Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (23 page)

“When?” Cyrus asked, amused. “Do you have someone that comes to join you at my door at night? Is it one of the guards, perhaps? The wall in the hallway—is it comfortable when your back is thrust against it?”

“Ha ha,” Martaina said without humor. She reached into a pouch at her belt and withdrew a small vial of dark liquid, roughly the color of blood. “Warn her about the poor taste or she’ll likely be quite upset with you afterward.”

Cyrus held up the vial between his thumb and forefinger and stared at the liquid within. “How could I get more?” He caught a glare from her. “You know, if I needed it.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “If you keep up the same pace you’ve been going at, you’ll need it. I can gather the herbs that go into the solution, but only an enchanter can add the mystical component to make it work.”

Cyrus stared at her. “Can J’anda …?”

“He’s always done it for me.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Your diligent service does not go unnoticed, I hope you realize that.”

“And I hope you realize,” she said, somewhat irritably, “that that’s a week’s worth of protection—tell her to drink the whole thing, and she’ll be safe from unintended quickening of your seed,” she leered at him with a raised eyebrow, “or anyone else’s, for that matter—for seven days. After that, she’ll need another dose, even on the days when her month’s blood is with her—I have heard of women becoming with child while thinking they were safely immune during those times.”

“Noted,” Cyrus said as they continued down the hallway. After a few seconds, he asked his next question. “Who else do you think she’ll be getting seed from?”

Martaina sighed. “Her? I doubt anyone, but it’s impossible to tell, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Cyrus said. “For example, I knew this woman who was married, presumably happily, yet there were hints that she might not be and might indeed find need for ventra’maq when she was far, far from her husband.”

“Talking about anyone in particular?” Martaina’s voice had gone cold, frosted even, enough to chill the hallway.

“I tend not to pass judgment,” Cyrus said, keeping his tone even. “But it does make a body curious, especially someone who’s—perhaps not a close friend, but more than an acquaintance, since this person tends to stand watch outside my room whenever I bed down in a strange keep.”

“I also keep watch when you’re by a campfire on your own, at the edge of the encampment.” The bitter tinge in Martaina’s voice was gone, replaced instead by something else, something with a mournful quality to it. “And when you ride toward the edge of the army, away from the others. Or when you steal away, hoping no one will see you, so you can be by yourself. I watch out for you then, too.”

“Elven eyesight,” Cyrus said under his breath.

“I put it to good use.” Martaina’s leather glove creaked as her hand reached behind her and ran down the length of her bow. “But I watch out for you because Thad asked me to, before we left. I would have anyway, though perhaps not as zealously.”

There was a moment of quiet as they rounded a corner, and Cyrus spoke. “You keep his command faithfully, if he asked you to watch out for me.”

She stopped. “But not the other, is that what you’re saying?” Cyrus, not so quick as Martaina, stopped a step later and turned back, saw her statuesque face show strain, her eyes slightly glazed. “I keep faithful to the request he made of me to watch out for you, but not faithful to—” She choked back the words, fighting against emotion. “Damn it,” she said at a whisper.

“I told you,” Cyrus said. “I’m not judgmental. I won’t say anything, but—”

“It’s me.” Martaina held her hand up in front of her, pointing her index finger into the leather armor that covered her chest. “It’s me. I know who I am. I am a master archer, and an expert tracker, and a brilliant swordfighter, one of the very best rangers at hunting through woods and chasing down prey over any land, but when it comes to keeping a husband …” She let her voice trail off. “We can’t all be good at everything, can we?”

“No,” Cyrus said. “No one is perfect. Not at everything.”

“Then how can I be so good at everything else,” she said, calm running over her, “but not … I can follow your orders. I can be a good soldier. But when it comes to being a … a faithful wife, or doing what … what society says I should … I come up short on every occasion. I can hunt down any prey on land, but I can’t keep myself out of another man’s arms when I’m away from my husband.”

