There was much conversation, though all of it was muted. The majority of the convoy of Sanctuary riders was, in fact, spellcasters. Cyrus was one of the few warriors and rangers along for the fight; they already had a sizable contingent of troops at the end of the pass, and Cyrus’s thoughts seemed to be ever on them as they rode.
They reached the crest of the pass the night after they left, but it was so dark and moonless that even when they began their descent, there was no chance of observing any battle at the southern mouth of the pass. Fires were visible there as distant spots and little else, though Cyrus could not tell if they were watch fires or the flames of battle, of wagons burnt and fortifications lit.
“Take heart,” Curatio said, riding alongside Cyrus as they descended beyond the sight of the mouth a few hours before dawn. “The titans have quite a ways to go before they reach this side of the mountains.”
“But it won’t take them as long as it takes us,” Cyrus said, consumed with his thoughts and a wave of guilt. Thoughts of amusing jokes and japes with Vara had left him once they’d teleported north of the pass. The entire ride had been uneasy and filled with worry for what he would find at its end. “We might meet them in the dark, even—and what would that herald for our guard force at the other side?”
“That they have gone on from this world,” Curatio said, staring straight ahead.
His words plucked at the uneasiness in Cyrus as though it were a string of a musical instrument, reverberating inside him. “You’re awfully cavalier about that, Curatio.”
“No,” Curatio said, after a moment’s thought, “not cavalier. It would be a tragedy, of course, and one I would not wish to witness. But … if I may, I think I perhaps hold a different perspective on this, being somewhat longer lived and having seen many of these wars.”
“And what perspective is that?” Cyrus asked, almost afraid of the answer. “That we short-lived creatures are like insects to you, as fleeting in our existence as one of those little flies that only lasts the day and no longer?”
“No,” Curatio said, shaking his head, expression pure contrition. “I didn’t mean to give you that impression, as though I am some overarching being like the gods, only concerned for the biggest picture, unworried about smaller works and the brush strokes on canvas as small as a handprint. Every life is its own painting, you see. Some finish before the first daub is applied, some last longer and necessarily require more space to make their mark. Each has its own glory, though. Sometimes a single stroke conveys more meaning than one the size of a mural, grand and soulless and ultimately empty of any feeling.” He shook his head again. “No. No, this sacrifice would have meaning, just as all do. But it is not in our grand power to be able to do anything to affect its outcome. Even casting Falcon’s Essence on every horse and straining ourselves by running up mountainous ascents would buy us—perhaps—two hours at the expense of further exhaustion.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said, trying to follow all the myriad directions the healer had carried him in with his brief statement. “Your perspective is different … and perhaps a bit, uh, rambling.”
Curatio laughed. “Sometimes I find it hard to get it all out in a suitable time frame for you shorter-lived beings. I could say my piece for decades, pour it all out—but no one would stop to listen for that long.”
“You talked about the small brush strokes of life,” Cyrus said, catching a thought casually tossed out by Curatio and finding it seized his imagination. He nodded his head into the darkness, indicating the path forward, and somewhere out there, its terminus. “Yet … we seem constantly embroiled in larger events. I suppose I find it hard to imagine concentrating on the mundane after wars and scourges and titans and gods.” He paused, and the thought of peace rolled through him, a pleasant shock to the system after a long ride, and the thought of some country home where Vara waited while he worked a plow in the warm sun. It was a lovely contrast to the bite of the cool night air upon his skin.
“It is easier than you think.” Curatio smiled in the dimness. “There is the wide world, of course, which I have seen in its glory and possibility. But there is other life—that which takes place inside your own front door, with a different kind of infinite possibility. Where but a gesture,” the healer said, almost longingly, “and the actions of a single night can spur hours of study. Where every day can be spent focusing on that which truly matters.”
“Curatio,” Cyrus said quietly, “we’re riding into this pass so that we can stop the titans from coming north and destroying everything—everyone—we care about. How can you say that doesn’t truly matter?”
