Master (Book 5) (55 page)

“You ass,” Cyrus muttered.

“I’ve been called worse,” Andren conceded. “So what is it really? What’s holding you back from driving down into the tunnels of Saekaj at the head of an army big enough to wreck most peoples’ days? From doing what you did in Enterra and the Realm of Death, some perverse mix-up of your greatest victories wherein you build your legend even more?”

Cyrus felt his brow pucker. “I am not here to build my damned legend.”

“And yet it gets built even still.” Vara’s voice interrupted, and he turned to see her walking across the browned grass toward them. “They’re attributing the freeing of the troll slaves to you, did you know that? As if the rest of us weren't even there.”

“I did not know that,” Cyrus said. “I’ve been a little too busy to go looking for rumors about my own exploits.”

“But if he’d been able to walk at the time, you can bet he’d have been in the thick of them,” Andren said.

“Yes, being an invalid is probably something of an impediment to seeking out conversations that might build one’s ego,” Vara said.

“I am not an invalid,” Cyrus said and brought his sword around in a violent chopping motion that caused his back to twinge in pain. He halted his advance and brought Praelior back to center. “What do you want? Here to jab a few needles in me?”

“I heard my name as I was walking over there,” Vara gestured toward the corner of Sanctuary in the far distance, “and came to see whether the gossip was flattering or not.”

“Gods, with ears like that I don’t know how you sleep on the same floor as Vaste,” Cyrus said.

“His snoring was the least of the obnoxious noises I dealt with this year,” Vara said, catching his gaze with something like reproach. “Though at least your night sounds did end fairly quickly as opposed to his continuous ripping of tree branches into small chips.”

“How quickly?” Andren asked with obvious glee.

Vara rolled her eyes. “I heard my name. What are you discussing?”

“Invading Saekaj,” Cyrus said.

“Your amorous intentions toward the liberator of Gren,” Andren said.

She rolled her eyes again. “That would be a short conversation.”

Andren had a twinkle in his eyes. “Longer or shorter than—”

“Invasions take quite a bit of planning,” Cyrus said, trying to drag things back on track.

“More time than our leader apparently takes in the bedchamber,” Andren said with amusement.

“You’re both the most maddening sort of idiots,” Vara said.

“It’s why we work so well together,” Andren agreed.

“Are you still stalling on this invasion?” Vara asked, turning her attention to Cyrus, who realized quite suddenly that he’d abandoned his exercises some time ago and was merely standing still, chest heaving as his breath steamed in the air.

“I am not … stalling,” Cyrus said, catching a look from Andren. “I have perfectly valid reasons for my hesitancy.”

“Such as?” Andren asked.

“Because the last time we killed a god, we unleashed consequences that killed a whole land,” Cyrus said, lashing at Andren.

“That was the God of Death, who held captive the souls of the departed,” Vara said, drawing his gaze back to her. She was implacable in this, giving her answer in seconds. “It seems unlikely that were we to kill the God of Darkness—which might not even necessarily need to do in order to accomplish his defeat—it is hardly a foregone conclusion that we would unleash something as preposterous as a perpetual night.”

“Or day,” Andren said, nodding along. “Could you even imagine that? A day that never ended? It just drags on and on—”

“Like a conversation that did not have the good grace to die?” Vara asked, shooting him a sharp look. “I am imagining something of that sort just now.” She transferred her attention back to Cyrus. “Fear of what might happen should not cloud you to the truth of what will happen should the Sovereign continue his work unimpeded.”

Cyrus stared at her, blue eyes aflame, the only spot of light in a grey sky, and the truth tumbled loose from his lips. “I know you said I can’t lose what I never had, but … I remember the sight of Mortus swinging that hand at you. It descends in my memory as though it were pulled through hardening sap by some unerring force.” He watched her eyes flicker with uncertainty. “I remember how it felt, watching it fall. How it compelled me to jump into the path of his swing.” Cyrus drew a deep breath, felt his chest heave with the effort, saw it mist before his lips. “We killed the God of Death, but it was hardly bloodless. In spite of riding the teleportation out of the Realm of Death without injury, I may be more scarred by the events of that day than any other before or since.”

