“Yeah, I get it,” Andren said in a bit of a huff, “and I’m not saying that the old Cyrus, the one who screamed and fought until he had to be dragged by ten strong men from Enterra’s gates is the sort I would want to catch sight of every day and night in his bitter anger. I’m just saying it might not hurt to bring back a little of that every now and again.”
“Blood and vengeance?” Cyrus mused. “You might get some soon, depending on which way we go on this titan business.”
Andren was quiet for a long moment. “Well, good. Seems we need a bit of that. Remind people not to muck about with us, no matter how big they are.”
“I think that message has mostly gotten across,” Cyrus said as he took a turn down a side street. He had paid little attention to where they were going thus far; it wasn’t as though Reikonos was a terribly difficult place to navigate. The smell of ale filled the air and he glanced nervously at Andren.
The elf looked back at him. “Don’t worry, I smelled it long before you did, and no, I’m not having any.”
“Hm,” Cyrus said. “Quite the transformation.”
“Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s changed.” Andren looked away. “Speaking of … why do we keep coming back here?” He waved vaguely in the direction from which they’d come. “Not that I mind getting a chance to speak to the Man in Black Armor absent all the fawning hangers-on and without his furious wench in tow—”
“I hope you never call her that to her face, because I’d really hate to lose you as a friend.”
“Because you’d not be allowed to hang about with me after that?”
“No, because you’d be dead. And painfully, at that.”
“Oh. Yeah. Probably.” Andren twisted his lips in a look of consideration. “In all seriousness, though—why do we come here? I mean, I remember the history because I was there for it, but you—you’ve gone from Guildmaster of one guild, a man desirous of increasing his personal power by looting armor and weapons to make him nigh invulnerable—to Guildmaster of another guild, one of the largest, and the undisputed best warrior in the land. Plus, you got your girl finally, the killer woman you’ve trailed after with a hangdog look for more years than even I can count.” He gave Cyrus a knowing look. “Why the trips back through time? You don’t long for the miserable old days, do you?”
“No,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “No, it was … it was miserable, you’re right.” He took a breath. “Though I do miss Narstron. Sometimes …” Cyrus paused, taking stock of his thoughts, trying to piece them together. “Every once in a while, I look back on what happened in the past, and I wonder … if the sacrifices—both the willing and the unwilling … I wonder if they were all worth it.” He sniffed, taking in a breath of fresh air into his nose. He caught the aroma of fresh-baked bread and it reminded him of memories long past. “Narstron, Niamh, Alaric, Luukessia … my ambitions and my choices have led us to some dark places.” He shook his head. “I wonder sometimes if there was a more … painless way to get there. An easier way, watered with fewer tears.”
“Don’t go admitting to crying now,” Andren said, looking around almost nervously, “you’ll sully your grand image.”
“We’ve lost people,” Cyrus said, unashamed of his emotions. “We watched—well, I watched—a land burn in its entirety because of my choices. And just last year, I lost a battle that cost us the lives of some five thousand of our guildmates. Most guilds would break at those numbers, but here we are, plowing onward and ready to face death yet again, possibly.” Cyrus cringed and watched a woman walk by with a child at her side, little hand in hers, paying him no mind. “At what point does it end?”
“Heh,” Andren said. “At what point does battle end? Kind of a funny question for a warrior of Bellarum, isn’t it?”
“I’m …” Cyrus adjusted his helm, rubbing at his forehead, kneading the skin with metal fingers. “We’ve fought a lot. More than almost anyone but maybe the big three. The idea of sinking ourselves into a long, drawn-out conflict with the titans in the south, one where … they could attack our guildhall or Emerald Fields at any time?” He shook his head. “This is not the sort of battle I want to embrace. It’s not a contest of warriors. Put me on the field against whoever you want—Talikartin, the Emperor Razeel … I’ll fight them all. I’ll die, maybe, but I’ll fight until the end.” He felt his jaw tighten. “But it’s not just me anymore, and it hasn’t been for a long time. When it was you and I and Narstron, the stakes were lower, the foes smaller, less skilled. Now we’re fighting gods and titans and creatures of death … and it’s not just me on the line now. It’s the people I care about.”
