Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “How benevolent,” Terian said.

  “Except now we’ve killed some of you,” Cyrus said, “so all who do not serve—”

  “Oh, we’re past serving now,” Aurous said. A trickle of blue blood ran from the top of his icy hairline down his forehead, dripping over his eye. He reached a hand up and touched it, even as it crystallized all the way up the trail. He stared at his stained fingertips in mild consternation. “Damn.”

  “Past serving?” Cyrus asked, drawing the God of Winter’s attention back to him. “Bellarum told me—”

  “Yes, yes,” Aurous said, suddenly sounding quite bored with the conversation. “But the thing you don’t understand is …” He slid into a weary smile. “All this time you’ve been robbing our realms while we’re away, charging through the Trials of Purgatory and all else—did you think we just ignored you while you were doing that? Do you think it escaped our notice?” He leaned his head forward, and another trail of blood ran out of his nose. “We let you do it. We watched you while you did it, your mighty Big Three. Sanctuary. Goliath.” He coughed, and a mist of blue appeared in front of his mouth and then became solid, flecks of cerulean ice spattering the wreckage in front of him. “We created the Trials of Purgatory so we could monitor your progress. See how powerful you were becoming. We let you come into our realms while we were gone to indulge you, allow you to have your petty acts of defiance, your little spoils, all the while we were deciding what to do now that you’d become strong enough, united enough. And then you went and …” His voice trailed off, his eyes becoming unfocused, “… and … with … the … Mortus … and … the … Yartraak …”

  He opened his mouth, and this time a rush of blue blood came out as Aurous sagged, arm losing its war with gravity and his head pitching sideways. “They’re … going to kill you … Cyrus Davidon …” Aurous looked down on them. “Like you … killed me …”

  “I haven’t killed you yet,” Cyrus said, looking up at him.

  Aurous made a snuffling kind of laugh, blue liquid spattering out of his mouth and clouding once more. “Close enough. But we’ll get the last … laugh. Your kind … will burn … and fade … just like … those before … you …”

  “I’m not the one that’s going to burn,” Cyrus said, and he raised his hand high.

  With a whisper of words, he cast a blast of flame, and it shot forth from his hand. It hit Aurous squarely between the eyes and there was a great hiss. The flame burrowed its way into his face, disintegrating a great swath of it, and then burned its way out the other side and shot into the air, disappearing into the aurora beyond.

  “They mean to exterminate our people,” Calene said into the silence that followed. “Just like they did the ancients. The gods are going to—”

  “Die,” Cyrus said, holding himself tall as he let his hand fall.

  “I realize we’re doing well against them so far,” Dahveed said quietly, “but that’s hardly a foregone conclusion, us triumphing over the entire pantheon.”

  Cyrus didn’t even turn around. “No, it’s a foregone conclusion. Because either they die—” and he whirled. “Or we do. That’s how this plays out, so …” He brushed the snow off his pauldrons, and said to Quinneria. “Take us back to the portal below Reikonos.” His face hardened. “We’ve got a storm to go weather.”

  34.

  Alaric

  “Where do we begin?” I asked after a few moments of silence in which it sunk in to me that I had somehow lost both my first name and my last, since I had arrived in this land. Instead of being Ulric Garrick, the Prince of Luukessia, I was now Alaric Garaunt, upstart and … slave? Was I still a slave?

  I started to open my mouth to ask that question, but Chavoron answered my first before I could. “We begin with you,” he said. “As you said before, you will need to learn more magic. You will also need to learn other things.”

  I looked back toward the hole in the floor where the entry staircase came up. Chavoron’s guards were nowhere in sight. I hadn’t seen them since we’d entered the tower, which made me wonder if they’d stayed on the first floor, or if they were waiting just outside on the stairs. “I’m to be your bodyguard?” I asked.

  “No,” Chavoron said with a chuckle. “I am First Citizen; I have nothing to fear. Protanians do not kill one another. Those bodyguards were for you. You will need to learn to fight for your own protection.”

