it caused his head to dip and bob, as though he were floating in water. He let his hand return to Praelior and the feeling subsided. Probably not the best sign, but at least I can still manage without falling over.
“Perhaps we should begin to walk back to the wagon?” Martaina suggested. Cyrus turned to look at Curatio, but the healer was quiet.
“Not yet,” Cyrus said. He felt a strange call within him, a hollowness and a need coupled together that were like an itch beneath his skin. “I need to bathe. I can no longer stand the smell of myself or of the wagon.”
Martaina raised an eyebrow at him. “You can barely stand without the aid of your sword. Are you certain that this is the proper moment to go searching for somewhere to wash yourself?”
“It’s either that or I go out of my skull from the stink,” Cyrus said. “I’m rather amazed that the two of you can even tolerate being within a hundred feet of me; I know how well attuned elven senses are.”
“You get used to it after a while,” Martaina said with a slight smile. “You haven’t descended to the depths I’ve come to expect from most dark elven men, so I wouldn’t worry about it yet.”
“I’m not worried for your sake,” Cyrus said, “I can hardly stand it for mine. I’ve been in battles where I’ve been covered in blood and smell less offensive than now. All I want is a bath; where can I go to immerse myself in water?”
Martaina exchanged a look with Curatio, who shrugged. “There’s a river a quarter of a mile away. I doubt you’ll be able to walk there under your own power.”
“I can,” he said. “I will. I’ll be fine so long as I have my sword in hand.”
“I do hope you’re talking about your blade and not—” Martaina gave him a crooked smile.
“Thank you for that,” he said dryly. “Let me walk for a bit, get used to my legs beneath me again. If I’m not back by nightfall, I’m sure you’ll come looking for me.”
“You were assassinated a mere three weeks ago,” Martaina said, “and that was hardly the first attempt. Are you certain you want to go about without guard?”
Cyrus shrugged. “You can follow, I don’t care. Just let me test my strength.”
“If you’ve got this quite under control,” Curatio said to Martaina, “I have things to attend to before this day is done.”
“Yes, I suspect I can keep a dozen or two of Actaluere’s finest away from him if need be,” Martaina said, with a vague and dismissive wave. “He could probably take one or two more.”
Cyrus did not argue with her, instead pulling his hand off his hilt for another brief spell; the vertigo had lessened but muscle fatigue had set in. She might not be far wrong.
“Very well then,” Curatio said and produced the most infinitesimal nod of the head, which reminded Cyrus of a bow for some reason. “I’ll inform Briyce Unger and Milos Tiernan that you’ll be ready to join their strategy talks tomorrow, if you’d like?”
“I’d like,” Cyrus said. “Very much so.”
With a final nod, Curatio turned, the hems of his white robes trailing behind him as the healer threaded his way behind a tent and out of sight. “He’s a worrier, that one,” Martaina said as he disappeared. “With good cause, obviously, but still a worrier.” She turned to fix him with a gaze, after a cool survey of the area around them. They were at the edge of the encampment now, and Cyrus could see the open fields, unspoilt by men as far as the eye could see. “So what’s this really about, this desire to bathe yourself? Because I have my suspicions.”
“Oh?�
�� Cyrus asked. “And what are those?”
“More than mere curiosities, less than full-blooded accusations.”
“Yes, very clever,” he said, letting his legs carry him on. The river was obvious in the distance, a thin blue line cutting jagged strokes across the uneven, loping plain, the early fall grasses already turning a golden yellow. “Why don’t you go ahead and share your suspicions with me, so I’ll be better able to gauge the truth of them.”
Martaina snorted. “When it comes to assessing yourself, I suspect you are no more able to see the truth of things now than a titan would be capable of discerning the individual toes on a gnome’s foot.”
Cyrus didn’t pause, didn’t slow down, and in fact increased his stride. He felt a little stir of irritation to couple with the feeling already boiling inside him, that restless stir. “Oh? You think I’ve become myopic now?”
