Master (Book 5) Read online

  “Is that so?” Cyrus asked. “Interesting.”

  “Perhaps we’ll offer him a wizard to take him wherever he so chooses as well,” Curatio said with mirth, leading Thad through the door.

  Cyrus made a quick survey of the room; Vara, Nyad, Longwell, Odellan, Mendicant and J’anda all remained. None seemed in a hurry to leave, each lingering in their own way. Vara was staring at the table, apparently lost in thought. “Someone will eventually have to either speak or I’m going to assume you’re all waiting for me to leave and carry out my perception of your wishes.”

  “I have nothing that cannot wait,” Vara said, awakening from her daze. She stirred and moved from her seat to the door with an easy gait, not even looking back once.

  As soon as the door was shut behind her, three of the remaining Council members began to speak at once—Nyad, Longwell and Odellan all halted after barely getting anything out; Cyrus did not comprehend any of it. He turned his gaze to Mendicant and gave the goblin a warm smile. “What do you need, Mendicant?”

  “I only wish to express my thanks for your belief in me,” the little goblin said with a bow, his deep blue robes in most odd contrast to his green, scaled skin. “You have always treated me as an equal in the halls, even when I was the only one of my kind here, even when you had cause to hate us, and it has been that treatment that has drawn so many of my people to these halls—and gotten me elected as an officer.”

  Cyrus looked at the goblin impassively. “You have proven by your merits that you are worthy, Mendicant.”

  The yellow eyes found Cyrus’s, and he could see gratitude there. “But you gave me a chance to prove I was worthy when no other guild would have me—you and Lady Niamh, may the Earth-Father guide her soul to her rest.”

  Cyrus gave him a subtle nod. “That is what Sanctuary is, for you and me—a haven when no one else would have us. You honor us with your presence, Mendicant, and you honor your people with your service.” He bowed at the waist to the goblin, who, bereft of a reply, merely returned the bow and headed for the door.

  Cyrus turned his attention to the remaining officers. “I hope you’re not all going to thank me, because if so … it’s hardly necessary.”

  “I’m not here to thank you,” Nyad said. He looked at her carefully, and she seemed a bit red in the face.

  “Then I’m saving you for last,” Cyrus said, turning his attention to Odellan.

  “I am here to thank you,” Odellan said, apparently a little embarrassed. “But not as floridly as Mendicant, perhaps. I just wanted to offer my congratulations on your new post, and say that if there is anything that this former Endrenshan can do to aid you, in my capacity as officer or in regards to the army of Sanctuary, all you need do is ask.” He snapped to attention and offered a crisp salute, which Cyrus returned. With that, Odellan turned, his sculpted, carefully crafted armor clinking quietly with each step, and retreated out the door.

  “J’anda?” Cyrus asked. The enchanter had closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wooden rest on his chair.

  “Save me for last,” J’anda said, not opening his eyes, “after the wizard’s complaint or remonstrance. I could use a mild dose of amusement before I am forced to ask of you … what I am to ask.”

  “Fine,” Cyrus said, looking between Longwell and Nyad. “Longwell?”

  “The people of Luukessia overwhelmingly supported you in your election,” Longwell said, beginning cautiously.

  “And I hope they know I am very grateful,” Cyrus said, equally cautious. He feared where the dragoon’s overture would head.

  “I wanted to talk to you about it,” Longwell said quietly, “because I have heard rumblings … that you blame yourself for what happened to Luukessia. That you might think we blame you.” Cyrus remained silent, slightly dumbstruck, unable to even muster a “Who told you this?”

  “The people of Luukessia do not ascribe blame,” Longwell said, formally, “and certainly, even though well aware of our misadventure with the God of Death, do not connect that event with what happened in our land.”

  Cyrus stared at him, feeling his eyes narrow slightly. “This goes against human nature that I’ve seen; most people look for someone to blame.”

