“You’re going to save us,” the boy said, in awe. “You’re going to save Luukessia from them … from those things.”
Cyrus didn’t answer at first, looking back to see if anyone had heard. The others of his party were met by additional lads from the stable, boys collecting the reins to more than one horse, leading the animals away. Ranson and Longwell stood apart, off to the side, as though trying to make a decision. J’anda was the only one watching him, listening; J’anda and perhaps Aisling, though her back was turned and he knew not what she was doing.
“I’m going to try,” Cyrus said at last, handing the reins to the boy.
“You’ll do it,” the boy said with utmost faith, surprisingly cheerful to Cyrus’s ears. The boy favored him with a smile. “You’re him. You’ll do it.”
Cyrus tried to smile back but failed; a little bitter grimace of half-effort was all he managed. He followed the others as they went, the chill seeping into him. There was a trace of snow here and there as they walked, gathered into near-insubstantial piles on the ground; Cyrus wondered how deep the snow would get here, if it would turn bad at all. He looked north toward the wall of the courtyard, where he knew a gate led to Syloreas’s courtyard. How far away are they now?
There was a quiet in the castle as they entered the tower; none of the Brothers were in sight, and Cyrus wondered where the keepers of the castle were. They made their way forward toward the center of the structure, toward the Garden of Serenity. Still, there were no Brethren so they entered the long tunnel to the garden. There were voices within, echoing from the hallway, distorted. Cyrus recalled the listing of names, of accolades shouted by heralds in this very place. Now there was only talk on the other end, low, discontented, and just as bitter to his ears as the wind when it picked up and raced through.
When Cyrus emerged behind Ranson and Longwell, the voices died down, and he could see men huddled around the amphitheater at the center of the Garden of Serenity. He recognized Milos Tiernan immediately then saw Briyce Unger standing in his usual place, his face puckered with a new scar. Brother Grenwald Ivess stood at the west facing of seats, where he had been when last they had met. Eyes swiveled toward the entourage from Galbadien, and Cyrus saw the frown from Unger and the soft dissolve to impartiality on Tiernan’s face as they came down.
There were other figures, too, Cyrus realized as they descended into the amphitheater; Curatio and Terian waited in the place where the Galbadien delegation was usually seated. Curatio gave him a half-hearted smile when they began to descend the steps. Cyrus kept his gaze on Terian, though, and the dark knight kept his on Cyrus, their eyes locked as the meeting came to a halt while the new arrivals took their seats.
“We are well pleased to see you,” Grenwald Ivess said as Cyrus shuffled past Terian. Ranson and Longwell remained standing at the front row, and Curatio stayed forward with them, though he gave a short bow and stepped aside so they could take the center of the bench. Longwell stood there, still in his blued armor, his helm being carried by Odau Genner, who hovered in the second row, his red face glowing in the grey day.
“May I present the King of Galbadien,” Count Ranson said, drawing a look of surprise from Briyce Unger and Grenwald Ivess. Tiernan, for his part, remained nearly inscrutable, only a small smile making its way from behind his facade.
“Your Majesty,” Grenwald Ivess said with a nod and the slightest bow. “You have, I fear, run into the middle of our discussion at an inopportune moment, but your arrival will perhaps make it more opportune than it was. You have brought some forces, I take it?”
“I have brought everything that Galbadien holds,” Longwell said. “Every man who can ride with a spear or lance, every man who can stand and fight with sword or shield, and every boy and grey-haired fellow to boot. Whatever Galbadien holds, I have committed to this defense-to Luukessia.”
Briyce Unger straightened, nodding at Longwell. “Every man I could summon to escape, save for those escorting our women and children south, I have brought here or to the to fight to our north. Syloreas has fallen, but our men fight on-for Luukessia.”
Milos Tiernan gave a sigh. “Every man I command, from here to the southern seas, I have summoned to me. Every one who has responded is here and is willing to fight to defend this place in the hopes that this scourge will never touch their homes or their families.” He hesitated. “For Luukessia-and for us all.”