“Which says something, because that’s a right good one you’ve got going on your back there,” Andren said.

Vara was silent for but a moment. Then she spoke, low: “You cannot hide behind your scars and use them as a justification to keep from doing what you know should be done.”

Cyrus’s eyes fell toward her belly, where the armor’s gleam was not so bright. “Can’t I?”

She traced his gaze, and her eyes narrowed. “That is not the same. You are to lead this guild, not merely follow the desires of your—” She halted and made a noise of sheerest frustration. “Also, that suggestion is a gross oversimplification. It is not my scars that keep me from you.”

“I am … confused,” Andren said. “What just happened here? I thought we were talking about invading Saekaj, and now we’re on about scars …?”

“What keeps you from me?” Cyrus asks.

“Good sense,” Andren said.

“Caution,” Vara said then glared at Andren. “Do not presume to speak for me.”

“You’ve said worse yourself,” Cyrus said.

“Yes,
I
said it.” Vara folded her arms in front of her. “It was not said on my behalf by some newly-sober elven officer bent on using me as puppet for his own jokes.”

“I—” Cyrus began, and then saw Vara jerk her head as though she’d been kicked. “What?”

She wheeled, looking toward the front of Sanctuary. “There’s someone at the gates.”

“From here?” Cyrus asked. “Really?”

“No, I hear it, too,” Andren said, and the elf was struck with a look of concentration. “A messenger, announcing himself.” He paused, and Cyrus caught a sudden, stricken look on Vara’s face, her jaw gone slack. “Oh, they’re saying that Reikonos is being sacked.”

Cyrus felt the chill drop through him, run from top to bottom in a mere second, even as he saw Vara turn her head to look at him, fear of some sort frozen upon her face. He knew that fear, knew its origin; it came from the depths inside, from the place he knew of all too well—

“I’m sorry,” Andren said, whispering, his red face blushing deeper. “I shouldn’t have said it like … like that. I didn’t know that’s what it would be.”

“It’s all right,” Cyrus said, swallowing heavy, feeling like he’d just passed a boulder down his throat. “It’s …” His head felt light, the grey skies seemed to close around him, and Vara’s pale face and blue eyes were right at the center of it all, the anchor that kept him from falling over as one word ran through his mind over and over.

Home
.

“I need to get inside Reikonos,” Cyrus said as he stormed into the foyer. There was no buzz of activity; the place was as sedate as though nothing were happening. He had seen the gate opening for the messenger as he entered, but did not wait to hear the details.

“Don’t be a fool,” Vara cautioned, two steps behind him.

“It’s arguably a little late for that,” Andren said, following behind them both.

“Shut up,” Cyrus and Vara said in unison. He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. She barely stopped in time to keep from colliding with him, surprise sending her faint eyebrows north. “I can’t just let this pass,” Cyrus said. “No more than I could let Termina simply fall.”

“Far be it from me to stop you from throwing yourself wholeheartedly into what is surely a hopeless battle,” Vara said, her blue eyes finding his, “but … actually, yes, let me stop you from this. This is madness. If the dark elves have indeed breached the wall, even assuming you could get in, it would be utterly fruitless to do so.” Her eyes flitted downward from his, a little hint of nerves causing her severe expression to waver. “Also, you are not wearing a shirt. Of any sort. At all.” Each addition to her speech grew fainter in volume, and finally her gaze averted, moving above his head to the blank walls.

In spite of himself, Cyrus felt a grin appear. “It’s a peculiar time to note that, wouldn’t you say?”

That caused the ice to flare with heat as she looked back into his eyes. “You are rather large; it is difficult to miss.”

“Sure,” Cyrus said and turned away from her to stalk to the center of the foyer. “I need volunteers for an expedition into Reikonos. One hundred strong fighters willing to teleport into the mouth of death itself.” He cast a furious gaze over the foyer, trying to communicate his mood without letting it drip over everything said. “The weak of will and those afraid of death need not bother even appearing.”

Silence reined for several seconds. “Well, that’s an affront to my manhood,” Andren said.

“Only a small one,” Vara said.

