Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  “There is no shame in what we do,” she said, and he caught the first hint of anger from her.

  “There is shame for how I feel as we do what we do,” Cyrus said. “I don’t imagine you as we linger together. I close my eyes and—”

  “Stop,” she said, closing her own. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  Her gaze found him again. “Let her go.”

  “I cannot,” Cyrus said. “I … won’t.”

  There was a calculation performed behind her eyes in that moment, something he had never seen from her before. She did not move for a long moment. “Are you certain?” she asked finally, a low whisper that carried not even a hint of seduction.

  “I am,” Cyrus said. “And I am truly sorry.”

  She glanced away, lips pursed, and when she moved, it was toward the stairs. “You need not feel sorry on my account.” Her shoulders were straight, her walk as silent as ever as she stole down the steps.

  “But I do anyhow,” Cyrus said.

  She paused at the door, turned to look back at him as he stared down at her. A flicker of emotion came over her, then another, and another. They passed in succession, each no more than a fragment, but each something that Cyrus had never seen from her before, and it stirred his curiosity. “Farewell,” she said finally said and disappeared through the door without another word.

  Cyrus watched the darkened door for a moment, pondering what he had seen. Unable to make any sense of it, he eventually retired to the balcony that looked to the south and stared out at the moonlit waters of the river Perda, running wide across the empty plains. He almost felt as though he were gliding across the water himself, running as weightless as if he had the Falcon’s Essence upon him, free of some burden he had not even known he had carried.

  Chapter 56

  The light autumn fell upon the Plains of Perdamun with as gentle a touch as it always did, turning only the occasional tree red and yellow with its kiss. The bluster of a north wind settled in, blowing for weeks at a time. Cyrus did not count the days, nor did he try to track them at all, save for by the news that blew in as though carried by the winds. It always seemed to come out of the north as well, and sometimes with as much bitterness as the wintry gusts.

  “Reikonos is under heavy siege,” J’anda told Cyrus as they walked through the grounds. Cyrus had eschewed the Council Chamber on this occasion as the enchanter had promised things that were for his ears only, safely away from those who might be whispering them directly back to the Sovereign of Saekaj. It still made Cyrus uneasy, the thought of a traitor in their midst, but he was able to keep this malingering disquiet to himself. Who else would I tell at this point? he wondered to himself without amusement. “They have only a few miles before the dark elves will be at their gates,” the enchanter went on.

  “That bodes ill,” Cyrus said. “The Big Three are unable to stem the advance?”

  “Amarath’s Raiders have pulled out of the city’s defense completely,” J’anda said tonelessly. “Burnt Offerings and Endeavor hold the line with only the aid of the Confederation’s soldiers.”

  “Hells,” Cyrus murmured. “It truly is an ill wind out of the north.”

  “Not the north,” J’anda said. “Thanks to your defense of Livlosdald, the Northlands remain safe. The Riverlands, on the other hand …”

  “That front goes ill as well?” Cyrus asked, his steps growing more uneven with each bit of news. “The Confederation has little in the way of glad tidings, then.”

  “It could be worse,” J’anda said with a shrug. “The Confederation still controls several vital defense points on that front. All is not lost yet. And the siege of Reikonos could be a very long and costly one for the Sovereign, should he continue to gamble on that front.”

  “It seems like he’s making sound bets,” Cyrus said, “though I would love to know the origin of his seemingly endless font of troops.”

  “The truth will come out eventually,” J’anda said, and Cyrus could see the discomfort even in the lines of the dark elf’s face, wrinkles set upon with an unhappy expression. “Soon, I hope.”

  “Before this war is prematurely ended, I hope,” Cyrus said.

  “Terian also asked me to convey his hopes that we will be able to have a more thorough conversation within the next week,” J’anda said.

  “Lovely,” Cyrus said, “I’m certain that will be a productive talk, since neither of you are able to truly discuss the secrets of the Sovereign.”

