Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (14 page)

“Do you have a wife back in your homeland? Or someone you are promised to?” Her other hand came up and stroked the stubble at his cheek.

“No,” Cyrus said, sensing danger before him, “but neither does that mean I feel that just because I defeat a man in battle, I can take his wife as though she were chattel.”

Her hand slid around the back of his neck and drew him closer to her. “Even if she were to be content—nay, happy—with such a pairing?”

Cyrus slid his hands up and gently took hers from around his neck. “Not even then. Madam, I am sorry for your loss—though your husband is not yet dead—but I cannot accept. Where I come from, women are not property to be exchanged along with gemstones and animals when a man’s keep is conquered.”

She seemed to crumple in his sight. “Here they are nothing but—and without your aid, I am not only property but worthless property.”

“I am truly sorry for that,” Cyrus said, inching away from her. “If you wish, you may come with our army under my protection—but not as my woman or any such thing of that sort.”

She bristled. “As a harlot? A traveling woman, there for the pleasure of your men?”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “No, we don’t have any of those. You’d accompany us as a free woman, whose rights and person are inviolate. Any such offense against said person would result in grievous penalties. When we return to Arkaria, you are welcome to make your own way in our society, which I suspect you’ll find to be slightly more … favorable. If not, then I wish you the best of success here in Luukessia. Regardless,” he said, feeling the regret seep through him, “I will allow you to take your husband back to the village if you’d like, to die in a bed.”

“Thank you,” she said, ashen. “But in all honesty, my husband is a monster, an inhuman beast with appetites as copious as they are revolting. His death in a dungeon is a fitting end for the atrocities he has perpetrated on others …” her lip quivered, “… and myself. I came to you because I am a woman who had much to lose, on the cusp of nothingness, and I wished to see the man who might spare me from it, if he were amenable.”

“I’m afraid I can’t grant you that which you would have of me,” Cyrus said. “I am simply not so cavalier in my choice of marriage partners, and to propose that we wed after ten minutes of conversation is not in my character. The consequences could well be dire for both of us should we be forced to live with each other for the rest of our lives.”

“I assure you that I am a good wife, sir—dutiful, faithful, and true. And in the matter of conjugal relations, I am willing and frequent in—”

“That’s about all I need to hear,” Cyrus said. “I trust in all you say, but believe me—none of it will sway me.” He shook his head. “I apologize, but I must cut our audience short as my day will begin rather early tomorrow. Will you be returning to the village?”

“I suppose,” she said, a strand of hair falling out of place on her head and into her eyes. “I was offered a bed for the night by one of the families down there, and as I have no bed here—” She looked at Cyrus once more, and he saw hope and regret in her.

“If you want to come with us and travel to Arkaria, we’ll be on the road for quite some time, but I can promise you it’s a place where women are not property.” He drew himself up. “You’ll be safe with our army, but it is going to be a long journey.”

“I will consider your offer,” she said. “If you will consider mine.”

“I can’t take advantage of you in that way,” Cyrus said, “and make no mistake, it would be taking advantage. You would be with me because I hold the power to restore you to a modicum of your former station. But I have only the basest desires for a willing slave, which it sounds like you are offering to be.” She started to open her mouth to protest but stopped, falling silent and bowing her head. “My offer remains open, if you want to leave behind the idea that you’ll ever be beholden to a man again. I can see in you a woman who chafes under the bonds of your society.”

She stared off into the distance, and Cyrus realized she was looking around the room one last time. “I thank you for your offer, sir, but Luukessia is my home.” Her green eyes met his, and he saw only coolness in them now. “I bid you well, and since you would not have me stay here, good night.” She curtsied for him, and a few more strands of her hair broke loose from the elaborate bun that she wore atop her head. She picked up her skirts and turned, walking toward the door. He hurried over and opened it for her and she let a stretched, worn smile cross her lips, one that never quite reached her eyes. With a subtle incline of her head toward him in thanks, she left, and he closed the door after her.

Cyrus went through to the bedchamber, alone, and began to take off his armor. Some pieces, like the mailed gloves, had come off frequently. Others, like his breastplate and backplate, felt as though they were stuck on, they had come off so rarely of late. A tub of lukewarm water waited for him in the corner; it had been hot before he had spoken with the Baroness. His underclothes peeled off with some difficulty and he slipped beneath the water, felt the grime wash off his skin. Something else remained, though, some taint or dirt he couldn’t remove no matter how hard he scrubbed.

