Master (Book 5) Read online

  “On a few occasions, yes,” Odellan said with greatest reluctance, as though Cyrus had taken a sharp implement out and prised the answer from his mouth by force. “But—”

  “No buts,” Cyrus said and waved him toward the door. “Do what you can. I’m not expecting miracles.”

  “An odd sentiment,” J’anda said, following Odellan toward the door and resting a hand on his shoulder, “given that our victim is a goddess?” He smiled and stepped into the hall, taking care to shut the door behind him.”

  Cyrus watched them go and shook his head as though he could shrug off the strangeness of the task they were set upon. He turned his head and realized that one of the attendees was still very much with him, sitting on a chair and staring at him. “Vaste?” Cyrus asked. “Is there a reason you’re leering at me?” He sniffed the air, caught a whiff of the distant smell of the cooking. “You’ve not become so overwhelmed by your hunger that you’re considering eating me, I hope?”

  “As disagreeable as you are outside my stomach, I can’t imagine what damage you would do within it,” Vaste replied, scowling. “No, I prefer to keep my diet strictly to things that don’t give me indigestion, thank you.”

  “Very well,” Cyrus said with a smile. “What, then?”

  “How are you doing?” Vaste asked, standing. The troll towered over Cyrus by several feet, and for another, it might have been intimidating.

  “I feel fine,” Cyrus said, folding his arms. “Arydni said that the illness never took hold in my chest, that my breathing seems un …” he searched for a word, “… deterred, I suppose. I’m fine, that’s the gist.”

  “Are you?” Vaste said, staring down at him. “Are you truly?”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said, staring back. “Truly. I am not ill.”

  “Are you sure?” Vaste asked, tapping his tall staff against the ground. “Because it seems to me—and admittedly I am but a humble troll and outside observer—that in the last six months you’ve somehow foresworn the woman you’ve pined over for the last four years in favor of the one whose interest you’ve been spurning all this time.” Vaste nodded, as if he were giving deep consideration to something. “That doesn’t seem like the mark of a man who’s got his wits about him.”

  “There’s a little more complexity to the situation than that.” Cyrus could feel the slow thrum of blood in his veins. Oh, how I don’t care to talk about this.

  “Is there?” Vaste asked. “Because, again, to my eyes, it looks daft. It makes those who have known you wonder if perhaps you simply need a good, solid thump to the head with a heavy stick.” He tapped his staff against the ground again, the white crystal at the top catching Cyrus’s eye. “Oh, look. I seem to be carrying a heavy stick.”

  “Vaste, she scorned me,” Cyrus said, his voice low and quiet. “Before I left for Luukessia, she turned away my advances.”

  “Yes, and upon your return, she practically flung herself at you,” Vaste said.

  “She … talked to me … in the Council Chambers,” Cyrus said. “I wouldn’t say she ‘flung herself’ at me.”

  “Did she attempt to stab you in any way during the conversation?”

  “What? No.”

  “Well, for Vara, that’s practically like flinging herself at you.”

  “She didn’t want me, okay?” Cyrus said, feeling the first flash of irritation. “She made it clear before I left. I’m sorry she changed her mind while I was gone. Things changed in the year and more I was in Luukessia. I got … entangled.”

  “Yes,” Vaste said, “that’s a good way to put it. I noticed, though, that you didn’t seem to have great difficulty disentangling yourself from the Baroness Cattrine when the time came for her to leave for the Emerald Fields.”

  Cyrus let his head slump. “There’s more to that situation as well. It’s not as simple as you’re painting it—”

  “Oh, yes,” Vaste said, “I’m sure that fiery, energetic sexual escapades with a lithe, dexterous dark elven thief are incredibly nuanced and possessed of much depth. You probably have conversations in which you discuss the great elven literary masters of the day and the sordid details of dwarven politics.” He focused his gaze on Cyrus. “No? It’s just sex, then?”

