Master (Book 5) Page 37

  “Have you gone blind?” Terian asked. “Because I sat on my horse during that battle and never cast a spell nor drew my blade. So I find it curious you would have seen me fight against anyone.”

  “I know the two of you will need to sort through your warring emotions,” J’anda said, “but I hope you do it swiftly so that I may be granted the grace to have the necessary conversation here before I die of old age.”

  “Why do I need to have a meeting with this traitorous filth?” Cyrus asked.

  “Because maybe I can help you,” Terian said archly, lips pursed in obvious disapproval.

  “Help me … what?” Cyrus asked with a laugh. “Die? I’ll call upon you if ever I want to go slowly and painfully.”

  “I could also do it swiftly and painlessly, if you’d like,” Terian offered. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “You cannot believe this man has any aid to give us,” Cyrus said, whirling on J’anda. The wind tugged at the wisps of the enchanter’s greyed hair, the once stark white faded with his aging. “He offers a blade hidden in his sleeve while he proffers a hand.”

  “He is placed to assist you,” J’anda said, “in ways you don’t even know. He is also favored of the Sovereign, and has the ear of Malpravus.”

  Cyrus turned to look at Terian, focusing his full attention on the dark knight. “And why would he help me?”

  “Because on the day Alaric Garaunt died,” Terian said hotly, “you weren’t the only one that was left broken and mourning.”

  Cyrus felt a curious flush on his face. “Oh?”

  “He may have called us ‘brother,’” Terian said, voice shot through with wistfulness, “but you and I lost a hell of a lot more than a guildmate when that bridge collapsed.”

  Cyrus stood there in silence for a long pause, the wind whipping around the three of them, tree rustling in the autumn breeze. “What do you want, Terian?”

  Terian’s ire broke, and his face split in a mirthless smile that looked somehow haunted. “The son of a humble warrior leads one of the greatest armies in Arkaria. Oh, how the times do change.”

  “And have you changed?” Cyrus asked, still waiting.

  “I have changed,” Terian said without a trace of emotion. “But that’s irrelevant. There are forces at work here, bending and shaping the world in ways I don’t care for. There are things I have seen …” the dark knight shuddered, an impressive effect that rattled his armor, “… that make me fear for the future, should I live so long as to see it.”

  “You’re in over your head.” Cyrus spoke it aloud as soon as the realization hit him.

  Terian’s lips formed a tight smile. “With the very, very wrong people. In so deep, I fear to open my mouth to take a breath, to speak a word. I regularly stand in the presence of a god, take his orders, carry out his wishes. And I do it all with the Guildmaster of Goliath close at hand.”

  Cyrus stared at him coolly. “You should choose your friends with greater care.”

  Terian’s eyes flashed, but his response came back calm. “I didn’t have that many options to choose from.”

  “Sounds like poor decision making,” Cyrus said, not even bothering to hide the slap.

  “Perhaps,” Terian allowed, barely a whisper. “But how I got here is completely irrelevant. I can help you.”

  “Why?” Cyrus asked with a burst of laughter at the absurdity of it all. “Why now? Why risk your life, which I know is precious to you? And to help me, whom you wanted to kill not so very long ago?”

  “Because …” Terian said, and the words spilled forth in a very practiced manner, as though he had repeated them often enough to hear them in his sleep, “‘Redemption is a path you must walk every day.’”

  Cyrus just stared at him. “That is possibly the most ludicrously simplistic bit of idiocy I’ve ever had mouthed to me. What addle-brained moron came up with that trite bit of nonsense?”

  Terian let a low guffaw. “It was the previous holder of your august office.”

  Cyrus felt his skin cool a few degrees. “Alaric.”

  “None other,” Terian said. “It was something he repeated to me before the bridge went down.” The dark knight turned his head so that Cyrus saw him in profile. “He coupled it with the reminder that he still believed in me.” Terian looked at Cyrus, dark eyes hidden in the shadows cast by the branches of the tree above, yet Cyrus could see the burning within them nonetheless. “I walked the wrong path. I followed the wrong people. It took a considerable distance for me to come to that conclusion with all certainty, but I am there now.” He stared at Cyrus. “Now I offer you a choice—do you want to help me start walking back, or would you rather just watch me fall?”

