The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Read online

  “Surely you must find some time to do something other than hack at monsters with your sword.”

  “Not much, I suppose, but...” He hesitated.

  She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting.

  “I read.”

  A giggle escaped her lips, truncated as she covered her mouth with a hand. After composing herself, she pulled it away. “I apologize. Of course, I know you are literate, but I was expecting your answer to be something a bit more...”

  “Fitting for a blunt instrument such as myself?” He smiled, trying to disguise the sting he felt inside. “It was brought to my attention after I joined Sanctuary that there was a large gap between what the Society of Arms taught and what I needed to know to be an effective general. So I started reading.”

  “And what do you read?” She studied him with fierce intelligence; she seemed curious.

  “I read about explorations of ancient temples, on the known history of the dragons and the titans. I’ve read more recent tomes about elven, uh...language and customs...” He paused, wondering what inference she would draw from his admission.

  She rode on without reaction. “It is fitting that a general does their best to improve their knowledge. I am not surprised, as you are quite adroit at what you do, and of course competence is not the easiest thing to come by if you aren’t working at it.”

  “What about you?” He drew a curious stare from her. “I’ve seen you in your spare time; you always park yourself in the same seat in the lounge, always with a different volume.”

  “You watch me?” She raised an eyebrow but the rest of her expression stayed flat, giving him a moment of unease before the hint of a smile played across her face. “I have noticed. I suspect you know what sort of books I read.”

  “Always fiction,” he said. “Stories of far-off places. I’ve seen you read one more than most—The Crusader and the Champion.”

  “Ah, yes. A guilty pleasure, that one,” she said with a nod and a smile that was reserved, yet sheepish. “It’s about—”

  “—A story of love and adventure involving a warrior and a paladin.”

  Silence filled the air, and Cyrus wondered if the plains had gone quiet or if he had gone deaf. Vara’s look was guarded. “Have you read it?”

  Fire crept across his face, starting with his cheeks, sending a burning feeling all the way to the tips of his ears. “I have.”

  She looked to the road, any hint of emotion washed from her next words. “I see. And how did you come by a copy of it?”

  “I asked for one from the library in Reikonos.” He cleared his throat. “After seeing you read it so many times I assumed it must be good.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “It’s...good. I rarely read fiction, but it was interesting. A very different sort of book than I would have expected you’d enjoy.”

  “How do you mean?” She cocked her head, a quizzical look on her face.

  “Well...uh...” He felt a tightness in his chest. “Let’s put it this way—it’s not allowed on the shelves of the Reikonos library because elves have a different standard when it comes to what’s controversial...”

  She laughed. “You’re quite the prude, you know that? Dancing around what you mean to say—which is that there are quite a few steamy passages, and you didn’t imagine I’d go for that. Let me tell you something, Cyrus Davidon.” She leaned toward him even though they were alone on the road, as though whispering a secret she wanted no one else to hear. “I’m quite fond of those parts of the book; I think they’re actually my favorite bits. Just because you and your pet rock giant think me a bloodless Ice Princess,” she said with a grin, “doesn’t mean that I don’t carry any fleshly desires.”

  “I-I-I.” He stammered, not sure which of her accusations to respond to first. “I never called you an ‘Ice Princess’, except to ask clarification from Fortin about what he meant.” His cheeks were still flush with the heat as her last statement sank in and he realized what she had said. The words “fleshly desires” rolled around in his head.

  “Why not? I am,” she said, indifferent. “It’s by my own design and efforts that I keep others—including yourself—at arm’s length. That doesn’t mean that I don’t crave the same things you do.”

  “I don’t— I mean—” he stuttered, his mind whirling as he tried to decide what to say next.

  “My goodness, I’ve flustered the great and mighty General of Sanctuary—Hero of the Battle of the Nartanis Mountains, Conqueror of the Goblins of Enterra.” A smile threatened to turn into a grin on her lips. “Had I known it was this easy to turn you into a stuttering mess, I’d have started each Council meeting where I expected an argument by whispering a filthy suggestion in your ear.”