Cyrus did not wait to hear the rest of their bickering; he could hear his call taken up, making its way into the Great Hall on other voices, wending its way up the stairs at the shouts of runners. He made a run of his own, sprinting up the stone steps, passing two druids who were stopping to shout the news, to spread it to the five towers of Sanctuary. The challenge he’d delivered in the foyer took on a seeming life of its own as he heard it echo down the halls of Sanctuary.

Cyrus reached his own door in the tower, the stairs still ringing with loud shouts behind him. There was motion, movement, people being turned out of their quarters by his mere command. He had ears for little of it, unstrapping Praelior and throwing it upon the bed as he turned toward the freestanding dummy that held his armor. He paused, tilted his head in curiosity, noting for the first time that which had been left beneath the plate mail. He pulled the strap on the breastplate and let the backplate fall to the ground with a crash as he pulled the breastplate forward, holding it in front of him like a shield.

He had not put on his armor in weeks. Some time between his last battle and this moment, someone had come to his quarters and replaced the old, weathered, stripped and broken iron links with something entirely different. These links were forged tighter into tiny circles not even big enough for a gnome’s dagger to find a gap. He let the metal flow beneath his hand as he ran his fingers over it.
That does not look like steel or iron …

He shook his head, clearing the curiosity aside, and started to dress, throwing on a cloth shirt from his wardrobe then following it with the chainmail. He had just begun to strap on his leg armor when the door was flung wide and he heard metal steps upon his stairs.

“You are a bloody fool,” Vara said.

“You already said that,” Cyrus said, finishing with the straps on his greaves. The plate fit perfectly over the new chain, its color black as his armor.

“You can’t teleport into Reikonos right now,” she said, a soft glow of exertion and satisfaction upon her cheeks. “The portal is closed for the siege, if you recall?”

“I recall,” Cyrus said.

She stared at him dully then looked skyward before making a sound of utter exasperation. “Auuuughh, Vidara, why must you curse and afflict me with this man?”

“She can’t hear you,” Cyrus said, working on his greaves. It was slow going, the straps on the inside and outside of his thighs.

“You buffoon,” Vara said with another sound of frustration and took a step toward him. He half expected a slap, but instead she dropped to a knee and pulled the straps on his leg tight enough that he thought he might have lost the blood in his thigh even through the chainmail. “You sit, idle, on your hands, for the last month—”

“I’ve been indisposed for the last month,” Cyrus said, now working on his vambraces, strapping them to his wrist. “I couldn’t very well lead a battle from my bed, after all.”

“
Now
you wish to lead a battle?” Vara asked, pulling the metal that girded his waist tight. “Try leading it where it will do some good.”

“I need to see Reikonos,” Cyrus said, and it came out lower and more menacing than he’d intended, but also soul-deep.
I
do
need to see it.

“What do you get for the man who has it all?” She stood, taking hold of his breastplate and thumping it against the chainmail that girded his chest. “Torturous misery, apparently.” Her eyes lost some of their fire. “Take it from someone who knows; seeing your homeland burn does nothing good for you.”

“I need to see,” Cyrus said quietly, matching her movement with the backplate. She held his breastplate in place while strapping them together. “I just … need to.”

She took a gentle breath as he sat there on the bed, looking up at her. She was different from this angle, from below, her nose sharp, cheeks high, and her hair barely visible under her helmet. She looked less imperious, he decided, even with her eyes closed. “Very well, then.”

Cyrus stood, taking his helm and placing it upon his head then strapping Praelior back to his waist. “How do I look?” Now he was looking down upon her again. Her eyes still closed, she looked as if she were struggling to be patient, like she was working through some emotion of her own.

The blue eyes opened, the sky shining down on a sunny day—though Cyrus knew there was no sun to shine on this day. “You look …” she said warily, letting out a slow breath, “… you look ready.”

They found madness, full and unchecked, waiting on the staircase. Only the shout heralding Cyrus’s coming parted the way for him, men and women in armor both leather and metal shoved themselves to each side for him, mashing themselves either into the wall or teetering on the edge of the open spiral leading to the foyer below.

“They follow you,” Vara breathed from just behind him as they passed the fifth floor.

“Good,” Cyrus said, “because I’m about to lead them somewhere worthwhile.”