“We commit to this fight everything that we have brought with us,” Curatio said, speaking in Cyrus’s place. The warrior considered standing and dismissed the thought; to move to the front would expose my back to Terian. Best to let Curatio do the speaking for us, since he is the Elder-and a better spokesman than I, in any case. “We have asked for additional aid and should it come, it will be pledged to your cause, to defend your land.” The elf gave a slight nod. “For Luukessia.”
Grenwald Ivess took it all in, and Cyrus had a feeling that the Brother was almost letting it steep like tea leaves in water, allowing the words to run into the ears of all present, to let them take it all in. “The Brotherhood of the Broken Blade has maintained Enrant Monge as the last vestige of the old world of Luukessia; the days when our Kingdoms were one. We have also kept our presence here to defend this remnant against those who would attack it. We have on the grounds over one thousand knights in our sworn service, volunteers all and well-trained. We commit them to this effort to save our homeland.
“I appreciate the sacrifices that all of you have made to come here,” Ivess said, “and to bring with you all you have. The people of Luukessia are losing their homes, their lands, and their lives at so startling a speed that it is barely fathomable. The men who stand before me are the last hope of this land. You men, who once upon a time vied for yourselves and your Kingdoms, I see now before me united against this common foe. It is well that you think of Luukessia at a time like this, even those of you who have been scarcely touched by this menace as yet.
“Let this be the place where the unity of Luukessia was made final,” Grenwald Ivess said, hitting his stride, his rich baritone echoing in the garden, “let this be the place where ten thousand years of bitterness and enmity were put aside for the good of our people. Let us unite once more in hopes that our combined efforts may stave off this disaster that brews, that sits outside our door even now. Let us gather together, stand together-that we may not be divided. That we may not fall.”
Chapter 79
The day was filled with planning; when night fell, it was almost sweet relief of its own kind. Cyrus woke in the middle of the small hours, Aisling settled in next to him in the quiet, nothing audible in the tower room but her breathing. The smell of the air was stale, and the last taste of the night’s stew was still with him. There was a chill in the room, as it had only a small hearth of its own and the fire had died down. He tossed a log upon it and stirred, feeling the slight weight of the poker in his hand as the ashes came back to life slowly over the next minutes and were roaring again soon enough.
Aisling did not move, and he watched her for a few minutes in the quiet, her white hair catching the orange glow of the fire. She looks so … small, he thought, and wondered about it only until he remembered that she was short, shorter than-
Cyrus’s fingers came to his face, rubbed his eyes, as though he could strike the vision out of them, rub the image of the blond-haired elf from them. It has been near a year since last I saw her. One would think I would be well and truly done with her by now. He looked back to Aisling, who lay under the blankets, her blue skin dull against the grey cloth. I am different. Things are different, now. She told me flatly that it would never work, could never work. He squeezed his bare hand against the cold stone floor, pressed it, felt the smoothness of it. Why is it so hard to be rid of her?
He stewed for only another minute before he stood, quietly dressed and went out the door. He gave a last look at his lover before he left; if she was awake, she had the good grace to say nothing. Another reason she’s vast
ly superior to … her. Sometimes I just need to be alone with my thoughts.
His steps carried him along the spiral staircase to a lower landing. The lamps were low, dim, and Cyrus saw a glow of color outside a translucent window, something faintly orange and red. He stopped at the landing and stepped toward the door, which he knew led outside, onto the castle’s interconnected ramparts.
With a squeak the door opened, and he grimaced at the sound. He shut it back carefully then looked around. The ramparts led in either direction; to his right he knew he could find himself overlooking the Garden of Serenity with only a few twists and turns. To his left, however, was the outer wall, and all that lay beyond. He went left, felt the chill of the night air. He drew his heavy cloak around him, trying to hold in the warmth escaping through the cracks in his armor.