  “Yet they do not blame you,” Longwell said. “They blame the old kings at times—usually the ones that are not from their own land—they blame fate, they blame ancestors … anyone but the man who tirelessly fought to lead us to safety against the onslaught.” Longwell stood, picking his own helm off the table and placing it upon his head. “I only thought you should know.” Without another word, he retreated from the chamber, shutting the door behind him.

  “Well, that was not so entertaining,” J’anda mumbled under his breath.

  “Hold on to your robes, because this should be more promising,” Nyad said a little shortly.

  “Oh, Lord of War,” Cyrus muttered, “I’ve barely assumed office; what have I done?”

  “Do not adopt that pretense of being deliberately dense in my presence,” Nyad snapped at him.

  “There is no pretense in this instance, I can assure you,” J’anda said.

  “That’s helpful,” Cyrus snapped.

  “What?” The enchanter shot him a mischievous grin, which wiped years off his aged visage. “You don’t have the faintest idea what she’s angry about.”

  Nyad turned her glare from J’anda to Cyrus, the rosy cheeks of her ill humor finding rest under the cold eyes. “Fine, let me declare it so we are clear: your poor treatment of Aisling is simply breathtaking.”

  “My—what?” Cyrus found his mouth agape and wondered how it had gotten that way.

  “Goddess knows,” Nyad said, building up a formidable momentum, her words coming with less warning than a flurry of sword strikes from a troll, “I have held my tongue through your various and sundry sexual misadventures as an officer—”

  “You’re the only one, then,” Cyrus said under his breath.

  “—but you are the Guildmaster now,” she went on, undeterred. “I acknowledge that you are both young and foolish, but make a decision, leader. You cannot continue to lead the poor girl on. I fail to see how you can make such quick decisions under threat of death in battle yet let this linger as though you have all the time in the world to manage her—”

  “I am not having this conversation with you—” Cyrus said, his reserve run over, nearly sputtering as the outrage bubbled within.

  She cut him off. “I will have my say as your elder.”

  “I will listen to her have her say,” J’anda added, eyes very slightly open and watching the whole exchange, “because it promises much amusement.”

  Cyrus shot him a fiery glare. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Oh, but you forget,” J’anda said, “I have seen your heart’s desire, my friend. I remember it well, though you may try and deny it. I doubt very much it has changed since that day.”

  “Do you not recall that day upon the riverbank four years ago?” Nyad had parked her hands upon her hips, her robes tangled around her figure.

  Cyrus felt his eyes flutter. “I remember being naked. Is that the conversation you’re referring to?”

  “The very one,” Nyad said.

  “This keeps getting better and better,” J’anda said.

  “You remain a sad and tangled heap of a man,” Nyad said, “and have scarcely advanced since that day. Again, the aura of indecision that hangs about your love life is perhaps suitable for an officer and a General of Sanctuary, though there is surely some debate to be had about that.” Her arms folded in front of her. “But no longer. You are too old, too advanced in position, to continue with these … half measures.”

  “Half measures?” J’anda repeated. “Is she talking about your …?” He waved a hand lower, toward Cyrus’s faulds, the armor around his waist and hips.

  “NO!” Cyrus said, and heard Nyad echo it a half-second behind him.

  J’anda held up his hands in apology. “Carry on, then
. A curious mind merely wishes to know.”

  “I have not been adopting … ‘half measures’ … with Aisling,” Cyrus said. “I have not had time to have a proper conversation—”

  “You have used the girl for your own pleasures while failing to tell her that you are doing so,” Nyad said.

  “She wanted to be used in such a fashion,” Cyrus said. “She made it clear she would take whatever I was willing to give—”

  “And you gave it to her over and over, did you not?” J’anda’s tone was quiet but accusatory.

  “I say again, whose side are you on?” Cyrus turned on the enchanter.

  “That of the truth, as ever,” J’anda said.

  “I would think that a master of illusion would be keenly aware of the shifting nature of ‘truth’ depending on who one speaks to,” Cyrus said.

  “The truth is the truth,” J’anda said with a shrug. “And the truth is that you are still in love with Vara. This does not change. The only thing that does seem to change is who you give your … ‘half measure’ to.”