  Cyrus held up a hand, as though he could forestall the troll. “I … look, I’m incredibly busy trying to be the General of this guild and steer our expeditions and incursions—”

  “I’m having a hard time trying to figure out which of you is using the other more, you or Aisling,” Vaste said, and Cyrus felt the silence draw in after the words were spoken.

  “I’m not …” he cleared his throat, which suddenly felt oppressively tight, like something within it was choking him, “I’m not using her.”

  “Are you in love with her?” Vaste asked, his piercing onyx eyes boring relentlessly into Cyrus’s.

  “I’m not … not in love with her,” Cyrus said. “I didn’t know love was a requirement before—”

  “Some civilized cultures think it helpful,” Vaste replied. “Not the trolls, obviously. My people will gladly throw down with any random partner in any place, and feelings are not a concern at all. In fact, the more loathsome the partner, sometimes the better the—”

  “I could stand to go without hearing the intricacies of troll sex, thanks,” Cyrus said, squinting his eyes as though he could blot out the words.

  “You’re using the girl,” Vaste said. “She’s allowing it for her own reasons. Perhaps it’s because you make her scream the way you do, or perhaps she feels something for the first time in years. I don’t know. I don’t care. Your furtive glances when we’re in Council betray your actual feelings—the same way they have for the last four years.”

  “I screwed it up, Vaste,” Cyrus said quietly, and the troll stayed silent as he watched Cyrus. “The night I came back from Luukessia, Aisling came to my quarters. I was tired and frustrated, and … I grabbed hold of her as she passed, not even fully realizing who she was. I was just … yearning for something. Alaric had … I just wanted to feel something. And a knock came at my door later that woke me up, and when I went to get it, Vara was standing there. And she saw …” Cyrus gestured behind him, as though the scene were recreated there for the troll to see.

  “Oh, dear,” Vaste said, forming a perfect O with his lips from astonishment. “Yes. Okay. I see the problem now.”

  “Yes, I see the problem too,” Cyrus said. “It doesn’t matter if Aisling is using me—though I can’t imagine what for. There is no chance with Vara now.”

  “You don’t know that,” the troll said quickly.

  “I think I know it,” Cyrus said.

  “You won’t know unless you try,” Vaste said quietly.

  “There’s nothing to try,” Cyrus said. “She won’t even talk to me about anything other than guild matters. Won’t even look at me except to acknowledge a direct statement or question. She’s done with me, Vaste. Whatever was between us is now gone. Totally and irrevocably.”

  “I’m still holding this stick, you know,” Vaste said, waving the staff slightly, “and I’m beginning to think you might still need an abrupt whack delivered to the back of your head. You’ve been so busy running these last few months—”

  “I’m not running,” Cyrus said, and this time it came out as a snarl. “I’m not running from anything or anybody, all right? I’m handling guild business. I’m scheduling and executing expeditions, incursions and battles to help us handle the responsibilities we have before us. It’s a lot of work. I’m not running,” he said again, more emphatically this time. “I learned my lesson about running last year. I have more than enough to face at present. It’s that the fight …” he paused, letting his voice lower, “… is over.”

  Vaste raised his staff then lowered it and started toward the door. “I’m hungry.”

  “That’s it?” Cyrus asked and looked around the empty chamber, torchlight flickering across the stone walls. “We’re done?”

  “Sure,” Vaste sai
d and paused at the door, looking back at Cyrus with that same piercing look. “If you want to spend all your time and energy convincing yourself that this battle is lost, and that you really do want to be spending your nights with Aisling, who am I to spend my time and energy trying to thump you solidly in the head until you realize the folly of your ways?” Vaste shrugged. “Supper is waiting, I’m one man, and my shoulders don’t have enough strength in them to knock the idiocy out of your thick skull.” With that, he swept out of the door, his robes trailing behind him, leaving Cyrus without a thing to say in his wake.

