Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (18 page)

“What does it feel like … to die?”

“Depends on how you go about it. I’ve never enjoyed the sensation any of the times I’ve died, from what of it I remember. Coming back might be worse but better than the alternative, I suppose. Makes you sick,” he said in answer to her unasked question. “Powerful nausea, an ill feeling that settles in your stomach, and you come back weak, like you’re sitting on the edge of slipping back into death at any moment and a good sneeze will carry you back to the other side.”

“Is it … does knowing you won’t die … not forever, anyway,” she halted, trying to find her words, “is that where you get your fearlessness?”

“I’m not fearless,” he said. “Not exactly. I just don’t scare easily. They taught me in the Society of Arms how to bury the fear, how to master it. The natural instinct is to run from that which you fear. That doesn’t work for a warrior, we’re supposed to take the hits without flinching, to commit to battle so hard that our opponents back away knowing they’ll have to stand toe to toe with our fury in order to best us. That doesn’t work when you’re afraid all the time.” He looked away. “So they taught us that any time you fear something, you come at it with all your strength—not stupidly, mind you, but to attack it—and almost always that thing you were afraid of turns out to not be so bad. Because fear’s not tolerated in a warrior, not in the Society of Arms.” He took a deep breath. “Neither is running.”

“Could you teach me?” She sat next to him, and he could scarcely hear her breathe. “Could you teach me to be as fearless as you? Because I …” She looked away, and he could feel the vulnerability within her, at the surface, and he wanted to reach out, to touch her shoulder, but refrained. “I am afraid all the time. It kept me in a place I hated, kept me prisoner to a man who hurt me, and made me …” she swallowed heavily, “… made me come to you, offer myself to you without even knowing you, just to hold on to what little I had.” She turned back to him and straightened. “I don’t wish to be afraid anymore. I want to go to this new life—whatever it turns out to be—because I want it, not because I want to run away from what I had.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I learned most of it in an arena—the place where they put us from the time we were kids, where we’d fight day in and day out.” As he spoke he could feel the sands around his bare feet, as though he were there. “They started us from a young age, and you learn to revel in it.” He thought about it for a moment. “Or hate it. Some came to truly hate it. They didn’t last. Either way, I don’t think that you necessarily need to fight in order to banish your fear. You lived under the thumb of a man who was so far beyond cruel as to defy any explanation. I’m certain it was difficult for you, to feel … trapped, that way. I have felt … similarly before.”

“Oh?” She was next to him, closer now, and he could feel the warmth of the fire, mixed with his life’s blood coursing through his veins, reminding him that he was alive, and that she was a woman who had offered herself to him in ways that he wanted, needed. “I find it hard to believe that a man such as you could have felt that way.”

“It’s true,” he said. “Long ago, I was on my own for many years, without anyone to turn to or to trust.” He felt his face harden as the bitter pangs came back to him. “I … I’m sorry.” Emotions, strange, similar, crippling in their own way, washed over him and he stopped talking for a beat. “I …”

“What?” He felt her at his arm, her hand resting upon the plate of his shoulder. “What is it?”

He swallowed heavily. “I think … I have come to the point of sleep, for the night. I suspect tomorrow will be a long day.”

He felt her freeze against his side, and slowly her hand withdrew. “I see.”

“If you’ll excuse me …” He stood and looked down at her, saw the regret behind the eyes as her hand came to rest on her lap, slow, like a snake coiling back up, and she smiled but not sincerely.

“I should turn in as well.” Her smile faded. “I’ve lost my appetite for conversation anyway.”

“I apologize,” Cyrus said with a deep bow. “Perhaps someday I’ll continue my story, but it’s something I haven’t spoken of …” he thought back, tried to remember his time with Imina, and realized he had never told her either. “Ever. Not ever.” He forced a smile—a thin, tight one. “Forgive me, madam.” He bowed again and went to his bedroll, still bound up by its cord. He untied it and spread it across the ground by the fire.

