Master (Book 5) Page 31

  “General,” Vara said quietly. She stared at him, her own orb hanging before her.

  Reluctantly, Cyrus nodded. There were only a handful of faces remaining now, all of them watching him. Curatio. Andren. Vaste. He knew they wouldn’t leave until he had.

  Aisling. He caught sight of her in a motion at the corner of his eye, just barely visible in the entry of a mud hut.

  With a last look, Cyrus took hold of the orb as he saw Vara do the same; the chime of the spell magic washed over him, sweeping him away and leaving him with a terrible sense in his gut that they were, all of them, alone, even in spite of the evidence he had just seen to the contrary.

  Chapter 46

  The passing of the hours was a sweet blessing to Cyrus, listless in the days that followed. Guild business seemed to be on hold, the army in a state of flustered success over the victory at Gren. They seemed to Cyrus like the teenagers he had known at the Society who had embraced the mythical, wondrous and ephemeral first love; glowing in each others’ presence, holding hands like it was a mark of pride. He’d seen the behavior, thought it curious in his isolation, much the same as he viewed his soldiers now. Their voices hushed when he was around, their embarrassed relief and proud tones rang loud when they did not see him. They had done something truly worthy of note in their own minds. In the mind of most of Arkaria, Cyrus would have conceded, in that strangely detached way that he had, had anyone asked.

  The days ground to a slow close, no meetings to snag them in their passage like blade on cloth, the dull tearing noise of sundered material. They slipped by and Cyrus watched them, a ghost in the halls of Sanctuary.

  But not the Ghost.

  Aisling attended him and he let her, without emotion or enthusiasm. The lack of feeling came as dutifully to him as it had in Luukessia, though he did not quite feel the soul-deep weight now that he had then. This loss was more personal, he conceded, but he kept it at arm’s length, away from his day to day emotions, dwelling on it only at day’s end or day’s beginning. But there was so little business to handle, with the everyone’s breath seemingly held for the approaching election, that he felt—for once—surprisingly unfettered.

  He knew that he had changed in the eyes of his army, knew they had seen something in him in the square at Gren that had put rumors on lips. For good or ill, he did not know, but he suspected. He’d heard the whispers of the fury in his own mind, after all, and others had read it in his eyes. He’d meant to wipe the trolls out to the last, and that was not a secret. The thought of the barely averted slaughter weighed on Cyrus in those quiet moments, that and the voice of Alaric telling him not to succumb made him wonder if he had simply lost his way or if he was losing his mind.

  On the day before the election Cyrus found himself in the gardens, steps almost preordained. He walked over the bridge, noting how like the Realm of Life it looked, even without the snows blanketing the ground. This gave him a spur of a sort, a little poke to his consciousness. Alaric Garaunt had been a man who kept his mysteries close, who embraced them in a way that he had never embraced anyone that Cyrus had seen.

  The day was golden, one of those days of fall where rustling leaves and the brisk air made even Cyrus, in his current state, feel alive. He could smell cider on the air and remembered how someone—had it been J’anda?—had mentioned a nearby orchard. He wanted to pluck an apple from a tree and sink his teeth into the sweetness, taste the life as he drained the juice from it. He wanted to walk under red and orange leaves, watching each of them die just so he could remember that he was alive.

  But instead he came here, crossing the bridge over the still waters in the Sanctuary gardens, to the place almost at the wall at the back of the grounds. There were still green trees here, the message of summer’s end not yet spread to their boughs. He could still hear the satisfying crunch of his metal boots on blades of grass as each step marked his passage.

  He stood before a stone monument almost six feet high, six feet wide, but not nearly so deep. It was brilliant stonework, but simple, with an alcove carved into the middle of it big enough that Cyrus could have set his helm.

  But it was not his helm that stood in that place of honor.