  “I do not have a ‘half—’” Cyrus caught J’anda’s smile and stopped. “I have had conversations with Vara about this very matter, I’ll have you both know. She remains steadfast in her position that we will not be intertwined. Not that it’s any of your business. I plan to have a conversation with Aisling about this given the next opportune moment.” He felt himself flush, drew himself up. “I will end it with her. You have my assurance.” He felt his eyes roll. “Now … can we please … be done with this infernal conversation?”

  “She deserves more than being a runner-up and a consolation prize for your affections,” Nyad said.

  “Which ‘she’?” Cyrus asked.

  “Both of them,” Nyad said. “In spite of whatever arrangement you think you have with Aisling, she is not here merely for the use and convenience of Cyrus Davidon.”

  “It was mutually—” Cyrus stifled his reply, half-given, before catching that smug glint from Nyad again. “Never mind.” He felt the words rush out with more than a little hostility. “Is there anything else?”

  “I am finished, provided you keep your word,” Nyad said with a last nod.

  “I am finished with her,” Cyrus said, more than a little hotly. “I will share that fact with her immediately. Good enough?”

  “Good enough,” Nyad said and started toward the door.

  “Not so fast,” J’anda said. “I require a favor of you, Nyad.”

  She gave the blue-skinned enchanter an eye. “And what is that?”

  “A teleportation spell,” J’anda said, eyeing her, still seated. “Cyrus and I require passage to Huern.”

  “The gnomish city?” Cyrus asked. “Why in the name of the gods would we go there?”

  “Because I have asked you to accompany me,” J’anda said seriously, beginning a slow rise from his chair. It looked like a tiresome effort, the movements of an old man. “I can tell you no more until we are there.”

  Cyrus debated throwing his anger back in the enchanter’s face, tossing those ill feelings right at the wrinkled skin of the dark elf. He took a breath, then another, and looked to Nyad. He saw written on her youthful features a canny look that told him she expected him to do it, and supreme disapproval waited should he yield to the temptation. “All right,” Cyrus said instead. “Let’s go to Huern.”

  Chapter 53

  Huern was a curious sight, like a city on the horizon with a perspective trick. It looked distant, small, as if it were miles away, or perhaps a town of dollhouses the like he had heard wealthy children played with.

  It was no trick, though, and he stood in the square outside the mighty portal, which towered over the whole of the city. The buildings all reached his waist at highest, stone-carved and wood-built together. It was a curious architecture, what the gnomes built, which borrowed from the humans and the dwarves in equal measure with little elvish influence.

  “Here we are,” Cyrus said, casting a wary eye over the small structures that ringed the square. The place was not built with humans in mind, let alone humans of his stature. Gnomes passed through the square giving wide berth and suspicious looks to the tall folk in their midst. Cyrus, in particular, felt the gaze of the locals upon him. They reached only to his knee at the best of times. “I’m going to have to look at the ground every moment I’m in this city or else I’ll commit accidental murder.”

  “We shan’t be here for long,” J’anda said, giving a nod to Nyad. “Would you kindly wait for us here? We must take a meeting in the outskirts.”

  “A secret meeting that I’m not invited to,” Nyad said, slightly sullen. “Oh, certainly, I’ll just wait here for you like a horse tied to a post, ready whenever you appear.”

  “That’s the spirit,” J’anda said, ignoring her irritation. “Come along, Guildmaster. We don’t wish to be late.”

  Cyrus shot Nyad a look that was short on sympathy; her diatribe was still fresh in his mind. “Can’t be late,” he said, as though it were any sort of explanation, and followed behind J’anda as the enchanter carefully picked his way down a side street that led out of town.

  “You know she’ll be able see us over every one of the buildings, right?” Cyrus asked, easily falling into step beside J’anda. Huern had little of the disgusting smell of other towns this size that Cyrus had visited; he wondered if it was because gnomish privies were undoubtedly smaller than those used by larger folk.

  “We’re going to a hillside just over the horizon,” J’anda said. “She won’t see us—or our guest—there.”

  “Would it matter if she did?” Cyrus asked.

