Master (Book 5) (53 page)

“He’s the Sovereign,” Cyrus said, “and the God of Darkness. Does it matter how much people complain to him?”

“Oh, they wouldn’t have the balls to complain to him,” Terian said, “because that’s a sure path to losing those balls. Yartraak may be many things, but merciful is rarely one of them.”

“‘Rarely’?” Vara asked, eyes jaded. “I am surprised if he is capable of so petty a thing as mercy; it seems beneath him.”

“He’s capable of it,” Terian said, almost impassive, his chains and manacles a dark steel against his even darker skin. He wore faded cotton clothes, clean but weathered, something that looked like it had been in a trunk for a long stay. “He’s capable of many things, as well you now know.”

“How’s he doing it?” Cyrus asked.

Terian turned to look at Cyrus out of the corner of his eye. “Powering his army? That is an excellent question, one to which J’anda and I have been searching for an answer without much success.”

“So you were not exactly deep in the enemy’s confidence, then,” Vara said.

Terian’s eyes lit fire, catching the morning sun. “Oh, no, we both were firmly ensconced in his inner circle, which should give you some idea of exactly how secret this must be.”

Vara stared flatly at the dark knight. “I find it hard to believe that the Sovereign is foolish enough to trust two men who have essentially betrayed him before with his deepest secrets.” Her hand was on her sword hilt the entire time, Cyrus realized, but she emphasized this by sliding it slightly out of the scabbard, exposing an inch or two of blade before letting it click back into place. “At least, not without some assurance of their loyalty.”

Terian’s face was covered in a dark grin that Cyrus saw no humor in; he wondered if the dark knight felt any. Somehow he doubted it. “We provided assurances, trust me. We both left Saekaj in the past under … unpleasant circumstances, but were at best considered to have committed affronts against the Sovereign—personal betrayals, not treason.” He shuddered slightly, holding his wrists together. “There is no going back from treason.”

“Which is why you are quite content to sit in our dungeon,” Vara said.

“Which is why I’m positively overjoyed to sit in your dungeon for now,” Terian said. “I won’t be quite so enthused on the day that the Sovereign finishes his business with the Confederation, because he’ll be turning all his attention to you before he mounts an invasion of the Elven Kingdom.”

“And he’ll just leave the dwarves, the goblins, the gnomes, the desert men and the bandit lands at his back?” Cyrus asked.

Terian made a scoffing noise. “Do you realize what he has at his disposal? An insanely difficult to kill army—because they’re already dead—that he can regenerate at will. They’re fearless, they’re skilled, and every dead body left on the field against him becomes fodder for him to replace the few in every battle that are fallen to so many pieces he can’t stitch them back together again.” He shook his head as though he were in disbelief. “Do you know what this means to the war? It’s over, unless you can find some way to stop him. You might as well take the portal right to the Ashen Wastelands and start hiking south in hopes of finding something past the dragons, or get on a ship and brave the Torrid Sea, because as of right now, he will conquer Arkaria. It is destiny, unavoidable.”

“Unless someone stands against him,” Vara said.

“No one’s standing against him,” Terian said, looking darkness at her. “No one can. Toe to toe, he destroys every army because he had a bigger one starting out and it’s only growing—save for that time you cost him nearly a hundred thousand soldiers and burned the bodies afterward.”

“That’s why he’s been sending envoys to retrieve the dead,” Cyrus said.

“Yes,” Terian said, “and kindhearted idiots that you all are, everyone’s been giving them back to him rather than destroying them the way he would have done for any of you.”

“This is a new thing, then,” Cyrus said, chewing his lower lip.

Terian paused. “What?”

“It’s new,” Cyrus said. “Them asking for the bodies back. They didn’t send an envoy after the battle of Sanctuary. They sent their first after Livlosdald. They didn’t even do it after we kicked them out of Prehorta.”

“And so?” Terian asked, eyes wide, pulling his hands apart as far as the chain keeping him bound would allow.

“What changed?” Cyrus asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what changed’? You’re getting your asses kicked!” Terian said.

“Why was he suddenly able to do this only a few months ago?” Vara asked slowly.

“Get Curatio,” Cyrus said to one of the guards. The guard resisted, holding his position until he caught a nod from Vara, then stormed down the steps at a run.