  “You wouldn’t have had the market cornered on that. Your friend Aisling—” he said it with sarcasm but it still drew a look of disdain from Vara—“has done all she can to push the bounds of bad taste in that regard. Nyad also gave me a fascinating glimpse into the sex lives of Terminan elves when I was traveling with her a couple years ago.”

  “Did she?” Vara’s voice cooled. “I suppose this explains the sickness and exhaustion you were suffering from.”

  “Nothing like that,” Cyrus said in alarm. “She just...opened my eyes to the fact that I led a sheltered life.” He coughed. “I believe she also called me a prude. Repeatedly.”

  “Finally an area where the Princess and I—” she put mocking emphasis on Nyad’s title—“can agree. Likely the last time, as well as the first.” Her face twisted back to the look of mischief. “Now that I know how to torture you—”

  “Wait,” Cyrus breathed an internal sigh of not-quite-relief. “There’s a village ahead with some activity. Maybe we can find a wizard.”

  Vara’s gaze shifted back to the road. “Yes, we’ll plumb the depths of your race’s secret disdain for biological imperatives later.” With a slap of the reins, she urged her horse forward.

  Cyrus followed with Windrider a few paces behind her. I was about to have a discussion about sex with the single most prim and proper elf I’ve ever met, he thought. And one that I have deep feelings for. That could either be incredibly good or insanely torturous, and I doubt I’d know which until it was too late.

  They galloped along the road toward the village. Maybe I should have waited another minute or so. She might have opened up to me again...or she might have opened up on me, and left me in an even worse mess. A memory of Nyad’s not-so-gentle probing, of her constant badgering until he had admitted that the last woman he’d been with was his wife—now almost four years ago—crossed his mind. Not sure I want Vara to know that about me.

  Ahead, the village swarmed. It was not much bigger than the others they’d visited, but hundreds of refugees surrounded a series of wagons where food was being handed out. Cyrus caught a whiff as they reached the edge of town and his nose conveyed a message to his stomach, which roared approval after over a week of dry loaves and salted meat.

  The scent was lovely; spices and fresh cooked beef, and a smell of fresh bread. The clamor of crowds of refugees, not pleading but squealing in joy and relief from their hunger, filled the air. There was a festive atmosphere and Cyrus cast a look through the crowds of ragged humans and settled on Vara, who wore a smile.

  He caught her attention. “Ice Princess indeed. You’re smiling at hungry people being given a meal.”

  She composed herself. “We should be careful. These relief efforts could be a distraction to allow an assassin to close in on us.”

  Cyrus looked ahead, his eyes fixated on a face in the crowd. Discomfort twisted his insides. “We let them draw us in.”

  As Vara looked at him in puzzlement, he eased his horse closer to hers and pointed. She saw, but did not react beyond her words. “There’s no way we’ll be able to outrun them. Not after so many days on the road.”

  “No.” Cyrus cursed under his breath. This is not going to be pleasant...

  A figure cut throug
h the crowd, taking the utmost care not to knock anyone over, touching weary and downtrodden refugees as he passed, whispering an encouraging word here and there as he went. Upon reaching the edge of the throng he crossed the distance to Cyrus and Vara, the clinking of his aged armor lost beneath the roar of people behind him. His words, however, were not.

  Cy turned to Vara, who looked stricken. Before them stood Alaric Garaunt, the Ghost of Sanctuary, his shoulders broad, back straight, and his lone gray eye staring up at his wayward officers. His words came out hard as the armor worn by the man himself, in a phrase that implied suggestion, though his tone carried no hint that it was anything other than a command.

  “Let us...have a discussion.”

  Chapter 9

  Alaric led them into the village inn, the door creaking as it swung shut, leaving the noise from the mob outside. Cyrus’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness; all the windows had heavy curtains drawn. Wood walls, dark and spotted with age, were illuminated by the light of torches and from a few places where the boards, warped from years of use, didn’t quite meet any longer. The air was still but held a faded aroma of old stew.

