Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  But it was the desperation and sadness that were the worst, and they’d hit him full force most recently, pulling him to his knees. He lay, his cheek cold against the stone floor, staring into the darkness, not bothering to cast a spell to illuminate the room. He felt ashamed somewhere deep inside, and yet also defiantly uncaring. His bones, his very skin ached as he lay there, but he made no effort to rise.

  The embers provided the barest light, which he could barely see through the blur in his eyes. Faint orange spots lingered to his side, but he ignored them. The chill was in his bones now. He didn’t care. He hoped it would help numb him, that somehow he might beseech the floor beneath him to gather him up and drag him further into its depths. He was already in the ground, after all; what was the difference of a few more feet?

  A knock sounded, and he ignored it. He always ignored them at first. It came again, more insistently. He ignored this, too.

  “Cyrus,” came a clipped, irritable female voice. “Open the door.”

  It was not his mother’s voice, but it was familiar enough, and held enough sway over him that he forced himself up. His helm sat awkwardly upon his head, and the medallion beneath his armor, untrapped by its usual place beneath his underclothes, swung freely, rattling inside his breastplate. He pushed cautiously up to one hand. “Who is that?” he asked.

  “It’s Cora.”

  Cyrus frowned. He could not recall her coming to visit him before. Indeed, she was nearly the last person he would have imagined would come to speak to him.

  “Why are you here?” Cyrus asked, getting to his feet. They could have sent anyone—Longwell, Quinneria, Terian, Vaste, J’anda—hell, all of them had come more than once. Mendicant, Ryin, Scuddar, Zarnn, Calene—even Isabelle and Larning had taken it in turn to knock at his door, though he’d ignored them as though he were sleeping. He paced up to the door and leaned against it. “What do you want?”

  “Bellarum’s arterial blood to water the trees of my jungle home,” Cora replied with a subtle sarcasm. “I had counted on you to deliver this trifling request, but I’ve heard you’re incapable of this modest task set before you, so I’ve come to offer counsel.” She paused. “And perhaps a kick in the arse.”

  He opened the door without thinking, annoyed by her challenge. “My arse is too large for kicks from you at this point, I think.”

  Cora stood on the other side, looking at him with great amusement. “When your arse was smaller, I once took a length of wood to it, administering a flogging that caused you to burst into tears. You were a difficult child, especially for me, what with your father dead and mother gone, and in truth I did it almost as much to quell the annoyance I was feeling for you at the time as I did push you onto a better road.” She met his gaze, and her blue cloak stirred as she moved her hand beneath it. “The moment you began crying and the words flooded out—‘I miss my mother, I miss my father!’—my heart melted and my shame burned my anger away like mist on a hot morn.”

  Cyrus stared out at her through the open door. “A touching story, but hardly relevant to this moment.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Cora said, ducking under his arm and worming her way into the room. She put out a hand and flame jumped into the hearth, setting the ashes alight again, even without fuel of wood to burn. “I have seen you crushed beneath the weight of grief before.” She spun, and with a slight kick knocked the door free of his hand, closing it behind her. “I am not your mother, who might coddle you, and you are no longer a child without responsibility. You are a man. You are a warrior. And you are the only hope we have.” She drew herself up to her full height, which was a good several heads shorter than him. “There will be time to grieve and despair for your loss later. Right now, all Arkaria looks to you, even if they do not realize it.”

  “I’m trapped in the bowels of the earth,” Cyrus said, looking around him. “Hiding from the God of War because I can’t defeat him. Because we can’t defeat him. My ideas for strategy are vapor. Terian has investigated the so-called ark in the books available here and found nothing. My mother has looked in the library at Reikonos and found nothing, even with the aid of the librarians put fully at her disposal by the mayor. The archives of the elves, of the dwarves, the gnomes and goblins all come up with the same—nothing beyond legends, whispers of the past, handed down by the ancients and desert men.” He spread his arms wide, as if holding himself out for helpless sacrifice. “If I am the hope of Arkaria, then truly, we are without hope, for I have nothing with which to beat Bellarum.” He took a hobbling step; his leg had improved, but it still pained him. “I am not even yet what I was before he struck me down. So if you’ve come to speak words of brilliant inspiration to me, be warned—there is nothing to be gained by them. No idea shaken loose, no hope plumbed in the depths, only the cold reality of where we stand, hiding in the earth—like cowards.”

