Warlord (30 page)

“Okay,” Calene said, easing blindly back toward the staircase. She used her foot to feel for it without sight. “I will, just … uhm … get … going, then …”

“Why don’t you just turn around and go,” Vara suggested irritably.

“Right,” Calene said, and fled down the staircase with all haste. She paused at the bottom and hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “You know, I really respected you before, but even more now.”

“Don’t swell his head,” Vara said, “it’s already quite oversized.”

“I wasn’t talking to him,” Calene said, darting a look at them and then snapping her head back as if she’d been burned. “I meant you. I mean—” she waved a hand in their direction, “with … with that, and all … I mean … goodness … I don’t even know how you can manage to walk normally after, let alone keep up on the march—” She stumbled through the door and closed it with a slam behind her.

“What a nice compliment to you,” Cyrus said as the noise of the door shutting faded, and the sound of Calene’s shouts of “ALARUM!” rang out below them.

“That’s not going to help the ego at all,” Vara said with a sigh as they both fumbled to escape the bed, rushing to their respective armors.

The ride south through the Heia Pass was long and arduous, though harder on the horses than their riders, in Cyrus’s estimation. They did not stop for sleep, only water and the occasional break, and kept at it, at a canter, almost the entire way. By the time nightfall came at the end of the first day, Cyrus had grown weary of the rocky outcrops that had hung over him for the entirety of the trip. They reminded him of the gargoyles on some of the newer, grander structures in Reikonos, lurking overhead like ill omens.

There was much conversation, though all of it was muted. The majority of the convoy of Sanctuary riders was, in fact, spellcasters. Cyrus was one of the few warriors and rangers along for the fight; they already had a sizable contingent of troops at the end of the pass, and Cyrus’s thoughts seemed to be ever on them as they rode.

They reached the crest of the pass the night after they left, but it was so dark and moonless that even when they began their descent, there was no chance of observing any battle at the southern mouth of the pass. Fires were visible there as distant spots and little else, though Cyrus could not tell if they were watch fires or the flames of battle, of wagons burnt and fortifications lit.

“Take heart,” Curatio said, riding alongside Cyrus as they descended beyond the sight of the mouth a few hours before dawn. “The titans have quite a ways to go before they reach this side of the mountains.”

“But it won’t take them as long as it takes us,” Cyrus said, consumed with his thoughts and a wave of guilt. Thoughts of amusing jokes and japes with Vara had left him once they’d teleported north of the pass. The entire ride had been uneasy and filled with worry for what he would find at its end. “We might meet them in the dark, even—and what would that herald for our guard force at the other side?”

“That they have gone on from this world,” Curatio said, staring straight ahead.

His words plucked at the uneasiness in Cyrus as though it were a string of a musical instrument, reverberating inside him. “You’re awfully cavalier about that, Curatio.”

“No,” Curatio said, after a moment’s thought, “not cavalier. It would be a tragedy, of course, and one I would not wish to witness. But … if I may, I think I perhaps hold a different perspective on this, being somewhat longer lived and having seen many of these wars.”

“And what perspective is that?” Cyrus asked, almost afraid of the answer. “That we short-lived creatures are like insects to you, as fleeting in our existence as one of those little flies that only lasts the day and no longer?”

“No,” Curatio said, shaking his head, expression pure contrition. “I didn’t mean to give you that impression, as though I am some overarching being like the gods, only concerned for the biggest picture, unworried about smaller works and the brush strokes on canvas as small as a handprint. Every life is its own painting, you see. Some finish before the first daub is applied, some last longer and necessarily require more space to make their mark. Each has its own glory, though. Sometimes a single stroke conveys more meaning than one the size of a mural, grand and soulless and ultimately empty of any feeling.” He shook his head again. “No. No, this sacrifice would have meaning, just as all do. But it is not in our grand power to be able to do anything to affect its outcome. Even casting Falcon’s Essence on every horse and straining ourselves by running up mountainous ascents would buy us—perhaps—two hours at the expense of further exhaustion.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said, trying to follow all the myriad directions the healer had carried him in with his brief statement. “Your perspective is different … and perhaps a bit, uh, rambling.”