  A long bar stretched in front of the far wall, a row of seats lined up before it. Behind it, leaning on an elbow, was a human woman, her lips curled in a sour expression until Alaric reached into his purse and placed three shining silver coins before her. “I’ll take a bottle of your finest mead.”

  Her expression melted from harshness into something approaching hunger as she snatched them up, nodding. She busied herself with glasses while Cyrus and Vara followed their Guildmaster to a table in the corner. He extended his hand in a gesture for them to be seated, which they did, followed by the Ghost himself.

  Alaric studied them, his mouth unmoving, his eye giving away less than usual. He waited, watching them, the silence unbroken until the innkeeper bustled over with three tankards of mead, busying herself with a much more pleasant demeanor than she had exhibited when they first entered. “So nice to have paying customers rather than that rabble outside! Anything else I can get for you? Room for the night? Hot bath?”

  “I expect I’m about to be scalded well enough without any aid from your boiling water,” Vara muttered under her breath.

  “Some privacy, if we could.” Alaric looked up at the innkeeper with a smile.

  “Don’t expect you’ll be disturbed by other customers, seeing as we ain’t got any,” the innkeeper said with a laugh. “If any of that rabble comes through the door, just call me and I’ll sort ‘em out.” She nodded her head again, clutching at the ragged seams of her dress, then backed away and disappeared into a door behind the bar.

  “But for this woodpile she calls an inn, she’d be hard pressed to differentiate herself from any of the refugees,” Vara said after the innkeeper had left.

  “And but for my skill in magic and practice with a sword, I would be nothing but a simple farmer,” Alaric said. “Just because this woman has elevated herself above others in her mind is no reason for us to lose perspective.” He leveled his gaze on them. “Nor should we become distracted, because a tavernkeeper is not the reason we are here.”

  Vara cast a quick look at Cyrus before turning back to Alaric. “I won’t justify my decision to go—”

  With a squeak, the door opened and interrupted her. Curatio swept in, white robes trailing behind him, a serene smile resting upon his face. “Sorry to interrupt, but I am pleased to see you here.” He moved toward them, pulling out the remaining chair and seating himself at the table. “By all means, continue.”

  “I won’t—” Vara began.

  “I am not here to argue with you,” Alaric cut her off.

  “I’m not going back.” Vara’s voice rang through the room. She lowered her head. “I can’t go back.” Cyrus watched her, looking at the cheeks tinged with red, and knew she was thinking of Niamh.

  The Ghost of Sanctuary leveled his eye on her. “I will spare you the requisite speech about how you are not responsible for what happened to Niamh.” Cyrus caught a glimpse of Vara’s staid expression as it crumbled. “I will cut to the point—since you left, we have had four more...altercations...with members of the Hand of Fear.”

  Vara’s head snapped up but Cyrus spoke before she could. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Alaric shook his head. “Three of the attempts were assassins trying to sneak through the gates, unaware that you had left. The fourth...” he sighed, “made it within the walls, disguised as another applicant when Terian managed to ferret him out.”

  “They will not stop coming.” Vara’s voice took on a tone of quiet defeat. “Who knows how many of them there could be?”

  “Many,” Curatio said. “Nyad spoke with her father, the King of the Elves, and he sent us all that they’ve collected on this cult. They’ve been operating in the Kingdom for over two thousand years—” He stopped when Cyrus let out a low whistle. “That’s nothing for elves, remember—and it would seem they have grown in strength in the last two centuries.” His lips drew a grim line across his face, the same as they had any of the times Cyrus had seen the healer deliver bad news.

  “Why the last two hundred years?” Cyrus broke his silence as Curatio’s eyes darted to Vara. “You’re only twenty-nine.” Cyrus looked at the blond hair on the top of her head as she fixed her eyes on the tabletop.

  Curatio cleared his throat. “Once again...”

  “Not up for discussion?” Cyrus turned to Alaric. “I suppose you know.”