“Cyrus,” Curatio said, “suppose you fought for the next five years, as hard as you could, and effected great change of the sort you would wish upon all Arkaria. At its end, you stand triumphant, all foul institutions such as slavery have been destroyed, cast into the pit of history. You win, Sanctuary is preeminent, you are the undisputed greatest warrior in the land, and everyone nods their head as you pass.” He shot Cyrus a sidelong look. “It is not too far off where we are today, minus our present menace of course. You could stand as the ultimate warlord, the one who united the land under a banner of fair and just governance—”
“I don’t want that responsibility,” Cyrus said.
“Of course not,” Curatio said, a little too quickly. “But assume you did, and that you did great good with the mantle. But at the end of it all,” the healer subtly turned until he found Vara, riding with Nyad and Erith, the three of them engaged in some hushed discussion, “you were left without … her.” He looked back at Cyrus, and the expression in his eyes was tired, but spoke of many lifetimes’ worth of experience. “What good would it do you to save the world but lose all you fought for? What would be left of you at that point? What would you even be?”
Cyrus opened his mouth to answer but found none to be satisfactory.
“To have all you hold dear yanked away from you while gaining the whole land … it would be a terrible irony, I think,” Curatio said. “I have known more than a few men and women who sacrificed all they held important upon the altar of their ambitions. Take care that you do not do the same, for the yield on that particular crop is naught but bitterness, and I assure you it is inedible, at best, poisonous at worst.” With that, Curatio lightly whipped the reins and his horse surged forward a little faster.
Cyrus rode on Windrider’s back in utter silence for a moment, then steered his horse toward where Vara still spoke with Nyad and Erith. As he grew closer, the whispers became audible, and he heard Vara’s voice, stiff with her unwavering annoyance. “… No one with dignity would partake in such unnatural sexual practices.”
Erith giggled. “It’s really not that unnatural, in fact.”
“Hm,” Vara said sternly as Cyrus hesitated on the outer ring of their little circle. “Apparently it is as I have always suspected; there are some things so low that only a dark elf will stoop to them.”
“It’s not so bad as you make it sound,” Nyad said, utterly assured. “You get used to it after a while, though I suppose with what you’re dealing with, it might not ever—” She halted mid-sentence, snapping her head around at the look on Erith’s face to find Cyrus watching them, eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Oh. We were talking about you.”
Cyrus felt his brow struggle to fold double, and he started to pull Windrider away. “Do … do I even want to know?”
Vara looked completely irritated, eyes narrow and flat, mouth a line so thin and fixed that he wondered if she might ever smile again. “Say nothing if you ever wish to—”
“Whoa,” Cyrus said, pulling Windrider’s reins to lead him away from the conversational circle, “like after all these years I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.” He steered the horse a short distance away and nearly stumbled across Vaste, riding along, a tight smile perched on his face. “What are you grinning about?”
“Oh, was I grinning?” the troll asked, running a finger experimentally over his bo
ttom teeth. “Yes, yes, I suppose that looks a bit like a grin. That does happen from time to time when I hear immensely hilarious things.”
Cyrus cast a look over his shoulder to find Vara dealing a heated reply to something Erith had said. She looked as though she were about to fall off her horse, wagging a finger at the dark elf. “I am now certain I do not want to know what they’re talking about.”
“Buggery, actually,” Vaste said, drawing a slightly shocked expression from Cyrus. “Since it’s not about goats, I’m rather enjoying listening to it.”
Cyrus felt the heat of Vara’s gaze on his back and turned slightly, confirming that she was looking at him with a somewhat dangerous glare. “I feel like I should get even farther away until this settles down.”
“What is it you do again?” Vaste asked.
Cyrus frowned at the troll. “I’m the Guildmaster, idiot. You should know, you helped elect me—”
“Not that job. The other one, the one you went to your League for.”
