“Oh?” Cyrus asked, as she turned from him, grabbing her boots and starting up the stairs. “What’s that?”
“That no man can be trusted,” she said, looking back at him, eyes flashing in the light of the torch next to her. “Not even the one who appears as a hero-a knight, shining-who says he will save you. All men are the same, with their own barbs, and swords, and their own ways of inflicting scars.” Her flush carried all the way to her face this time, and she left, her bare feet slapping on the stone up the steps, and when she reached the flat ground at the top he heard her stride turn to a run until she was gone.
Chapter 30
The dawn found him sleepless, in his tower room, with his armor already strapped on. He left as the first rays came over the horizon. The stableboy, a red-haired, freckled lad, yawned and handed over the reins to Windrider. Cyrus took them and mounted up, riding the long way around the castle, through the southern courtyard and the western one, until he reached the northern one and its gate, taking particular note of the southern gate as he passed it, the portcullis down and rusted, ominous in the silence pouring forth from beyond it.
Cyrus rode out the north gate of Enrant Monge, and found an assemblage waiting. Curatio and J’anda, Terian and Longwell, along with Aisling, who rode next to Mendicant. Not far from them waited another figure, smaller, and Cyrus called out when he saw him.
“What is he doing unbound?” Cyrus asked, pointing at Partus, who sat upon his horse, his warhammer slung behind him.
“It seemed the thing to do,” Curatio said, drawing Cyrus’s attention.
“The suicidal thing to do, you mean,” Cyrus said. “He killed me.”
“Now, now,” J’anda said, “you’ve died several times. What’s the harm in one more?”
“I don’t know,” Cyrus said, irritable. “What was your name again? I’m having trouble remembering.”
The enchanter shrugged and smiled, then loosed an illusion upon himself that made him look like Cyrus, armor and all. “Do you think you could remember my name now, you handsome devil?”
“That’s pretty damned disturbing,” Terian said, trying not to look at the two of them. “If the two of you touch each other, will you become one massive Cyrus, like, twelve feet tall?”
“No,” J’anda-Cyrus said, “we would simply touch, just as would happen with anyone else.”
“Are you sure?” Aisling said, staring at the two of them with undisguised amusement. “Try giving each other a hug and a kiss, just to be certain.”
“That’s revolting,” Terian said.
“I could stand to watch it a little while,” Aisling said with a coy smile. “And then maybe participate-”
“Ugh, ugh, ugh,” Terian said, shaking his head and speaking so loudly that it drowned out the rest of Aisling’s sentence.
“You know,” J’anda said with a raised eyebrow at Cyrus, “if you wanted to really disturb Terian-”
“No,” Cyrus said, and then looked his doppelganger up and down. “It’s not that you’re not pretty enough,” he said with more lightness than he actually felt, “but I find that this morning I’m simply not in the mood.”
“Hah,” J’anda-Cy said as Terian gagged in the background. “The way you say that would seem to indicate that later you would-”
“No.” Cyrus shook his head. “But you do look good like that.”
Cyrus looked over the space before them. They were on a dusty road, assembling with a few others. Cyrus saw Count Ranson and another man, clad in the surcoat Cyrus had seen on the men of Actaluere, speaking with Briyce Unger, who seemed to be watching them both with little interest. A guard posse of thirty or so was assembled near Unger, and Cyrus urged Windrider forward toward the King of Syloreas, catching Unger’s attention when he neared.
“We’ll be riding at a fair clip,” Briyce Unger said with a nod of acknowledgment to Cyrus. “Not so hard as to kill the horses, but we’ll be pushing them. Likely need some time to rest and care for them between rides, but I hope your animals are up to a hard pace, because we’ll be traveling north for at least the next month to get to Scylax.” The King looked at them soberly.
Without another word, Unger turned his horse around and yelled while spurring it, causing the horse to whinny and charge ahead at a gallop. Unger’s guard began to trot forward as well, following their King. Cyrus waited for Count Ranson and the Actaluere envoy to fall in and he waved a hand directing the Sanctuary force, numbering somewhere around twenty-five, he estimated, to fall in behind them.