  “We are making preparations,” J’anda said. “Details need to be attended to before we can make our move.”

  “A move you can’t tell me anything about,” Cyrus said.

  J’anda looked only a little pained. “It is a tricky business, being a spy whose loyalties are supposedly in flux. I have maintained illusions for more minds at a time than almost any other enchanter in Arkaria. But the illusion I maintain now I do without the benefit of my skills, which are useless in building this particular facade.”

  “How do you do it, then?” Cyrus asked.

  J’anda’s expression slipped for just a moment, and Cyrus caught something from the dark elf he had never seen before; a cold, burning fury that almost made him want to take a step back. “I have motivation. Debts unpaid that need to be settled before my end.”

  Cyrus considered pulling on that small thread, seeing what else came out, but something in the very back of him told him not to. “I trust you.”

  The fury passed, replaced by the enchanter’s usual, amiable mien. “As well you should.”

  They left it at that, the bluster chilling Cyrus enough that as soon as he’d seen J’anda disappear into the light of a return spell, he turned his course back onto the path around Sanctuary, headed to the front doors. He kept his cloak tight around him to ward against the chill but found it did little. It was a low agony, a slow, biting wind that nipped, stealing a little of his warmth at a time.

  When he opened the door into the foyer and felt the warmth spread over him, it was like the relief of a bath after the aches of battle. He took in the breath of sweet smoke that wafted from the massive hearth to his right, running along the side of the room. The assembled guard standing encircled around the seal only gave the briefest of looks toward him as he shut the massive door behind him. He gave a nod of greeting and received several hundred in return.

  “Ah, so there is a fool willing to brave the day’s chill,” Vara said from his left, emerging from the lounge with a leather-bound volume clenched in her silver gauntlet.

  “If a fool’s required, you always know where to find me,” Cyrus said with a tight smile that was returned only a little. “How goes it, Lady Vara?”

  She raised an eyebrow to him. “It goes, Lord Davidon. Have you any news to report?”

  “Rumors, mostly,” Cyrus said, with a twinge of guilt. Much as he wanted to immediately share what he’d heard from J’anda, he drew the circle tight around himself, allowing no drop of knowledge to spill out of it. “Have we heard anything from the Confederation of late?”

  “Nothing substantial,” Vara said, peering at him curiously. “My sister has been inconsistent with her updates of late. Have you heard anything?”

  “Nothing of Endeavor,” Cyrus said, suddenly mindful of the hundreds of eyes around them. “On a different subject, might you consider … joining me for dinner tonight?”

  She frowned at him. “I eat dinner with you every night.”

  “Not in the Great Hall,” Cyrus said, suddenly feeling a bit like he’d always imagined the teenagers in the Society felt when preparing to ask other members of their Blood Family to the occasional formal events. “In my quarters.”

  There was a batting of her lashes, but it came and left quickly, with no other sign of emotion. “I am afraid I must politely decline, Lord Davidon.” The formality of her reply made him think of the falling snow in the Realm of Life, blanketing hope with something cold and damp and lifeless.

  “O
f course,” Cyrus said with a nod and started toward the stairs as she made a move to do the same. They both stopped, pained, and he gestured for her to go first. She hesitated, then finally moved to do so, circling around the garrison of soldiers in the center of the room.

  Cyrus, for his part, watched her go without moving to follow, considering alternative courses he might take instead. His eyes went from the lounge to the doors of the Great Hall, anything to keep from a long, uncomfortable walk up the stairs following in Vara’s close company.

  “You look like a man in desperate need of somewhere to go.” Andren’s voice fell upon him from his left, and he watched the healer emerge from the front doors.

  “I would honestly take a drink right now, willingly and gladly,” Cyrus said.

  Andren shook his head. “Can’t.”

  Cyrus peered down at the clean-shaven elf, so different in bearing than the friend he’d known for so long. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I would normally be the first to offer you a drink, and gladly,” Andren said, a little too appeasingly for Cyrus’s taste. “But we can’t right now. A messenger came a few minutes ago, a herald if you will.”