Curatio laughed. “Sometimes I find it hard to get it all out in a suitable time frame for you shorter-lived beings. I could say my piece for decades, pour it all out—but no one would stop to listen for that long.”

“You talked about the small brush strokes of life,” Cyrus said, catching a thought casually tossed out by Curatio and finding it seized his imagination. He nodded his head into the darkness, indicating the path forward, and somewhere out there, its terminus. “Yet … we seem constantly embroiled in larger events. I suppose I find it hard to imagine concentrating on the mundane after wars and scourges and titans and gods.” He paused, and the thought of peace rolled through him, a pleasant shock to the system after a long ride, and the thought of some country home where Vara waited while he worked a plow in the warm sun. It was a lovely contrast to the bite of the cool night air upon his skin.

“It is easier than you think.” Curatio smiled in the dimness. “There is the wide world, of course, which I have seen in its glory and possibility. But there is other life—that which takes place inside your own front door, with a different kind of infinite possibility. Where but a gesture,” the healer said, almost longingly, “and the actions of a single night can spur hours of study. Where every day can be spent focusing on that which truly matters.”

“Curatio,” Cyrus said quietly, “we’re riding into this pass so that we can stop the titans from coming north and destroying everything—everyone—we care about. How can you say that doesn’t truly matter?”

“Cyrus,” Curatio said, “suppose you fought for the next five years, as hard as you could, and effected great change of the sort you would wish upon all Arkaria. At its end, you stand triumphant, all foul institutions such as slavery have been destroyed, cast into the pit of history. You win, Sanctuary is preeminent, you are the undisputed greatest warrior in the land, and everyone nods their head as you pass.” He shot Cyrus a sidelong look. “It is not too far off where we are today, minus our present menace of course. You could stand as the ultimate warlord, the one who united the land under a banner of fair and just governance—”

“I don’t want that responsibility,” Cyrus said.

“Of course not,” Curatio said, a little too quickly. “But assume you did, and that you did great good with the mantle. But at the end of it all,” the healer subtly turned until he found Vara, riding with Nyad and Erith, the three of them engaged in some hushed discussion, “you were left without … her.” He looked back at Cyrus, and the expression in his eyes was tired, but spoke of many lifetimes’ worth of experience. “What good would it do you to save the world but lose all you fought for? What would be left of you at that point? What would you even be?”

Cyrus opened his mouth to answer but found none to be satisfactory.

“To have all you hold dear yanked away from you while gaining the whole land … it would be a terrible irony, I think,” Curatio said. “I have known more than a few men and women who sacrificed all they held important upon the altar of their ambitions. Take care that you do not do the same, for the yield on that particular crop is naught but bitterness, and I assure you it is inedible, at best, poisonous at worst.” With that, Curatio lightly whipped the reins and his horse surged forward a little faster.

Cyrus rode on Windrider’s back in utter silence for a moment, then steered his horse toward where Vara still spoke with Nyad and Erith. As he grew closer, the whispers became audible, and he heard Vara’s voice, stiff with her unwavering annoyance. “… No one with dignity would partake in such unnatural sexual practices.”

Erith giggled. “It’s really not that unnatural, in fact.”

“Hm,” Vara said sternly as Cyrus hesitated on the outer ring of their little circle. “Apparently it is as I have always suspected; there are some things so low that only a dark elf will stoop to them.”

“It’s not so bad as you make it sound,” Nyad said, utterly assured. “You get used to it after a while, though I suppose with what you’re dealing with, it might not ever—” She halted mid-sentence, snapping her head around at the look on Erith’s face to find Cyrus watching them, eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Oh. We were talking about you.”

Cyrus felt his brow struggle to fold double, and he started to pull Windrider away. “Do … do I even want to know?”

Vara looked completely irritated, eyes narrow and flat, mouth a line so thin and fixed that he wondered if she might ever smile again. “Say nothing if you ever wish to—”

“Whoa,” Cyrus said, pulling Windrider’s reins to lead him away from the conversational circle, “like after all these years I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.” He steered the horse a short distance away and nearly stumbled across Vaste, riding along, a tight smile perched on his face. “What are you grinning about?”

