Crusader

Chapter 91

Cyrus

The sun rose on trees glazed with ice on the branches. It caught Cyrus riding south, fatigue catching him ahorse, bumping along to the briskness of early morning. The snowstorm he had ridden through in the night had settled into a winter’s mix, and his beard was as frosted as the tree branches, though he had used his fingers to attempt to brush it loose every now and again. At least the rest of me is warm. He tugged on Windrider’s reins; the horse was at no more than a canter now. Looking back, he saw Enrant Monge just barely on the horizon, a boxy shape behind him on a hill.

Enrant Monge is a majestic castle, no doubt. A tremendous place, and one so wrapped up in the glories of Luukessia that I can see why the Brothers are willing to die for it. He felt a tug of regret. And die they shall, if Scylax is any sort of indication. All it would take is for Drettanden-if that’s what that thing truly is-to come charging at the gates and I suspect they would buckle after only a few good hits. Still, he looked back, the majesty of that place is not to be underestimated. Even as a shape on the horizon, the squarish nature of the outside walls, the soaring towers and the meaning behind it all gave him a feeling of sadness. They’re going to lose … everything.

He started to turn again to the road ahead but blinked and looked back, down the barely noticeable track that he knew to be the road. Wagon ruts were the only sign that this was a path, and they were partially covered over from the snowstorms. There were figures coming up behind him, on horses, their hooves struggling through the snow. They were moving faster than he was, and he pondered, just for a moment, pulling Praelior out and readying for them. Then he caught the first sight of deep blue skin under robes, and waited instead, keeping Windrider in place.

“You left without saying goodbye,” J’anda said as his horse trotted along, each step a slight struggle with the snowy road. “If there is one thing I simply cannot abide, it is the thought of a trusted comrade and friend throwing himself into oblivion without so much as a ‘fare thee well’ before doing so.”

Cyrus watched the others who were with him; Aisling was easy enough to pick out, with her sullen eyes, her easy smile long gone, no trace of it left on her face. Martaina, too, though her eyes were hidden by her cowl. “So you came to say goodbye?” Cyrus asked.

“No, fool, we came to go with you.” J’anda waved a hand at him dismissively. “My talents are wasted here, conjuring bread all the day long. But sieging the city by the sea? You may have use for an enchanter’s skill yet.” He said it with a twinkle in his eye.

“And you?” Cyrus asked Martaina.

“I’m here to keep an eye on you,” she said grudgingly, “as I said I would. I expect you’ll be easier to keep an eye on if you remain alive and in close range.”

Cyrus looked to Aisling but didn’t say anything. She smoldered, looking back at him. “I told you,” she said finally, “I’m here to give you what you need, no questions.”

Cyrus looked back at her. “Aisling … I’m s-”

“Don’t.” It was only a little pointed, the way she said it. She didn’t flinch, didn’t react, just took the reins of her horse and urged it forward to lead the way along the snowy road.

“How far is it to Caenalys?” J’anda asked, starting his horse forward, the smooth landscape a long, rolling plain of white broken only by the snow-wrapped trees, jutting out of it like an ocean of bones.

“A moon’s change, at least,” Martaina replied, coming alongside him. Aisling was ahead of them both now, and Cyrus was only just turning Windrider around to follow.

“A month?” J’anda asked. “With those two in a snit? Hm.” The enchanter shook his head. “Well, that won’t be dreadfully uncomfortable.”