  Cyrus stared at the dark knight. “You once taught me the lesson of facing down that which you fear, even when you can’t see it. Of fighting past the legends and rumors and bullshit and striking directly at a foe. But when the day came that you considered me your enemy, you did not afford me the courtesy of coming at me straight on. Why should I believe that you’re facing me head on now?”

  “Because,” Terian said, and he sounded choked, “you are not my enemy.”

  “I killed your father,” Cyrus said.

  “Did you?” Terian asked, and there was something ghostly, a lightening of blue shade of his face, as though he had suddenly gone a bit pale. “I could only wish you had killed him.”

  Cyrus felt his brow furrow hard at that. “I stabbed him to death and left him to rot on the bridge in Termina, Terian.”

  “Of course you did,” Terian said, his expression wavering. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “You spent the better part of a year following behind me as a friend until you found occasion to betray and kill me,” Cyrus said. “But now it’s … bygones? Water under the—”

  “Fallen bridge, yes,” Terian said, his face still curiously absent some emotion and dotted with the specter of another. “Deep water under a fallen bridge, I’d say.”

  “You told me it wasn’t over between us,” Cyrus said. “At the end of that very bridge.”

  “It’s over now,” Terian said, simply and definitively. “Unless you want to revive it.”

  Cyrus waited, trying to discern any hint of deceit. “That easy?”

  “It may only have been a few months, but I’ve lived a lifetime of fear since that day,” Terian said. “I have other things to concern myself with now. Much more frightening things than the new Guildmaster of Sanctuary.”

  “You dangle under the nose of the God of Darkness and want to betray him to me?” Cyrus asked. “To what purpose?”

  “To the ultimate purpose,” Terian said without hesitation. “I want the dark elves to lose this war. I want the Sovereign to leave Saekaj again, for good this time.”

  Cyrus watched him. “And you think I’m the means to that?”

  “You’re the only one who’s beaten him,” Terian said, and at this Cyrus caught a hint of displeasure. “If there were anyone else—the King of the Elves, the Council of Twelve—I’d be talking to them. But he’s got them on the run. Reikonos reels under assault from our armies, and even now we make inroads into the east. The Elves cower across the Perda, watching the world of man burn. The Riverlands are weeks away from a determining battle.” Terian raised his arms. “You are the only opposition. The pebble in his boot.”

  “A pebble in the boot is hardly fatal,” Cyrus said.

  “The scorpion in his boot, then,” Terian said, and his facade broke. “Do you want my help or not?”

  “What help do you offer?” Cyrus asked.

  Terian lapsed into a sullen silence. “For now, there is little I can tell you.”

  Cyrus laughed. “I thought you were sitting at the right hand of the Sovereign.”

  Terian did not look amused. “I know much. But I can tell you little, for the same reason as J’anda.” He gestured at the enchanter with a flip of the arm. “If you suddenly were to make your decisions in possession of tightly
guarded information, my head would swiftly be separated from my body, and I would be of no more use to you.”

  “You’re of little enough use right now that I’d scarcely notice the difference,” Cyrus quipped. “Except as the aforementioned suicide aid.”

  “Give me time,” Terian said, and his words carried a hint of pleading. “There are things happening now that will become widespread enough knowledge soon. I’ll be able to tell you everything once that happens, without fear of reprisal.”

  “Or you could just … surrender yourself to my custody,” Cyrus said with a shrug. “Give yourself up, return with me to Sanctuary. Then you could rat your guts out as loud as you wanted, squeal your secrets.”

  “And you would protect me?” Terian asked with a smile.

  “Sure,” Cyrus said. “You’d be safe enough in the dungeon.”

  “The dungeon,” Terian said with a slow nod of acknowledgment and a faint smile to match. “Of course.”

