Warlord (36 page)

Vaste nodded at him. “So you’re saying you’ve had a lot of delusions, then? Enough that you feel you can tell the difference between those and … uh, this?”

“I’m not prepared to gamble my life on it,” Cyrus said, “but yes. I think he’s alive, somewhere.” He saw a furtive glance from Vara, watched it slide off of him and back to the table, and mustered up a near-finish to his thought, one that was steeped in doubt and guilt. “But I don’t know why he’s not here.”

The Council broke, and even Vara prepared to leave the chambers in advance of Cyrus. He stopped her with a word. “Vara.”

She looked back into the darkened Council Chambers as Erith passed her by. “Can we talk later?” she asked. “I find myself … perhaps in the mood for a nap of my own.”

“Sure,” Cyrus said, and watched her go, the slump of her shoulders obvious even through her shining armor.

“Cheer up,” Andren said, making his way to the door. “We can go on a walk to Reikonos if it’ll make you feel better?” He paused at the door. “Maybe look for your mysterious house again? Eh?”

Cyrus started to say no, but something about the thought of Andren’s proposal held him up. “Maybe,” Cyrus said. “Yes. I think … yeah, that sounds like a—”

The door next to Andren thundered open, slamming wood against stone as its hinges reached full extension and started to spring back from the force. For a moment, Cyrus thought perhaps the alarm spells of Sanctuary had gone off, warning of foul deeds afoot somewhere in the keep, but he saw the dark-armored figure with the lance tucked over his shoulder a moment later, and relaxed almost imperceptibly until he saw the look on Samwen Longwell’s face.

It was dark as the Council Chambers; darker even, perhaps, thunderclouds on the broad brow of the last King of Luukessia. He stalked into the room with a furious purpose, every motion relaying obvious anger. “How could you?” Longwell asked, thumping the haft of his lance against the floor with every step like a walking cane. He did not appear to need its support, but it channeled his fury into the stone and echoed through the Council Chamber with all his anger.

“Watch your tongue with your Guildmaster,” Andren said, coming back into the room and slamming the doors behind him. “Perhaps show a bit of courtesy, too, to the man who’s done more for your people than anyone els—”

“I am here,” Longwell said, so harshly he cut the healer off with his fierceness, “because of my people. Because of what just reached my ears about the Heia Pass.” He snapped his head around. “How many Luukessians died in the defense of that place?”

Cyrus regarded him coolly, trying to think his way through the situation before him.
He’s plainly agitated. There’s a burr deep under his saddle; best not ride him too hard right now
. “I didn’t break down the list of casualties by their place of origin, Samwen.”

Longwell’s eyes flashed at the use of his familiar name. “Well, I had a glance at it when it came through at my station in Emerald Fields. I counted forty-five.” He edged up to the table, butting his chest out. “Forty-five men of Syloreas, Actaluere and Galbadien—”

“Of Sanctuary, I think you mean,” Cyrus said, trying to remain calm, channeling Alaric to the best of his ability.

“Of Luukessia!” Longwell practically shouted. “And you threw them into death!”

“Come on,” Andren said, scoffing, “half the damned guild is Luukessians, Longwell. You can’t expect them not to die when we have losses—”

“What I expect,” Longwell said, his own voice dropping into icy ranges Cyrus associated with wizard spells, “is that my people aren’t going to be the shield vanguard for every stupid fight we get into.”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Defending the pass against the titans—defending the new Luukessian homeland against them— that’s a stupid fight?”

Longwell flushed scarlet. “Did you have to put them up front?”

“I had to put the best fighters up front, yes,” Cyrus said, giving him a steady, even stare, but trying to put some compassion into his voice as well. “Just the same as at Leaugarden, when I had to use the cavalry dragoons to—”

Longwell exploded before he had a chance to finish. “And that’s another thing! Using us as your spear to do your dirty work, the hard work, even when—”

“Hey!” Andren shouted, silencing Longwell for once. “I didn’t see any of ‘your’ men flinching away from doing their asked duty. I didn’t see your dragoons hesitate to charge when ordered—when you ordered them, by the way, because I recall you being right at the fore in that fight.” Longwell jerked his head as if struck. “This is a guild where we fight, and right now we’re holding the line to defend your Emerald Fields, man! You were bucking for battle not that long ago, in fact, looking like you’d enjoy tearing a piece or two off titan flank with your teeth. What happened to that bloke?”