  The helm that rested there was rounded thing, with slits for the eyes—the one eye, really; the other was pointless—and a carved-out space for a mouth to speak wisdom from beneath. Cyrus felt a sharp intake of breath as he laid eyes on it, disregarding the words written on the stone monument. For a moment he believed he could see movement inside the helm—hoped he could see movement inside the helm. It took half a breath for him to realize that some inspiring soul had lit a candle within it, letting light shine from within it.

  “Here I am,” he said. He cast a look back; there was no one in sight of him.

  Cyrus stared at the monument, at Alaric’s helm held carefully within it. The helm stared back, the flame within fluttering as a gust blew from over his shoulder. It did not, however, answer him in return.

  “I failed you,” Cyrus said after a long moment. He had a tight grasp of the emotions at hand and did not let them out. “I didn’t believe when I should have. I led us against Mortus, and my arrogance—my unwillingness to follow your lead, to let my guildmates make their own difficult decisions, sacrifices—it cost a whole people their land. I failed you more completely than anyone I have ever failed. I believe I have made the single deadliest error in judgment in the history of man, elf—gods, in all history. When you called me on my error, I embraced an opportunity to run from my humiliation, to run into the open and willing arms of another land that knew me not. But my foolish errors followed me there because they are unforgiving things, and I was able to watch firsthand as my hubris came back to visit people who had not earned it. I watched a land die because I failed to follow your lead. I watched a land die because I was unwilling to make the sacrifice that you, as the leader—the Master of Sanctuary—called for.”

  He waited, silent for a moment, emotionless, as though the monument would pronounce some judgment upon him, as though the candle within the helm would spit out a spirit and endow the empty vessel with a fire that would bellow condemnation at him. He stood, unflinching, a deeper part of him hoping it would.

  “I failed you, Alaric,” Cyrus said. His voice sounded neither humble nor proud, nor contrite nor boastful. It lay right in the middle, flat as the plains upon which he stood. “I failed you, and you stepped forward to give your life to keep my foolish mistakes from destroying our own home.”

  He waited again for condemnation, but none came. “Now I set my sights upon replacing you.” He cracked a smile, but it was humorless. “Can you imagine a more arrogant man than I? I have trouble with it myself. I have led Sanctuary into war with the dark elves, into a siege that nearly cost us everything, into a battle with a god—the consequences were a disaster on an order of magnitude larger than any earthquake ever even considered—and now I mean to expand my influence.” He stood silent, pursing his lips. “Does that even seem right? I’ve heard the whispers of the soldiers. My wrath almost emerged once more in the troll homeland, and it was only the faint whisper of your memory that spared their women and children from utter death. I nearly unleashed a slaughter … and now I mean to lead the largest independent army in Arkaria.”

  Cyrus honed in on the light dancing within the helm. “Does that not chill you? It chills me. What is a leader to do but believe in what is right to him and lead from that strength? The direction should always be certain, it should not be a matter of question. But I question.” He took a step forward. “I doubt. It lingers. I have failed in such mighty ways—and such petty ones as well. They number beyond my counting. I do not know what my job should be, but I question why I would be a leader to anyone.”

  Cyrus’s hands found the sides of his greaves, producing a subtle clatter. “I am a buffoon. I am a destroyer. My judgment is suspect, my methods are foul to your eyes, and I question every decision I have ever made. If I am a leader, we are all surely doome
d for fools, and if I am to take us on any path, I am almost assured it is the wrong one. Alaric …” he felt himself swallow heavily, “… it should have been me that died on that bridge, not you.”

  He waited, staring at the lit flame, willing it to speak as he’d heard in Gren. The orange light danced as the wind blew, but the monument merely stood, stone, motionless, staring back at Cyrus as he stared at it. He gave it a few more minutes of consideration before turning his back on it, confession done, and just as rudderless as he had been when he arrived.

  Chapter 47

  Cyrus rose before the dawn on the day of the election, forwent any thought of breakfast and headed down the stairs. His mind was in a muddle, but he kept it clear enough to let his feet guide him down and toward the door. He smiled faintly at the suggestions of luck, few and far between in the crowded foyer, and had almost broken through the grand doors when the acerbic voice reached him.