  “That’s more for my safety, I’ll admit,” Cyrus said. “But if you want to help—”

  “It is not only my life at risk,” Terian said. “There are others, people I care about, who I would not put in the way of harm.”

  Cyrus looked at J’anda. “And you? Do you share the secrets of which he speaks?”

  “I do,” the enchanter said with a nod. “And I keep them for the same reason—to prevent harm from falling on Terian’s loved ones.”

  Cyrus felt a cool scorn blossom within. “I find it hard to believe you have anyone who loves you left at home.”

  “So do I,” Terian whispered, “but apparently I do. Their lives matter to me.”

  “Then why not root for the Sovereign to win this war?” Cyrus asked. “Surely they’ll be fine if he does—”

  “No one will be fine if he wins,” Terian said, hard as quartal. “Arkaria will drown in bones.”

  “You can’t tell me anything that can help,” Cyrus said. “I have to trust you until such time as you feel open to telling me what you say I need to know.” He shook his head slowly. “Of all the truly stupid things I have done and been accused of, this vies for top prize.”

  “I can tell you one thing,” Terian said, glancing at J’anda. “There is a spy very close to you. We think they’re on the Council.”

  Cyrus looked from the dark knight to J’anda, who nodded. “A spy that is not me,” J’anda said. “Obviously, I am a spy.”

  Cyrus felt his expression sour. “Obviously.”

  “The Sovereign knows much of the inner workings of Sanctuary,” Terian said. “More than he should simply from J’anda’s reports.”

  “He knows things before I report them,” J’anda said. “His source is quite good; they have firsthand knowledge of your adventures in Luukessia.”

  Cyrus felt his mind blaze at that thought. “There were a thousand members of Sanctuary with us in Luukessia. Not counting the Luukessians.”

  “Whoever it is,” Terian said, “they’re probably on the Council. The things that Dagonath Shrawn knows about you, about our ways …” Terian shuddered. “If I were still within the walls, I would fear for my life.”

  Cyrus felt himself looking at Terian with smoky eyes. “Do you fear for mine?”

  Terian took his time answering, and when he did, it caused a subtle chill to run down Cyrus’s spine. “Yes. I fear for your life. Watch your back, Cyrus Davidon. In the name of the man who was father to us both … watch your damned back.”

  Chapter 55

  The knock at the door sounded with all the authority of a thunderclap on the plains. Cyrus looked to the dull, wooden separation at the bottom of the tower stairs. He was still unused to his new quarters, though now his mighty bed rested in the middle of them. It was a curious thing, the open doors at each point of the compass, and in spite of his gloom he could still appreciate the delightful airiness that they brought; sweeping night wind, stars shining down from the sky, a moon somewhere overhead and out of his sight.

  Cyrus sat at the table, staring down the steps toward the doors to his quarters, as though the door would simply open itself. “Come in,” he said finally, resigned to the fact that the knock would doubtless come again in mere moments.

  She slid in soundlessly, her leather armor failing to produce so much as a squeak; her boots whisper-quiet on the stones that composed the floor. She tilted her head, frost-white hair falling down on either side of the night-blue face like the moonlight shone down above her instead of somewhere outside. Aisling made her way up the stairs, taking it all in. “So … this is the Guildmaster’s tower.”

  “Obviously the whole central tower is not mine,” Cyrus said, feeling a swell of relief at the unanticipated diversion, “only the top floor. Though there does seem to be a rather thick layer of stone between me and my officers.”

  She looked sly as she came up the stairs to his level. “You did it.”

  “I was merely elected,” Cyrus said, gauntlets pressed together in clenched fists. He held his hands together as though the tension between them could be worked out by a firm grip. He found little relief with this, though, and finally pulled them apart, placing his palms flat against the table. He could feel the sweat soaking the soft cloth that lined his armor. In spite of the breeze wafting through his quarters, Cyrus felt quite warm.

  “You put yourself forward and allowed the guild to show you how much they love you,” Aisling said, doing her slow, stalking walk toward him. He was keenly aware that it was part of the seduction; he had seen it enough times by now to know what it entailed.