Longwell turned slowly back to Cyrus, all the fight drained out of him. His pale face was hollow of expression, and his lip quivered in a way that Cyrus had never seen from the dragoon. “There are so few of us left,” he whispered. “So very few. And with … Emerald Fields, and Leaugarden, and now … now this … and more could …” He choked a little.

“Samwen,” Cyrus said, trying to hold himself up as a stone wall though his legs felt heavy bearing the burden of his body at the moment. “We are going to do everything we can to protect your people. But your men aren’t—the ones we’ve sent to Leaugarden and the pass—they’re not farmers.” Cyrus felt the sag of his lips as emotion weighed them down. “None of us are. We’re fighters. Soldiers. We go to war. And this … this fight with the titans, it’s reminding me what real war is, without the safety of the armor of magic and healing and resurrection spells.”

“There are just … so few …” Longwell pitched back, his rump hitting the chair nearest him, and he landed on the floor with a short bounce. “So few …” Now the hot tears were running down his face.

Unsure what to say or how to say it, Cyrus walked over to the dragoon and knelt next to him, placing a strong hand on his shoulder as the last living King of Luukessia wept openly in the middle of the Council Chambers.

“That was a bit of downer,” Andren said as he walked the streets of Reikonos off the square with Cyrus at his side. The healer’s stride was lighter than his bearing, and evening was already starting to settle on the world. Autumn was in full effect, the cool breeze blowing through the streets, the few trees in the city shedding leaves that whipped along down the dirt and cobblestone avenues.

“He’s had a rough run of luck,” Cyrus said, adjusting his belt, feeling for Praelior’s hilt instinctively. They had waited with Longwell for quite some time, until the dragoon pulled himself together, wiped his eyes, and offered Cyrus a half-hearted apology before he made his retreat.

“That’s the truth,” Andren agreed as they took a turn down a shop-lined street, glass windows glinting in the last light of day as the sun moved into the west. “Martaina told me that he’s quite the weepy fellow when, uh … engaged in the business, you know.”

Cyrus frowned. “No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

“You know,” Andren said. “He and Martaina … in Luukessia … they …” The healer arched his eyebrows.

The answer hit Cyrus like a titan fist. “Oh! Oh, gods! I didn’t need to know that about your paramour.”

“Well, you were with her over there,” Andren said. “You must have known she did a bit of dabbling.”

“I tried very hard not to discuss it with her more than the once or twice it came up,” Cyrus said, quickening his pace as though he could leave this particular conversation behind if he walked fast enough. “Why is everything so focused on sex of late? It feels like every conversation tends that way sooner or later.”

“Stuff of life, mate,” Andren said with a twinkle in his eyes. “What else is there? Battles, sex, food—I mean, that sounds like a warrior of Bellarum’s whole bag right there.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “There’s got to be. That’s a hollow life, my friend.”

“Well,” Andren said cautiously, “some people go in for the drink—”

“More than that,” Cyrus said.

“Such as?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said, trying to look at the buildings they were passing. Shops were giving way to some houses, broken by businesses, taverns and the occasional small lot for farming, or communal ovens. “Love? Companionship? The bond of the brotherhood and sisterhood of our guild—”

“Bleargh,” Andren pronounced with a finger shoved down his throat. “You’re getting a bit sappy as you’re hovering toward settling down—again, I might add, as if you failed to take away a single lesson from your first marital experience.”

“Says the man who’s about to tie the knot.”

Andren’s eyebrows arched upward in surprise. “Say what?”

Cyrus froze in the middle of the street. “She told me you’d talked about it.”

Andren frowned, clearly befuddled. “Who? Martaina?”

“No, Aisling,” Cyrus snapped back. “Of course Martaina.

“Hey, it could have been that dark elven minx. Based on the number she did to you, though, I’d be a bit warier in my approach, maybe try and—”

“Martaina came to me and said she wanted me to perform a marriage ceremony for you,” Cyrus said. “For the two of you. Said you’d talked about it.”

Andren gave it a moment’s thought. “I suppose we did at that.”

Cyrus waited for the reaction. “And?”

Andren just shrugged, the shadow of a nearby house disguising some of his expression. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll marry her.”

