Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “I truly do,” I said. I returned it to its scabbard and hung it on my belt. “Curatio!” I called, wondering if he would hear me through the door.

  I waited and he appeared a moment later, ushering himself in. “You called?” he asked. I could tell he was still getting used to the idea of being at someone else’s command.

  I looked right at Jena, and she nodded once. “I think … we are ready to leave,” I said, and he came in, shutting the door behind him. The three of us inched closer together, the elf coming forward uncomfortably, ill at ease with shuffling closer to me. “We need to go to Sennshann, in disguise, and speak to Chavoron. From there we’ll make determination of how next to proceed.”

  “Very well,” he said with a sharp nod. “I will—”

  “You handle the disguise, if you would,” Jena said, rustling her long, heavy robes. “I will take us to Sennshann and set us aflight.”

  He nodded once, and I felt a shiver of magic run over my flesh as the air rippled. I knew he’d cast an illusion of some sort on me, though his appearance remained as it was. “We stand ready.”

  “Then let us go,” I said, nodding once at Jena, who began to cast the spell to take us to Sennshann. With a crackle of green energy, she whirled us away from the grey walls imprisoning us. For the first time since I’d come into the ground to hide, I felt alive, as if I were rising from the grave and taking my first steps back into the world of the living, into freedom, and into something greater.

  73.

  Cyrus

  “I don’t have time for this,” Cyrus said, rolling his eyes and moving toward the door. The thick chill of the Saekaj palace air was upon him, and his patience was gone. He’d found his course and was ill disposed to argue with a god about it. “I have had my fill of thought and consideration, God of Mischief. It’s time to act, as I should have done sooner.”

  Had I remembered myself sooner.

  “That’s what he wants you to do. You realize that, yes?” Terrgenden asked.

  “He wants me to join him,” Cyrus said. “Not charge into his jaws with blade and war.”

  “Fine, fair enough,” Terrgenden said, “it’s his second choice, having you attack him.”

  “And his third must surely be picking Cyrus and the rest of us apart piece by tiny piece, person by person,” Cora said. “We are losing by the day, how do you not see?”

  “Do you know what he has done?” Cyrus asked, his own anger building. “That he’s—”

  “Killed the God of Evil? Yes, I’ve heard,” Terrgenden said, nodding. “And it makes me want to avoid him, frankly.”

  “I was going to say about Vara,” Cyrus said.

  “And that’s another thing,” Terrgenden said, “that tells me you are not thinking clearly. You have not considered the consequences of all this.” He wagged his finger. “You want to charge into battle with him? Fine. But you know you’re going to have to face her, right?” He watched Cyrus for reaction.

  Cyrus felt his guts slide lower. “What? No—”

  “Oh, yes,” Terrgenden said. “It’s why he brought her back. You will fight her if you come for him. He has had months to turn her into a workable servant, loyal, fierce … mold her into what he wants her to be. He will keep her as his bodyguard, this vessel he has made his own. He will orchestrate it so that you have to face her to go against him, and he will watch you fail. Even if you succeed in killing your own lover so that you can face him again—” he held up a lone finger, “—your fragile emotions will be so battered by the time you reach him that he will disassemble you with another single blow, taking your life as well as your heart.” He leaned in. “Bellarum will make her as close to the real thing as possible before this encounter. She will walk like your Vara, talk like her, fight like her. But if you look her in the eyes,” he drew back and shook his head, “they’ll be dead. As any creature who serves wholly as his slave would be.”

  “What would you have us do?” Cora asked, breaking in as Cyrus stood there, mind numb, the possibilities stunning him into silence. “Stay here and die by inches?”

  “This is going to sound ridiculous,” Terrgenden said, “but I think the safest path is that the hiding must continue until conditions improve.”