“I think you have. I think you’ve run from one pain into another, and now you’re just going for the sake of going because the alternative is too much to bear.” She said it matter-of-factly, and he listened for some insult or harshness, but it wasn’t there.
“What’s the alternative?” He kept his eyes on the river in the distance. If I can just make it there, get clean for a bit, feel better …
“To stand your ground and face the pain, the fear that’s crept over you of late.” That held accusation, he heard, especially the note of her wording for fear.
Cyrus turned, and his hand fell away from Praelior’s grip. There was no lightheadedness now, no spin to his thoughts, just a simple, knife-edged focus on Martaina, her brown hair spilling into the green hood of her cowl, banded behind her to keep it out of her face, as it always was. Her tanned skin was slightly more flushed than usual, though she did not appear indignant to his eyes. He saw one of her fists clenched shut, and he wondered if it meant she was angry or if she intended to hit him.
“Throwing the word ‘fear’ at a warrior of Bellarum is not something to be done lightly,” Cyrus said, and he felt the cold edge creep into his words, frostier than the north winds by more than a matter of degrees.
“Yet I have done it, just now.”
“And I so recently apologized to you for my mistrust of your motives and actions,” Cyrus said, and his eyes narrowed of their own accord. “Is there some reason you throw this insult into my face on the eve of my return to the planning of this battle? A battle in which we’ll be facing this implacable foe, this ceaseless enemy? Is there some detail of my actions that you’ve witnessed that would lead you to believe me unfit to lead an army? When you accuse me of fear, do you suspect I’ll be cowering at the back of the fight, waiting for my soldiers to win the day for me?”
“I suspect you’ll be at the fore, slinging your sword with the rest of them, and that you’ll fight to the death—again—even if it means losing your body and never being able to come back from it.” Her nostrils flared at this. “The fear came and went, as far as I’m concerned, came and went like a wildfire in the forests of old, gutting the underbrush and leaving no trees standing. That is you, near as I can tell—the fear of losing Vara, the pain of what she did, it covered you, burned out your insides, left you hollow. New growth started with the Baroness, but soon enough that was scorched through as well. I wish you still feared, feared to lose what you’ve already lost. Because now you’re so empty there’s nothing left for you to fear. The fear’s already had its way, no taking that back now.”
“You make it sound like there’s nothing left of my own mind. I’m what? An empty vessel, waiting to be filled with whatever comes along?”
“What of this cause you’ve latched yourself on to?” Martaina said. “Defending the Syloreans?”
“You think I wouldn’t have done this if Vara had—” he stuttered, “if she hadn’t— hadn’t—”
“If she were with you, your lover or your wife,” she said it plainly, but the words twisted like a knife all the same, “I think you would still be here to fight for Luukessia, but I think you would do it for a cause and for obligation, for the repayment of a debt or the cessation of a consequence we caused. I don’t think you’d be doing it half-hearted, empty-hearted, as though you have to drag yourself along to the next place we’re fighting—”
“I did just recover from a fairly injurious wound—”
“And that’s another thing,” she said, the full force of her rolling downhill now, the momentum behind her words. “You did just spend weeks on your back, surely enough, no doubt. If you want to go and have your way with Aisling in order to relieve your strain and empty some more of your soul, by all means, do so—”
“Excuse me?” He asked her frostily, but it came out strained.
“—without making elaborate excuses about why you need to bathe yourself. Do you think me a fool? Do you think Curatio some sort of idiot? We know what you are doing, it’s as plain as the head atop your neck, now.” She glared at him.
“You think I need to hide my desires?” He glared back, and wondered why he’d felt so sorry for sending her away before. “As though I have some secret shame to hide?”
“Yes,” she said. “And it does you no favors, nor Aisling either. You keep running from pain to pain, and now there’s nothing left to feel, nothing left to fear, nothing left to lose. You’ve come to the point of bottom in your journey, and yet still you won’t admit it, perhaps even to yourself.”