  Cora stood there, stiff and cool, surveying him with unmoving, iron eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re so fixated on this ark.”

  “Because I don’t know any other way to beat him than by narrowing the gap between us,” Cyrus said. “Than by somehow adding the strength of the God of Good to our own. If you face a superior foe, you need advantages lest you leave everything to luck. Luck is a fine thing, when it falls your way, but to count on it to save you, as if by a miracle of the go—” He cut himself off and looked down, flush with anger. “Well, the ones we might have called on for a miracle all these years would hardly be in a position to aid us now, even if we had not already killed most of them.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Relying on miracles is the domain of the foolish strategist. I would rather tilt the field toward my favor and then play the odds, but I have no favor to tilt my way, or at least not enough as to matter in this conflict.”

  “That is simply untrue,” she said. “There are others who are in this with you. We would have the numbers against his army—”

  “His army is irrelevant,” Cyrus said. “He could kill ours in single combat, thousands to one, and enjoy a fine meal while he was doing so.” He shook his head. “But he is not alone, I assure you. He has a horde, at least, at his disposal, and they will be fierce. Them, I feel confident, we could win against. But him …” He shook his head. “We would winnow our numbers against all his strength while he supped in the Realm of War, uncaring about the fate of his minions, and then, even if we had just won the grandest victory with the most minimal losses, he would stride out from behind his fortress walls and crush us all with his own fists.” Or his new blade, Cyrus thought with rueful anger, though he kept this to himself.

  “So you continue to say,” she went on coolly. “But there is a fight to be had, if you wished to fight, rather than shy away from it for fear it would go poorly. You have been wounded, it is true.”

  “I have been damaged beyond easy repair,” Cyrus said, taking a hobbled step. “But even if the months passed, and I were in prime form, ready to run across a field of war once more—”

  “You misunderstand,” Cora said, cutting right over him without remorse. “I don’t speak of your physical ailment, for yes, I believe you will be whole again soon enough.” She raised a finger and thumped it in the center of his chest. “I speak of your fearful heart, your courage brought low by all your perceived defeats, from Leaugarden to Sanctuary.”

  Cyrus stared at her blankly. “I don’t underst—”

  “You’re a general who has been crushed by war,” she said. “You think you’re the first to lose heart after defeat?”

  “I—I wasn’t just defeated,” Cyrus said, stumbling over his words, “I lost—”

  “Almost everything, yes,” she said with a curt nod. “But not all. Not yet. You fear to lose that last inch and endeavor to preserve it, while you watch it steadily retreat from your grasp. You hide in the dark, and it slips away day by day. The ultimatum has been made, Cyrus. Bellarum will come, whether you stay here in the dark or not. He will visit his wrath upon you, and you will have to answer his quest
ion.” She shook her head. “If you mean to go along with his request, then the decision is made, and you need no longer hide in the darkness.” She glanced up at him, and he saw that she was daring him with her words. “But if you are a true warrior—your own man, not his puppet, the way I saw you as a child before he tried to dig his hooks into your flesh through indoctrination—then you will fight, as your father did, for a worthy cause. Bellarum may have tried to influence you through the ages of your life, but you are who you are now, and in spite of his threats, he has left it in your hands. You fumble about desperately for some last-minute weapon that you would not know if you saw it, but the choice is still in your grasp. Choose, Cyrus. Choose whether you fight for what you have left and risk it all, or whether you want to watch it slip away and die just as surely, but without the fight. Only you can know if the fight is still within your heart, or whether it has …” She laid a hand on his chest, and then glanced at the fire burning in the hearth, “… gone out, all hope of rekindling passed with it.”

