Master (Book 5) (54 page)

Cyrus glanced over at her, and her blue eyes glistened. “He told me not to go after the gods, Vara. He made me promise, before I left for Luukessia.”

“You are the man in the head seat at the Sanctuary Council table now,” she said. “If you see going after the gods as being against the best interests of our mission, then do not do it. But sometimes a leader has to hold to a higher loyalty than his mere word, given two years ago to a man now … dead.” That word came heavy, and she shuddered as she sidled slightly closer. “Our whole land is at risk. Terian is right: we will fall; it is only a matter of time. We cannot stand against an infinite army, no matter how much we might want to. You are brave, and you are daring, and you are decent—”

“I don’t remember giving you this many compliments.”

“—and I trust you to lead Sanctuary where it needs to be led.” She stiffened and let out a low breath. “You have my sword, for as long as you need it.” She stood there, curiously stiff for a moment, then relaxed. “You daft jackass.”

Cyrus frowned. “What the hells?”

She shrugged. “As you said, I gave you too many compliments; I took one back by negating it with an insult.”

He found himself chuckling, low, almost under his breath. “You’ll be the death of me.”

“I am no dark elven harlot,” Vara said, “and I suggest you avoid those in the future.”

“I’ll be listening to your advice more carefully in the future,” Cyrus said, leaning upon the sword hilt. He paused, contemplating. “How do we do this? Such a thing … it’s … impossible?”

She stood there, stiff, her eyes drifting across the rippling surface of the water before settling on him. “Then this task is in the right hands.” She moved past him with a click of her metal boots against the stone bridge until she had reached the other side. He watched her go, the armor catching the reflection of a yellow sun overhead, the silver shining in the daylight. She continued on, turning back for only a second. “You are still a gooberous dunderhead.”

“Offsetting that last compliment?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, turning to walk off, “merely speaking the truth.” But he caught a smile before she turned away.

Cyrus stood upon the bridge for a while longer, gazing into the distance. The sun was high overhead, but the chill of autumn had set in on the ground in a way he did not feel in his tower, not even when the wind whipped through at its hardest. Without his armor, he felt its bite keenly. Clouds rolled in slowly overhead, making the skies overcast, highlighting them yellow where the sun tried to break through.

Cyrus started back toward the entry to Sanctuary, but now the weariness from his long walk set in. He made it almost halfway down the long wall before he needed to take a moment. He looked to his right and his eyes fell on a wooden building that stood out in the yard between Sanctuary itself and the wall. It was a solid color, a dark-stained brown like the beams of his tower roof.

A chimney puffed wisps of black smoke toward the heavens, and he stared at the door, cracked slightly open. It was almost inviting him onward, to step inside.

He took the invitation, crossing the lawn and pushing the door back. The hinge made a squeaking noise as he did so, heralding his entry. The room was dark, and the smell of smoke was thick, something less sweet and more choking than any hearth in Sanctuary. “Hello?” he called tentatively.

A soft, orange glow caught his attention as his eyes adjusted. He saw the movement of a shadow behind it, a small, dark figure that shifted when his eye ran across it. He concentrated, focusing in, and distinguished the shape of a woman.

She stood behind an anvil with a glowing bit of steel upon it. She stared at him for a moment before raising the hammer and bringing it down upon the glowing metal. The sound jarred him, reminding him of battle. Like the crashing of blade against bone, the anvil and hammer beat together.

Larana brought the hammer down again, and again. She flipped the hilt of the sword upon which she worked then hit it again. She glanced at Cyrus, only for a second, then dealt the weapon two more swift blows before tossing it into a wooden barrel. Cyrus heard it hiss in the water and watched the steam rise in the dark.

“Hello,” Cyrus said again, walking through the dark of the workshop toward her. She was barely visible in the low light of the glowing fire behind her. He could see the frizz of her hair, the orange radiance highlighting dark strands, showing just the hints of smudge upon her face from the coal smoke that hung in the workshop.

“Hello.” Her voice was so small it almost escaped notice. She did not just whisper; she failed to project the word more than an inch from her lips, and Cyrus felt almost as though he had to lunge forward to catch it before it fell from his reach.