“Oh, wow, you’ve changed,” Andren said, shaking his head. “Oh, gods, what a difference.”
“Good or bad?” Cyrus asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t go talking this line in the middle of the guildhall in a speech,” Andren said quietly, looking around as though someone were listening in. “I mean, it’s not exactly the sort of inspiring talk even Alaric would have given, if you know what I mean.”
“And I wouldn’t,” Cyrus said. “I know the expectations; these people didn’t join Sanctuary to sit around. Even the ones who believe in our ‘glorious purpose’ might not stick around if we didn’t keep the gold constantly flowing into their pockets the way we have. It’s just … it’s an adjustment, moving from General, where all I had to worry about was the fight, to being the Guildmaster, where I have to worry about what happens after the fight.” He swallowed heavily. “And I’ve never had a consequence after the fight like we did after Leaugarden.”
“If you’re looking for ways to avoid this southern war,” Andren said quietly and somewhat stiffly, “maybe you should look to the people whose responsibility it actually is to worry about the titan border.”
“The King of the Elves?” Cyrus scoffed. “You heard Nyad. The entirety of Arkaria east of the Perda will sink into the sea before he gets off his royal arse and does something.”
“I’m the last person to defend the nobility,” Andren said carefully as a child ran between them, howling merrily. He paused to watch him go. “But Danay … he’ll listen to you, and if he doesn’t listen to you, he’ll probably listen to the woman you’re currently bedding—”
“I’m going to miss you when she kills you.”
“Feh,” Andren said, with a wave of the hand. “I got my own woman to watch my back now.”
Cyrus frowned. “You do? Who?”
Andren lowered his voice. “Martaina.”
Cyrus felt a rough stab of guilt. “You might want to take a pinch of caution with that one—”
“I know, I know,” Andren said. “She’s been around the old curtain wall a few times. As have I, I might add—”
“That’s not what I meant,” Cyrus said, “I was referring to the fact that she’s still married to Thad.”
“Not so,” Andren said, shaking his head. “They’re separating even now. She’s already moved in with me.”
Cyrus looked at him dully. “Are you going to cause drama in my council, Andren?”
“It’s amicable!” Andren said, holding up his hands. “We sat at dinner with him just the other night! It’s a gentle, necessary parting of the ways.” He paused and blinked. “I think he’s actually a bit relieved. Tough to satisfy a woman who’s lived over a thousand years, y’see, unless you’ve been around as long—”
“Okay,” Cyrus said, shaking his head as he started away. “Well, that’s a thought that’s bound to haunt me at night—”
“I wouldn’t worry, your wench hasn’t been around nearly that long, after all—”
“She will kill you. Murderously bloody, that’s how it would be, with your head held aloft on a pike as an example to every new recruit—”
“She’d have to catch me first.”
“Have you seen her jump? No contest.” Cyrus shook his head, eyes falling over the building in front of them, an old wooden inn. He thought it a bit curious, squinting as the ov
erhead sun half-blinded him. He sought out the hanging sign and peered at it, trying to discern the name of the establishment. “Youryn’s Tree,” he read aloud. The paint was peeling and fading on the sign, looking as if it had been redone quite a while back, and the efforts were gradually wearing off.
“Strange name for a human pub,” Andren said.
“Does that sound elven to you?” Cyrus asked, stepping closer, drawn for a strange reason he couldn’t even fully define for himself. His palms were sweating, and he looked down the street, a collection of homes that were one and two stories, simple wooden houses, some older stonework dwellings mixed in for variety.
“Sounds like someone doesn’t know how to name a damned drinking establishment,” Andren groused. “Who wants to drink in a tree?”
“The elves of Amti, apparently.”