  “Not planning to sit around and await your crowning?” Verity’s wit landed upon his back with little effect; Cyrus felt like his skin was thick as hardened leather, and he merely stared at her. “Shouldn’t you be running a campaign or something of the sort?” She clacked her wooden stave against the stone floors carelessly as she made her way to him. She came from the lounge, and for a brief moment he wondered if wine or ale had loosened her tongue before deciding that she would probably have given voice to her thought anyway.

  “I’m not staying,” Cyrus said.

  “A man of action,” Verity said, adjusting her pointed grey cap. “So very admirable; a quality found among leaders.”

  He watched her warily, hearing her words as a critique backed by sarcasm but caring not at all. “I could use a teleport.”

  “Far be it from me to refuse the request of General Davidon,” Verity said, bowing. “Where would you like to go, my captain?”

  Cyrus felt his tongue grow thick. “Emerald Fields.”

  Verity raised an eyebrow at that, then shrugged as if to say she might have guessed. “Emerald Fields it is, then.” She whispered something in half a breath, and the world dissolved in shimmering green light. A blue sky washed in as the light faded, forcing Cyrus to blink away his disorientation.

  He stood before a great portal, wide stone gaping at him, with spears on all sides. He raised both hands in false surrender, but already the weapons were lowering.

  “General,” Samwen Longwell said, his lance in his hand. “What brings you to the Emerald Fields on this …” he choked off his words, “… this day?”

  Cyrus wondered what description he might have applied to the day but did not wish to impose by asking. “I needed some fresh air.”

  Longwell had the most curious look, as though he could not quite believe what he’d heard. “I daresay you’ll find it here.”

  “Good,” Cyrus said with a nod. The small army gathered around the portal was less than five hundred men, Luukessians all by his counting, and some of them plainly not members of Sanctuary. He felt their eyes upon him and wondered how they judged him. He fell into a quick step, heading down a well-trodden, somewhat rutted road.

  “Shall I wait for you here?” Verity asked.

  “Come back for me before dinner if you would, please,” Cyrus said, not turning around. He passed between the separating rank of soldiers, parting before him without a command needing be uttered from any soul.

  “Better than waiting about, I suppose,” Verity said behind him, loud enough to be heard. “By your leave, then.” He heard the tinkle of magic being used, echoing louder than the sarcasm she had left in her wake.

  Cyrus looked down the road. Buildings sprang up within a couple hundred feet. New, wooden, lacking in the timeless appearance of stone-crafted dwellings, they sprung from the horizon like moss growing from a rock. They hung close to the earth at first but increased in size the further his gaze roamed toward the place where the sky met the ground.

  He could smell the fires burning, the smoke coming out of the chimneys. It was a town, full-fledged and sprung from the earth just as sure as the moss he had thought of before. He could see hints of the so-called Emerald Fields for which the place was named. The ground had been plowed, and the green had been taken up in harvest. Now Cyrus saw the late fields of corn to his right, a crudely made fence stretching off into the distance. Black dirt from one of the fields was the perfect exemplar of his mood, just dark enough to stand in contrast to the lightening sky beyond.

  Cyrus walked toward the town unchallenged and could see the burgeoning efforts, the accumulation of so many little exertions over the last months. He had not been here for quite some time, and the change was breathtaking. Where last time had been little plots, now stood houses, storefronts, the veneer of civilization. Still, beyond, he could see the cloth tents yet pitched for those who had no dwellings, and the bones of houses yet unfinished at the far end of the town.

  A rooster’s crow was answered by another. The sun was already peeking over the horizon at his back, running later than Sanctuary’s sunrise by only a few minutes, Cyrus figured. He looked to his left and saw mountains on the southern horizon. The foothills began within eyesight, within a few minutes walk, really, marching up in a slow incline to a mound of boulders and rocks that was the absolute opposite of anything Emerald or Field-like.

  With a gentle start, he was reminded of what lurked in those hills, the quiet giant whose strength was as undisputed as any rock from which his kind took their name. “Fortin,” he said with a breath, wondering where between his eye and the top of the hill in sight the rock giant was.

