“So, a dark elven wizard,” J’anda said with slitted eyes.
“Presumably,” Ryin said.
“Possibly,” Vaste corrected.
“And trolls,” J’anda went on. “For the Sovereignty.” He nodded slowly, eyes wide. “Well, that is quite a lot of conjecture wrapped into a nice ball and thrown against the wall.”
“You have a better theory?” Vaste asked.
“I do not,” J’anda said, folding his hands and putting them on the table before him as he leaned forward. “Far be it from me to suggest that the Sovereignty is anything but greatly evil. They are fully capable of such a thing. But it seems an odd waste of their resources at a time when they are falling back on all fronts—” J’anda stopped, his face changed in a moment, scanning the table around him.
Cyrus felt it too, a change in the atmosphere of the room, a subtle movement among a few of their members. He honed in on Vara, whose face had returned to a stony countenance. “What?” he asked, waiting to see who would speak first. “Something has happened,” he said, glancing over to Vaste, who was slumped once more, head down. “What is it?”
“The news was waiting when we returned to Sanctuary earlier today,” Curatio said, the strain evident on his face. The dark circles under his eyes were even more shadowed now, and his mouth was a thin line when it came to rest as he paused. “The dark elves have begun a new offensive.” He pursed his lips for just a beat before he went on. “They have struck out into the Human Confederation in a lightning assault and taken massive territorial gains in the Riverlands and the Northlands.”
Chapter 22
“Why the Riverlands and Northlands?” J’anda asked, his weathered face torn by surprise.
“Food,” Cyrus said dully. The sweet aroma of the hearth smoke filled his nostrils as his thoughts swirled in his head, the stone block that comprised the Council Chambers glinting here and there in small sparkles of light from the odd reflective grain on the surface. Cyrus knew every head in the chamber was now turned to him. “If they had struck west, into the Plains of Perdamun, it would gain them nothing at present.” He lifted his head and surveyed the table as he answered, the taste in his mouth sudden and acidic. “The plains are engulfed in shortages and famine from the last efforts of the dark elves.”
“But the Elven Kingdom?” J’anda asked. “Surely it would be a rich prize—”
“If there were some beachhead for the dark elves, it surely would be,” Vara spoke, stiff and upright in her chair. “But there is none. To take the Kingdom would be to fight their way over the bridges in Termina—and could only be accomplished after cutting a safe supply line across the Plains of Perdamun, which leaves them vulnerable along a line in the north from the Confederation—”
“And with a knife against their belly in the south from us,” Curatio said. “More troubling yet for the Sovereign, because we have shown little reluctance to stab at him in such a manner after we dislodged his army from Prehorta.”
“As you say,” Cyrus agreed with a nod to Vara and Curatio in turn. He turned his gaze back to J’anda, who waited patiently, listening. “Rather than have to re-establish the lines of supply to wage such a battle against the elves, the Sovereign turns toward greener pastures, sending his armies marching around Lake Magnus to the north and south, hitting the breadbasket of the Confederation. They’re far enough from Reikonos that help will not be swift in coming. They face no threat from the gnomes or goblins in the south, presumably, and the humans are unlikely to receive the help of the dwarves from the north, so …”
“The real question,” Longwell said, “is where did the Sovereign get the troops to stage such a massive incursion?”
“The line around Reikonos, surely,” Cyrus said. “They’ve had the city bottled up for a long time now without pressing any sort of attack there. He probably called his dogs off there and—”
“No,” Curatio said, shaking his head. “There have been repeated battles along that line of late, assaults staged by the Sovereignty, and there is no weakness in that front.”
“If anything,” Vara said, shifting her gaze to Cyrus, “Isabelle reports that the fighting around Reikonos has grown more fervent. The dark elves throw troops into the battle in numbers that they have not previously been willing to commit.”
“How fares your sister?” Cyrus asked, while his mind whirled and worked on the problem at hand.