“That’s uh …” Cyrus blanched, unsure of what to say. “… I … I don’t know what’s happened between you and Thad—”

“Nothing,” she said, the emotion gone again. “Everything was … fine … when we left. We get along well. When we’re together, everything seems to work, but the minute I knew I was coming on this expedition and he wasn’t …” She shrugged and another crack came through her facade, her face crumpled. “Why am I telling you this? This isn’t your concern. You’re about to lead an army into war … I don’t know,” Martaina shook her head, “we’ve got a battle to attend to, though.” She forced a weak smile. “My problems have been with me for a thousand years; I doubt they’re going anywhere in the next few days while we save this Kingdom.”

“Yeah,” Cyrus said, rubbing his face, running his hair back over his ears. “They do seem to be in a spot of bother, don’t they? I’d be less concerned about this fight if we knew how many of these Arkarian mercenaries are going to be in it.”

“No predicting that until we’re in it,” she said. “But however many there are, we still have them outnumbered.”

“True,” Cyrus said, and continued the walk. “But do we have them overpowered? Knocking entire swaths of men and horses flat to the ground with a single spell? That sounds like something Alaric could do, but not many other paladins I’ve heard of.”

“That is a mite puzzling,” Martaina said, in step with him. “If this paladin is so powerful, he’d be wanted in every guild in Arkaria. So why come over here?”

Cyrus smiled, faintly. “Why would anyone from Arkaria come here?” he asked, a trace of irony in his voice as they reached the door to his chambers. “Running from something, I’d expect.” His smile evaporated, replaced by a pensive expression. “The question is—what is he running from?”

Martaina did not answer, and Cyrus opened the door to the chambers, stepping inside to find the Baroness on a chair by the fire, a blanket covering her lower body, her riding clothes back on. “Hello,” he said. When he reached her side he leaned down and kissed her, full and long, and when they broke he could see the wistful smile on her face. “Good morning.”

She reached up and stroked his beard. “You already said a fine good morning to me before you left, but I’ll take another, if you feel up to it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t at present,” Cyrus said with genuine regret. “I have to leave.”

“I see.” Her fingers ran between the long hairs on this jaw. “Perhaps when you get back, if you’ve any energy left.”

“It’ll be a couple days,” Cyrus said with a grin, “I suspect I’ll be ready to repeat what we did last night by then. You may spoil me, getting me too used to this.”

She kissed him, gently but quickly. “I could become quite used to it, though perhaps at a slower pace than last night.”

He shrugged. “I have some lost time to make up for.”

She withdrew her hand. “Perhaps when you get back, you’ll let me shave your face?” She blushed when she saw him look down. “Not that I don’t enjoy the beard, but I like your face. I should like to see more of it, to feel your cheek against mine.”

“Perhaps you’d like to cut my hair as well?” He ran a hand through his long hair, to where it fell on his shoulders. “I’ve been letting it grow for near a year now, and I think I’ve grown quite tired of it being this long.”

“No, I love your hair,” she said, running her fingers through it. “Leave it as it is.”

“As you wish,” he said. She kissed him again, and he returned it, but it was different than those from last night—more affectionate, less passionate, as though they both were acutely aware of the little time they had. “I should go,” he said once he broke from her.

“You don’t want me to come with you, I take it?” No accusation, only acknowledgment.

“It’s not very safe for a non-combatant on the battlefield,” Cyrus said. “While I have no doubt you could be quite the fighter if you ever decided to dedicate yourself to the arts of war, I don’t believe this is a time for teaching. It’s a place where mistakes can have unforgiving consequences.”

“Then I will stay here.” She folded her hands on her lap, a look of peaceful contemplation serene on her face. “And await your return.”

“Are you all right with that?” He stood, looking down on her with as much tenderness as he had.

“It is the way of the women of Luukessia,” she said. “We wait for the men when they go off to war. I may not be in this land much longer, but for now, this is still my way. I cannot go with you, for all you say is true, so I will wait, and bide my time, and stay here until you return—on the day after tomorrow,” she said pointedly, looking him in the eyes.

“I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

“Be safe,” she said in a whisper. “I don’t think I could bear the thought of you dying.”

“I wouldn’t concern yourself with it overmuch; it’s never stopped me before.” Cyrus walked to the door and started to open it, then turned back to her. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He slipped his hand beneath his armor and pulled out the vial. “Do you know what this is?”

She stared at it, an amused smile on her face. “Poison?”

“Ah, no,” Cyrus said. “It’s called ventra’maq.”