“A warrior?”
“Yes, that,” Vaste said, sounding slightly exasperated. “What is it you do?”
Cyrus frowned and answered by rote, using words he’d learned long ago at the Society of Arms. “A warrior’s job is to stand in front of our foes and take the abuse aimed at us—”
“A fact I am well aware of,” Vaste said, now smiling more broadly, “and often use to explain your relationship with Vara.”
“… What?”
“Oh, face it,” Vaste said, looking ahead with a rather immense amount of self-satisfaction, “you like your opponents the way you like your women—merciless. And speaking of …”
Cyrus regarded him with undisguised curiosity until he heard hoofbeats approaching in a steady cadence from behind him. He turned, expecting Vara, but found Martaina Proelius instead. She brought her horse alongside his, and when Cyrus turned to say something to Vaste, he found the troll galloping ahead to catch up with Curatio. “Do you have a moment?” Martaina asked, drawing Cyrus’s attention back to her.
“This is the most unusual and blazingly fast series of conversations I’ve ever had,” Cyrus said, feeling slightly disoriented. She looked at him with utter befuddlement, and he shook the thought away. “What can I do for you, Martaina?”
“I have a personal matter for you as Guildmaster,” Martaina said and looked around before lowering her voice and leaning in. “I was wondering if you’d consent to marrying me.”
The world seemed to pause around Cyrus. “I’m … uh … with Vara …”
“Not marry me yourself,” Martaina said with an air of impatience. “Marry me to Andren in your capacity as Master of Sanctuary.”
Cyrus gave that a moment’s thought. “I … uhm … don’t know that I have that authority, and … also … have you talked to Andren about this yet?” The disorientation is not getting better. This long ride is probably not helping …
“We’ve discussed it,” she said in a clipped tone.
“Aren’t you still married to Thad?” Cyrus asked, feeling an urge to put a wet cloth upon his forehead and lie down for a space of time. A very long space of time, if possible.
“Our marriage was never recorded by any government,” Martaina said, “only performed by the Priestesses of Life.”
“Don’t they … work for the elven government?”
“There’s a tax of gold on the stamps for official documents,” Martaina said, rather brusquely. “I wouldn’t pay it, so we’re not accorded marital standing in the kingdom. Thus …” She waved a hand.
“Your union is at an end,” Cyrus said with a nod. “And more easily than mine was, at that.” He massaged the bridge of his nose with metal-clad fingers. “I don’t know how to perform a marriage ceremony, having only been to my own, and being somewhat, uh … unsteady at the time—”
“You were drunk at your own wedding?”
“Out of pure joy and nervousness, yes,” Cyrus said, and Windrider seemed to shudder with laughter before letting out a whinny beneath him. As though he needed to explain to both elf and horse, he went on. “I … was marrying someone that I hadn’t known for very long, and I wasn’t really used to being with people … or dealing with people in anything other than combat … or instructors talking to me about combat … It was a very difficult time for me,” he finished a bit lamely.
“No judgment here,” Martaina said, though she appeared to be hiding amusement under a very thin veil. “There is a text I’ve chosen, something akin to reading a part in a play. The ceremony of the Iliarad’ouran, recounted in an old book of Korinn’s History of the Third Age of Elvendom—”
“If all I have to do is read,” Cyrus said, eyeing her for a hint of deceit or anything further that she might be hesitating to mention, “I suppose I can do it, though I … I’m surprised Andren didn’t come to me for this himself.” He searched out the healer and found him plodding along atop his horse, eyes partially closed, looking like he was fully asleep. “He certainly looks enthused about the nuptials.”
“He’s on a long ride,” Martaina said with clipped annoyance. “Give you a few more hours and you’ll be nodding off in the saddle as well, and just in time to fight a battle with titans three times your height.”