“She is well enough,” Vara said, though her jaw tightened. “Weary, but well enough. The assault on Reikonos proceeds along a line fifty miles south of the city, but in her last correspondence she mentioned that they were losing ground. That was a week ago, though. I have no idea how things might have changed in the interim.”
“Whatever the case,” Curatio said with an air of finality, “and no matter how our interests might run, this is not our problem at present. And may I remind you all that we have quite enough of our own concerns to deal with.”
“Curatio,” Vara said gently—for her, in Cyrus’s estimation, “are you quite all right?”
Curatio held steady for a moment, and then his countenance darkened. He sat in the chair next to Alaric’s old one—largest of all of them in the room, with its great sweeping back. Yet in the moments that followed, Cyrus would have sworn that Curatio grew taller than the chair of the Guildmaster.
“We stand in the middle of crisis,” Curatio said, words beginning low in his throat, almost a growl. “Disappearances that we have taken the responsibility of solving. All fine and good. Mysteries to unravel, even as the world unravels around us. I, however, can only weather so much unraveling.” Curatio stood, and his chair scraped forcefully across the uneven stones of the floor. “We grow at present, we face the strains of it, and it falls on one head—and one head alone!” His face darkened still further, then lightened for but a moment. “I did not ask for this responsibility. I did not want it.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head, but the scowl remained. “And I only wish Alaric would come back and take it.”
With that he reached into the neck of his robes and pulled out a pendant upon a chain. Cyrus could see it in the dim light of the torches and hearth, and it looked familiar. It was circular, almost like a perfectly round stone, but flatter and small enough to fit in the palm if absent the chain. He could see etchings swirling around it, but they were illegible in the dark. It took him but a moment to realize that it was the pendant that Alaric had handed Cyrus before destroying the Endless Bridge.
“I carry this unwanted thing,” Curatio said, and his eyes were open now, searching each and every one of them. “I carry this burden unasked. I was never to be the leader!” He was shouting now. “It was always to be him, never me! I did not desire it, did not seek it—” he let the heavy pendant drop on the table and it landed with a thump, “—and I no longer want it. The healer’s face grew into a mask of disgust. “I am the Elder of this guild and no more. Decide among yourselves who wants the responsibility of being the Guildmaster.”
There was a pause longer than a breath. “Curatio,” Vara said first, “electing a new Guildmaster now would be—”
“Entirely appropriate,” Curatio said, his words strong, like beaten iron. “And inevitable.”
“It is not time yet,” Vara said, and Cyrus could see her hand shaking where it was clenched on the table, her gauntlet rattling against the wooden edge. “He has not been gone but for—”
“Six months,” Curatio spat and leaned toward her across Alaric’s old seat. “Do you not see what the rest of us find blindingly obvious? He is gone, child. Gone, and not to return. The rest of us are left holding what remains, but none lead.”
“You could,” J’anda said, looking to Curatio. “You have.”
“I cannot,” Curatio said, and his hands came up to cover his face. “I cannot any longer. I have troubles on my mind, worries of my own.” His hands came away, but the face remained the same—weary and tired, though the anger was gone. “It is not for me to fall into this role u
nelected. The charter forbids it. I am no longer capable of bearing the burdens that this puts upon me, and no longer willing to accept the strain. Not now.” He spoke quietly, and to Cyrus’s ears his words were nearly a plea. “Find someone else.”
After brief seconds looking around the Council’s table, he moved to Alaric’s chair, holding his hand against it, then stepped toward Vara and clasped her on the shoulder. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear that caused her to close her eyes. When finished, he straightened and began to thread a steady path around the table edge toward the door. He did not stop until he had reached it, and then only long enough to open and shut it quietly.
Cyrus looked across the table to Vara, where she sat next to Alaric’s old chair, still empty. Her eyes were closed, and a single tear was working its way down her pale cheek.
Chapter 23
When it was obvious that the Council meeting was ended, Cyrus was one of the first to leave. He did not care to sit and stare at Vara, who still sat in her chair, unmoving.