His feet carried him along and he looked up into the sky, where an aurora lit the blackness like a fire of its own. It was a magnificent red and orange glow, shimmering faintly, stronger, like a snake of fire sliding its way across the night. He took a breath and exhaled, watching the air steam in front of him. The sky was clear above, but the wisps of clouds were visible in the distance, lit by the aurora. The smell of the night air drew into his nose, freezing it, giving it the smell of cold, all in itself. How is it that cold has a smell?
His walk took him around the perimeter; there were guards, here and there, and they nodded to him as he passed. He found himself at the east wall and looked out, across the small valley beyond. Lit campfires waited below, the entirety of Galbadien’s army laid out before him. Tomorrow they will move north, a half-day’s ride … and a day from now, perhaps two … it will begin.
He let his gauntlet slide along the uneven ramparts, clanking as he dropped it off a crenellation. He followed the curtain wall, though in truth it was all one massive structure. How has this stood for ten thousand years? It is the most magnificent and detailed castle I can recall ever seeing-other than perhaps Vernadam. He thought, too, of Scylax, high upon a mountain. I wonder what Caenalys must be like? Where she was raised-
He let out a small, angry hiss at himself. Can I not be rid of the thoughts of these women? It has been nearly five months since I have seen her, yet she does not leave me be, either …
He walked on toward the north, toward tomorrow. We set out tomorrow. We face them on the day after. He felt a chill, more than the cold. Can we best them? He did not press the answer to that question, almost afraid to know it.
Another guard passed with a nod. Their helms were a simpler things that partially covered their faces. Like the Termina Guard, Cyrus thought, and wondered if he should banish that thought as well, for all its unpleasant associations.
There was a figure on the northern rampart, on the wall segment that jutted out allowing archers to cover the north gate in a siege; the armor was familiar even at this distance, though Cyrus had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had come to within twenty feet and not even realized it. The outline was visible against the aurora above, spikes shadowed behind hues of fiery orange and flaming red. His helm was off, lying on the nearest crenellation, a spiked crown of its own sort, as pointed as the personality of its wearer.
“I’m not going to kill you now,” Terian said, turning to Cyrus, his black hair flowing in the wind. The dark elf had an accumulation of stubble that might have been more easily visible on a human. As it was, it gave the dark knight a shadowed look about his jaw and lips. “I gave my word to Curatio that I would not settle my personal grudge with you until this was all over.”
“I’m trying to decide if I should take comfort in the word of a dark knight,” Cyrus said, his hand already on Praelior’s hilt, “especially one who has already attempted to murder me without warning.”
“There was plenty of warning,” Terian said, turning back to look over the edge of the wall, toward the north, “you were just so wrapped up in your own petty concerns that you didn’t notice it.”
“Petty concerns?” Cyrus asked. “Like coming here, winning the Sylorean war, assaulting Green Hill?”
Terian chuckled lightly. “As though you devoted more than a few hours of thought over the course of our months-long journey to any of those things. No, Cyrus, you know very well of what I speak-Vara, Cattrine, and Aisling. These women that you stumble to, one after the other, hoping they’ll pick you up and fill that shallow, empty place in your chest where you used to keep your conviction.” He cast a sidelong glance at Cyrus, who took tentative steps to stand down the wall from him. “They won’t, you know.”
“I hardly think that I’m looking for them to fill some gap in my belief,” Cyrus said, staring at the northern reaches; there were no fires here, just vast, empty woods. There was light in the distance, though, something like a fire, but it was far off.
“Truly?” Terian asked. “Is it possible that the great Cyrus Davidon, that shining light of all virtue, has finally come to the point where all he looks to a woman for is the physical? Because I believe we had a conversation about this some time ago, my friend-”
“I think we stopped being friends when you cursed me and left me to die,” Cyrus said quietly.
There was a pause. “True enough,” Terian said, and Cyrus watched him clutch the edge of the wall, and the image of a man clinging to something for life sprang to mind.
