Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (6 page)

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I believe that if anyone could, it’d be you—but I also believe that you might need more than luck in order to do it.”

Cyrus’s hand tensed again around Praelior’s grip. “I have more than luck.”

“Oh, indeed,” she said as she began to walk toward him, her small feet leaving little indentations in the dry sand, small craters where her worn leather boots trod. “But perhaps you’ll accept that having more help would be ideal, especially if you mean to wander far afield.”

“And that’d be you, would it?” He looked back at her, wary.

“Unless you fancy going back to camp and rounding up some others?” She looked at him coolly in reply, impassive.

“What I fancy is doing what I want, when I want, and not being questioned about it.”

“Too late for that,” she said, smug. “It was too late for that the day after you took your officership. Maybe even the day after you joined Sanctuary. It’s hard to go unnoticed around here, even when you’re one of the small folk. As an officer and the general of this expedition, it’s well nigh impossible.”

“I just need to walk—to get away for a bit.” He said it with every element of patience he could summon from within.

“Until you what? Walk her right out of you?” She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “You’ll be walking a good long time to pull that off, til your feet bleed and your bones rub down to powder. Even then, you’ll be lucky to get her out of you before there’s nothing left to get her out of.”

Why am I talking to her about this?
“This isn’t your concern,” he said.

“It kind of is. You are my general, too. Our expedition counts on you.”

He felt a great weariness. “I’m not some sort of communal property that belongs to the whole guild or the army. I’ll lead, but this is a day of rest.”

“And you’re looking so very restful.”

“Why are you here?” He spoke in near-silence, his words almost drowned out by the breaking of waves off the shore.

Aisling did not respond at first, and she turned to look back to the forest, staring into the dark spaces between the boughs of the trees, eyes piercing them as though she could see things hidden within. “Because you look like you could use a friend.”

“I have friends,” Cyrus said, too quickly.

“Do you?” She drew her gaze away from the woods and onto his eyes and he felt himself look away first. “I see a man who leads an army, and who hasn’t had a soul talk to him directly in days but the Elder of Sanctuary and myself. The Elder to relay commands and establish order, and myself—for my own reasons, of course.”

“I’d find great mystery in your words,” Cyrus said, looking away from her and back to the waves and the shore, “if not for the fact that I have known ‘your reasons’ for as long as I’ve known you. Your intentions have been made plain; you needn’t bother trying to be my friend when we both know that my friendship isn’t the part of me you’re interested in—”

She stepped in front of him, eyes blazing. “I’ve never been coy about my intentions toward you, but you fault me for it nonetheless. Would you prefer I dance around it, exchanging biting insults with you? That I berate you for little or no reason and never let a kind word break through my imposing facade?” She stepped closer to him and he caught the scent of her breath, cinnamon, as she brought her face only inches from his. “Are you so steeped in the way of pain and combat that you can’t accept honest, sweet words? Does every advance that interests you have to come couched in the agony of bladed phrase and stinging words?”

Her hand was on his cheek, her fingernails tracing delicate lines down his face. She leaned in closer to him, and he felt the pressure of her nails increase even as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you want me to hurt you? Is that what it takes?” She held her hand still, the pressure constant, her nails pressing into his cheek.

His hand came up and seized her wrist, yanking it away. “No,” Cyrus said, throwing her hand away from him. “That’s not what I want.”

She edged closer and he felt the press of her against him through his armor. “Then what does it take?” Her soft breathing seemed to surround him, filling his senses, drowning out the crashing breakers and the chirps of the crickets. “I’m not her. I’ll never be her. But I could be …” He could feel her push against him, saw her stand on tiptoes to bring her lips to his, “… what you need right now.” He turned his head and her lips found his cheek, and the delicate kiss she left there sent a surge of feeling through his whole body. “I can do … what she hasn’t, what I know you need … it’s been a long time, hasn’t it …?”

“Long time,” he said, echoing her, the truth stumbling from his mouth. He wished he could force it back in there, along with everything else that had happened in the last month, but it was there, nonetheless.

Cyrus felt the moment fade, and as Aisling leaned up to kiss him he gently shook himself free of her. There was no anger in him; only wistfulness and a deep sorrow. “I’m sorry. I don’t need what you think I do—and I’m not what you need, either.”