He left the door to the Council Chambers open behind him, passing torches burning on the wall. Darkness was visible outside the windows, and he could feel the pull of fatigue as he approached the stone stairwell. Somewhere below he could hear talking, laughing—as though there were no cares of any sort in Arkaria.
“Walk with me,” Vaste said, putting a strong hand upon his shoulder and steering toward the stairs going down, rather than the passage leading up. Cyrus found himself dragged along for a step until he caught his footing and fell in beside the troll. Someone else appeared at his right side but with a much gentler touch. It took him a moment to realize it was J’anda, hurrying along to keep up with Vaste’s long steps.
“What the hells is this about?” Cyrus asked as they descended.
“Your future,” Vaste said.
“My future involves a long wrestling match with my pillow,” Cyrus said with more than a little annoyance. It had been a day that he’d begun waking under the stars, that had continued with a journey into the frigid, fearsome Realm of Life and ended with him picking over the site of a slaver ambush before entering another dispiriting, revelation-filled meeting of the Sanctuary Council.
“And a feisty dark elven thief, I’m sure,” Vaste said.
“I am not so sure,” Cyrus replied. “I don’t think I have the energy for that at present.”
“Whatever the case,” Vaste went on, his heavy arm still draped across Cyrus’s shoulders, “we’re not talking about your immediate future. I need you to look a little longer-term than that.”
“I can imagine my breakfast tomorrow,” Cyrus said, “which, by the way, is only about three hours from now.”
Vaste let out an airy sigh. “You’re a dense one.” He turned and looked down at Cyrus. “We want you to run for Guildmaster.”
Cyrus heard himself groan. “I have a lot on my plate right now.”
“I don’t see a plate,” Vaste said. “All I see is a long drop in front of you, which, by the way, is sort of a threat.”
Cyrus looked at the long, central shaft of the circular stairwell. It was quite a ways down. “You’re not exactly motivating me, here.”
“I was mostly kidding,” Vaste said, his irises glittering yellow in the torchlight. “Mostly.”
“You are the natural candidate,” J’anda said from Cyrus’s left. “You are the General of Sanctuary. We already follow where you lead, and your record as a commander in military situations is impeccable.”
Cyrus let that one hang in the air a moment before responding. “You do remember that under my leadership we lost the entire land of Luukessia, right?”
Vaste waved a hand at him. “A trifling concern. Nobody cares about that.”
Cyrus felt a frown crease his face. “I think the ten thousand Luukessians we have in our ranks might care at least a little.”
“You have been leading since the day you got here,” J’anda said, shooting a glare at Vaste. “You have led us on many successful campaigns, and whenever you have made an error, trifling or no, you go out of your way to try and make it right.”
“You were the chosen of Alaric,” Vaste said. “His right hand.”
“I think you’re thinking of Curatio,” Cyrus said. “Alaric was quite displeased with me the last time I had a full conversation with him.”
J’anda smiled. “Oh, he was angry with you on the bridge?”
“Not on the bridge,” Cyrus said. “The last time I had a full conversation with him was the night before we left for Luukessia.”
“That was over a year and a half ago,” Vaste said. “I suspect he found time to consider you his favorite again after that. He did come to save your ass on the bridge, after all.”
Cyrus found himself begin to respond, then stopped. He never could think of the phrase ‘save your ass’ without remembering Niamh. Another death. “He did. But this is irrelevant. Curatio was his chosen second, he was the Elder.”
“And now Curatio is out of the way,” Vaste said, lifting his hand off of Cyrus’s shoulder and into the sky as if mimicking a bird taking off, “so who is left?”
“I don’t know,” Cyrus said with a shake of the head. “You—”
“I’m not running,” Vaste said. “I don’t have the disposition for it.”
“J’anda—”
“No. I have another task,” J’anda said, quelling Cyrus with a raised hand, “which we will discuss soon.