Clouds drew in around her eyes and she adopted a wounded tone. “You mean after only one night with me, you don’t want me to bear your children?” She broke into a smile, her shoulders shaking from silent laughter.

“I’d like to keep practicing,” Cyrus said as she got up and joined him at the door, slipping the vial out of his hand as she kissed him. “As often as possible.”

“You’ll probably need quite a bit more of this, then.” She popped the cork on the vial and drank it down. “Ugh.” She made a face, her eyes closed and lips puckered. “Ugh, ugh, yuck. On second thought, perhaps bearing your offspring would be a preferable alternative.” She opened her eyes but they remained squinted and she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. “That is vile.”

He stared at her blankly. “All the women take it. How bad can it be?”

“Bad enough that I’m pondering whether it might be better to simply remain celibate, as you have these last years—”

“Bah!” Cyrus said, and leaned in and kissed her one last time before stepping out the door.

“Keep me in mind, while you’re away?” She looked at him through the open door, serenity still hanging over her, a faint glow of contentment Cyrus hadn’t seen from her before.

“Indeed I shall,” he said, “and I’ll be counting the hours until my return.”

“You mean you’ll be counting the hours until next we’re in bed together?” She gave him a sly look.

“I also enjoy our conversations.”

“Really? Perhaps we could have a long, enduring one the moment you get back, the kind that lasts all night, and that doesn’t involve any touching at all.” She smiled innocently. “How does that sound?”

“Painful,” he said, drawing a laugh from her. “Can’t we do both?”

“I think,” she said as she took his hand and kissed the knuckle of his gauntlet, “that that is indeed what lovers do.”

“I have to go,” he said, bending in and kissing her again. “Truly, this time.”

“Then go,” she said, still wearing the same smile, “with my blessing, and my thoughts, and all else I have to give you.”

Cyrus shut the door, slowly, watching her as he did so, letting the handle roll in his hand, the metal squeaking against metal. He turned and found Martaina standing there, looking quite put out. “Are you finished now? Truly finished?”

“I could go back in for a few more minutes if you’d prefer …”

Martaina whirled, letting her traveling cloak billow outward in an even circle as she did so. She started walking down the hall, and Cyrus took two quick running steps to catch up to her. “I take it you don’t like the long goodbyes?” He saw her look daggers at him. “That’d be a no.”

“I don’t mind a long goodbye, but, ugh,” she said. “Young love is so filled with sap and sweetness, it makes me ill.”

“I could go for a little sap and sweetness right now,” Cyrus said. “I wonder if they can make flapjacks down in the kitchen?”

“Your orders stipulate that we leave immediately, General.”

“I’m feeling a little peckish,” he said. “I think I might have worked up an appetite, you know—” Before he could finish his sentence, Martaina soft-tossed him an apple and he caught it, fumbling it a little but recovering before it slipped away. “That’ll do for now, I suppose. But I do wonder if the kitchen could send something with us—”

They traipsed downstairs, Cyrus thinking about food the whole way. As he passed through the foyer, one of the servants bowed and handed him a small package wrapped in canvas, with a string tied around it. “Provisions for your journey,” the servant said and bowed again.

“What is with all this bowing?” Cyrus whispered as they walked out the front doors of Vernadam and descended the stairs. “You’d think there were gods wandering the halls around here.”

“I’ve seen a god,” Martaina said, taking the reins of her horse from the servant who waited below. “None of us looks much like him.”

“Don’t know how much bowing I’d do to him, anyway,” Cyrus said as he put his foot in a stirrup on Windrider’s saddle and hoisted himself up. “He was the ugliest sonofabitch I’ve ever seen.”

Martaina raised an eyebrow at him as she righted herself in the saddle. “And Bellarum is a handsome fellow by comparison? Am I remembering perhaps a different God of War than you?”

“He’s not as ugly as Mortus was,” Cyrus said. “At least, he didn’t look that ugly when I saw him.”

“When you saw him?” Martaina’s face contorted in consternation. “When did you see the God of War?”

Cyrus urged Windrider toward the gate, Martaina a few paces behind him. He ignored her question as Terian came alongside him. “Davidon,” the dark knight said. “It’s a fine day for battle, is it not?”