  I swallowed heavily. “My … own protection?”

  “There is a reason you have been asleep and hidden these last months,” Chavoron said, easing out onto the balcony. The sun was high in the sky overhead, hidden behind clouds, but making its presence known by turning a grey one wispy white. “There are those who would like to solve the problem of you by simply killing you.”

  I felt my mouth dry out rather suddenly. “Who … how many people of this sort will I be facing?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it just yet,” he said, dismissing me with a wave. “You are safe here for the time being.” He poked a finger at my chest, long and blue, and thrust it right up against the beige cloth that covered my chest. “But that will not last. You cannot stay in this tower forever, and you cannot always count on others to be around you. If you’re going to be of the House of Garaunt, you’ll need to be prepared.”

  I nodded, once, and started to say something when there came a hammering at the door. “Ah,” Chavoron said, “here we go. Come!”

  I heard the door swing open and the sound of someone striding up the stairs. I saw the armor before I saw the face, and it was a familiar, angular style, different than the Protanian soldiers and guards I’d faced in the camp and in the cold northern reaches of Luukessia. As the man ascended the steps into Chavoron’s quarters, my eyes widened in recognition.

  It was Rin.

  “I report as ordered, and in the manner requested, First Citizen,” Rin said, sounding less pleased than I could ever recall hearing him. He was also speaking the human language. He was usually fairly lively as he inflicted pain upon me, but now he seemed sullen, and when he looked my way, I saw thick disdain, bordering on hatred.

  “You have long served House Gronvay, yes?” Chavoron asked, sounding much more cool and detached than he did when questioning me. I wondered if he was treating Rin differently because of the difference in houses between them. My mind ran wild with possibilities; this was an aspect of Protanian culture I hadn’t learned much about, and it was beginning to look important.

  “Nearly all my life,” Rin said stiffly. “My mother was taken in by House Gronvay when I was but a toddling child.”

  “They are a long and storied bunch,” Chavoron said, watching Rin. “Did you know my—” He said something again nearly unpronounceable, switching to his native tongue for a moment, then back, to what sounded like a name, “—Timmas, is of House Gronvay.”

  I saw a subtle twitch in Rin’s expression; I would have bet he was not only aware of this Timmas being of his house and in some sort of position of power, but that it apparently pained him for some reason. “It would be hard to miss,” was all Rin said.

  “And?” Chavoron asked. I watched him; he was enjoying himself, and Rin’s reaction, though he was being very, very subtle about it.

  “We are all so very proud of the honor he has brought us,” Rin said, sounding like he had swallowed swamp grass before speaking.

  “Good, good,” Chavoron breezed on. “You know why I summoned you?”

  “Your message was clear,” Rin said. “You wish me to continue training … this one.” His eyes flitted to me for a moment, then back to Chavoron.

  “You have done such an outstanding job thus far,” Chavoron said, and this time Rin’s face went so steely I couldn’t tell if he took it as a compliment or an insult, or some measure of both. “I want to insure that he is not killed. His survival is a priority for me.”

  And for me, I didn’t add.

  “Then I will work to insure that this is done,” Rin said, giving me a sidelong glanc
e. There was less loathing this time, and he seemed to be returning to himself.

  “Excellent,” Chavoron said. “Then we can—”

  A hammering came at the door, hard and abrupt, like someone was leaning into it with a fist of steel. Rin turned, subtly interposing himself between the stairs and Chavoron even as the First Citizen raised an eyebrow and stared at the entry to the tower. “Yes?” he called.

  “Chavoron!” came a harsh voice, accented and guttural. Whatever language the speaker normally spoke, it was not Protanian. A string of florid noises followed that seemed like words, but I could not tell their origin. They didn’t sound Protanian, at least not based on what I’d heard of the language. I looked to Rin, but he was looking sidelong at me again, his mouth slightly open as he listened intently.

  “I have a guest who can only speak human,” Chavoron called back to the staircase, as though he were speaking to someone who was standing there instead of someone who had just pounded with violence upon his door. “If you’re going to come in, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to speak that language so as not to be rude.”