  Cyrus held still, her words stirring him. There was truth in her arguments that he had deliberately ignored … until now. He blinked, as though awakening for the first time since the meeting when he’d come once more to desperation. “It really is that simple, isn’t it? Fight. Or hide.”

  “And only you can choose,” she said. “No one would fault you if you chose the latter, especially seeing as the God of War tried to drive that out of you in your education, but perhaps the day has come when you should acknowledge that it is part of you … and claim it as your own, free of his hand.” She stirred within her cloak once more. “That, too, is your choice.”

  “I have been a warrior or training to be a warrior for as long as I can remember,” Cyrus said quietly, standing in place, so struck by the simplicity of what she said that he almost didn’t dare move, as if afraid the spell she’d cast to bring him back would somehow be broken. “How did I lose … what I am?”

  “Because he shaped it, and you see that now,” she said quietly. “Because now it’s laid bare all the effort he’s put in to battle for your soul. Because you’ve lost so much, because you’re holding on to what you have left with a numb, dead hand so tightly you can’t feel it slipping beyond your grasp. You must know, though, and you must choose today, who you are to be—the broken man or the implacable warrior.”

  Cyrus stared at the darkness. I knew who I was … I knew what I believed, what I fought for, until Sanctuary was destroyed and Vara was taken. All this doubt, all this agonizing … it’s all mud in a spring that should be clear.

  Why would I stop being what I’ve been at the core all this time?

  The man she loved.

  “I am a warrior,” Cyrus said into the darkness. “And yes … I will fight … even if we can’t win.”

  “That’s lovely sentiment,” came a voice from behind him, and Cyrus turned, drawing his blade. His instincts were slow, rusty from disuse, but when Praelior sang in its rise from his scabbard, something clicked back into place within him.

  I am a warrior.

  “Terrgenden,” Cyrus said in disgust as he stood, weapon ready, realizing the identity of his other visitor. He did not put the weapon away. “What are you doing here?”

  “Listening to this foolish discussion and hoping you would have come to a different conclusion than the one you did,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “However, I see now … that I am going to have to save us from your foolishness before it consumes us all.”

  72.

  Alaric

  “Jena,” I said, feeling the weight of accusation in her gaze, “I …”

  My voice trailed off, as I saw the hurt within. I’d seen these looks before, often in the gazes of maidens back at Enrant Monge who had become my lovers for a short time and then been spurned quietly, my promises unkept. I had found them easy to ignore before I came here, but something had changed in this land. Something had changed within me.

  “What?” she asked, waiting for me to come up with an explanation. I didn’t know if she suspected my flimsy denial had tapered off because I’d lost the thread of it or she realized that somehow she’d triggered a guilty feeling in me that I had never experienced before. “You’re leaving. Without word. Without explanation. How am I to take it?”

  “This is an awkward moment,” Curatio said, causing both of us to swivel our attention to him. I detected a slight surge of pleasure in the elf at my discomfiture.

  “Perhaps you should wait outside,” I said, trying to hold in my irritation.

  “I didn’t say it was awkward for me,” Curatio replied. “I’m rather enjoying myself.”

  “Kindly wait outside, Curatio,” Jena said, not looking at him, “or else I might have to question our guards to determine how it is that you came to find your way into the palace.”

  Curatio bowed quickly and made for the door. “As you wish. I shall be waiting outside.” He caught a significant look from Jena. “Down the hall. Considerably down the hall, out of earshot.” And he disappeared out the door.

  “I think I know what you’re going to say—” I started.

  “You’re conspiring to leave with the elf who took your eye,” Jena said. Now the accusation was gone and she seemed simply tired. “Is being here with me that much of a curse?”

  I was by no means experienced in relationships at that point in my youthful life, but I recognized her words for what they were. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty so I’ll stay.”

  She opened her mouth slightly, then smiled, just a trace. “Perhaps I am.”