“Bottomed out, have I?” Cyrus asked with tart amusement. “Oh, good. Here I was worried I still had farther to fall.” He let his hand play across his forehead, felt the lines underneath his fingers. “Can I not … just … have some small solace?”
“Not from what you’re intending, no.” He could hear her speaking behind his hand, though he had no desire to look upon her now. “You are empty. There is no hope for a future left in you, do you realize that? No belief, no heart, no real desire to live. How else can you explain your decision to come back to the camp at Enrant Monge without escort—”
“A slip of the mind,” Cyrus said and let his hand fall away. He kept his face straight as he looked upon her. “I have much weighing on it, and I assure you, my first thought was not that Grand Duke Hoygraf would be waiting at the side of the road between our encampment and the keep to ambush me and take my head.”
“At one point, I think you would have thought of it.” She kept her tone even, her expression flat but accusing.
“Possibly. Surely you don’t think I went out on that ride thinking I’d be killed and decapitated? That I did it on purpose?”
“No,” she said, “but my concern is that you’ve become reckless. That you’ve had your hope and belief burned out of you, and that uncaring is replacing all. Once upon a time, you strode for excellence in all things, you desired to be the best warrior in all Arkaria. I heard rumors you even desired to pursue the best equipment, the best of everything to help you do the task at hand better than anyone. That was tempered by the desire to hold fast to the bonds of loyalty in Sanctuary, but tell me now—what do you want, Cyrus Davidon?” She gestured to the river in the distance. “What do you want, beyond a bath and release?”
“I don’t know,” he said after a pause. “Victory, of course. To vanquish this scourge.”
“And then?” Quietly. Accusingly.
“To go home, I suppose,” he said, but now his voice was hollow.
“You suppose,” she said, with a quiet all her own. “You’ve lost hope of a future. You’ve lost belief in a better day ahead, belief in what drove you, once upon a time. You were the most certain of us, a warrior with a rock-hard conviction in what he did, what he said, in his abilities. Thad told me that you were forged in the hottest fires of the Society of Arms, that you were the man who walked out of their gates after the graduation with nothing to prove to anyone.” She threw a hand up to indicate him. “Where is that man now? What is left of him in front of me? You’ve let them strip it all away from you—”
“I let nobody do anything,” Cyrus s
aid in a low growl. “Some things happened, things I can’t undo.”
“And do you believe you’ll return from that? That you’ll pass the eye of the storm and come back to your old self unchanged?”
“I have no desire to return to my old self,” Cyrus said, turning away from her and resuming his walk, the river ahead in his sight.
“Oh?” He heard her soft footsteps behind him; her distress with him was clear not only in her voice but in the fact that he could hear the ranger walk. “What is your ambition now? To slake the thirst of your desire with a dark elf whom you care not one whit for? To lose yourself in the pleasure moment over and over with a woman whom you have avoided for two years? To throw yourself into cataclysmic battle after battle until you no longer come back?”
“My ambition right now lies in recovering from my injuries, bathing, and yes, perhaps exerting some excess energies with Aisling, who has shown no small energy of her own to dispense with. Would you prefer I simply sit about, silent as a stone, pondering the best course of action to get me to better weapons, or a more serviceable guild, or perhaps thrilling to thoughts of the journey home and how much I might like to be among the towers and stone of Sanctuary now rather than fighting a foe of my own making a world away?”
“What I would prefer,” she said, and grasped at his shoulder, turning him about, “is that you show some sign of life beyond speaking, walking, consuming and dispensing your seed.” Her face was animated in a way that it never was. “Show me some sign of how you were before, before Termina, before Mortus’s realm, or at least some small sight of what you were like in the interlude at Vernadam after Harrow’s Crossing. Give me a sign that you still believe in something, that you hold some hope to your soul, that you have something to—” She expelled her breath, and her head went to the side, as if she were searching for something that she could not find in him. “That you have something to live for, for gods’ sakes.” Her eyes softened and the corners crinkled, and for a moment she was a thousand years old. “For our sakes.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 53
