Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (87 page)

His steps carried him along the spiral staircase to a lower landing. The lamps were low, dim, and Cyrus saw a glow of color outside a translucent window, something faintly orange and red. He stopped at the landing and stepped toward the door, which he knew led outside, onto the castle’s interconnected ramparts.

With a squeak the door opened, and he grimaced at the sound. He shut it back carefully then looked around. The ramparts led in either direction; to his right he knew he could find himself overlooking the Garden of Serenity with only a few twists and turns. To his left, however, was the outer wall, and all that lay beyond. He went left, felt the chill of the night air. He drew his heavy cloak around him, trying to hold in the warmth escaping through the cracks in his armor.

His feet carried him along and he looked up into the sky, where an aurora lit the blackness like a fire of its own. It was a magnificent red and orange glow, shimmering faintly, stronger, like a snake of fire sliding its way across the night. He took a breath and exhaled, watching the air steam in front of him. The sky was clear above, but the wisps of clouds were visible in the distance, lit by the aurora. The smell of the night air drew into his nose, freezing it, giving it the smell of cold, all in itself.
How is it that cold has a smell?

His walk took him around the perimeter; there were guards, here and there, and they nodded to him as he passed. He found himself at the east wall and looked out, across the small valley beyond. Lit campfires waited below, the entirety of Galbadien’s army laid out before him.
Tomorrow they will move north, a half-day’s ride … and a day from now, perhaps two … it will begin.

He let his gauntlet slide along the uneven ramparts, clanking as he dropped it off a crenellation. He followed the curtain wall, though in truth it was all one massive structure.
How has this stood for ten thousand years? It is the most magnificent and detailed castle I can recall ever seeing—other than perhaps Vernadam.
He thought, too, of Scylax, high upon a mountain.
I wonder what Caenalys must be like? Where she was raised—

He let out a small, angry hiss at himself.
Can I not be rid of the thoughts of these women? It has been nearly five months since I have seen her, yet she does not leave me be, either …

He walked on toward the north, toward tomorrow.
We set out tomorrow. We face them on the day after.
He felt a chill, more than the cold.
Can we best them?
He did not press the answer to that question, almost afraid to know it.

Another guard passed with a nod. Their helms were a simpler things that partially covered their faces.
Like the Termina Guard,
Cyrus thought, and wondered if he should banish that thought as well, for all its unpleasant associations.

There was a figure on the northern rampart, on the wall segment that jutted out allowing archers to cover the north gate in a siege; the armor was familiar even at this distance, though Cyrus had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had come to within twenty feet and not even realized it. The outline was visible against the aurora above, spikes shadowed behind hues of fiery orange and flaming red. His helm was off, lying on the nearest crenellation, a spiked crown of its own sort, as pointed as the personality of its wearer.

“I’m not going to kill you now,” Terian said, turning to Cyrus, his black hair flowing in the wind. The dark elf had an accumulation of stubble that might have been more easily visible on a human. As it was, it gave the dark knight a shadowed look about his jaw and lips. “I gave my word to Curatio that I would not settle my personal grudge with you until this was all over.”

“I’m trying to decide if I should take comfort in the word of a dark knight,” Cyrus said, his hand already on Praelior’s hilt, “especially one who has already attempted to murder me without warning.”

“There was plenty of warning,” Terian said, turning back to look over the edge of the wall, toward the north, “you were just so wrapped up in your own petty concerns that you didn’t notice it.”

“Petty concerns?” Cyrus asked. “Like coming here, winning the Sylorean war, assaulting Green Hill?”

Terian chuckled lightly. “As though you devoted more than a few hours of thought over the course of our months-long journey to any of those things. No, Cyrus, you know very well of what I speak—Vara, Cattrine, and Aisling. These women that you stumble to, one after the other, hoping they’ll pick you up and fill that shallow, empty place in your chest where you used to keep your conviction.” He cast a sidelong glance at Cyrus, who took tentative steps to stand down the wall from him. “They won’t, you know.”

“I hardly think that I’m looking for them to fill some gap in my belief,” Cyrus said, staring at the northern reaches; there were no fires here, just vast, empty woods. There was light in the distance, though, something like a fire, but it was far off.