She looked suddenly very small to his eyes, but she summoned her courage and spoke again. “Do you even know what you need right now?”

He thought about it and heard his own breath as he inhaled then exhaled, thinking. Inhale, exhale. “I don’t. But I don’t think that me—really me, inside, not my urges, but me—I don’t think that’s what I need.”

She nodded, but it was subtle and slight, a barely-there movement of her head. “If you don’t know what you need—really need—then how do you know what I need?”

Without waiting for him to answer she turned and soundlessly she stalked off into the grass, disappearing at the treeline with only a single glance back at him before she faded away behind a tree trunk.

The last look was nothing but regret, pure and longing—and with life of its own.

The celebration went on throughout the day. Cyrus could hear it from where he stayed, out of sight down the shore, swinging Praelior at imaginary foes, feeling the sweat from his exertions rolling down his face.

It will not work, Cyrus …
He saw himself in the Realm of Death, his blade cutting into the chest of a demon knight, his sword biting into the bulging muscles of the creature, its breath foul and heavy with the stink of fetid rot, of death itself, on the day that he challenged the might of Mortus, the God of Death, and survived …

It can never be, you and I …
He brought Praelior around in a slice that he imagined caught the ready neck of a dark elven footsoldier, landing at the seam of his armor. In his mind he was back on the bridge in Termina on a long, cold night that followed a day filled with infinite promise. He could almost feel the chill, even in the tropical air.

For I am elf, and my life is long and my duties are as great as my sorrow …
He brought the blade down on the skull of a foe who wasn’t there, a goblin, heard the satisfying crack of sword on skull in his mind’s eye. He remembered the night that he and Sanctuary had invaded Enterra, the night that he had claimed the scabbard that rode on his hip, that made Praelior whole, a weapon unmatched in the world of men, and he could sense the clinging desperation of the moment when Vara had died in the depths, when he’d watched Emperor Y’rakh drop her to the ground, her golden hair spilling onto the floor …

We will not, cannot be
…
He stopped and reversed his grip, holding Praelior above his head and thrust it toward the ground, burying it into the head of Ashan’agar, heard the howl of he who was once the Dragonlord, and remembered the feel of the wind on his face as he rode the back of the beast into the rocky ground of the Mountains of Nartanis.

Not ever …
Cyrus felt himself in another place, before swords, before blades and armor, where the sand was thick with the blood of the fallen. He felt himself breathe heavy, cold air, the aroma of sweat around him. His eyes found his foes, and there were more of them than he could count. He felt the rush of fear, and tried to quiet it, but—

Not ever.

His eyes snapped open and he turned, Praelior pointed at a figure standing at a distance from him, hands open and outstretched. Cyrus’s eyes widened in the realization that he had moved on instinct, had known that someone was there unconsciously and acted before being truly aware of it himself. He saw who it was, and took a deep breath, then another, long, loud gasps, causing his chest to heave with the exertion he’d just undertaken. He looked at the arm that held Praelior and it trembled. He lowered the blade from where it pointed at a figure before him. “Odellan.”

“General,” Odellan said. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but it was under his arm. The elf’s armor was polished to shine, the same set he wore when he was an Endrenshan—a Captain—in the Termina Guard. The surface of his breastplate was lines and art, carvings in the metal that gave it an artistic touch that Cyrus’s straightforward black armor lacked. Odellan’s helm was similarly adorned, with winged extensions that rose above his head and down on either side of his face as well. It rested now in the crook of his elbow, and the elf’s face was relaxed, his blond hair stirring in the sea breeze. “I didn’t mean to disturb your training.”

Cyrus slid Praelior back into the scabbar, and managed to get his breathing under control. “Walking the beach is hardly disturbing me, Odellan. You just surprised me, that’s all.”

Odellan nodded, inclining his head to the side. “I’m impressed you heard my approach with your back turned and the waves crashing as they are. Your hearing must be near-elvish in its efficacy.”

Cyrus pulled a gauntlet from his hand and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “I take it you’re out for a walk?”