  “Lord Davidon!” A harried voice reached Cyrus’s ears and he turned his attention back to the dusty road through the town. He blinked his surprise at the figure hurrying toward him, her honey-brown hair at loose ends and her movement something between a walk and a run.

  “Cattrine?” Cyrus felt a frown crease his face, the weight of emotion pulling down his brow. “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask the same of you,” she said, breathless as she came to a stop before him. Her shirt was slightly dusty, and her pants were a blackened mess, as though she’d sat in the residue of a city oven. “We were not informed you would be visiting today, and we are completely unready—”

  “I’m not here in any official capacity,” Cyrus said with a wave of the hand. “I just … wanted to look around.” He took a breath, hoping that the words did not sound as silly to her ears as they did to his.

  “I … what?” Cattrine seemed genuinely perplexed by his answer, her mind shifting through several expressions he knew all too well to land on a half-smile. “You’re here out of curiosity, then?”

  Cyrus pondered his answer for the space of a sword stroke. “I just … needed to … go somewhere.”

  “You’ve been a great many somewheres of late,” Cattrine said. “If even half of what I’ve heard is true, you’re the hero who freed an enormous number of slaves and put an end to a great, trollish treachery.”

  He waved her off again, dismissing her compliment. “I needed to be somewhere … that didn’t involve fighting, I think. Or lauding.”

  Her eyes found his; they were more piercing than he recalled. “Is there something vexing you, Lord Davidon?”

  He did not try to look away. “The sheer stinging of all the things presently vexing me is enough to poison a modest-sized elephant, I think. And you should call me Cyrus.”

  “I have never seen one of these elephants,” Cattrine said, taking a moment to dust some of the coal residue off the front of her pants as she stood there. It billowed off her in a light cloud. “But I have heard tales of them; taller than you, are they not?”

  “They are,” Cyrus said.

  “And very strong, I believe?” Cattrine asked.

  “Stronger than …” Cyrus paused. “Stronger than most animals, I would say.”

  “Stronger than you?”

  He thought it over. “When I’m without my sword, most certainly. When I have my sword in han
d, I still wouldn’t care to test their strength against mine.”

  She shivered slightly as a breeze blew down with a chill that followed. Cyrus felt it, but only dimly, like the sun on a winter’s day. “Perhaps we should move our discussion somewhere warmer.”

  He stared down at her. She looked small, rubbing her shoulders, stamping her feet, and he suddenly felt very sorry for her indeed. The memory of his own actions, of the chain of events he’d loosed that led her here … “Of course,” Cyrus said. “Where did you have in mind?”

  “I have an office,” Cattrine said, just a little sheepish. “Over one of the shops.” She waved a hand behind her, indicating a wooden storefront. “It’s not much, but it is warm.”

  “Lead on,” Cyrus said, smiling slightly. As warmly as he could manage. He followed her as she trudged through the dust. They climbed rickety stairs that whined at each of Cyrus’s steps. For her movement, they seemed magnanimous; for his, they whinged and squeaked at his every footfall. “It’s the armor,” he said with that same smile; it was only on the surface, though.

  “You seem … sadder than when last I laid eyes upon you,” Cattrine said once they were in the office and the door was shut tight. The wind made its lonely howl outside, sweeping down off the hill, but it felt only half-hearted now that he was out of its gust. A fire crackled in a hearth in the corner, and Cyrus found his eyes drawn to it.

  “I’m mourning a friend,” Cyrus said, tearing his eyes from the flames.

  “That means you’re blaming yourself, I suspect,” Cattrine said. She stood behind a waist-high desk, a rickety old thing that looked like it had come from the Elven Kingdom, something that would not have looked out of place in the government center in Termina. It had long burns on the top surface, and Cyrus found himself staring at the woodworking along the sides. It was elven, without doubt; no human would spend that much time on a purely utilitarian object, and it was far too tall for a gnome or a dwarf.