“Thanks for that warning,” Cyrus said sourly. “I might have forgotten otherwise and gone for a nice nap as soon as we arrived, all thought of titans as gone as a good dream when you wake.” The smell of horses and unwashed riders hung heavy in his nose. He parted from her with one further thought. “How do you think Thad is going to react to this?”
“Him, I haven’t talked to about it,” she said, and now she rode off, “for what I do does not concern him in this regard, and he is at the pass in any case.” She showed her unease at this last, and when Cyrus tried to discern her feelings on the matter, the conclusion he came to was that she was slightly more fearful of her former husband’s current safety than she was of his approval for her new marriage.
His head still whirling, Cyrus rode on through the night, the dawn coming. Not a titan was yet in sight on the dusty trail through the Heia Pass. And yet still he found no comfort.
45.
The camp still stood at a small, flat gap just north of the southern terminus of the Heia Pass when they arrived, and yet still Cyrus felt no relief. At the last hill, he had stood upon one of the elven watchtowers and looked out on the slice of Gradsden Savanna visible over the last two peaks that heralded the end of the pass, and the sight which greeted his eyes was not a happy one.
A titan war camp stood a few miles ahead on the plains, stretching as far as he could see, more troops than he could count without climbing high into the sky. Tents big enough to house all of Sanctuary’s keep were visible, billowing in the warm savanna wind behind the smaller tents that were merely large enough to engulf a reasonable-sized barn.
When they rode into their own camp, there were muted cheers of relief from all within, lined up as though to watch a parade. Cyrus caught sight of elves in their intricate armors, unit standards from some of Danay’s northern armies flapping the breeze. The army of Sanctuary’s forces were apparent as well, though they did more to disguise their relief at the arrival of reinforcements.
Thad was one of the first to greet Cyrus as he rode up, dismounting and watching an elf in leather armor hustle forward to take Windrider’s reins. The horse whickered at the elf but allowed himself to be led off.
“Have you seen?” Thad asked without preamble, looking more anxious that Cyrus would have liked.
“I saw,” Cyrus said with a nod. Belkan Stillhet ambled up beside the young warrior and elbowed him aside without mercy. Thad, looking slightly discombobulated, faded back into the crowd as the old warrior took his place with a generous spit at Cyrus’s feet. “You seem calm about it.”
“Calmer than some,” Belkan agreed, motioning Cyrus forward.
Cyrus looked back and watched Vara dismount her horse rather stiffly as he walked ahead with Belkan. She
gave him a wan smile, her ire clearly passed somewhere in the night. “What do you think the hold-up is?”
“Provisioning, maybe?” Belkan shrugged his broad shoulders, old pauldrons clanking as he did so. He walked toward a line of troops milling about underneath the last rocky chasm that surrounded the trail before it flattened out into rolling foothills out of the mountains. “Once they start moving, they’ll need a lot of food to feed that army.”
“They can conjure bread now,” Cyrus said, taking large strides forward. “And water. It shouldn’t be a concern to them.”
Belkan snorted. “You see titans eating a lot of bread, do you? I picture them tearing into meat constantly.”
“I don’t,” Cyrus said, looking out past the foothills. The enemy camps were nowhere near as visible from here, but he could see the tops of some of the larger tents, like pointed mountain peaks in the distance. “Can you imagine how much meat that would take? How much grazing land? What sort of herds?”
“I saw a mountain goat from around those lands once,” Belkan said quietly, staring out at the savanna with him. “They’re taller than you, hoof to back. I hear they keep them up in the high peaks, out to the west of Kortran.”
“Well, that answers the meat part, I guess,” Cyrus said, chewing his lower lip. “It’s not as if they spend any time sowing, that much is sure.”
“That much is sure,” Belkan agreed, and he turned his back to the savanna, looking inward at the camp and the army within.
“What’s on your mind, Belkan?” Cyrus asked.
Belkan shook his head. “Got a lot of people spread out all over the place, Davidon. I don’t like it.”
Warlord Page 24