“Shouldn’t you be happy about that, if it’s true?” Cyrus asked, flicking his gaze back to the empty lands in front of him. “You were the one who chided me to ignore the idea of deep feelings or of any kind of resistance to baser appetites. You were the one who wanted me to come to whorehouses with you, to ‘scratch the itch,’ as it were, with any woman freely available. Now that I’ve done it, you say I’ve lost something-what? You were the one urging me down that path all along; I think it a bit late now to fret about some irrelevant consequence of me doing what you suggested, however unwittingly I might have come to it.”
“I never thought you would,” Terian said quietly. “Not in a hundred years, not in a thousand. Cyrus the Unbroken, wallowing about in the filth, fallen from his iconic high?” He turned to gaze directly at Cyrus. “I think I erred in trying to kill you.”
Cyrus snorted. “You erred? You slit the throat of my horse after casting a spell on me that caused immense pain and left me surrounded by enemies. You betrayed a guildmate and a friend who had no idea he had wronged you; yes, Terian, I would say you erred. Badly.”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” the dark knight said, a quiet sadness held firm on his face, his pointed nose angling just away from Cyrus. “What I meant was … revenge on you might have been a foolish notion, seeing how much you’ve suffered this last year. Perhaps a more fitting punishment was to let you live in this strange, fallen state of anguish you seem to have gathered to yourself.”
“‘Fallen state of anguish’?” Cyrus repeated. “That’s poetic.”
“No,” the dark knight said, “I mean it. Truly. As a friend, killing you might have been more merciful-”
“You have a strange notion of mercy, ‘friend.’”
“Think about it,” Terian said, and Cyrus watched him anchor his hands on the wall, holding them there as though he might fall if he didn’t. “Everything horrible that could have happened to you this year has just about happened. The woman you loved rejected you in spectacularly brutal fashion. Your mentor and father figure berated you for the first time in your history, you came thousands of miles from home, trying to find some soothing balm for your tortured soul, and instead the woman you started to fall in love with lies to you about who she is and you cast her away over it.” He laughed, but it was a sad, pitying sound. “I could not have orchestrated a worse punishment for you than all that.”
“This is pathetic, even for you,” Cyrus said. “Merely reminding me of the less pleasant turns of events that have occurred this last year is hardly the stuff required to break my spirit, though it brings me no joy. But you might consider adding to your list the moment when o
ne of my sworn and chosen brothers tried to kill me himself.”
“There was that, true,” Terian said. “I could also make mention of your decapitation, or the fact that Alaric has yet to send even an acknowledgment of your pleas for aid, but why? The worst of it,” and Terian’s voice dripped with a sort of sad sincerity, “the real torturous prize is not the pain they caused, but the scars they left.” Terian shrugged, as though trying to shake off some unpleasantness or warm up from the chill wind that blew by. “You don’t see it, but you’ve changed, Cyrus. And not for the better. You’ve become a harder, colder sort of person.”
“I’m becoming you, in other words.”
“Yes!” Terian said and clinked his gauntlet while snapping his finger and pointing it as Cyrus. “Your soul is calloused, my friend, and all those things that you carried with you into the Realm of Death-the illusion of what you were fighting for, the idea of a future with Vara-you walked out of the gates of Sanctuary on the journey here without any of them. Whoever you were last year-when I was your friend-that man is gone. I don’t even recognize the one in front of me anymore.”
“Yet still you’ll kill me when this is done?” Cyrus asked.
There was a twist in Terian’s face, the hint of something unpleasant as his face stretched, lips pursed, in a sort of pained grimace. “Perhaps. Not until this is over, but … perhaps.”
“Then it really doesn’t matter how I’ve changed, does it?” Cyrus asked, and let his hand drift over the crenellation, let it settle as the first snowflake drifted down by the aurora’s light; clouds were moving over now, the red and orange had begun to be covered by tge dark, grey shapes drifting across the sky, threatening to overcome the entirety of it. “I’m still the man you want to kill.”
“Maybe,” Terian said, and the first flakes came down to rest upon his armor, soft symbols next to the spikes and edges of that which protected him from harm. “But the other Cyrus-the one who killed my father-I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to see him bleed his righteous life out in front of me, suffer for what he’d done.”
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