  “Heralding what?” Cyrus asked with a frown. “The end of all dispensaries and ale consumption in the southern plains?”

  “The imminent arrival of Pretnam Urides on urgent business,” Andren said. “I’m sending word to the rest of the Council now. Says he needs to speak with us immediately.”

  Chapter 57

  Cyrus waited in silence in the Council Chambers, head against the tall wooden backing of his seat, the rest of the Council silent around him. The doors to the outside balcony were propped wide, faint gusts stirring the hearth’s fire every now and again. The smell of home was moderated by the fresh breeze, and Cyrus felt a tickle of anticipation as they waited in an unnatural silence, as though on a death watch.

  “Someone say something.” Ryin broke the room’s silence, the only other noise the stirring of the doors in the breeze and the crackle of the fires.

  “Humans can be bled for almost five hours before they die if you do it correctly,” Vaste said.

  Into the shocked silence that followed, Erith spoke. “How do you know this?”

  “Terian told me,” Vaste said, looking Cyrus right in the eye. It took him only a moment to realize that the troll was watching for a response, and Cyrus did his utmost not to give it to him. How does he know?

  “Before or after he attempted to slay our Guildmaster?” Vara said, archly as ever.

  “Long before,” Vaste said. “Though I imagine he’s had enough practice to have refined his technique since.”

  “You always know just the thing to say.” Curatio was muted in his reply, wry as always in his observation.

  The knock at the door was a welcome diversion for Cyrus, and he nearly fell over himself to speak. “Come in.”

  The door was opened for Pretnam Urides, who walked in with a little less swagger than he’d had last time, Cyrus thought. I wouldn’t have though it possible to see the man this … bloodless. His usually chubby jowls looked thinner, and Cyrus had to concede that the head of the Council of Twelve had seen better days, weeks, months and years.

  “I come to you with a proposal once more,” Urides said without preamble.

  “We’ll just skip the greetings and ask how much gold is involved, then,” Vaste said.

  Urides looked at Vaste with his usual disdain. “Perhaps it might be best to spell out the duty involved before discussing the money.”

  “Oh, all right,” Vaste said. “I suppose a good whore does at least provide some idea of the service involved before mentioning how much it will cost.” Cyrus blanched at the comparison and found himself inadvertently looking at Vara when he recovered. She had an arched eyebrow just for him.

  “Yes, well,” Urides said. “Have you heard Deriviereville?”

  “A town in the Riverlands,” Cyrus said. “Nice place.” He pictured it in his mind. “Not very defensible, though.”

  “It is just as well that we do not plan a defense there, then,” Urides sniffed. “Deriviereville sits upon the Merone River, a key shipping lane and the first gateway to the Riverlands. Swampy roads control the approaches to the town; the only reasonable road runs under the eaves of a keep called Leaugarden some hundred miles to the southwest.”

  “I have been to Leaugarden,” Curatio said. “It is eminently defensible.”

  “All right,” Cyrus said, peering at the head of the Council of Twelve. “So why don’t you defend it?”

  “I will need to mass the soldiers currently holding Livlosdald in order to provide that relief,” Urides said, a little nastily. “Our forces defending the road to Leaugarden are presently in retreat, harried by the full weight of the dark elven army.”

  “I don’t know about the full weight,” Cyrus said, a little slyly. “I heard they’re throwing some reasonable tonnage at Reikonos.”

  “Did you?” Urides said, every syllable conjured of purest ice. “Then you understand why we are unable to provide relief to the Riverlands at the moment; the bulk of our army is doing all that is possible to keep our capital from falling under some considerable onslaught.”

  “When would we be able to expect relief at Leaugarden?” Cyrus asked.

  “One week,” Urides said, sounding unusually subdued.

  Cyrus glanced at Curatio, waiting to gauge the Elder’s reaction. He caught a nod, but a cautious one, before turning to Vara, who looked stonily neutral but nodded her head once as well. “We can do this thing,” Cyrus said, eyes on Urides’s thinning face, “but it will be costly.”