  Chapter 9

  Cyrus walked out of the hallway that ran along the side of the Great Hall and emerged into the foyer, the smell of dinner growing more potent. He could almost taste the fresh-baked pastry crust that accompanied the meat pies, his favorite meal. The scent was heavy in the air. The doors to the outside were open across the foyer, and Cyrus stared out into the fading sunlight as a slow-moving crowd passed in front of him, the staircase emptying the upper floors as the entirety of the guild filtered down for dinner.

  One of the figures broke away from the staircase and took a right turn toward him, her gown a lovely piece of work. It revealed her shoulders, smooth, youthful skin at odds with the age of the woman who wore it. Cyrus smiled at Arydni, probably with a little more sadness than he intended. He had not seen her since presenting her offer to the Council.

  “Did it go as you anticipated?” she asked, tentative.

  “It did,” Cyrus said. “We’ll look into it.”

  “Do you have a plan?” she asked, her fingers clutching her gown to keep it from trailing on the stone floor.

  “A basic one,” Cyrus said, nodding at her. Her hair was up today, more formal, as if she were prepared for an event of some sort. “We’ll need your assistance to reach the Realm of Life. We need to at least try and ask some questions of Vidara’s servants if we’re going to investigate her disappearance for you.”

  “Of course,” Arydni said, bowing slightly from the waist. Her gown was tight-stitched around her sides in sharp contrast with what he’d seen her wear in the past. Of course, in the past, her vestments showed off almost everything, so I suppose covering all that with tight-fitting cloth is something of an improvement … or perhaps not, depending on how you look at it. “Would it just be you and myself, or did you want to bring another person along?”

  “I was thinking a small army might be best,” Cyrus said. “For safety.”

  Arydni paled, her dark complexion giving way to a milky-white sheen. “I … don’t think that’s terribly wise. The Life Mother’s guardians are already on edge. To provoke them by bringing an army into their space could be incredibly counter-productive. They very nearly attacked us last time and only restrained themselves because we were unarmed pilgrims.”

  “Which is my concern,” Cyrus said. “If they very nearly killed you and your party, who were known to them and plainly not a threat, I don’t expect they’re going to react well to utter strangers. I don’t want to get pinned in a god’s realm without any sort of assistance should things go … undiplomatically.”

  Arydni’s face fell, a tearing sort of embarrassment causing her to look away. “And I’m sure you won’t do anything to provoke their ire.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly try not to—Hey!” Cyrus said, catching the meaning of her tone. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Arydni sighed. “It means that you are a warrior of Bellarum, and as such, your first instinct is to lead with the sword and follow with diplomacy later. If at all.”

  “That a little insulting,” Cyrus said.

  “More than a little, I would hope,” Arydni said, face bereft of amusement now, “but only because you must concede it is true.”

  “I’d concede it was true at one point,” Cyrus said. “I’m no longer the leading edge of a blade, though. I can be diplomatic. Not every situation has to be a fight, and I know that.”

  “Then you’re not a follower of Bellarum anymore,” Arydni said, watching him carefully.

  “Even though I’m the General of the largest guild in Arkaria,” Cyrus said, keeping a thin tether on his patience, “I don’t have the luxury of fighting every battle I think needs to be fought.”

  “Because you don’t have the desire or because you don’t have the resources for all those fights?”

  “Both,” Cyrus said. “I’m a busy man.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Arydni said after a brief pause. “I will see what I can arrange. I would implore you to come with as few people as you feel you can if we are to engage in this endeavor, though.”

  “Can you guarantee our safety?” Cyrus asked.

  Her hesitation before she answered told him all he needed to know. “No.”

  “Then we come with an army.” Cyrus folded his arms, listening to the clink of the metal as he did so. “If Vidara’s minions are spoiling for a fight, I will not be caught unready.”

  “I understand,” Arydni said, seeming to age before his very eyes. “I must return to my people to put some things in order. I will meet you in Reikonos in seven days’ time to venture to the Realm of Life.”