“I guess this is my opportunity to escape,” Terian said with exaggerated humor.

“Try it and I will send you out of the tower on a blast of air without more than a thought,” Vara said.

“All right, then, I guess I’ll stay here,” Terian said. “Not like I have anywhere else to go.”

They waited in silence, until finally there was noise of footfalls upon the stairs and Curatio appeared at the side of the bed, his white robes looking slightly dirtied. “You know, I do occasionally have other duties to attend to besides—”

“Could Yartraak be powering his army by soul rubies ripped out of one soul over and over?” Cyrus asked without preamble, cutting him off.

Curatio’s frown was instant. “You do understand that a soul ruby is produced when the subject of the soul sacrifice dies, yes?”

“What if they couldn’t die?” Vara asked.

“Everyone dies,” Curatio said, clearly a little put out.

“You haven’t,” Cyrus said.

Curatio sighed. “Every mortal dies, then.” His expression changed, mouth falling slightly open. “Oh.” His eyes darted backward and forward quickly, calculating the possibility. “Yes. Yes, that would—oh, you soulless bastard—”

“He did it,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. He caught the stricken look from Vara, the cold flush of white up and down her neck, followed by the red mottling that always appeared when she was in a fury. “He damned well did it.”

“Did what?” Terian asked, standing with his arms as wide in front of him as he could get them to go without removing the chains. “Anyone care to take a moment and explain to your poor, tortured prisoner what you all seem to know …?”

“He was the one,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “All along, we’ve been looking for the answer, and it … was right there.” He turned his eyes to Terian, who looked near apoplectic, ready to explode with frustration. “Yartraak is powering an infinite supply of soul rubies by draining one person, one person with power—a soul—far beyond that of a mortal.

“He’s draining Vidara. He kidnapped the Goddess of Life … and now he’s using her to destroy the whole damned world.”

Cyrus left the bed without help several days later. The pain stuck with him, fits of it that seemed to shoot through him without warning when he moved in certain ways. Curatio pronounced him “fit enough” when forced to render an opinion, but also suggested he avoid battle for at least another month. “Give yourself time to heal from such a brutal injury.”

Cyrus did not hold his tongue. “Which part, the physical stabbing or the emotional one?”

Curatio gave him a pained look as they stared at each other, the Halls of Healing silent around them. “Both.”

Cyrus walked with the aid of a staff that had appeared at his bedside one morning, hobbling along with one hand on the top of it for support and the other on Praelior to give him strength to endure the still significant aches. He caught the glances as he worked his way down the stairs all the way to the foyer for the first time in a month.

There were greetings and glad tidings hurled at him from many a well-wisher, hushed voices commending his motion, telling him how good it was to see him about again. He took them all with the grace of a smile, one that he had worked on forging to hide that bubbling pool of rage and disappointment that had taken up residence in his belly. He could feel it when he thought of Aisling, imagined her face.
For years she played me.
Years she watched me, looking for her opening. And then she opened me.

This never would have happened to Alaric.

Cyrus made his way out the front door, feeling the burn inside his chest and along his back and craving air fresher than even his open tower could provide. He forced his way through the front doors with a hard shove, down onto the lawn and found his gait straightening as he went. The pain was still there, but his care for it diminished. It was here and there, stitched through his muscles in the place where the black lace had gone untouched by the remedy Curatio had used. He’d felt this peculiar agony once before, though it had been lighter then, the healing more complete.

He tossed the staff aside somewhere around the middle of Sanctuary. The stone wall of the building loomed high to his right, and he hobbled along without support, hand clutching Praelior, his pace slow but the pain entirely manageable.

He could see the garden ahead, the bridge extending over the water. He longed for the peace of the stream. He had seen it run past off the balcony that looked south, but he wanted to see it run beneath his feet. Wanted to see it ripple and reflect, wanted to see the wind stir the surface.

I want to feel alive, not locked in my own high dungeon the way Terian is trapped in his low one.

He made it to the bridge, the grey stone stretched over dark waters, the greenery framing the whole setting. He saw her a bit late from atop the crest of the bridge, standing in the corner of the garden at the monument. He ignored her at first, looking down into the waters below, placing a bare palm on the stone guardrail that was there to keep him from toppling in.