“They’re an odd lot,” Andren said. “I mean, I’ve never had a love of the monarchy, but the extremes they’ve gone to—”
“They have children,” Cyrus said, wandering closer to the pub’s door and the sign that hung above it.
“Who doesn’t?” Andren asked. “I mean, other than elven men of my age and perhaps younger.”
“They have elven children,” Cyrus said, stopping just in front of the door to the pub. “Full-blood.” He glanced back at Andren, who was peering at him with a hearty frown. “Curse doesn’t affect them, it seems.”
“Bloody hell,” Andren muttered. After a pause, he spoke again. “You’re not actually stopping off for a pint, are you? Because I mean, really—years you and I hung about, and now’s the time you pick to finally indulge? After I’ve given up—”
“I’m not stopping for—” Cyrus just cut himself off and looked up at the sign. It was only a half-foot above his face, hidden under the shadow of the pub’s eaves. He raised a finger, inexplicably, to the peeling paint. He felt drawn to it by forces he couldn’t even understand, and he rubbed it with his gauntlet, causing a small flake to fall and exposing a rather heartier coat of paint beneath it. It exposed the first letter of a word that he was able to piece together by the strategic loss of some of the other chips.
Fish, he read.
Casting a wary eye at the door, he rubbed his thumb against the top of the sign, peeling off a long strip.
“Oy!” Andren hissed. “What are you doing? Knock it off!”
But Cyrus did not, ripping the flakes free and letting them float to the dirty street as he puzzled over the top line of the signage. “Rotten,” he read aloud. “The Rotten Fish.”
“Congratulations,” Andren said, sliding closer and speaking even lower. “You’ve figured out that the pub with the dumbest name I’ve ever seen was once a pub with yet an even dumber name. Bravo on that, my friend. Now, can we get out of here?”
“This was the Rotten Fish,” Cyrus said, stepping back out onto the street. He looked up and down it, but nothing looked terribly familiar. He stared hard in one direction, then the other, with no luck.
“I think we already established that, yes. Why does this matter?”
“I used to live near the Rotten Fish,” Cyrus said, staring back down the street again. He started off at a hard walk, picking one of the directions and just going with it. He made long strides all the way to the next intersection and stopped, glancing from a newer house on one corner to a slightly older house on the other.
“Now that we’re a safe distance away from where you committed your defacement of private property,” Andren said, catching up to Cyrus more than a little winded, “maybe you can tell me why this matters? You trying to take a sudden trip down a different memory lane? Because speaking from experience, those roads never seem to be in good repair, and that old sod about never being able to go home again? Too true.”
“You’re right about that one,” Cyrus said, looking at both of the houses and feeling nothing. Neither one of them looked familiar. He glanced back down the street toward the Rotten Fish. “I never saw my house again—the one I grew up in—after age six. By the time the Society turned loose of me at eighteen, and I got my freedom, I couldn’t find it. Everything had changed.” He squinted, but found no satisfaction looking down at the opposite end of the street. “I always wanted to go back—just go back, one last time, but I couldn’t—” He sighed. “It’s all gone,” he said, resignedly.
“That’s what happens to the past,” Andren said, and he placed a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. Cyrus looked at the elf and he nodded his head slowly. “It’s true. The past is a shadow, and no matter how much you chase it, you’ll never catch it. It’s vapor in your hands, a dark tinge that runs across the ground ahead of or behind you, and you’ll never do anything more than see a hint of the way things were.” He looked around with a heavy distaste. “Come on. You’ve still got a future, and that, my friend, is almost as tangible as the present.”
“I suppose,” Cyrus said, and he started back toward the tall Citadel in the distance that marked the direction of the Great Square of Reikonos and the wizard waiting to carry them home. Thoughts of the future did not stop him from looking back, though, nor from memorizing every turn it took to get to the establishment that had been the Rotten Fish in his youth, for he felt certain that at some point in that future, he would return.
22.