  “All right,” Cyrus said. “Let me get a wizard to teleport you to—”

  “I have already secured passage,” Arydni said with a smile as she turned away from him to cross the foyer. “A wizard from my order awaits me outside your gates.” She turned back to favor Cyrus with a weak smile. “Please do try to remember that I have hired you to aid the Lady of Life, not to leave her realm in utter wreckage while she is absent.” Without waiting for a response from him, she turned and wove her way through the throng still crossing into the Great Hall for evening meal.

  “Cyrus,” a clear voice called out to him, causing him to turn. Curatio approached, his robes trailing the floor, his head cocked at an angle as he drew near to the warrior.

  “Curatio,” Cyrus said, bowing his head. “On your way to dinner?”

  “In a moment,” the healer replied. “I heard you had a meeting with some of the others regarding the Vidara investigation.”

  “I did,” Cyrus said, “and our first step—”

  “Why was I not invited?” Curatio asked, and Cyrus noted that his face seemed stiff, his eyes slightly narrowed.

  “You’re awfully busy,” Cyrus said, shrugging. “I assumed you were—”

  “You will inform me of any future meetings regarding this matter, and I will be in attendance,” Curatio said, turning from Cyrus to move toward the Great Hall’s massive entry doors.

  “Curatio, your schedule is filled from sunup to well past sundown,” Cyrus said, and the healer paused to look back at him. “You’re doing the work of a Guildmaster now. Let me handle the matters of the General—”

  “You will keep me informed of any meetings related to this subject in the future,” Curatio said, and there was not an inch of yield in his voice, like forged steel, hardened and folded over and over again. “This is not a matter that is up for discussion. I can be of assistance to you in this, and I am the most well-versed person in this guild in matters related to Vidara.” He took a step back. “Or have you forgotten that I was the one who spread her gospel to the entire Elven Kingdom in my time?”

  Cyrus froze. “I … uh … it was not uppermost on my mind, no.”

  “Did you think I would have undertaken that mission without reason?” Curatio stepped closer to him, and Cyrus saw a tightening of the skin around the healer’s eyes as they narrowed. “Do you think I would take centuries to campaign across the entire Kingdom to bring her followers for no purpose? I know the woman, damn you.” He snapped the words out. “I know her well, or did, and if she’s gone missing, I will be involved in helping to find her. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I will keep you informed,” Cyrus said, feeling a slight tautness in his jaw from the burning in his face and gullet. Let it go, Cyrus. He’s raw and concerned that his goddess is missing. Put away your pride.

  “T
hat is all I ask,” Curatio said and turned, without a word more, and slipped away into the still-moving crowd as he disappeared behind the doors to the Great Hall.

  “Cyrus,” came another voice, softer this time, and he turned his head to look.

  “Good gods,” Cyrus said and sighed upon seeing who it was. “Oh, it’s just you.”

  “I’ll let that pass because I’m in a hurry,” Erith said, “and because I need something from you.”

  “So does everyone lately, it seems,” Cyrus replied. His eyes caught sight of a blond ponytail above a group of dwarves, and a shining silver breastplate that caught the rays of sunlight filtering in through the open foyer doors. “Well, almost everyone.”

  “I have a serious problem,” Erith said.

  “All right,” Cyrus said, putting aside the jest he might have made. Erith’s face was tight, her normally mirthful eyes weighed down with some emotion. “Go on, then.”

  “They’ve gone missing,” she blurted out. “They were supposed to be on a routine patrol out of Reikonos, going west, but they left fourteen days ago and have yet to check in.” Cyrus watched a droplet of water slide down Erith’s blue cheek and tried to recall the last time he’d seen her actually shed a tear. Probably never. “The city guards have no idea where they’ve gone, and they can’t even spare anyone to go looking for a lost patrol that’s as small as they are—”

  “Who?” Cyrus asked, wondering if he’d missed the answer somewhere in the healer’s rush to unburden her mind to him.

  Erith swallowed heavily. “My old guild, the Daring. They were called into service of the Confederation because of the war, because of their homestead clause—”

  “Wait,” Cyrus said. “You mean the whole guild?” He watched her nod. “Cass? Elisabeth?”