“You are surprisingly mobile,” came Vara’s voice from behind him. He did not turn. “At least, for a man who was nearly dead a month ago.”

“Couldn’t stay in bed forever,” Cyrus said, looking down. There was a ripple, and he watched it intently. “Couldn’t keep pacing my tower; I was wearing holes in the stone.”

“You look … very different without your armor,” she said. She took a step nearer; he could see it in the reflection of the water, which had grown still once more. “I see you still have your sword, though.”

He did not turn to face her, merely stared at her reflection. He could not recall if her eyes were always that blue or if it was a reflection of the sky and water lightening them. “Seems like I have need of it. I should keep it by my side lest someone else try and betray me.”

She was silent for a moment. “Do you fear I would betray you?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Which is why you are seeing my back.” He turned his head enough to look her in the eyes. They were that blue, indeed. “You know something of this feeling.”

“I do,” she said and slipped into place, leaning on the rail beside him. “Very much so.”

He felt his jaw tighten. “Does it ever go away?”

“The very tangible, stomach-churning sense of betrayal?” She had her arms folded upon the stone, and she moved slightly, producing a scraping noise as her vambrace moved against it. “No, it does not go away. It does, however, fade in time, until you are left with a mere sense of unease rather than the roiling series of emotions you are no doubt feeling at the moment.”

“Roiling sounds about right,” Cyrus said. “I can feel them all come in sequence; shame that I was fooled, and that it happened before so broad an audience. Regret that I ever allowed myself to lower the veil for someone who was plainly playing me all along. Embarrassment that I let her …” He felt his eyes close involuntarily. “… let her tempt me in ways that I did. That I ruined other things by foolishly going along with her without so much as a fight. She played my every emotion as skillfully as a flute player hits the high notes.” Cyrus clenched his hand around his sword. “And she may have cost us this war.” He lowered his voice. “
I
may have cost us this war.”

“Oh, I well remember these feelings,” Vara said. “Of course, mine only cost me every friend I had.”

“I didn’t lose all my friends,” Cyrus said, staring into the middle distance. “Yet. But lives were lost. Lives of people I lead.”

“You trusted the wrong person,” she said stiffly.

“I didn’t listen to you.”

“It is hardly a requirement for you to listen to me,” she said.

“Aren’t you elves supposed to be wisest and fairest?” Cyrus said, not really feeling much amusement in the way he said it.

“That’s really only me,” she said, a little droll. She waited for him to look up, he could see, slight hint of a smile. “Gods, you are feeling it, aren’t you?”

“We can’t free her, can we?” Cyrus asked.

Vara paused. “My namesake? The Goddess of Life? I don’t know; perhaps you should ask Terian. I don’t think it would be wise to attempt it until you are able to battle again.”

“Where would he even keep her?” Cyrus asked, feeling the drift of dark feelings upon him. “Saekaj? The Realm of Darkness?”

“Probably Saekaj,” Vara said after a moment’s thought. “He would need her in a place where he could easily supply the rubies, after all.”

Cyrus gave it a moment’s consideration. “Storm the city of Saekaj, face all their armies and then the God of Darkness at the end of it all.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think Alaric would embrace a plan like that, not any part of it.”

She let out a light breath. “You have got to stop asking yourself what Alaric would do and start doing what Cyrus Davidon would do.” He blinked and looked at her, but she was staring out across the water. “Alaric Garaunt did not build Sanctuary into a military army upon which you could safely hang the fate of all Arkaria. He wanted to, true, but he did not do it. The General of Sanctuary did.”

“That’s … complimentary,” Cyrus said.

“I was merely repaying the one you gave me earlier about being wise and fair. Do not read too much into it.”

“Alaric also didn’t lead us into hideous defeat,” Cyrus said.

“He didn’t lead us into battle most of the time, or have you forgotten?” Vara asked. “Alaric was a leader, and that meant that he delegated the role of General to a man he deemed better at strategy, tactics and overall militarism than himself. His intent was to protect Arkaria. If ever there was a moment when Alaric’s mission for Sanctuary required Cyrus Davidon’s ability to lead people in battle, this is it. He was entirely about garnering the preferred result; he left the rest up to those of us to whom he trusted the mission.”