  The Ghost shrugged his shoulders in a way that, to a stranger, would have indicated that he had no idea what was being discussed. Cyrus caught the familiar flick of Alaric’s eye as he looked down that told him that the Sanctuary Guildmaster was being less than forthcoming. “It is irrelevant. What matters is—”

  The door opened, and a figure was silhouetted in the daylight that flooded into the room. The sun shone off red armor, casting a tinged glow in spots of maroon on the walls.

  “Thad,” Alaric acknowledged the Sanctuary warrior. “Please, join us.”

  “Can’t; I’ve come to get you.” The big human closed the distance between the door and the table in only a few strides. “Everything is in place. Aisling confirmed it, and we’re ready.”

  Cyrus’s ears perked up. “Aisling is here?” Vara turned to him, her gaze so intense he feared a fire spell might have been cast upon him. “I was just curious,” he said with a slight stammer.

  “Yes, I daresay she is curious as well—about how it would feel to rut in the dark with you like a wild beast.” Every word dripped with caustic malice.

  “Well, honestly, who isn’t curious about that?” Cyrus said, his tone light. The withering glare he received in return forced him to look back to Thad. “What’s going on here?”

  Thad looked to Alaric before speaking. When the Ghost gave a subtle nod, the warrior answered. “Based on comments made by the captured assassins, we think the Hand of Fear has figured out that Vara is no longer at Sanctuary. We ran into a few of their people coming in from the portal the day before yesterday, but we couldn’t be sure, so we’ve kept a low profile.”

  Cyrus remembered the mobs surrounding the wagons outside, refugees swarming over them for food and supplies. He pointed toward the door. “You call that a low profile?”

  Alaric responded, “That is only a fraction of the force we have in town. Once we realized that the enemy was watching, we knew we couldn’t lead them away until you got here. Nor could we confirm that they were assassins until—”

  “Vara arrived, and you watched who was watching her.” Cyrus nodded at the Ghost with a grudging respect. “Aisling can pick a suspicious figure out of a crowd like nobody else.”

  “And there you go, wondering what it’d be like to rut in the dark with her.” Vara’s voice rang off the bare walls. “I don’t trust her nor her supposed ability to pick assassins out of a crowd. She’s more likely to find the firmest, meatiest, most pigheaded warrior in the land—”


  “Are you calling me firm and meaty?” Cyrus looked at Vara, who flushed in embarrassment. “As to pigheaded, I’d say it takes one to know one—”

  “Children.” Alaric’s voice contained a hint of impatience coupled with urgency. “Aisling is quite adept at singling threats out of a crowd, as she has demonstrated on numerous occasions. I trust her judgment.”

  “So long as you don’t trust her with the contents of your purse.”

  Ignoring Vara’s riposte, Alaric continued. “We’ll take care of this threat, but before we do, I need to ask you—have you considered where you are fleeing?”

  Cyrus looked to Vara. “We have.”

  Alaric nodded. “May I suggest a brief stop?”

  Vara looked at the Sanctuary Guildmaster with a wary edge. “Where?”

  “I am not an assassin. But if I were, I would surmise that Sanctuary is the most likely place to catch you unawares.” Alaric’s hands met in front of him, fingers steepling, as they often did, when he was making a point. “Failing that, next I would try—”

  Vara’s complexion deadened as she wilted in her chair. Her voice cracked when she spoke. “Home.”

  The Ghost did not flinch. “I sent J’anda and Vaste along with a detachment of our best to Termina to keep an eye on your parents, but your mother refused our help, and nearly attacked J’anda.”

  Vara’s words came out in a low, almost croaking tone. “My mother would not accept Sanctuary’s assistance if she were in flames and we promised to extinguish them.”

  Alaric nodded to her in deference. “We have maintained a garrison in the house across the street after paying the couple who live there to quarter our forces, which they were only too happy to do when the situation was explained to them. Vaste has checked on them several times since then—”

  “If she stabbed at the dark elf, I can only imagine what she’d do to a troll,” Cyrus muttered.

  “There has been no answer but audible swearing behind the door,” Alaric said. “Your family has been warned, but your mother has not taken this threat seriously.”