They rode hard for the rest of the day, taking breaks every few hours to care for the horses and feed the men. Unger marveled when Cyrus had Mendicant conjure oats for the animals, shaking his massive, shaggy head. “You westerners and your magicians,” he said as his horse fed, “our ancestors had the right of it; your land is one in which our men do not belong.”
“I’m a man,” Cyrus said, raising his eyebrow at Unger. “And I have no magic. You saying I don’t belong?”
“Don’t know,” Unger said. “Can you fight those fellows that use it?”
“I’ve fought a few,” Cyrus said. “Killed a few, too.”
“All the better for you,” Unger said with a smirk. “Perhaps I’ll get the chance one of these days.” The King’s smirk faded. “Not anytime soon, though, I hope. We need all the help we can get now, magical and otherwise.”
“What’s it been like?” Cyrus asked as he ran a brush along Windrider’s side.
Briyce Unger didn’t answer for a moment. They stood under a tree that was ten times the height of a man, and Cyrus could see the sun shine through the boughs, casting leaf-shaped shadows on the King of Syloreas’s face which moved subtly as the leaves swayed in the wind. The shadows moved, the shifting patches of darkness giving Unger’s face the tint of a man uncertain, greyed out, cast in shadow. “They come in great numbers. One or two of them is no challenge; like fighting any man or perhaps a cunning bear or mountain lion.”
A very slight smile crept over his lips. “I rode back from Galbadien, from the war, when I got the message from one of my nobles in the mountains saying his hall and the villages around him had been overrun by beasts he could scarce describe-that it was like things out of our old mountain legends, the things that would bring about the end of all men. This man was brave and old and rode with my father in wars that could only be described as fearful. I went home, as fast as I could, and made it only in time to fight one battle with this scourge, this plague.
“I’ve fought battles,” Unger said, his face haunted. “You know, I can tell by your face you’ve been in a melee or twelve. You don’t fear the battle, you thrill to it. I do, anyway. But this battle was different. I’ve been overmatched before, no shame in that. Being outnumbered is a northman’s lot, it’s the way of Syloreas. We fight harder because we have fewer men, that’s the way of things.
“But these … creatures,” he pronounced with disgust, “they keep coming. We met them in a village in a pass. They came at us, and the battle was good at first; I was up to my knees in their dead by the end of the first hour, as it should be. The second hour, I was up to my chest in a pile of my own dead, and still they came. They do not bend with the chaos, they do not ebb with loss; they are implacable, unstoppable, insatiable in their desire to destroy all around them, and they gave me a taste of fear, I am not ashamed to say.” The King of Syloreas stopped, and looked at Cyrus, shaking his head. “My first taste in a long, long while. I have never, not in battles where my men were outnumbered ten to one, not even on the day I found myself alone in a pack of wolves, ever felt so afraid and surrounded by the odds arrayed against me.”
The King of Syloreas swallowed hard. “I confess I thought myself a coward after that. Retreat against poor odds is acceptable; sometimes a strategic retreat is the only way you can win a war later, or preserve a Kingdom to fight through another day. But when I ran from that village, I did not do it strategically or in the name of preserving anything but my own ar
se against a foe that seemed unstoppable, a scourge that looked to take everything, and fill the land from end to end with my dead and theirs until I could see no more ground.”
Cyrus listened and watched the King as he shook his head once more in amazement, or consternation at his own story, and walked away from Cyrus still shaking his head.
The next days were long and hard on the horses. Cyrus, for his part, had been riding on horseback so heavily for the last few months that it seemed almost as though he would live the rest of his life there. It was almost as if he had known no other life but this, save for a brief spell in the castle of Vernadam, when he slept in a bed and received all the blessings of civilization, and all the affections a woman could give.
