Crusader

Chapter 25

They left the next day in a long procession, wending down the hillside from Vernadam, Cyrus, the officers and the other guests he had brought following the King’s court. King Longwell was carried down on a litter to a horse-drawn carriage below. Unlike other carriages Cyrus had seen, this one was massive, almost a full living quarters in and of itself. When they reached the bottom of the hill, Cyrus saw his troops assembled for the first time in a month, though he knew Odellan had taken them through regular exercises.

“This looks like a fat and happy lot,” Terian said as they rode along the length of the column of Sanctuary’s army. “I’d gather that thirty days of rest has been good to them.” A harlot in red exposed herself from a balcony above them, then gestured to Terian with a come-hither finger. “A little too good, maybe,” the dark elf said. “Perhaps I should ask around and see if our boys have been behaving themselves.”

“I don’t care what you do,” Cyrus said grimly, “so long as you’re with us at Enrant Monge when we get there.”

“Maybe you should come on this inspection tour with me,” Terian said, slowing his horse. “It seems you have frustrations of your own to work out.”

“I’ve worked out plenty of frustrations in the last month,” Cyrus said, tense. “It seems to have left me with even more than when I started.”

“Perhaps you’re being too formal about things,” the dark knight suggested as Cyrus brought his horse to a halt, watching as the column began to get underway, marching slowly, in time, toward the west road out of the village. “You’re putting too much emphasis on feelings, and trust, and emotion and all these other ugly things that have no place in a bed.”

Cyrus stared at the dark elf as Terian tied the reins of his destrier to the hitching post. “Occasionally, Terian, I find myself envying you for the simplistic approach you seem able to take to your emotions.”

“Don’t speak about things you know nothing about,” Terian said darkly. “I am merely suggesting that you might be attaching too much significance to something that need not be so desperately complicated-or nearly so painful as you seem to be making it.”

“And I was expressing my admiration for your ability to go unfettered by the messy entanglements that seem to be constantly drawing me down,” Cyrus said. “I was quite sincere in what I said.”

“You still don’t know what you’re talking about, Davidon,” Terian replied, voice cold. “There’s a difference between this and the people you care about.”

“I wish there was, for me,” Cyrus said. “Unfortunately, thus far, there hasn’t been. Perhaps in the future.”

Terian smiled, a half one. “Stay a while. With our horses, we can catch up to the army after we finish our business within. Start now. It gets easier every time you do it, just like battle, and your soul gets hardened to it after a while, and it becomes reflexive, as it should be. A glorious release, without that horrible, life-draining emotion you attach to it.”

Cyrus’s smile was fake, but he tried. “Perhaps some other time. After as long a break as we’ve had, I suspect our formation will need some practice, and I mean to be there to see it.”

“As you wish,” Terian said coolly. “But you know full well that Longwell and Odellan can handle that better than you can. If you want to make excuses for yourself, find better ones. If you want to make yourself immune to such pains as you feel now, best get started. Either way, stop fooling yourself.” The dark knight turned and began to walk toward the door to the establishment, which was pushed open by a woman wearing a dress that exposed more supple, pink, flawless flesh than Cattrine possessed on her entire body. Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to it, even as the woman wrapped an arm around Terian’s waist, and let the door swing shut behind them.

Cyrus turned in his saddle to look down the column and caught sight of Cattrine toward the back of the formation with Ryin and Nyad, her horse shuffling along at a slow canter. His eyes took her in, her dark hair as well kempt as any time he had seen her, her riding clothes cleaned and in fine order. Her lips looked especially red, her scars well hidden now. She looked at the ground as she rode, despondent, though Nyad seemed to be chattering happily in her ear.

“The Baroness has an ill humor about her,” Odellan said, startling Cyrus as he appeared next to Windrider on his own horse. “A cloud hangs over her, some grief unspoken, I think.” He looked at Cyrus in curiosity. “As though Yartraak himself has settled darkness upon her heart.”

Cyrus stared at Odellan, trying to decide what to say. He finally settled on, “Keep your eye on the formation. I want our march in perfect order, and after today I want weapons practice for every one of our fighters; we’ll be ready if battle comes our way.” After seeing Odellan’s nod of acknowledgment, Cyrus spurred Windrider, who whinnied in anger at the rough treatment and took off at a run. “Sorry,” Cyrus said to the horse after a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure the horse accepts your apology,” Martaina said, coming alongside Cyrus. “Now perhaps you should turn those words in a different direction-”

“Perhaps you should keep yours to yourself,” Cyrus snapped. “Because as it happens, I recall about a month ago you told me that even with all your vast experience, you didn’t know what you were doing in relationships.”

“I can see you’re blinded in your pain,” Martaina began slowly, after a pause, “but let me bring something forward in your mind. In spite of our similar ears,” she said, pushing her hair back behind the points of her ears, “I’m not Vara. If you’re looking for a sharp-tongued reply or an argument, look elsewhere. I’m a little too old to slap back at you just because you swing an emotional gauntlet or three my way.”

“I only have two gauntlets,” Cyrus replied.

“Then that must be something else you’re swinging around,” Martaina said, deadpan. “You might want to put it back in your pants before someone loses an eye-like you, yourself.”

Cyrus bristled. “What are you trying to say? Be plain about it.”

“I’m suggesting that you might stop swinging around your …” she lowered her voice, “… pride, as though it were some sort of weapon to keep people at bay.”

“My …” Cyrus started to shout, but lowered his voice, “… pride … doesn’t seem to get me in anything but trouble of late, as I follow its lead from one woman who stabs me in the front to another who lies to me.”

“I don’t think we’re talking about your pride anymore … sir.” Martaina said. “We’re either talking about your groin or your heart, and you might want to differentiate. Because if it’s your groin, it probably would have led you in the same direction as Terian went just now. If it’s your heart, then you can’t really fault it because you don’t choose the direction it goes anymore than you could choose what direction you went in as an orphan, dropped off at the front door of the Society of Arms.”

Cyrus felt the slap of her words, a surge of memory at the reminder of the first time he walked through the gates to the Society-and the first time he left after that, running through them in the snow, as fast as his six year-old legs could carry him. He felt a blinding flash of anger and the desire to lash out again, to get Martaina away from him-the sting from her knowing too much. The wall of ice dissolved and made cold fury in its stead. “Your counsel is not needed, ranger. And it occurs to me that your efforts at bodyguard haven’t gone terribly well, either, considering not a month ago I got my brains dashed out by a dwarf with a hammer, and you did nothing to stop it. Be gone-I’d have you go back to what you were doing before, taking care of the animals, joining scouting parties, anything else.”

“And who will watch your back in these unpredictable lands?” Martaina asked, cool, but her words carrying the unmistakable hint of venom.

“I’ll watch my own, thank you very much,” he said. “I can’t do a much worse job of it than you have.” He urged Windrider on, this time sparing the spurs. “Why don’t you try keeping an eye on Partus as we travel?” he asked. “I don’t much care if he lives or dies, after all.”

As he rode away, he heard her say something, low, almost lost under the sound of hoofbeats, but there nonetheless. “How do you feel about you, yourself, dying?”

Cyrus felt his eyes narrow at her words, and he leaned forward to ride faster. “I don’t much care if I live or die right now, either.”