“Truly?” Terian asked. “Is it possible that the great Cyrus Davidon, that shining light of all virtue, has finally come to the point where all he looks to a woman for is the physical? Because I believe we had a conversation about this some time ago, my friend—”

“I think we stopped being friends when you cursed me and left me to die,” Cyrus said quietly.

There was a pause. “True enough,” Terian said, and Cyrus watched him clutch the edge of the wall, and the image of a man clinging to something for life sprang to mind.

“Shouldn’t you be happy about that, if it’s true?” Cyrus asked, flicking his gaze back to the empty lands in front of him. “You were the one who chided me to ignore the idea of deep feelings or of any kind of resistance to baser appetites. You were the one who wanted me to come to whorehouses with you, to ‘scratch the itch,’ as it were, with any woman freely available. Now that I’ve done it, you say I’ve lost something—what? You were the one urging me down that path all along; I think it a bit late now to fret about some irrelevant consequence of me doing what you suggested, however unwittingly I might have come to it.”

“I never thought you would,” Terian said quietly. “Not in a hundred years, not in a thousand. Cyrus the Unbroken, wallowing about in the filth, fallen from his iconic high?” He turned to gaze directly at Cyrus. “I think I erred in trying to kill you.”

Cyrus snorted. “You erred? You slit the throat of my horse after casting a spell on me that caused immense pain and left me surrounded by enemies. You betrayed a guildmate and a friend who had no idea he had wronged you; yes, Terian, I would say you erred. Badly.”

“That’s not quite what I meant,” the dark knight said, a quiet sadness held firm on his face, his pointed nose angling just away from Cyrus. “What I meant was … revenge on you might have been a foolish notion, seeing how much you’ve suffered this last year. Perhaps a more fitting punishment was to let you live in this strange, fallen state of anguish you seem to have gathered to yourself.”

“‘Fallen state of anguish’?” Cyrus repeated. “That’s poetic.”

“No,” the dark knight said, “I mean it. Truly. As a friend, killing you might have been more merciful—”

“You have a strange notion of mercy, ‘friend.’”

“Think about it,” Terian said, and Cyrus watched him anchor his hands on the wall, holding them there as though he might fall if he didn’t. “Everything horrible that could have happened to you this year has just about happened. The woman you loved rejected you in spectacularly brutal fashion. Your mentor and father figure berated you for the first time in your history, you came thousands of miles from home, trying to find some soothing balm for your tortured soul, and instead the woman you started to fall in love with lies to you about who she is and you cast her away over it.” He laughed, but it was a sad, pitying sound. “I could not have orchestrated a worse punishment for you than all that.”

“This is pathetic, even for you,” Cyrus said. “Merely reminding me of the less pleasant turns of events that have occurred this last year is hardly the stuff required to break my spirit, though it brings me no joy. But you might consider adding to your list the moment when one of my sworn and chosen brothers tried to kill me himself.”

“There was that, true,” Terian said. “I could also make mention of your decapitation, or the fact that Alaric has yet to send even an acknowledgment of your pleas for aid, but why? The worst of it,” and Terian’s voice dripped with a sort of sad sincerity, “the real torturous prize is not the pain they caused, but the scars they left.” Terian shrugged, as though trying to shake off some unpleasantness or warm up from the chill wind that blew by. “You don’t see it, but you’ve changed, Cyrus. And not for the better. You’ve become a harder, colder sort of person.”

“I’m becoming you, in other words.”

“Yes!” Terian said and clinked his gauntlet while snapping his finger and pointing it as Cyrus. “Your soul is calloused, my friend, and all those things that you carried with you into the Realm of Death—the illusion of what you were fighting for, the idea of a future with Vara—you walked out of the gates of Sanctuary on the journey here without any of them. Whoever you were last year—when I
was
your friend—that man is gone. I don’t even recognize the one in front of me anymore.”

“Yet still you’ll kill me when this is done?” Cyrus asked.

There was a twist in Terian’s face, the hint of something unpleasant as his face stretched, lips pursed, in a sort of pained grimace. “Perhaps. Not until this is over, but … perhaps.”