“What?” Cyrus could not avoid the tug of disbelief. “Just like that?”

“Well, yeah,” Andren said. “I didn’t know she was serious.” He broke into a goofy smile. “It’s kind of an honor, being asked by a woman like that, you know? Clearly she has plenty of options available, and she wants to marry me. I’m flattered.”

Cyrus stood there, thinking that one over. “That’s a … unique perspective.”

“You don’t live as long as I have without gaining an appreciation for a good compliment,” Andren said, starting down the street again. Cyrus had to hurry to catch up once he’d recovered his wits. “I mean, after all, she’s got her pick of all these men in Sanctuary, she could maybe go for that bloke in Amti—”

“Gareth?”

“That’s the one,” Andren said lightly. “I guess they grew up together or something? Anyhow, it’s really quite flattering to be chosen out of all those.”

“I suppose,” Cyrus said, inclining his head as he fell back into step alongside the healer.

“Kind of like you with Vara,” Andren said. “When are you going to chain that little lady down?”

Cyrus’s mouth fell open. “I … don’t know.”

“You want to, don’t you?” Andren prodded. “Eh? You’ve wanted nothing but her for years, really. So why wait?”

“Because of reasons,” Cyrus snapped, though he could not think of a single one.

“Oh, yes, the reasons,” Andren said, straight-faced, nodding. “The reasons being you’re afraid she’ll say no.”

Cyrus froze again, and Andren began to outpace him. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“In battle? Gods no. In love … well, if the boot fits …” The healer looked down at Cyrus’s feet. “Those are mighty big boots, I might add. Probably difficult to find in the right size.”

“Well, they were my father’s,” Cyrus snapped, “so I suppose they’re rather one of a kind.”

“Much like your elven paladin, the shelas’akur,” Andren said with a twinkle in his eye as they approached an intersection. “Might want to—put her on or—or something,” he started to get flustered, and finally gave up. “Just marry her already.”

Cyrus bit back the hard reply that he wanted to spout. “I’ll consider it,” he said instead.

“Swallow your pride, idiot,” Andren said, looking around the intersection before nodding at the tavern that had been the Rotten Fish. “If she says no, just realize it’s her pride talking, and that makes the two of you even more perfect for each other.” He broke into a jog as he crossed the empty intersection, heading toward the pub.

Cyrus hurried to catch up, the sight of the pub causing him to divide his attention between the discussion they were having and the reason he had come here. “Your advice is noted.”

“Yeah, you file that away for later,” Andren said. “Where are we going here?”

“This way, maybe?” Cyrus pointed down the street. “I don’t know that I have a hope of finding my actual house, since—I think the last time I saw it, the roof was caving in. It could be rubble, or more probably, long gone by now. I just want to see if anything looks familiar.”

“Mmhmm,” Andren nodded. “And how’s that going so far?”

“All the houses look different,” Cyrus said, “same as last time.” The thatched roofs all blended together, and Cyrus frowned the further they walked from the pub.

The smell of night and the city was in the air, the smell of horse dung and baked bread heavy in Cyrus’s nose. The autumn breeze of evening whirled around him, finding the cracks in his armor and cooling him where he’d sweated earlier in the warmer plains air. The houses were becoming shadowed now, a few souls still sitting outside here and there, watching the passersby. They took one look at Cyrus and did double takes, or let their jaws hang open.

“Not exactly inconspicuous, are you?” Andren asked.

Cyrus did not bother to answer. The distance they had gone seemed incredible, too far, really, and he was about to give up when his eyes perceived a gap in the houses ahead. He quickened his pace, half-expecting to find a field where farmers had a small patch here in the city. It was a simple space between houses, after all, but as he got closer he noticed the remains of the stone fence that had once parceled the lot, and the hints of a foundation that remained visible even though whatever had stood atop them was clearly long since gone.

Cyrus paused outside the fence and stared at the empty lot. A house had stood here once, he was sure of it. But to see it vacant now, and clearly for some time—it was a most curious thing in a city where housing was practically fought over.

Cyrus looked left and then right, to the houses on either side, and he saw movement in the dark, the light of a pipe flaring in the shadows at the entry to the house next door. Cyrus picked his way over, slowly, keeping his hands obviously visible. “Good evening,” he called, announcing himself in case the person behind the pipe was the suspicious sort.