“I understand,” the Baroness said, getting to her feet. “What I told you, about what the Baron did to me—I’ve never told a soul that. Some of his acts were seen, obviously, others not. But even those that know, I never … confessed or made mention of because to do so would seem to make it … more real, I suppose. There are other things, varied and horrific, that I would not wish to speak of, not ever.” She held herself up, and Cyrus saw her wither in the light. “Little venoms that I will keep in my soul until the day I die.” She straightened. “Should the day ever come that you wish to expunge yours, I would willingly listen. And perhaps,” she licked her lips, “trade you for a few of my own, that it might lessen the sting of them.”

“Perhaps.” Cyrus stood next to his bedroll, staring at the woman before him—so close to broken, yet so unbowed. He marveled at her and felt the crass urge to take hold of her, to kiss her—“Good night,” he forced himself to say. “I will see you upon the morrow.”

“Good night,” she said, and turned to leave him. She took a few paces and stopped, turning back. “Why?”

He had already begun to lie down, and paused, crouched on one knee. “Why what?”

“You were married,” she said. “You had this Vara, whom by all accounts you loved, and yet you never told anyone of these dark days in which you felt alone and desperate and had no one to trust?” She seemed unsteady, as though afraid to overstep her bounds, afraid of his reaction. “You have friends, and people who respect and admire you. Yet in all these people, in all your closest confidants, you found no one you could speak of this to?”

Cyrus felt his mouth go dry, and his head took on a slow spin. He took a sharp intake of breath and felt the sting of what she said, yet curiously he felt no anger or resentment for broaching the question. “There are some who know, but not because I told them,” he said at last. “And much like yourself,” he lied, “perhaps I didn’t want to speak of it as it would become … real to me. I have long said that things past are best left there. They are done, why give them new life by speaking of them?” He tried to smile but failed and knew it, so instead he lay down on his bedroll and stared straight up, into the sky and the few stars he could see beyond the light given off by the hundred fires around him. After a few moments, he heard the Baroness’s steps pick up and fade as she walked away.

Imina. Narstron. Andren. Vaste. Terian. Alaric. Niamh. Vara. Some closer than others, and yet I would not tell a single one of them. Not one.
He felt a strange weight in his chest, as though a great stone were upon it.
Because after all this time, and all that I’ve been through, in truth …
he felt an odd satisfaction as the truth came to him,
… I’m just as alone now as I was then.

They had nearly reached the castle by midday next, when the sun was hot overhead and the feeling of spring had subsided and been replaced by the sensation of early summer. Cyrus felt the rays of the sun heating his armor and him within it, causing him to sweat, and wondered if this were what pottery in a kiln felt like. The smell of horses was especially heavy, and the conversation from the ranks of the army behind him was louder, more boisterous, now that the months of travel had come to a close and their destination was in sight.

The last taste of the conjured bread was still with him as Cyrus felt a crumb fall out of his beard.
Perhaps I should get rid of the whiskers,
he thought.
Or at least shave and let them grow out again. They don’t seem to be doing me any favors by getting this long.

The castle Vernadam was close on the horizon, and Cyrus could tell it was bigger than any castle he could recall ever seeing. Though perhaps not as tall as the Citadel in Reikonos, it was quite large, easily larger than the sprawling monstrosity of a palace in the elven capital of Pharesia. The castle itself was built on a steep hill, using the mound it was on to boost it to exceptional heights. An array of towers sprung out of a central keep, a circular one that twisted and rose, almost like a spiral rising into the sky. The tallest towers were high above the rest of the castle, one ranging far above the other, the two of them clinging together for support, like a child leaning upon a parent to walk. The whole thing seemed like an unnatural mountain, rising alone above a flat earth.

The city that lay in the shadow of Vernadam was visible by that time; a town that had sprung up around the foot of the hill, with no tall buildings, only three-story shops and dwellings clustered around a central square and tightly packed streets. Cyrus estimated that no more than a hundred thousand might live there, perhaps more if they were not particular about the amount of space each family had.

Cyrus rode at the front of their procession, with Longwell at his side. They passed all manner of people, horses and carts, all moving aside so the army of Sanctuary could pass.