“This promises to be a busy day,” Cyrus said, snugging the strap of his armor. It was polished to a blackened sheen at the behest of Vara, who stood next to him in the tower of the Guildmaster putting on her own armor.
“I confess that when you asked to have this meeting set, I wondered a bit,” Vara said, picking up her helm and putting it atop her head, the noseguard flipped up. “But I suppose it is sound strategy to search out every possible avenue.”
Cyrus ignored the stirring within as her choice of words brought up memories of his walk with Andren a few days earlier, and the peculiar search of the Reikonos streets for a place he had long ago left. “I have been accused of charging recklessly into action by some.” He gave her a pointed smile, which she returned. “This time, I thought perhaps I’d try something new and seek out different options.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done that in this case,” she said, giving him an appraising eye from head to toe. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen your armor look so close to presentable before. It almost looks like polished onyx.”
Cyrus sniffed at the curious smell of the polish she’d used. “What is this?”
“It’s a kind of wax they sell in the Kingdom,” Vara said, turning to head for the door, her steps crisp. He fell in behind her and they moved as one without even having to think about it. But then, it’s been that way between us for a long while, even when we fought each other we could move in battle together like no one else. “If you fancy it, I’m sure we could get you some—give the Guildmaster of Sanctuary a new look, something a bit more in keeping with your station.”
“A year ago, you would have been the last person I’d thought would be giving me advice about improving my appearance,” Cyrus said as they circled the tower stairs past the Council Chambers, “unless it involved getting my face mashed into slurry by troll punches.”
“Not so,” Vara said, “I have always found you rather attractive. It was your frustratingly stubborn personality I would have preferred to have ground to meal.” She flashed him a smile.
“Ugh!” Vaste’s voice came from behind the partially closed Council Chamber doors, followed by a sound of retching. “Just go to bed together already!”
“We did,” Cyrus called over his shoulder as they descended. “Twice this morning, in fact!” When he turned back, he saw Vara’s cheeks flush. “Sorry. He practically cried out for it.”
“No, it’s fine, anything you throw at Vaste is perfectly acceptable in the spirit of trouncing some of the humor out of that jester,” she said, shaking her head. “I was merely thinking about a few years ago, when my mother,” she cringed slightly, “said all those things about us rutting together. She had the measure of me then
, knew me better than I knew myself.”
“You’re not the only one who questions how well they know themselves, at least lately,” Cyrus said, giving the matter some thought. “Though I admit I’m a bit curious to hear you thinking about it in any depth.” He stared down at her as her head bobbed with each step. “You’re not having some existential crisis that I need to worry about, are you?”
“Nothing of the sort,” she said. Her expression was utterly unguarded and held just a hint of worry. “I merely … well … it is a little difficult for me sometimes to find myself adjusting to this relationship.” She held up a hand. “That sounds wrong. Wait. Let me explain. This has been a surprisingly easy transition over the last months. Things have been … well, better than I can remember, actually. Much smoother than I would have predicted, given the speed with which we have moved.”
“Well, we kind of circled each other in some form of mortal combat for about five years before getting to this point,” Cyrus said wryly, “it probably took some of the fight out of both of us.”
“You hardly seem lacking for energy,” she quipped. “But I think you know of what I speak—liaisons may happen quickly, but the fast ones always burn out the swiftest.” She paused on the staircase. “I think what I am trying to say is … this is not one of those occasions. I grow fonder of you with each passing day, Cyrus Davidon.”
“I love you, too,” Cyrus said without thinking, and then froze as he realized what he said. Uhh … I hadn’t said that to her before, had I? In fact he knew he had not, though he had pondered it and intended fully to keep it suppressed within until she spoke it aloud first. There goes that plan.
“Did you just say …?” she looked at him in wonder.
“I believe I did,” he said, a little uncertainly.
She stared at him for a long moment then broke into a smile. “I love you, too, you clod. I wondered when you would develop the courage to say it.” And then she turned, and started back down the stairs.
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