  I heard the door swing open and slam into the wall, and in stepped a man. His face was red with anger, his eyes narrow as he stared up the steps at the three of us, scanning until he sighted me, and then he flushed a deeper shade. His ears were practically glowing scarlet, and they came to hard points at the tops. I stared down at him; I’d never seen anything like those ears before.

  “I believe you’ve met my guest,” Chavoron said, looking at the new arrival with benign grace.

  “Damn your guest,” the new man said in a rough, familiar voice. “And damn you, too, Chavoron.”

  “Watch your tongue, elf,” Rin said with more ire than I’d seen from him, “or I’ll butcher you and take your name.”

  “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you, dog?”

  I recognized him now, the Butcher. I racked my memory for his true name, but came up with nothing but his more colorful appellation.

  “What can I do for you this lovely day, Curatio?” Chavoron asked, reminding me of the Butcher’s name. “Are you here on the business of the elves—or is this a personal account you’ve come to settle?”

  Curatio pointed a finger at me. “Don’t think my personal business with this one is settled yet.”

  “You already took his eye,” Chavoron said mildly, “what did he take from you that warrants a heavier price than that?”

  “My honor,” Curatio said, his furious gaze still on me. “He shamed me in front of—”

  “You would have murdered him like an animal,” Chavoron said, cutting him off and still sounding somehow polite about it. “I suppose you think he should have simply bared his neck to you, presented his head and let you crush it? Because not even the meekest lamb will simply wait for you to slaughter it if it knows that is coming.”

  “Do not speak to me of lambs,” Curatio said, still flushed red. “These humans are lower creatures than even sheep.” He looked me up and down. “In fact, this may be the first time I’ve ever seen one clad in something finer than wool.”

  “A fitting insult from a race of herders and growers,” Rin shot back, causing Curatio to turn his anger toward the guardsman. “If not for your unnaturally long life and the fact that you stole magic from us, you’d be our slaves like them.” He indicated me, and I wasn’t sure whether the insult was aimed more at me or Curatio.

  Curatio’s eyes widened in utter fury and he drove his hand into his robes, clearly reaching for something concealed within. Rin already had his hand on his sword, and the world seemed to slow as they both started to draw their weapons when someone spoke from behind Curatio, and everything stopped around us.

  “Hello, Father,” came a soft voice.

  Curatio immediately ripped his hand out of his tunic and readjusted it so quickly that he made it look like he’d done nothing more untoward than straightened his garment. Rin watched him suspiciously all the while, keeping his hand firmly upon his sword hilt, but Curatio ignored him with a studied disinterest that bordered on suicidal, in my somewhat unstudied opinion. He had been about to clash with the guard a moment earlier, and then, with the sudden arrival of the newest person in the room, he had all but turned his back on him.

  “Caraleen,” Chavoron said warmly, beckoning forward the new arrival. “So good you are here.”

  She came up the stairs slowly, like she was savoring every moment and taking the temperature of the room while she did it. She was darkest blue, darker than any of the others I’d seen thus far. Her skin tone was impressive, like a midnight with just a hint of starlight. Her smile seemed to reach all the way up to her eyes, which had red irises like her father’s.

  She was beautiful, even to me, and I was still getting used to the looks of these Protanians.

  Still, I didn’t find her nearly as attractive as Jena for some reason.

  “Hello, Caraleen,” Curatio said, suddenly looking like an awkward schoolboy as she passed him.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, barely sparing him a glance as she went on to her father. She kissed him on both cheeks, looking at me out of the corner of her eyes all the while. “I see you have guests.”

  “Of course you remember Curatio,” Chavoron said with a grace I doubted even my father would have been able to find in similar circumstances. Then he turned to me, with a smile. “This is the newest member of our house, Alaric.”

  Caraleen looked at me with those sly eyes, and I remembered what Jena had said about her having a human child. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, trying to stay neutral.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” she said, lingering next to her father, but I could almost feel her eyes boring into me. It was a strange sensation, and made me oddly uncomfortable.