Cyrus awoke after a fitful night of sleep. The Baron’s bed was massive, almost as big as Cyrus’s bed back at Sanctuary. This one was carved entirely of wood, however, and had four posts that reached the ceiling, with hanging curtains for some illusory privacy should someone else be in the room. There was a chill from where he had left the window open, a thin port that allowed blue sky to filter in from outside along with crisp morning air. Cyrus felt the heavy covers over him, soft cotton cloth that smelled of other people.

He rolled out of bed, felt the cold on his skin, and went rummaging for underclothes in a wooden dresser. The first drawer he opened presented him with women’s undergarments. “Oh,” Cyrus said after staring at them for a moment then shut the drawer. He walked across the room to the armoire on the other side and opened it to find male attire. He selected a cloth shirt and pants that he proceeded to stretch until he fit into them comfortably. Once finished, he began to strap on his armor.

Before placing his helm upon his head, he walked to the mirror and took a long look. His hair had grown long, long enough to place into a ponytail. His beard had also come in thick, black, and heavy. He sighed, thinking about how much more he had liked it when his face was bare and dismissed the thought. “I’ll shave again when I’m back home,” he said. “And not before.”

When he opened the door to the Baron’s quarters, he found Martaina outside with the same three guards. She didn’t look tired at all but stood stiff against the wall at attention. “Have you been out here all night?”

When he spoke, she seemed to stir, angling her head to look at him. “Of course. There was a concern that some of the Baron’s men had hidden away in the castle, and we couldn’t take a chance on them getting to you in the night.”

Cyrus felt a smile struggle out from beneath his stony facade. “Then … shouldn’t someone have been in the room with me?”

Martaina’s eyes flashed, and her jaw tightened. “I suggested as much, but Curatio believed that a thorough search of the room before you turned in was a good enough precaution.”

Cyrus suppressed a snicker. “Ranger, horse whisperer, master archer, guard—tell me, Martaina Proelius, is there anything you’re not proficient at?”

He watched the emotion fall off her face, little cracks of it, hiding behind a wall she built in the span of a second. “Very little,” she said with an emotionless smile. “Very little, indeed.”

“Did you manage to get all the valuables taken out of the Baron’s quarters last night when you swept through?” Cyrus gestured for Martaina to follow him, which she did.

“We found quite a few riches, yes,” she said, stepping shoulder to shoulder with him. Martaina was taller than most of the other women in Sanctuary, only slightly shorter than six feet tall. “I think we found most everything of value.”

“Consider taking some of the liquor if you’re into that sort of thing,” Cyrus said, feeling a slight ache behind his eyes. “I get the feeling it wasn’t cheap, any of it.”

“I’ll inform Terian. I think he would perhaps get more use out of it than any of the rest of us that are here.”

Cyrus smiled. “Because Andren isn’t here, you mean to say.”

“I mean to say.”

They emerged in the throne room to find it largely clear of people. Only a few souls lingered, engaged in quiet conversations. Cyrus passed through the entry doors to the courtyard, Martaina still at his side, and the sunlight caused him to blanch. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Nearing nine o’clock,” came the soft voice of J’anda Aimant. The enchanter sat on a wooden chair just outside the door, lounging in the shadow of the rampart over his head, his feet on another chair in front of him. “We assumed that since our General was unready to move forward, it might be safe to wait a while longer before hustling to be ready ourselves.” J’anda had a silver goblet in his hand and a bottle of wine was on the ground next to him, the cork removed. He took a drink from the goblet after holding it up in silent toast to Cyrus.

“I take it you’ve insured that the Baron’s wine cellar didn’t go unattended?” Cyrus asked.

“I only took a few choice vintages. With Longwell’s help, actually. I thought all humans spoke the same language, but these Luukessians have the most curious handwriting. It looks nothing like any of your words.”

“That’s because the writing of humans in Arkaria is based on the elvish alphabet,” Martaina said.

“Ah,” J’anda said after taking another light sip. “Now that you mention it, I never noticed before, but yes, I see it now. But your letters are so peculiar compared to theirs.”

“They have more than we do,” she replied. “So they had to have added some at some point.”