  Cyrus rounded on him. “How in the hells are conditions going to improve if we just lie low and hope things blow over?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Terrgenden said. “I only know that if we face him while he holds the power of the God of Evil …” He clapped his hands together sharply and the echo rang out in the dark room. “Fortune will not only not favor us, but we will be splattered into refuse. But if we wait … the world is changing around us.” He held out his hands, palms up. “The Torrid Sea has becalmed with Ashea and Tempestus dead. Did you know that? It is no longer nearly impassable. There is a world beyond—beyond even his reach, I think.” He leaned forward. “I am from there, originally, beyond these shores. If we hide for a time, prepare ourselves … he cannot focus on us forever. He cannot see everywhere. There will come a moment when either his power will slip, or we will escape his notice, and then we can simply … leave.” He shrugged. “Live. But if you charge into battle now?” He brought his hands together once more and clasped them. “I wish you luck, because you will be a distraction, and not even that much of one.”

  “You’re a coward,” Cyrus said, the words out before he had a chance to stop them, though he was not sure if he would have even if he’d seen them coming. He felt disgusted by the God of Mischief and wanted to distance himself as if the god’s cowardice might be contagious.

  “Of course I am,” Terrgenden replied. “No shame here. Cowardice has kept me alive for ten thousand years, led me to this once-wonderful land. Cowardice is a preserving force for life, and I wish to preserve my life, which is why I don’t want to fight Bellarum. If there was hope of victory … certainly. Why not? Give it a chance. But with none in sight? Why bother, I ask you—unless you simply don’t wish to live.” He stared at Cyrus with a knowing gaze, and Cyrus broke away. “Though I feel honor-bound to tell you … that’s not bravery.”

  “Where’s the ark?” Cyrus asked, ignoring the God of Mischief’s comment.

  “I don’t know,” Terrgenden said. “I didn’t even think it was real, but … as far as I know, it hasn’t been seen in ten thousand years.” He shrugged. “Vidara would know more about that than I would. I, for my part, didn’t care much about legends until they became … more real.” He paused, reconsidering. “Perhaps I should have.”

  “Yes, perhaps you—” Cyrus began, but did not get a chance to finish.

  Something struck Terrgenden in the side, and Cyrus watched the pain wash over his face in a flash. The God of Mischief was thrown sideways, slamming into the wall just past Cyrus. There was a splatter as he struck, his head dissolving as it hit stone, and the rest of him followed, sluicing dark liquid and fragments of meat and bone all over Cyrus’s quarters.

  Cyrus’s whirled his gaze back to where Terrgenden had stood. Red eyes glowing in the darkness. A dim silhouette took a step out of the shadows, and Cyrus’s hand flew to Praelior’s grip. He felt the power surge through him, but the figure in the darkness stepped more quickly, even though his manner seemed languid. He stopped in front of Cyrus, a mere arm’s length away. Through his bulky helmet, Cyrus could hear heavy breathing.

  “I always wondered what it would take to shut him up for good,” Bellarum said, as he stood before Cyrus, looking down at him. “I guess I found the answer, and it was more delightful than I would have reckoned.” The red eyes focused on Cyrus, leaning closer, staring at him with infinite menace for a few moments until the voice spoke once more, and said, altogether too cheerfully, “So. Cyrus. How have you been?”

  74.

  Alaric

  When we appeared in Sennshann, it was above the ground this time, in a portal in a quaint, quiet square surrounded by tall buildings. I looked up at them and marveled; my eyes had been fixed no higher than a
stone ceiling for untold months. I looked upon the sky, grey as stone, but far above us, the clouds rolling through, and felt a drop of water catch me on the forehead. It was unexpected pleasure, and I wondered if the Tempestus was allowing a storm.

  “It’s not the Tempestus,” Jena said tightly, as though reading my thoughts. I looked over at her, all bundled up in her expansive robe. “It is like this always, now. Winter is settling on the bones of the land, leeching it of its vitality uncontested by the either the Tempestus’s power to halt storms or the Aurous’s will to hold back the change of seasons. It is as though they care not for their tasks any longer.” She shuddered.

  “I have heard Zanbellish has been similarly afflicted,” Curatio said, pulling his own cloak tight about him. “That the air grows heavy again, and a storm whipped through only this week that flooded parts of the city.”