It was a mile outside of town that a rider on the back of a stallion approached them. His navy armor was almost a perfect match for Longwell’s, down to the surcoat with the Lion insignia, though he was considerably wider than the dragoon in both shoulder and belly. A wide smile broke out on the man’s face as he got close enough for them to see. “Hail, Sir Samwen Longwell,” he said in a deep voice as he approached.

“Hail, Sir Odau Genner,” Longwell said, lips curling into a smile. “What news from Vernadam?”

Sir Odau Genner brought his horse into the formation alongside Longwell’s. “We sent Teodir to find you months ago. We’d begun to worry he was lost along the way.”

“He is with us,” Longwell said. “I came as soon as word reached me, and I have brought …” Longwell raised an arm and gestured to the army behind him, “… a few friends with me to heed my father’s call.”

“Indeed you have,” Odau said with a broad grin. “We had heard you were coming with a force weeks ago from our spies afield, that you had crossed the border with western magicians and knights and footmen, but I scarce believed it until I saw it with my own eyes through the spyglass atop the tower only an hour ago. Your timing could not be more fortuitous.”

“It goes poorly, then, the fight against Syloreas?” Longwell’s face drew up, muscles contracting.

“We are but days from defeat, total and wretched, like the conquests of old—though the Kingdom does not know it yet.” Odau Genner pointed north, and Cyrus looked in the direction indicated. “The army of Syloreas is encamped a day’s ride from here. We will meet them in battle the day after tomorrow, in a final defense.” Odau looked at Longwell with undisguised relief. “Our defeat was virtually assured before your arrival. They have a knight with them, a westerner, and his power is fearsome. He and his compatriots have won every battle for Syloreas, their mere presence sends our dragoons and footmen onto edge and they retreat far more easily than they should given their numbers.”

“This is poor news,” Longwell said. “Odau, this is my general, Cyrus Davidon. It was through his offer of assistance I came to be joined by all these souls willing to traverse the divide between our lands. Cyrus, this is Odau Genner, a dear friend and knight of my father’s.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Odau,” Cyrus said. “How can we help? Do you need us at the front?”

“I am pleased to meet you as well,” Odau said with a nod to Cyrus. “You are not needed at the front at this moment. It is essentially agreed between King Longwell and Briyce Unger that we will meet in battle on the day after tomorrow in the fields north of the Forest of Waigh. When we sighted you from the watchtower,” Odau said with a smile, “your father gave immediate orders for a feast to be put on, with a banquet in the town for your men after their long journey. Your high officers are invited to break bread with the King in the castle, to discuss the battle, if you are amenable, and to be well taken care of after your long journey. He offers his full hospitality to both you and your army.”

“A generous offer,” Longwell said. “My father’s full hospitality comes rarely, and I suspect his current predicament accounts for much of it. Lose the battle and his Kingdom is lost, so why not open the coffers and wine cellars wide in hopes that we can turn the tides of fortune back to his favor, eh?”

“I think that might have been his intention,” Odau said with a grin. “He said something about ‘showing your men such a time that they’ll want to fight harder for this Kingdom than our own will.’”

“Goodness. Well, that should keep the doxies well paid,” Longwell said. “Are you to ride back with us or are you here only to deliver his message?”

“I’ll only need signal him to give your assent,” Odau said, “and then I can guide you into town. Your men will be billeted in the village, each a bed of his own—”

“We have some women in our ranks as well,” Cyrus interrupted, causing Odau to start. “I trust they’ll be provided for as well.”

“Uh … ah …” Odau stammered. “If they’re of your army, I trust we can find a place for them as well, though obviously that is not our custom and it perhaps will take a bit of adjustment—”

“We’ll try to make it easy on you,” Cyrus said. “But if you could make sure they receive the same good treatment, that would be very helpful.”

Cyrus could see the tension on Odau’s face. “We will … make every effort to accommodate them. I’m certain that we’ll find them lodgings to their satisfaction. If you gentlemen will follow me …”

They rode onto the city’s main street to find cheering crowds on the corners. Curious children and adults pushed each other aside (more the adults pushing each other and the children trying to squeeze their way to the front for a better view) to get a look at the army of Sanctuary. Cyrus looked at the attire of the peasantry and found it much the same as he would have seen in Reikonos, though of different fabrics and styles.