“Oh, was I grinning?” the troll asked, running a finger experimentally over his bottom teeth. “Yes, yes, I suppose that looks a bit like a grin. That does happen from time to time when I hear immensely hilarious things.”

Cyrus cast a look over his shoulder to find Vara dealing a heated reply to something Erith had said. She looked as though she were about to fall off her horse, wagging a finger at the dark elf. “I am now certain I do not want to know what they’re talking about.”

“Buggery, actually,” Vaste said, drawing a slightly shocked expression from Cyrus. “Since it’s not about goats, I’m rather enjoying listening to it.”

Cyrus felt the heat of Vara’s gaze on his back and turned slightly, confirming that she was looking at him with a somewhat dangerous glare. “I feel like I should get even farther away until this settles down.”

“What is it you do again?” Vaste asked.

Cyrus frowned at the troll. “I’m the Guildmaster, idiot. You should know, you helped elect me—”

“Not that job. The other one, the one you went to your League for.”

“A warrior?”

“Yes, that,” Vaste said, sounding slightly exasperated. “What is it you do?”

Cyrus frowned and answered by rote, using words he’d learned long ago at the Society of Arms. “A warrior’s job is to stand in front of our foes and take the abuse aimed at us—”

“A fact I am well aware of,” Vaste said, now smiling more broadly, “and often use to explain your relationship with Vara.”

“… What?”

“Oh, face it,” Vaste said, looking ahead with a rather immense amount of self-satisfaction, “you like your opponents the way you like your women—merciless. And speaking of …”

Cyrus regarded him with undisguised curiosity until he heard hoofbeats approaching in a steady cadence from behind him. He turned, expecting Vara, but found Martaina Proelius instead. She brought her horse alongside his, and when Cyrus turned to say something to Vaste, he found the troll galloping ahead to catch up with Curatio. “Do you have a moment?” Martaina asked, drawing Cyrus’s attention back to her.

“This is the most unusual and blazingly fast series of conversations I’ve ever had,” Cyrus said, feeling slightly disoriented. She looked at him with utter befuddlement, and he shook the thought away. “What can I do for you, Martaina?”

“I have a personal matter for you as Guildmaster,” Martaina said and looked around before lowering her voice and leaning in. “I was wondering if you’d consent to marrying me.”

The world seemed to pause around Cyrus. “I’m … uh … with Vara …”

“Not marry me yourself,” Martaina said with an air of impatience. “Marry me to Andren in your capacity as Master of Sanctuary.”

Cyrus gave that a moment’s thought. “I … uhm … don’t know that I have that authority, and … also … have you talked to Andren about this yet?”
The disorientation is not getting better. This long ride is probably not helping
…

“We’ve discussed it,” she said in a clipped tone.

“Aren’t you still married to Thad?” Cyrus asked, feeling an urge to put a wet cloth upon his forehead and lie down for a space of time.
A very long space of time, if possible.

“Our marriage was never recorded by any government,” Martaina said, “only performed by the Priestesses of Life.”

“Don’t they … work for the elven government?”

“There’s a tax of gold on the stamps for official documents,” Martaina said, rather brusquely. “I wouldn’t pay it, so we’re not accorded marital standing in the kingdom. Thus …” She waved a hand.

“Your union is at an end,” Cyrus said with a nod. “And more easily than mine was, at that.” He massaged the bridge of his nose with metal-clad fingers. “I don’t know how to perform a marriage ceremony, having only been to my own, and being somewhat, uh … unsteady at the time—”

“You were drunk at your own wedding?”

“Out of pure joy and nervousness, yes,” Cyrus said, and Windrider seemed to shudder with laughter before letting out a whinny beneath him. As though he needed to explain to both elf and horse, he went on. “I … was marrying someone that I hadn’t known for very long, and I wasn’t really used to being with people … or dealing with people in anything other than combat … or instructors talking to me about combat … It was a very difficult time for me,” he finished a bit lamely.

“No judgment here,” Martaina said, though she appeared to be hiding amusement under a very thin veil. “There is a text I’ve chosen, something akin to reading a part in a play. The ceremony of the Iliarad’ouran, recounted in an old book of Korinn’s History of the Third Age of Elvendom—”