  “What madness takes hold here?” I murmured as Jena cast the spell to give our feet freedom from the ground. I floated a foot above the stone rock and surveyed all I saw around me.

  The streets were quiet. Only a few figures scurried here and there, almost dashing as they went. I watched them, astounded. The streets of Sennshann had been filled to the brimming with people when last I’d seen them. Now they were empty, fear bleeding the heart out of this city. “We should go,” I said, tearing myself away from the grim spectacle.

  “Aye,” Curatio said and hurried off, running up into the air at a sharper angle than I felt comfortable following. I ran in a spiral, trying to catch him while angling my way up more slowly.

  Jena followed with me, apparently no more desirous of the hard climb that the elf was making than I was. “I hope you find the answers you seek in this meeting,” she said, and I heard the regret echo in her voice.

  “So do I,” I said tautly, coming out above the top of the nearest tower.

  I stared out over Sennshann, the endless skies capped at the bottom by the peaks of Protanian buildings. They rose like spires out of a field of rocks, and it took me a moment to locate the tower. “There’s the Citadel,” I said, realizing a moment later that my companions already knew where it was and also, that I had called it by my own name for it.

  “What did you say?” Curatio asked, looking back at me curiously.

  “I call it the Citadel of Light and Hope,” I said, flushing a little.

  He let out a belly laugh. “That is perhaps the best name I have ever heard for it. A beautiful needle inserted into the pustule of Protanian arrogance.” He laughed again. “Yes. Yes, I think I will call it the Citadel from now on as well.” His eyes danced. “Thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, not quite sure how to take his amusement. Instead of dwelling on it, I marked the Citadel myself and started running toward it.

  It hung there, just slightly above the other buildings, its bulbous top tapering to the tower that extended upward a few floors beyond the immense, multi-purpose room where Rin had taught my lessons. I could almost see Chavoron’s balconies from here, but not quite. I hurried along, glancing back. Curatio was right there, but Jena was lagging behind, breathless.

  I started to slow, but she waved me on. “Go. Without me. I will … catch up.”

  I hesitated, and Curatio must have seen my wariness. “I will stay with her,” he said. “You will not need my aid to talk to Chavoron in any case, I would imagine.” He slowed to a walk, and started to double back to Jena, who was all but staggering now, looking pained.

  “Are you sure?” I asked her, and she nodded, waving me away.

  “Go,” she said. “We’ll be along shortly.”

  “All right,” I said, and let my selfishness lead. I needed answers from Chavoron, and it wasn’t as though I was leaving either of them undefended, or in some sort of danger. Curatio was the fiercest gladiator in all the land and had no reluctance, I suspected, to kill a Protanian should one happen upon them with ill intention. And Jena was no delicate flower, either. Her spell magic was fierce, as I had learned firsthand.

  I ran the eternal distance to the tower top. I felt my wind affected by my months of captivity, but I ignored it, questions whirling in my head, questions that begged to be answered. I asked them to myself and discarded almost as many, having a conversation in my head that I had played out over the course of months spent in the ground.

  What can I do?

  How can I help?

  What can I do to fix this?

  How can I make it right?

  Do you want me to go home now?

  The last one struck me hard, echoing in me like someone had hit a chime within my chest, and I wondered why it ran through me so.

  Do you want me to go home now?

  I blinked as I ran, fixed on my target ahead, but an uncomfortable question bubbled up in its wake, jarred loose by it for the first time.

  Where is home?

  Where do I belong?

  There?

  Here?

  Or perhaps … nowhere?

  I was not far from the tower now, only a few hundred feet. I could see the balconies, the doors thrown wide, and I angled my approach toward the nearest. I could see the darkness within, the tower silent, only a single light burning inside. It was hidden from view by the wall before me, and I came around and saw within the building, the familiar setting.

  It all looked the same; the furniture all in order, the bed in the corner, neatly made. I could see movement, a figure sitting with his back to the door, focused on something in his lap and with a wine goblet on the table at his side.