“Is the army ready to move?” Cyrus asked, looking between J’anda and Martaina.

“Soon,” J’anda said, unconcerned. “Curatio is in the dungeons, taking a final look around, and, if I’m not mistaken, examining our dear, soon-to-be-departed Baron.”

As if on cue, Cyrus heard a great outcry from somewhere inside, and there was a slamming of doors within the keep. A few people joined them in the courtyard, leaving the confines of the throne room behind. Cyrus heard loud footsteps within, and Curatio and Terian emerged, the dark knight looking strangely satisfied and the healer a bit flushed. “What was that?” Cyrus asked.

“The Baron still has some fight left in him,” Terian said. “He got very upset when Curatio tried to look at his wound, so I was forced to settle him down.”

Cyrus felt cool trepidation run through him. “How is he?”

Curatio sighed. “Not well. I suspect he has an infection, something I’m not able to cure. He appears feverish from a distance, but that could just be from the pain of having a large hole in his middle.”

“I know that’s the sort of thing that would tend to put me in a sour mood,” J’anda said, irony dripping from every syllable.

“Well, have him dragged out,” Cyrus said without emotion. “As cruel as I am, I don’t want to burn the man’s house with him still in it. We have a message for him to deliver, after all.” He turned away as Curatio gestured to two warriors standing near the entry to the throne room, motioning them back inside.

Cyrus walked out across the drawbridge and felt a slight current of air as he crossed the filthy water below. The army was present, for the most part, on the other side, but not assembled nor ordered at all. They stood about, in clumps of people, talking in subdued circles. Cyrus could see empty bottles strewn on the ground and suspected that the Baron’s wine cellar had been well and truly pillaged in the night. “I hope no one’s too hung over to march today,” he said as he passed a clump of soldiers. Laughter greeted his words even as he caught sight of a couple green faces in their midst.

Windrider waited with the other horses, already saddled. Cyrus approached him and ran an ungloved hand across his back, causing the horse to whinny at him. He brushed the back of Windrider’s neck and whispered to him before turning back to see Martaina staring at him from next to her own horse, an eyebrow raised. “He seems to understand me,” he explained, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“He does,” she said. “That one is the rarest breed I’ve ever seen. That’s not just an ordinary horse—or even just an exceptional one, for that matter. Where did you find him?”

“He’s Sanctuary’s horse,” Cyrus said. “I’ve been riding him since the first time I had need of a horse, as I recall.”

“Since the day Alaric paired you with him, you mean.” Cyrus turned his head to see Curatio already mounting his steed, a slight smile on his face.”

Cyrus frowned. “I suppose he did, at that. Anyway, I’ve always gone back to him since then.” He ran his hand through Windrider’s mane and was rewarded with the horse turning his head to brush against Cyrus.

“That’s quite a horse,” Martaina said, “I’d keep him close.”

Cyrus put a foot in the stirrup and climbed up. As he settled himself, he saw Odellan a few paces away. “Odellan,” Cyrus said, drawing the elf’s attention. “Did you stay out here all night?”

“No, sir,” Odellan said as his horse trotted over to stand next to Cyrus’s. “All of our soldiers slept behind the walls last night, myself included. We bunked in the barracks in shifts, so everyone got some time in a genuine bed.”

Cyrus shot a look at Martaina, who looked away innocently. “Well, almost everyone.” He looked beyond Odellan to where a few horse-drawn wagons were parked at the far edge of the army. “Is that our spoils?”

“Indeed,” Odellan said. “We’ve made out rather well. The injured prisoners we freed—including Calene—will be riding in the wagons the next few days. The six of them that were men seem to be holding up rather well. They were only beaten, after all. Calene and the other woman—Sinora is her name—are slightly worse for the wear. Calene seems to be adapting, but Sinora may be riding the wagon the rest of the trip.”

“Let’s talk about this later,” Cyrus said as a familiar figure rode up on a horse. Today her hair was down, wrapped into a ponytail behind her, the long brown strands standing out against the white shirt she wore. Gone was the dress, replaced by immaculate white breeches that went all the way to her ankles. Her boots were worn, brown cowhide, and she wore a navy overcoat that fell to mid-thigh. Her eyes were visible as she approached him, the green standing out against her garments and her face. A few stray hairs blew around the sides of her head as she brought her horse to a canter, then a stop next to him.