“No, actually,” Odellan said. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I had a purpose. Longwell was looking for you, wanted to discuss the course for tomorrow.”

“I’ll find him shortly,” Cyrus said, sniffing. “Is there still an abundance of boar? I find myself more hungry than I thought.”

Odellan allowed a smile, an oddity on the face of most elves Cyrus had met in his life. Only in the last few years, in Sanctuary, had he gotten to know them more closely and seen behind the somewhat straitlaced facade typical of their race’s conduct with offlanders—non-elves. “I can’t imagine why—days of insubstantial bread and water supplemented by bony fish not quite to the taste of your palate?”

Cyrus felt a quiet chuckle escape him. “I suppose not.” He felt a rumble in his stomach. “I’m going to get something to eat. Are you going to keep walking down the beach?”

“No,” Odellan said, falling into step beside Cyrus as the warrior began to make his way toward the encampment. “I’ll accompany you, if that’s all right.”

Cyrus shot Odellan a sly look. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Odellan’s returned expression was near-inscrutable. “I’d heard you were feeling decidedly unsociable of late.”

“I see,” Cyrus said. “Doubtless the rumor mill supplied you with reason enough for my desire to remain … isolated.”

“Indeed,” Odellan said with a nod. “Even a newcomer such as myself can’t help but be exposed to discussions among the rank and file of why our revered General—a man they refer to in hushed tones as ‘Cyrus the Unbroken’—has gone from a charismatic brawler with a decidedly outspoken persona to a black hole of despair, the very image our elven artists look to when trying to capture the mood of our society this last millenia.”

Cyrus halted and Odellan walked another pace before stopping. Cyrus’s eyes narrowed at the elf. “Some of that was funny, and I can’t decide how I feel about that.”

Odellan raised an eyebrow. “Only some of it? I was trying to keep a playful tone throughout.”

“The ‘Cyrus the Unbroken’ bit was a tad grim; otherwise you succeeded.”

“Ah, that,” Odellan said, looking back at him. “It seems there’s a story that goes along with it, though I’ve yet to hear it told the same way twice.”

“And the rumors about the reason I’m as black in the mood as an elvish artisan? Are those told the same twice, or do the details vary with the telling?”

Odellan cast his eyes down. “Those seem to be almost the same every time. A dashing young warrior, a rising star in the Sanctuary firmament, casts his eyes upon an elven paladin of legend, spills the secrets of his soul to her, and receives naught but anguish for his reward.” Odellan tilted his head, his expression pained. “It would be hard for even the most accomplished embellisher of stories to mistake a tale so plain as that one.”

“That’s never stopped rumormongers from trying.”

“As you can tell, the broad strokes of that one convey all the important bits,” Odellan said. “Whether anything else happened, we all get the gist.” Cyrus caught a flicker of something behind the elf’s eyes, some pain within. “Heartbreak is no great joy for any of us, but no one will disturb you if you don’t wish to talk about it—”

“I don’t,” Cyrus said, resuming his walk. “It’s nothing personal, but my … adversities are my own.”

“Well, that would make it personal, wouldn’t it? Still, I understand completely.” The elf gave Cyrus a curt nod. “And I shan’t bring it up again.” Odellan hesitated. “Save but to say that if ever a day comes when you wish to discuss it … I am the soul of discretion.”

Cyrus felt the muscles in his body tense and then relax, the full effect of Odellan’s offer running through his mind. “It’s kind of you, Odellan. I doubt that day will come, but I appreciate the offer.”

“A kindness I fear is all too small a repayment for those you’ve done for me.” Odellan’s silver boots had begun to collect small clumps of wet sand, and the shine on the top of his metal-encased feet was not nearly so polished as his breastplate. “After all, you saved my life and the lives of countless of my people in Termina and then brought me from exile to a place where I can do some small good, I hope.”

“More than small, I would think,” Cyrus said as they passed the embers of the fire he had slept beside. The sun had risen in the western sky and was hanging high above the sea, day in full and glorious bloom.

The smell of roasted pig was in the air, and Cyrus could see Martaina Proelius next to a boar that looked to be fairly intact, and the ranger gave him a smile as he approached. “Hungry?” she asked.