  The cold wind blew at me, and I shuddered as I came over the balcony and dispelled the floating magic. My feet hit the stone softly, and I watched as Chavoron tensed, sitting up straight in his chair. I heard his book thump closed with a deep echo of a heavy volume’s pages slamming together, and he reached for his goblet, taking a drink and then replacing it awkwardly. It tipped and fell to the stone floor with a clatter, the wine spilling out. He draw a sharp breath. “I have been expecting you,” he said quietly.

  “Have you?” I asked. “How? For I didn’t know I was coming until just now.”

  Chavoron stood, suddenly, coming around with surprise on his face. “Alaric,” he said, nearly breathless. His face warmed at the sight of me, and then fell. “You can’t be here,” he said, paling visibly to a lighter shade of blue. “Not now.”

  “I can’t wait any longer,” I said, taking a step forward. “I tried. Tried to live in your exile, but I can’t. Questions … they dance around me night and day, eating away at me with guilt. I have to know. Have to … you have to tell me …”

  He stared at me carefully. “You want to know if there’s anything you can do to make things right.”

  I sagged in relief. He already knew the workings of my heart. “Yes,” I said, suddenly warm, like I’d returned indoors after a long excursion in winter snow. I felt …

  … Like I’d returned where I belonged.

  Home.

  “Come sit,” he said softly, ushering me forward with an extended arm, his eyes warm, and his smile welcoming. “Come,” he said, and I stepped into the tower further, feeling that—at last—perhaps the answers I sought in my soul were finally at hand.

  75.

  Cyrus

  “Again?” Cyrus asked, hand still holding fast to Praelior’s hilt, blinking in astonishment at the God of War, looming before him in the darkness.

  “Yes, you see, it's a traditional manner of greeting,” Bellarum said. “So…are you well? Exceptionally well? Poorly? Exceptionally poorly? Just asking after your spirits, your health.”

  “I’ve been recovering from what you did to me,” Cyrus said acidly, looking sidelong over his shoulder. Cora stood there, transfixed, staring at the God of War as he spoke politely.

  “So … constitution poor, spirits good?” Bellarum asked, as though trying to prompt a reply. “Or are you fully mended and raring to go, spirit and flesh in harmony?”

  “No,” Cyrus replied stiffly. �
��I find myself in rather poor spirits, and my leg still hurts.”

  “It’ll pass,” Bellarum said dismissively. “I must confess, though I am asking after you, I’m not really here for you.” He gestured to the wall beyond, where the messy splatter dripped, indicating the passing of the God of Mischief. “This is the first time he’s stuck his head out of his little rat hole in months, so I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.” He looked over Cyrus’s shoulder to Cora and spoke. “Sorry you had to witness, that, but I expect you’ve seen worse, haven’t you, Cora?”

  “On a few occasions,” Cora said, the worry apparent beneath a thin veneer of calm. “Though I can’t recall ever seeing one god kill another in front of me, so … that’s new.”

  “They’re not gods, you know,” Bellarum said, shifting, his armor making noise like Cyrus’s did as he stood taller in the low chamber. “I suppose I should include myself in that—as I was, not as I am now, for I am a god standing before you at this moment, yes.” His breastplate rose, puffing with pride. “I no longer need to play the games we played in those days, hiding from you mortals, exaggerating our strength.” He looked right at Cyrus. “As a boy surrounded by enemies might feign that he is stronger than he is, more vicious, in order to keep them off him. You understand.”

  “I understand,” Cyrus said. “And I remember the days when it became no longer necessary to hide.”

  “That’s why I like you, Cyrus,” Bellarum said soberly. “You understand me in a way that few others do. You were beaten down, brought low, crushed under the boot, but you never let that hold you back or define you. You’ve seen the fire and forged yourself harder coming through it. Pain and suffering were the instruments you used to drive out your weaknesses. And you’ve seen plenty of it, oh yes. I see it burning out of you even now, bit by bit.” He looked meaningfully at Cora. “Inch by inch.” He looked down at Cyrus once more. “Well. Do you have an answer for me?”