Warlord (34 page)

“Reckon we’re on our own for supper tonight,” Andren said, a little mournfully, as Cyrus came out of the Great Hall.

“You could always fix something,” Vara said with a healthy amount of acid. “Though I would avoid anything that involves a brandy sauce.”

“I’m not much of a cook,” Andren said. “Tended to buy my food off street vendors before I came here.”

“Yes, you got everything off the street, didn’t you?” Vara said as she and Cyrus moved toward the stairs.

“Hey, I resent—”

“Andren, find someone to help make dinner,” Cyrus said, in no mood for argument.

“Uh, I’ll check with Vaste and see what we can come up with,” Andren said, shuffling off as Cyrus stormed the steps, the foyer disappearing from view in seconds.

“What was that about?” Vara asked as soon as they were up a few flights of the spiral staircase.

“I don’t want Larana to have to worry about dinner in her current—”

“Not that,” she snapped as a ranger passed them, trying his hardest to blend into the wall. “What was that about your father’s sword?”

“Something Thad brought up just before the attack,” Cyrus said, “something I’d never thought of before.” He clanked a gauntlet against his armor. “Two gods have struck me, and my armor doesn’t show any damage.”

She frowned, ascending alongside him. “Well, it doesn’t exactly look new, either, though, does it?”

“Worn is not the same as god-struck,” Cyrus said. “It should be destroyed for every hit I’ve taken.” He rapped his knuckles against his greaves. “I saw what happened to Belkan’s armor being stepped on by a titan.” He shuddered slightly. “If this were normal steel, it would be flat as unshaped metal. Instead, it may look old, but it shows no sign of damage, nor need of repainting.” He stared down at it. “It doesn’t even appear to be painted at all.”

“Well, that’s not exactly a shade found in nature—”

“It’s like night itself!”

“Have you ever seen a night? You think it’s that shade? Even the Realm of Darkness wasn’t as inky as—”

They paused in their argument as two spellcasters eased past them, casting sidelong, nervous looks.

“Maybe the dark looks different to elven eyes,” Cyrus said, trying to stop the quibble before it became something more.

“Perhaps,” Vara conceded. After a waiting another moment, she proceeded. “So, because your father had some potentially mystical—”

“Mystical would have taken a god’s hit a little better than steel, but … I think this is more.” Cyrus looked down at his breastplate, at its metallic surface. “Quartal, perhaps?”

“Quartal is very distinctive,” Vara said, sounding a little skeptical. “Look at your sword and your chainmail. I suppose, under whatever black … enamel … or whatever coats the armor, there may be quartal, but it does not exactly carry the glimmer. In any case, you presume that your father’s sword would be similarly enchanted?”

“I don’t presume anything,” Cyrus said as they went past the Council Chambers. “I merely wanted to know what happened to it. Belkan made sure the armor passed to me; I just want to be certain that I’m not missing a sword I should have.” He lowered his voice as they came to the final set of stairs, up to the door that opened into the Tower of the Guildmaster. “It’s all I have left of him.”

Vara came in and shut the door behind her. She stood at the base of the small set of steps that led up into the quarters, back pressed against the door, hair slightly messy where a few strands had broken loose from her ponytail during the battle. “I always hear you talk about your father. Why don’t you ever talk about your mother?”

Cyrus halted just out of the channel of the stairs. “I don’t remember much of her,” he said. “She didn’t exactly leave a large trace, either; my father was a hero of the war against the trolls. He won the battle of Dismal Swamp, after all. Hard to compete with that when you’re stuck staying at home, watching a kid.”

“You must remember something,” Vara said, easing up the stairs. “She died after your father, didn’t she?”

“I remember her eyes,” Cyrus said. “Very faintly. They were green. I remember some of the smells of the things she cooked, like her meat pies. It was a pretty traditional Reikonosian delicacy. We had them in the Society regularly, but it was never the same. Larana’s are close, I think.” He shrugged. “Not much to talk about other than her cooking, which is why I suppose I don’t talk about her.” He blinked as another thought occurred. “She passed on her rage at the trolls to me. Bitter about my father’s death, I assume.”