  “I need to talk to Chavoron,” I said, putting the force of feeling behind it. “I’ve been trapped here for … I don’t even know how long. Curatio told me about what’s happening out in the streets—slaves being sent against masters, killings rampant—”

  “All true,” she said quietly, “but I don’t see what you can do about any of it as you are—”

  “I don’t know!” I said, and for the first time with her I raised my voice. “I don’t know that I can do anything! That I’m worth anything! I don’t know my place in this empire, or if I even belong in this empire as anything other than your lover and pet, kept safe in the dark.” I saw her blanch at my harsh words. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do; I’ve been a fat, arrogant prince, a weak slave, a determined gladiator, counselor to the head of an empire, and all the while the cause of more misery than I would ever wish to bear.” I took a breath and tried to collect myself. “I don’t know who I am anymore. Chavoron was giving me direction, teaching me a kind of wisdom that I’d refused from my father, that I’d never learned anywhere else, and in his service I ended up inflicting damage to this teetering empire in a way I’d never meant to. Maybe it’s irreparable. Maybe I can’t do anything to help. If so … I should leave. I should go back to my homeland, take what I’ve learned, and try to be a better king or prince or whatever they need—cook in the kitchen for all I care, I’ve been a slave already, after all …” I stared at her. “But I can’t keep living here, in this darkness, in these depths, like this … buried in the earth, kept prisoner from the world by my mistakes. If my fate is not in this empire, then I need to know it so I can move on.”

  I came to the end of my soliloquy, and Jena blinked at me several times. “I didn’t expect you to stay forever,” she said, quietly. “I suppose … I didn’t want you to leave, either, though.”

  “I know,” I said, feeling the hurt radiating off of her. “I have no idea what you see in me—”

  “I see you,” she said softly. “All that you could be. All the … possibility for you.”

  “I don’t see what you see,” I said. “But I see a step forward. I see a possibility for me to shed some of my past sins, my irresponsibility and callousness, but only if I leave this place, if I at least try and help fix this mess I’ve helped make—”

  “This empire was a mess long before you arrived on these shores,” she said. “You merely opened our eyes to the
state of things.”

  “Well, the state of things is worse than when I arrived,” I said, “and I feel responsible. Now it’s up to me to at least try to help fix it. And that starts with talking to Chavoron.” I drew myself up. “I understand if you don’t—”

  “I will come with you,” she said softly.

  “You need not.”

  “I need to be with you,” she said, and she rustled beneath her robed tunic, hands emerging a moment later with something long, something impressive, covered in a leather scabbard. The pommel caught my attention; it was a skull with onyx eyes that stared at me like twin pools of black. “I need to help you in these dark times—and in more ways than just this, though this is the first.” She looked up and met my eye with her own. “I made this for you. I call it … Aterum.”

  I took the scabbard from her hands, drawing the blade. My eye was fixated on the runes that ran its length. “It’s … beautiful,” I said, feeling the heft. I felt something else as well, a strange speed that I hadn’t had before. The hilt had been carved, and I could feel the ridges in my palm. I looked at it and saw Protanian lettering that I could not read. I may have been able to converse in their language, but I was nowhere near literate in it.

  I swung the sword to the side experimentally, and found when I looked back at Jena she was moving slowly, as though trapped in amber, her words coming out like honey rolling down a glass jar. “Do you like it?” she asked.

  “It’s marvelous,” I said. I heard her laugh, though the sound came like a rumble of an animal in its slowness.

  “It has a spell upon it to speed the movements of the holder,” she said, still slowly. “It is permanent, part of the binding spellwork laid into the metal. It is forged of my father’s finest, made in the white city that he rules in his own domain—”

  “I thought this was his domain?” I asked.

  “He has another, elsewhere,” she said, and I remembered Chavoron saying something about that as well. “Another mining concern, turning out metal of the kind your blade is forged from. It is stronger than any other metal, and you will find it grants you a boon of strength as well as a few other qualities that I was able to enchant into the weapon.” She paused, and looked up again, asking the same question. “Do you like it?”