“Then it really doesn’t matter how I’ve changed, does it?” Cyrus asked, and let his hand drift over the crenellation, let it settle as the first snowflake drifted down by the aurora’s light; clouds were moving over now, the red and orange had begun to be covered by tge dark, grey shapes drifting across the sky, threatening to overcome the entirety of it. “I’m still the man you want to kill.”

“Maybe,” Terian said, and the first flakes came down to rest upon his armor, soft symbols next to the spikes and edges of that which protected him from harm. “But the other Cyrus—the one who killed my father—I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to see him bleed his righteous life out in front of me, suffer for what he’d done.”

“And now?” Cyrus looked at him expectantly. “You think I’ve suffered enough?”

“I don’t think you have any idea how much you’ve suffered,” Terian said, turning away from him as the snowfall intensified. “I don’t think you have any idea how much you will continue to, as the man you are now. The changes you’ve made, that have happened to you, this jading, this winnowing of decency—I don’t know how to explain it other than that—you’re an empty man, walking forward with each step following a path laid out long ago.” The dark knight smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “What do you even believe in anymore?” He gave Cyrus a ghostly grin across the rampart.

“Duty,” Cyrus said. “Loyalty. To my brethren in Sanctuary. I believe I unleashed this scourge that is costing a great many people their lives, and I aim to correct it.”

“And what after that?” Terian asked, but his head was bowed and he no longer looked at the warrior. The snow had begun to accumulate now, just a little bit, a faint white dusting, but it came down heavily enough that all the land was cut before him, and Cyrus could see only a hundred feet off the wall at best. “What will you do if you fail?” He blinked and turned his head to Cyrus. “What will you do if you succeed? Where will you go? What will you fight for?”

“I’ll go home,” Cyrus said, but he didn’t feel it, not really, not in the emptiness within. “I’ll fight whoever next crosses the path of Sanctuary—just like I always have.” He turned away, brushing the wet snow from his shoulders as he began to make his way back to the tower. “What about you, Terian?” he asked as he walked away. “You’re no longer welcome in Sanctuary, unless Alaric finds some measure of deep pity for you. What will you do? Where will you go?” He turned and looked back, but the dark knight was all shadow now, just an outline, a silhouette in the rising frenzy of the snowstorm as it blew around him. “What will you fight for?”

“The same thing I have been since the days when I lost all my belief and care, like you have,” Terian answered, the wind muffling him as he spoke. “Myself. And I’ll go wherever the road takes me.” He turned away, and the next words were nearly lost to the wind. “If I’m not much mistaken, it won’t be that long before you do exactly the same.”

The snow had come heavily, all through the night. Cyrus did not sleep, but he lay down next to Aisling in the tower room, the fire crackling and shedding warmth now. The sweet smell of wood smoke harkened him back to thoughts of Sanctuary, but he found less comfort in them than he would have imagined. A dull, gnawing feeling ate at him from the thought of it, of going home, he realized. The smell of meat pies came back to him, whether from thoughts of Sanctuary or memories of the days before, when he was a child in a home of his own, with a mother and father, he knew not which.
Alone. It’s how I lived, from the day Belkan dropped me at the Society to the day I … what? Made my first prayer to Bellarum? Met Narstron? Perhaps. Married Imina?
He grimaced.
Doubtful. She knew I felt the call to war more than to stay with her. From the day I …

There was the flash again, in his mind, of blond hair, of a sword in motion, laying open foes on a battlefied. Of a sharp voice and sharper wit, of her fluid motion in a fight, and of her face …
oh gods, her face …

From the day I joined Sanctuary.
Even the echo of the words only in his mind was as loud as any battle; it resonated in the quiet night of his chamber, and even the presence of Aisling against his side, almost purring, was no consolation.

Dawn found him unrested, and he wondered if he had shut his eyes at all after returning to bed. Terian’s words rattled in his head, thoughts of the man he was plagued him, of who he had been.

He rose, ate breakfast with the others in a somber feast in a room at the bottom of the stairs, the brothers quietly bringing them porridge. No one spoke, not even Martaina, though she looked to be of a mind to say something at one point. When finished, they filed outside. The courtyard had filled with snow during the early morning hours, and still it came down heavily, lying already in drifts up to mid-calf on the women, Cyrus noted upon seeing Aisling slip into it. She cringed and he knew that wet slush had fallen into her leather shoes, low as they ran to the ground.