“This is an impressive smithy,” Cyrus said, looking around. “I don’t think I’ve been out here before.” He watched her, waiting to see if she would say anything. “You know, I could have used a good smith a couple years ago. There was this whole thing where I needed a sword—”

“I wasn’t much of a smith then,” she said, and he caught a glimpse of her eyes for just a flash, in the dark. They were a deep green, he thought for a moment, but then she disappeared back to looking at her anvil, its dark surface empty of anything to concern her.

“You learned in the last three years?” Cyrus asked, turning his head to look at a full suit of armor plate that stood in the corner. He’d seen its like on the warriors of Sanctuary; upon inspection he’d deemed it quite good, though he’d not thought to ask who had supplied it.

“I learn quickly.” She said it as quietly as a mouse.

“Apparently,” Cyrus said. He felt the jab of his wound. “You know, I could use some help with my armor.”

She answered quickly with a little more force. “The problem isn’t your armor.”

He blinked in surprise; her vehemence was an immense improvement over the near-silence of before. “The problem is the wearer?” Cyrus asked, jesting slightly.

“No,” she said, a few shades under a normal tone, “it’s your chainmail.”

“Well, it’s just normal stuff,” Cyrus said, “like any other, bought in a market. I repair the links myself where I can—”

“You shouldn’t do that,” she said, and there was force there. She still did not raise her eyes to his.

He wanted to ask her age, get her to look at him, say something about Belkan, but all the inquiries he could muster seemed somehow rude. “Well, I didn’t know we had a smith available,” he said, trying to soften it as a joke.

“I am whatever you need me to be,” Larana said.

Good gods, she is in love with me.
“I hate to impose,” Cyrus said.

“It would be no imposition.” Near silent now, her voice seemed to have retreated even further.

“I would not complain if you wanted to make an attempt at better chainmail for me,” Cyrus said, treading lightly. “But neither would I want it to get in the way of your other duties.”

“Seems like preserving the life of our Guildmaster should be one of my highest duties.” A little stronger, this time.

“You say that now, but miss one dinner and you’ll catch enough hell to change your mind,” Cyrus said. He felt oddly at ease, even in spite of her reserve. “I’d be much obliged for any help you can render.” His hand found the wound on his back without thought. “Anything that can help me overcome my own … failings … would be appreciated.” He gave her a nod of thanks and turned to leave, the smoky air in the workshop hanging heavy around him.

“I voted for you,” she said. It was almost a normal volume.

“Why?” Cyrus asked, letting it slip before he realized he had done it. He began to amend his question but stopped himself.
Why, indeed? I’d like to know, actually
.

“Because I believe in you,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I always have.” She looked at him again, just for a moment, and the green eyes were like glittering emeralds in the dark.

Cyrus stood at the entry, the daylight flooding in through the cracks. “Thank you,” he said and retreated from the dark, unsure what he could say other than that.

Winter’s grip settled upon the Plains of Perdamun, laying its frosty fingers upon the green grasses and leeching them white on every morn. The new year came in with the news that Reikonos remained under siege, that the Riverlands were still being rolled through by dark elven hordes beyond counting. The skies hung grey like they had above Leaugarden, and Cyrus kept his head down as he practiced incessantly, regaining his strength day by day. The wound still hurt, but the pain was fading over time. The day after the winter solstice came the first bit of good news in what had seemed like months.

“The trolls have deserted the Sovereign’s army,” Nyad said in the Council Chambers, the leaden skies hanging outside the balcony windows. Cyrus had shifted in his seat to give them a glance but turned swiftly back when she spoke.

“How do you know this?” Cyrus asked.

“They surrendered to my father,” Nyad said, face slightly aglow. “Their entire army. They broke from the Sovereign’s forces without a fight before Leaugarden and ambushed a dark elven squadron that had a wizard. Caught him in the night, kept him hostage, forced him to take one of their envoys to Pharesia to negotiate repatriation.”

“Repatriation?” Cyrus asked.

“It’s a large word,” Vara said, “but it means they want to go home.”

“I know what it means,” Cyrus said with a frown. He caught her sly smile. “Stop trying to get my goat.”