  “I don’t think that it extends as far as ‘love,’” Cyrus said. “Belief in my leadership, perhaps. A lack of good alternatives, maybe.” He felt himself smile, but it was not heartfelt and it dried up as quickly as a discarded skin of water in the desert. “We need to talk.”

  “Do we?” She slid around him, her hand sliding up his arm. Even through the plate, it had some effect, like the wind had picked up and run goosepimples down his flesh. She paused behind him, and he kept himself facing straight ahead only with great effort. She leaned down and wrapped her arms around his chest. “Can we do it after?” Her warm, cinnamon breath rushed into his ear and he felt himself stiffen involuntarily. In more ways than one.

  “We cannot,” Cyrus said, standing abruptly. He realized a moment too late that had she been slightly less graceful, he would surely have caused his skull to collide with her chin. As it was, by the time he came around, she had dodged his sudden movement and rebounded back to him, catlike, sliding up against him with both hands wrapped around his neck. He felt her fingers run through his hair at the back, kneading the back of his neck in such a way that he felt his tension decrease by a significant margin immediately.

  She tugged gently upon him, drawing his face down toward hers. “It can wait.”

  He felt his eyes begin to involuntarily close and through great effort he snapped them open and stopped his slow bend toward her lips. “No.”

  He watched her eyes flutter open, slitted pupils that gazed at him in violet wonder. “What?” she asked.

  “I cannot do this any longer,” Cyrus said.

  “A tired refrain,” she said and began to pull him to her again, “you’ll feel differently after. You always do.”

  “I don’t want to feel differently,” Cyrus said, grasping her hands and pulling them off his back. Her eyes registered muted shock. “I don’t want to keep using you to soothe my aches while imagining you’re someone else.” He turned his back on her, letting go of her arms. “You and I have done this dance for far too long, and I have been a fool and a weakling letting myself think that this could be more than it is.” He looked to her. “I use you selfishly, and it has to stop.”

  “It doesn’t have to stop unless I want it to stop,” she said, her face composed in straight lines, devoid of emotion. “And I don’t wish it to.”

  “You hold out hope for something that will never happen,” Cyrus said. “My feelings for you are gratitude�
�for what you’ve done for me, for saving my life, for the guidance you’ve provided, and the thousand times you’ve been a balm. But no more than that.”

  “You don’t know that it couldn’t be more,” she said, and now she looked a little like he’d slapped her. “You haven’t given it time—”

  “You’ve given it a year,” Cyrus said, trying to keep his feelings at a distance, assessing them analytically, like a battlefield he was about to send his army upon. “Nothing has happened. In spite of the muddling of things, in spite of the desires of the flesh, the call of my heart has not changed since the day I first took my relief in you. I respect you, I find great comfort in your kindness—that much has changed. But I do not love you, Aisling.” He said it with great pain, as though he were pulling a knife from his own heart as he said it. “I wish I could. But I do not.”

  She took it stoically. “You do not know what you are saying.”

  “I know what I am saying.” Cyrus maintained the distance between them out of careful consideration. However much he wanted to reach out, to offer her support, he knew that this thought was folly that would lead him astray, back to the bed, to her arms, to her bosom, to all else. He imagined his feet rooted to the ground by invisible vines growing out of the stone, as if a druid had cast a spell on him. “It must be over.”

  “It can’t be over,” she said, emotionless.

  “It is,” Cyrus said, studying her face, looking her in the eyes. Her reserve was glacial, a wall of ice so thick it muted the purple of her eyes. “I am sorry, Aisling. I cannot keep doing this to you.” He let out a reluctant breath, life rushing out of his body. “To us.”

  “You can do whatever you want to me,” she said in that throaty whisper, the one she used when she tried to sway him. “For as long as you want. This is an offer that has no limits.” She took a step toward him and he countered it, imagining vines pulling him away to maintain the distance between them.

  “I have limits,” Cyrus said, “and we have reached them in regards to my sense of responsibility. I feel as if I have been preying upon you, and it does neither of us justice. It shames us both.”