“That is a shame,” Vara said, eyes touched with sadness. “To have so little time with either of them. At least your father made an impression.” She nodded at him, armor and all. “And you walk his path, of course.”

“I wanted to be like him,” Cyrus said quietly. “The instructors at the Society … they didn’t want to talk to me, but whenever they discussed the history of the troll war, they would say my name.” He smiled faintly. “Well, they would say my last name, anyway, and they’d say it with a reverence for my father that they never once showed for his son, sitting in the same damned room with them. It was always a bit mysterious how it unfolded, that battle, because—well, almost no one survived. But the word got out that he’d done something amazing in it.”

“I cannot imagine what you have gone through in your upbringing,” Vara said, and she leaned against him, armor against his. Her breath was warm in his ear. “To have done what you did … to be so reliant on yourself … it has made you strong.”

He turned his head to look at her. “You think it made me strong? I think it made me weak, always turning inward rather than asking for help when it would have made life simpler. Do you know how hard it was for me to start to trust after the Society?” She shook her head. “It was a hell of a journey, let me tell you. Consider yourself fortunate that Imina and Narstron did some of the heavy lifting in that area.”

“You don’t think I would have liked you had I met you earlier?” she asked. “If we had crossed paths when I was a young officer of Amarath’s Raiders and you were applying to any guild you could find taking applicants?”

Cyrus chuckled. “I actually applied to the Raiders at one point. It was a short visit.”

She looked pained. “You didn’t make it past the foyer, did you?”

“I did not,” Cyrus said with a chuckle. “The look they gave me told me everything about what they thought the moment I walked in. I wasn’t escorted out, but I was politely asked to leave and given the impression that if I didn’t do it in haste, I’d have been tossed momentarily.”

“If only they’d known,” she said a little sadly, “what they were missing.”

“I don’t think it would have worked out very well for me,” Cyrus said, feeling a little sadness settle over him. “If they’d taken me, I mean. Because then, I would have been there when—”

“Oh,” Vara said, and her hand came to hover over her stomach involuntarily. “Of course. The purge of the righteous.”

“Is that what you called it?”

“I called it much worse than that,” she said, pulling away from him. She walked slowly toward the freestanding mirror in the corner. “The great stabbing in the back, the day of the traitorous wretches, and other, more creative and profane names that require a better grasp of elvish than you possess—”

“I’m really good with the profanity. It’s your subject and verb agreement that trips me up. Also, conjugation.”

“Yes, well,” she said, turning back to him. “Those were dark days.”

Cyrus nodded. “I think I feel a little darkness seeping in here lately.”

“It’s not like it was there,” Vara said quickly.

“No, I didn’t mean it was—” Cyrus sighed. “I just meant things have taken a grim turn these last few months.”

“Indeed,” Vara said with a slow nod. “We went from being a guild on the rise, walking with a confidence in our step from winning the dark elven war for the rest of the world—a guild so … I don’t want to say overconfident in the ascendancy, but certainly feeling our oats … to … well, now.” She shrugged. “We’re down. There’s no denying it, and not much point in trying. But down is hardly defeated, at least not for good.”

“I can’t figure out why the titans haven’t come at us harder,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “This should be over by now. They could have come north at any time, with magic at their disposal.”

“As you said, they are rather one-dimensional in their thinking, and magic changes the rules remarkably in battle.”

“I never liked counting on my opponents to be stupid,” Cyrus said, starting to unfasten his armor. “No, they’ll get smart sooner or later, and when they do, we’re going to be looking back on these dark days as positively sunny.”

“I don’t fear it,” Vara said, taking off her gauntlets. “Not with you in charge.”

He smiled. “How did you go from hating me to saying such kind things?”

She strained at that one, and he could see the sarcasm threatening to spill out as she rolled her eyes, then she brought them back under control as she looked at him. “They say there is a desperately thin veneer between love and hate. Honestly, I still waver back and forth depending on the conversation.”

“Ah,” he said, bringing her close again. The smell of sweat was in her hair, on her skin, but it did not bother him. He kissed her lips and found them sticky with dried perspiration. It was only a peck, just a few seconds, and then she pulled away. “What?” he asked.