“Yes, leave that to the trolls,” Vaste said. “So, did he allow them passage back to Gren?”

“In small numbers over the last days, yes,” Nyad said. “Evidently they fled back into the swamps quite gladly, leaving their weapons and armor behind in Nalikh’akur.”

“I hope you immediately moved them elsewhere,” Erith said, “so as not to have them recaptured by a horde of angry trolls bent on deceit.”

“I doubt this is a deceit,” Vaste said.

“Because your people are too stupid to pull it off?” Ryin asked.

“They’re honestly not that dumb,” Vaste said, “just very different in their desires and tastes—”

“Such as the taste for human and elven flesh,” Odellan muttered.

“—and what they consider acceptable behavior,” Vaste finished. “They want to go home. They’re not stupidly adventurous, and the homeland is of paramount importance. The fact that it was invaded, that some of their kin died … it’s a bit too close to what happened in the last war. It left scars that run deep, and they’ll be in a protective mode for some time.” He delivered this all without much in the way of emotion. “No, I think they’re done for now.”

“Good,” Cyrus said, a perfect vision of the slave markets floating to the top of his mind; he saw the pillar, saw the remains of Cass hung upon it in his mind’s eye. “Now we have but one unstoppable enemy left before us.”

Vara hung her gaze carefully upon him. “And when will we endeavor to stop them, pray tell?”

Cyrus swallowed something that tasted like bile. “I don’t know.”

Another two weeks came and went with stunning alacrity, and Cyrus felt himself nearly returned to form. His muscles were strong, the wound’s ache was just that—an ache, nothing more—and the winter air stung his bare skin as he practiced thrust of sword and form upon the faded grasses of Sanctuary’s side yard. The air held the chill that seeped up his nose, threatening to invade his chest and make it twinge with the cold. He had built up his fitness once more, turning his power loose in attack after attack against the empty air. There was not a soul in sight save for one, who watched him with all the interest he might have accorded to a seamstress going about her business.

“It’s all very impressive, this thing you do,” Andren said. He was still bare of cheek and still red of face, though now it was from the winter’s cold. Though it did not seem to be below freezing, the air still held a bitterness that came from the north. “Especially considering you were on the mend only a month ago.”

“I need to mend quicker,” Cyrus said, thrusting at an invisible foe that he imagined was a dark elf. “I need a plan.”

“Have you spoken with your resident dark elven traitor?” Andren asked. Cyrus thought he looked peculiar, as though something was missing. It took him a moment to realize that there was a lack of ale or flask in his hands; that they were covered with gloves alone.

“I’ve spoken with Terian, yes,” Cyrus said. He smiled darkly. “He highly encourages us to invade Saekaj. Which gives naturally gives me pause.”

“Can’t imagine why; it’s not as though he’s been trying to kill you these last years or anything.” Andren stamped his feet, drawing his cloak tighter against his white robes. He lowered his voice. “Do you think he’s sincere, that it’s the right course? Or do you think he still wants you to run your guts into a waiting blade?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said absently as he struck another blow against an imaginary foe. “But it’s not as though we’ve heard a whisper from J’anda, which … is concerning. With no idea what we’d be up against, it gives me pause.”

“Vara wants us to attack, doesn’t she?” Andren asked.

Cyrus paused, looking over at the elf. “Told you that, did she?”

He shook his head. “She hasn’t said a word.”

“Then how’d you know she wants to invade?”

“You can read it in the way she holds herself during the half-arsed discussions we’ve had in Council,” Andren said. “Been around her long enough now to tell when she’s keen about something.”

“Oh?” Cyrus asked. “How can you tell?”

“She has the same look in her eyes as when she talks about you,” Andren said, and Cyrus missed his target wildly.

Cyrus held position for a moment and did not turn to look at the elf. “Not funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

“We’ll just have to agree to disagree,” Cyrus said, honing his attention in on the next target in his line. He did not have his armor on, and he could feel the sweat running down his flesh, catching the frigid air like icy fingers tickling down his chest and arms.

“It was also true,” Andren said as Cyrus made his next attack, and once again he went wide of his intended mark.