“Fine,” Cyrus said. “Pick one: Vara, Longwell, Erith—”
“No, no, no,” Vaste said.
“—Ryin or Nyad—”
“Basically the same person, and no,” Vaste went on.
“—all right, enough!” Cyrus said. “Why none of them?”
“Because you are the General,” J’anda said quietly.
“We are not a mercenary guild,” Cyrus said, feeling a deep sense of shame. “Well, we were never supposed to be one. That, in my mind, is argument enough why I shouldn’t be Guildmaster.”
“It is easy to talk about what you should or shouldn’t do,” J’anda said with a slow nod. “For example, there is a subset of the wealthy in Pharesia which only eats vegetation. No meats, only vegetables. They do this because it is supposed to be a healthier diet and obviously kinder to animals.”
“I find that unconscionable,” Vaste said, deadpan. “My day is incomplete without a helping of the flank torn off some suffering beast.”
“My point is this,” J’anda went on. “Were they starving, they would be forced to eat anything that came their way, meat included, or else they would die. Those in a position of peace and splendor are allowed different choices than those in war and famine. It is fine to pontificate on the morality of Sanctuary’s recent decisions, but when you have tens of thousands of mouths to feed and a land in upheaval, the time to pontificate is over. In the time of war, choices are a luxury we no longer have.”
“That doesn’t really sway me,” Cyrus said. He could tell they were reaching the bottom of the stairwell. “If you don’t hold to what you believe in times of difficulty, then you don’t truly believe in it. It’s easy to say you believe in something when it’s untested. It’s only when you’re put through the fire that the truth of the blade comes out.” He lowered his voice. “And we failed the test. I failed the test. Alaric believed in a guild that was to serve the greater good and not be mercenaries, and however we want to honey-coat it, on the purest level, we failed. We took a job for money.”
“That we might have taken anyway,” Vaste said. “This is not some lily-white pure league, Cyrus. We kill beasts, armies, enemies. We fight for a living.”
“We’re supposed to adventure,” Cyrus said dryly.
“And if the world were a perfect place filled with no danger, we might not have to do those things,” Vaste replied as they drew near to the end of the steps. There were voices echoing through the foyer, the guards on duty still raucous in the night. “But it is not. We live in a world where powe
rs are at war, where nature itself would turn on you and send chipmunks after your genitalia.”
Cyrus stared up at Vaste with his mouth slightly open. “I don’t think that was nature.”
“Who says that today is the first time angry chipmunks have attacked me in such a manner?” Vaste replied. “You cannot tell me that a lion of the Gradsden Savanna would pass on eating you if given a choice.”
“I have been told they do eat people if given a chance,” Cyrus conceded. “Your point is taken. We live in an unsafe world. But we were to be an example, to stand above the rest.”
“It’s really hard to help the people who are down on their knees,” J’anda said quietly, “when you’re busy standing above them in example.”
“I’m not a leader,” Cyrus said. He took the last few steps, boots clinking all the way. “Not for this guild, not for—”
They entered the foyer, and the raucousness ceased. There were men and women standing around the center crest, warriors and rangers. Farther back he could see a few spell casters clad in robes. They went silent when they saw him, a hush that spread over the room quickly as every face turned to look at him. The warriors in their plate and leather armors straightened, snapping almost to attention. The rangers, woodsmen and women, usually a rabble at best, stood stiff with their bows at their sides. Cyrus could see the spell casters in their robes in the corners, fewer than their counterparts that battled with steel and wood but still in some approximation of military attention.
“As you were,” Cyrus said, and he could feel the tension in the room release, though it did not become as loud as before he had entered.
“I can see why you think you’re not a leader,” Vaste said, nodding his head subtly and slowly. “Obviously no one respects or listens to you.”
“I don’t—” Cyrus stopped as he heard the clank of plate boots on the stairs behind him. Vara emerged from the stairwell, a navy cloak wrapped around her shoulders. “Vara?”
Master (Book 5) Page 14