  “We are willing to offer two times what we paid you last time,” Urides said. “Half up front, as before.”

  “Three times as much,” Cyrus countered easily, “and three-quarters up front.”

  “That is highway robbery,” Urides said with even more frost.

  “Oddly, this is not the first time you’ve accused me of that,” Cyrus said evenly, “but at least this time it has the virtue of being true, after a fashion.”

  Urides was unmoved. “It is an extortionate amount.”

  Cyrus leaned forward. “Let us speak plainly—I have little hope of collecting the full amount. Your capital is likely to be under total siege in the immediate future, which means you’ll be cutting off all teleportation in and out in hopes of weathering the storm the dark elves are going to bring down around your ears.”

  “They cannot continue to pour troops into battles at the rate they have been losing them,” Urides said, a little less firmly than Cyrus might have hoped. “Eventually they will reach their snapping point.”

  “I hope for your sake—and all of Arkaria’s—that they do,” Cyrus said. “But in case that day comes after they have had a chance to sack Reikonos and take all the gold from your vaults, I want my due now.”

  The Councilor’s jaw wavered as he stood there. “Your proposition is accepted, simply because I have no other choice. Seven days, this is what you promise me?”

  “Seven days,” Cyrus said.

  “Very well,” Urides said. “Your gold will be here within the hour.”

  “That was awfully fast,” Vaste said.

  “He already had it prepared,” Cyrus said, watching the Councilor carefully. “I did not bargain him up nearly so hard as he expected, all his protestations to the contrary.”

  Urides paused, eyes narrowing. “A decent sort might have done it for less.”

  “My decency is surprisingly restrained with people who have accused me of criminal action in the past,” Cyrus said thinly, “no matter how noble I may find their aims. Also, I have mouths to feed.”

  Urides tipped his head to Cyrus ever so slightly. “Be that as it may, I will not forget this moment.”

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “That I came to your aid in your hour of need or that I asked for payment in exchange?”

  Urides’s expression cooled once more. “Perhaps both. Perhaps on
e more than the other, though which I decline to say.” He raised a hand and disappeared in the light of a spell, the sparkling light of which remained in Cyrus’s eyes, the shaded outline of a man standing between the seats of Odellan and Erith.

  “That was certainly a quick decision,” Ryin said.

  “Once you’ve taken money to be a whore once,” Vaste said, “it’s so much easier upon subsequent engagements.”

  “You speak from personal experience, then,” Vara said.

  “If only,” Vaste sighed longingly. “No, I’m afraid there’s just not enough demand for my services; very few can handle this much manliness even once, let alone twice.”

  “Very few can handle the smell, I rather suspect—”

  “We’ll need scouts on the ground at Leaugarden,” Cyrus said, interrupting the banter between the paladin and the healer. “Nyad. Take Forrestant with you, have him assess the field.” Cyrus turned his gaze to Odellan. “Any idea if his new machines are in working order yet?”

  Odellan’s pained expression was obvious between the twin, flowing golden rivers of hair that framed his face. “Not all of them, no. But some.”

  “Get him to Leaugarden,” Cyrus said to Nyad. “Once you’ve done that, teleport to Emerald Fields and have them send a messenger to Fortin that we’ll be needing his assistance in glorious battle.”

  “Will it truly be glorious?” Nyad asked, skepticism obvious by the thin line of her lips.

  “Gloriously brief if you don’t get done what I’ve asked,” Cyrus said, and she gave him a wary nod before disappearing out the door. “Longwell?” He caught the gaze of the dragoon. “We will most assuredly need the cavalry for this.”

  “I shall prepare them,” Longwell said, a look of rough satisfaction lighting his face.

  “I will make ready with the army,” Odellan said, “unless you have further orders?”

  “I don’t remember Leaugarden,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I’ve passed through there.”