  “Caraleen,” Curatio said stiffly, now that we’d all nearly forgotten him. The redness had faded from his face, and he was standing up straight, his hands behind his back. “I can’t tell you what a joy it brings my eyes to see you again.”

  “Naturally,” she murmured, never looking away from me.

  “Curatio,” Chavoron said mildly, “is there anything else you wish to discuss at the moment? Or could we, perchance, leave it for another time?”

  “Certainly,” Curatio said and nodded his head once. He began to retreat toward the stairs, shooting a lingering glance at Caraleen, who was not looking at him at all.

  The air in the room felt suddenly still, not a breeze to be found in the wind-crossed space between all four balconies. “Goodbye,” Caraleen said lightly, waving in his direction as Rin just stood there, barely concealing a smile as he watched the interplay between the three of us—Curatio, Caraleen, and myself.

  “I shall see you again before too terribly long, I hope,” Curatio said, bowing his way down the stairs, all his effusive rage vanished and replaced by a humble, cloying attempt to get Caraleen’s attentions.

  “Perhaps,” was all she said, her long fingers ceasing in their subtle wave as she dropped them back to her side. She never once took her eyes off me.

  I, on the other, hand, split my attention between her and the man who’d taken my eye. I watched him retreat, watched his face flush with shame as he walked backward, slowly, down the stairs, clearly trying to savor his last look at her. His feelings for her couldn’t have been more obvious, and hers for him just as plain: utter and complete disinterest.

  I caught the last look he gave as he retreated through the door, prepared to shut it behind him. He’d buried his fury well, hiding it when Caraleen came into the room. It resurfaced now, in the second before he shut the door, and I saw him look right at me with that bold anger, his eyes locked into mine. There was a sensation in my belly like the twisting of a knife, and I knew that if Caraleen weren’t around when next we met, there was nothing that would stop him from trying to kill me.

  35.

  Cyrus

  Isabelle was the first thing Cyrus saw when they reappeared in the Reikonos cataco
mbs, the thunder of the wizard teleportation spell fading with a few final flashes against the walls of the cavernous room around them, the green spell-light mingling with the faint blue glow of the stones.

  “Gods, you made it,” Isabelle said, looking pale as death. She sagged as he appeared, bringing up a hand to cover her eyes. “You didn’t … did you …?” She raised her tone on the last word, clearly questioning whether he’d managed the feat he’d set out to or simply cut and run when faced with overwhelming odds.

  “Aurous is dead,” Cyrus said. “Finished him myself with a fire spell to the face.”

  “It was an excellent burn,” Terian said. “Well aimed, kind of merciful, and yet timed perfectly, right after he’d given you the best information he could but not before he set you up with a great line that justified his murder.”

  Cyrus blinked and looked over his shoulder at the Sovereign. “That wasn’t murder.”

  “I said it was kind of merciful.”

  “It’s not murder when you kill someone who’s trying to kill you,” Cyrus said flatly, his tone dull and dragging from weariness and lack of care.

  “What do they call that, then?” Martaina asked. “A warm hug?”

  “Well, what he did to Aurous was certainly warm,” Calene said. “Hot, even.” She paused. “Because of the fire spell, see—”

  “I think we all got that, yes,” Cyrus said, and turned his focus back to Isabelle. “I told you I’d do it.”

  She opened her mouth slightly. “You were gone … minutes. Less than an hour. How did you storm his keep?”

  “It was one of his most impressively done stratagems, if I may say,” Longwell said with a grudging admiration. “And I should be able to say, too, since I’ve seen a fair few of the General’s more unconventional victories.”

  “Yes, but how?” Isabelle asked, frustration rising.

  “Because when you explained to me what you had done,” Cyrus said, “you forgot our objectives were different. You meant to get to the top of the tower to find treasure, whereas I didn’t care if the tower was still standing once I was finished. And so it no longer stands.” He smiled with little feeling.