By the time the second week of their ride had rolled around, the days were long again for riding, and Cyrus found his mind weary. Sleep did not come easily at night, and his restless slumber was punctuated by evenings when he thought of Cattrine, of their encounter at Enrant Monge, and he tossed and turned in his bedroll near the fire, unable to find any relief.
His eyes wandered frequently during the ride, as the fatigue conspired to wear him down. Aisling always seemed to be about, though she kept her distance from him. He found himself looking for her, especially when he rode near the back of the group. He watched her on her horse, his eyes drinking in the curves of her body, and he let his mind drift, thinking of her and Cattrine and Vara, interchanging the three of them in his mind and memory, imagining himself in bed in his quarters at Vernadam with Aisling, her blue skin pressed against him. Then it was Vara, her blond hair glistening in the light cast by the fire in the hearth, scars on her back and legs reminding him that it was in fact Cattrine that had been there with him, satiating his hunger, not Vara or Aisling.
He tried to shake the thoughts out of his mind, but neither the water he splashed on his face nor the rest he tried to take at night could keep them at bay for long. He spent long days thinking, not of what waited for him ahead nor of his companion travelers (save for when they spoke to him, which was more than they had in the last few months when he had a constant black cloud around him) but of Vara and her betrayal, and of Cattrine and her betrayal, and of Aisling, and the three of them, and all the things that he and Cattrine had done, all the little pleasures, of how he wanted to feel them again.
They journeyed across flat lands, plains, through forests that grew more lush and leafy as they went north. Summer was beginning to set in hard upon them, the sun beating down and warming the land. A week of vicious heat after leaving Enrant Monge became milder as they went on, easing into beautiful traveling weather.
Cyrus could see mountains in the distance after three weeks, foothills just ahead that made him remember Fertiss and the halls of the dwarven capital back in Arkaria. He could see snow-capped peaks, something that looked singularly out of place after the heat they had experienced only scant weeks earlier. The plains became greener as they went, nursed by flowing streams that came from the mountains. The land was verdant, reminding Cyrus of everything that Vernadam had been when they arrived, and even, vaguely, of the Plains of Perdamun, where he was certain it was now hot, hotter than what they had experienced at Enrant Monge or after it as they headed north.
The foothills became steeper as the mountains drew closer. Women remained the only thing on Cyrus’s mind, and in rapid succession they came and went in his head, Aisling, Vara, Cattrine. He wondered why Aisling would fit into his thoughts, and realized that she was one of the only women on the expedition with him, and the only one he truly knew other than in passing. At last he realized with a shock one night while staring at her as she sat at another fire, her back to him, that she was the only woman with them that he found remotely attractive. She had made suggestions to him in the past, things that made him warm in the night when he recalled the words. Now she said nothing to him, as though he were not even there.
I feel like a teenage boy, he admitted to himself one night by the fire, long after the others had gone to sleep, and he had tossed in his bedroll for hours. Just as confused and alone as I did back at the Society, unsure of anything, and even more conflicted. He shook his head, as though he could somehow jar loose contemplations of either Vara or Cattrine, both of whom dominated his thoughts. I am a warrior. I need battle, I need the clarity of it. To go this long without combat is a drain, and I obsess over these … lustful, useless thoughts.
“You may be setting some sort of record for sleeplessness.” The dry voice of Terian came from behind him and he turned to see the dark elf, sitting once more with his sword across his lap, a rag polishing the edge of the blade. “I remain amazed that you don’t fall unconscious on your horse each day as we ride.”
“And you?” Cyrus asked. “Do you linger, sleepless each night as I do? You must, if you see how little rest I get.”
“Aye,” Terian said. “I suspect I get a bit more sleep than you do, but perhaps not by much.”
“And what’s on your mind that keeps you from rest?” Cyrus asked, trying to turn aside the dark knight’s inevitable inquiry before it was made. “What halts the repose of the great Terian Lepos, isolates him from the nocturnal peace he craves?”