  “Very much so,” J’anda said, inscrutable. “She would almost certainly come rushing in, agitated, throwing a distinctly princess-y fit, and we would waste hours of our time having to hear her tunnel to the bottom of her rage rather than simply sifting through yours and going on with our—in my case, considerably shorter—lives.”

  Cyrus cocked an eyebrow at him. “Who are we going to meet?”

  “You’ll see,” J’anda said.

  “Gods,” Cyrus said, “nobody wants to tell me anything, but everyone wants to tell me what to do now.”

  “Everyone wants to have your ear,” J’anda said, “to believe they have influence over your actions. There is a difference, and I hope you see it.”

  “Right now all I see is short people,” Cyrus said, taking another suspicious glare from a gnomish couple that passed him on the dirt street.

  “The thing that always struck me about the Gnomish Dominions,” J’anda said, “is all the little differences between their cities and ours.” His lips pursed in a smile.

  “Was that supposed to be a joke?” Cyrus asked.

  “A small one, I assure you.”

  Cyrus chuckled. “Nyad would be most upset with you for being insensitive about the little people.”

  “I feel a tiny pang of regret.”

  Cyrus snorted that time.

  They followed the path out of the little town, Cyrus marveling at the scale of things. He had been to Huern before, years earlier when he tried to recruit gnomes to Sanctuary. It had struck him as a fairly insular place at the time. The smells were curious; he passed small chimneys belching puffs of smoke no larger than his fist, the faint aroma of bread misting within them. He stuck his face into one and breathed deep, the smoke filling his lungs, the smell of the cooked, ground meal nearly choking him.

  “Just because everything is smaller, don’t assume it is any less potent,” J’anda said.

  Cyrus kept up with the enchanter, medium strides that left indentations in the dirt road an inch or two deep. He wondered if he might be causing real damage with his mere steps as he saw a small wagon drawn by dogs go rustling by. It bumped in the slight ruts in the dirt.

  “Just try not to touch anything,” J’anda said.

  They wended their way up a nearby hill. It was a very slight slope, but it carried them high enough that Cyrus could easily see Nyad w
aiting in the center of the square, a small crowd gathered around her, as though she were a statue for them to admire. “That doesn’t look promising,” Cyrus said.

  “She knows the ways of the gnomes,” J’anda said. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  They crested the hill, a small green grass field stretching forth below them. Cyrus caught sight of a normal-sized figure waiting below, a heavy cloak and cowl covering them from top of the head to the tip of their toes.

  “Son of a—” He whipped his head around. “Did you bring me to a meeting with Malpravus?”

  “No,” J’anda said sharply. “Who do you take me for?”

  Cyrus continued down the hill with the enchanter, studying the figure as he approached. Clouds swept by overhead, a stiff breeze blowing the stranger’s cloak as they drew closer. Cyrus squinted, wondering why there was a strange elevation about the man’s—he felt sure it was a man—shoulders within the cloak. Still, the figure stood somewhat sideways, providing little but a silhouette for him to go on.

  There was a mighty tree, three times Cyrus’s height at least, lingering overhead. As they drew under its boughs, J’anda’s pace slowed. “I need a staff, I think,” the enchanter said. “A walking stick. Something.” His breaths came with a little more labor than they should have given the leisurely pace, Cyrus thought.

  “At least you can just teleport back,” the cloaked figure said roughly, voice a low sound, familiar to Cyrus’s ears. “Rather than walk back to town.”

  “I know you,” Cyrus said, staring at the cloak. It dawned on him just before the cowl was swept back to reveal navy flesh and dark hair, with spiked pauldrons that stood tall on each shoulder. “You sonofa—”

  “I wasn’t exactly expecting a warm greeting from you,” Terian Lepos said, his once-ubiquitous grin strangely absent. “But I hope you can at least put aside your anger for this meeting … because we desperately need to talk.”

  Chapter 54

  “Were you anticipating a blade to the face?” Cyrus asked, his hand hovering on Praelior’s hilt. “I saw you fighting against us in the field at Livlosdald.”