She sniffed the air. “You need a shower desperately.”

“Hey,” he said, scowling, “you’re no sniff of rosewater yourself. I’ve been waiting on the line of battle for days and—”

“Well, you’re not waiting any longer, and there’s a shower right over there,” she said, pointing to the small room tucked into the corner of the tower between two balconies. She slipped off her boots and then blanched like she’d been hit. “Perhaps a bit of that for both of us, then.”

“Together?” Cyrus suggested slyly.

She rolled her eyes once more. “Why not?” she asked, as though it entailed great sacrifice on her part. Armor clanged against the stone floor as she slipped out of hers and he from his.

“What do you fear?” Cyrus asked when they were nearly naked, and he saw her muscles tense at the question, standing out on her back as the long scar that stretched just to the side of her spine reddened.

“Nothing when I’m with you,” she said, standing up straight, turning to face him with only her light cloth trousers still hugging her waist. He could see the scar on her belly now, similarly angry red against pale flesh.

“Nothing at all?” Cyrus asked, watching her carefully.

“When I’m with the greatest warrior in Arkaria,” she said, just a little too breezily, “what is there to fear?” With that, she slipped the light trousers from her waist and let them fall to the floor. She stepped out of them and walked seductively toward the shower. “Are you coming?” she asked as she disappeared behind the frame. A second later, he heard water rushing through the pipes and spattering on the stone floor within, gurgling in the drain.

There was something in her answer that he did not care for, that he did not understand, but he let it rest, and followed her into the shower. The water, however, felt strangely cold in spite of the company.

“So what’s the next big idea?” Ryin asked, more alert than he had looked during the last Council meeting. He didn’t seem quite as weary, though the druid still had an air of concern about him.

“I don’t even have a sarcastic one at this point,” Vaste said, “which I know will surprise you all.”

“What’s got you so grim?” Vara asked, brow furrowed as she looked at the healer.

The room was dark, the light of day barely shining in but the torches extinguished. It was a curious situation, the magical light of Sanctuary not quite doing its job, though Cyrus was a bit torn on whether the torches were really needed. The room was just a bit dim after all, not dark as night. All the officers were present save for Odellan, Mendicant and Longwell, each of whom were on duty in the various places the Army of Sanctuary was presently stationed.

“Well, we have lost some lives lately,” Vaste said. “And we’ve got people still out there trying to hold things together, maintain scouting so titans don’t come running up on us in the middle of the nights and crash through our gates before we can get roused to go die at their hands—I mean fight them.”

“You really think the titans are going to come here?” Erith asked, looking more nervous than Cyrus had ever seen her.

“It certainly wouldn’t be the first time,” Curatio said quietly. The healer looked more pensive than usual today, but also tired in a way that was becoming surprisingly common, as though some sleep spell were being passed around among the officers, draining their vitality.

“We’d make it the last, though,” Thad said with more than a little bravura.

“Because we’ve done such a smashing job of beating them back at every turn thus far,” Vaste said, nodding sagely.

“Your sarcasm does not help the situation, troll,” Vara snarled.

“I actually wasn’t being sarcastic this time, either,” Vaste said, shrugging. “Think about it from the perspective of the titans. They attack Emerald Fields, and while that was not our most smashing success ever, we made them retreat, vestigial tails between their legs. When next we met, on their turf, we destroyed their entire savanna watch operation, invaded their city and killed their emperor. Now we’ve destroyed the Heia Pass and left more of their dead rotting there than our own.” He looked around the table. “From our perspective, it’s disasters from start to finish. But the titans aren’t us, and they aren’t used to the decreased danger that having healers with resurrection spells brings. They’re used to fighting and dying with every war. From their perspective … we’re dishing out a lot more punishment than we’re taking.”

Cyrus frowned. “That’s … not a bad point.”

“Try not to sound utterly shocked,” Vaste said.

“I
am
utterly shocked,” Vara said, leaning her elbows onto the table, “but I agree with the troll.”

“I am glad that the elf agrees with me,” Vaste said, drawing a look of irritation from Vara. “Oh, sorry, was responding in kind to your condescending remark inappropriate in some way?”