“Perhaps I worry about you,” Terian said with a wicked smile. “After all, the wheel has turned for you, my friend. After Harrow’s Crossing you seemed to be at an apex of happiness, such a contrast to the horror that was your glum state of mind on our journey leading up to that point. Then, with one little revelation, all your happiness was swept into the gutter like all the other rubbish and you were in the darkness of Yartraak’s despair again. One could almost feel sorry for you.” He shrugged. “If one didn’t know better, one might think that you were beginning to get as jaded as I am, as you’ve started to stare at our roguish ranger somewhat hungrily,” he nodded his head in the direction of Aisling’s bedroll, and Cyrus saw a shock of her white hair sticking out of the top of it. “You have the look of a man on a diet of barley corn who hungers desperately for meat. Or are you merely switching your affections once more?”
“I am …” Cyrus let his voice trail off, “… not certain of much of anything, but I doubt I have any genuine affection left in me at this point.”
“So rampant lust, then?” Terian said coolly. “I understand that all too well. I hope to find a soothing balm for that at the whorehouse in Scylax.” He rubbed the pommel of his sword. “I’m told they have quite a good one, at least according to a couple of the Syloreans I spoke with.”
“How lovely,” Cyrus said with only a dash of sarcasm.
“Don’t be so high and mighty with me, Lord Davidon,” Terian said, his face falling into shadow. “Now that you’ve awakened to what you’ve been missing all these years, I sense a craven desperation in you. Give you a few more days of staring at the dark elf girl and soon enough you’ll be thinking that a brothel would seem a sweet release.”
“I certainly hope not,” Cyrus said. “I don’t care what you do, Terian, but I’m not you. I don’t begrudge you your entertainments, but don’t fall into the trap of thinking that I’ll make the same decisions you do simply because I’m feeling unsatisfied.”
“You’ll see, soon enough,” Terian said with a small smile, a bitter one. “You could ignore it before, when you channeled everything into battle and into your idiotic feelings for Vara. Now that that’s all done, the Baroness opened your eyes. Sure, she stabbed you good, in the heart, but now you’re awake. You know people will betray you, that women will betray you, but you know what you want from them-at least part of it. She did you a favor, helping you get out of your chains and reminding you that you have a … pulse,” he said with a salacious grin. “Give you a month more of suffering in silence, bedding in common areas and you’ll either go crawling off into the woods to take hold of your own release or you’ll get smart and realize that the coin of the realm will buy you the same relief, and it’ll be that much better for being real.”
“I doubt there’s much ‘re
al’ about what you do in a whorehouse,” Cyrus said. “Other than feel really, truly cheated afterward.”
“Ah, there’s that sanctimoniousness again,” Terian said. “You think you’re better than me, I know, but you’re not, and the sooner you realize it the better off you’ll be. I’ve never had a whore betray me nor lie to me in a way that could hurt my feelings, bruise my ego, or stab me in the heart. I’ve never had a harlot turn down my coin nor send me running dejected to fight another man’s war in another man’s land, and I’ve certainly not had it happen twice in a row. If you lie down with dogs, you get fleas.” His smile disappeared, replaced by a thin look of malice coupled with warning. “And when you lie down with a woman and give her your heart, you get swallowed up, lost. You’ve seen it, you’ve felt it, you’ve lived it-what? Three times now? — yet still you ignore the lessons of your own experience. That makes you more a fool than any fool I’ve met, motley or otherwise.”
“Such a friend you are to me, Terian,” Cyrus said, “and so wise is your counsel. I won’t deny that after my time with the Baroness, I am … awakened … to possibilities again, as you put it. But I’m a man, not a beast, and my wounds are my own concern, as is satisfying my cravings, whatever they might be. I’d rather have some feeling to go along with that satisfaction, as a man, so I don’t simply rut in the dark with a stranger, like a beast.”
“Push comes to shove,” Terian said, “when you’re cold and alone after this long ride and the warmth of a friendly bed beckons to you, you’ll go to it, unquestioning, stranger or not, gold exchanging hands or not. I know you, even more so now, and I know what you’ll do.”
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