Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (36 page)

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.”

The journey to Enrant Monge took over three weeks, during which time Cyrus was once again as he had been during the first leg of their trip from Sanctuary. He took his meals alone, gave orders only when he had to, and ignored the few accolades directed his way from soldiers in his army until the word had circulated that the general had sunken once more into a black mood at which point the army went silent whenever he would ride by.

The officers also left him to his own devices, supping without him when they made camp for the day. Cyrus was frequently invited to dine with the King in his own tent. He declined every occasion, often sending one of the other officers in his stead, wordlessly handing off the parchment invitations that seemed to be delivered to him every day in the morning, at the noon hour and when evening came.

The only people who didn’t give him a wide berth were J’anda (who attempted a conversation composed of sheer surface-level pleasantries with him at least once per day), Curatio (who only disturbed him to discuss disciplinary matters or things of other import to the army approximately once a week), and Terian (who wandered by for conversation whenever he felt like it; Cyrus could discern no pattern to the dark knight’s attempts).

The two people whom Cyrus actually wanted, in some deep place within him, to talk to said nothing to him. Both avoided him, going so far as to remain out of his sight whenever possible. Cattrine continued to ride with Nyad and Ryin, though he saw her speaking with almost all the officers at various points in time. She seemed to be trying to give him space, staying as far away from him as possible.

The other person he wanted to talk to had said nothing to him in a month; Aisling had taken to guarding Partus, who was forced to walk while tied to the back of a horse that cantered along. The dwarf looked somewhat ragged after the long journey. Though he was getting no more exercise than any of the other members of the Sanctuary army, he seemed worse the wear for it. He was ungagged only while the cessation spell was cast around him, he was never left unguarded, and his hands remained shackled at all times. The dwarf wore a perpetual scowl until such time as he became exhausted, which was almost always an hour or two into the walk for the day. Aisling seemed to be near him at all times, watching him through slitted eyes, a silent guardian. On the occasions when Cyrus had seen her, she had avoided any sort of eye contact, defying his prediction that when she heard about his falling out with the Baroness, that she would come directly to him. He tried not to read too much into it.
Once burned, twice shy. When burned many times … well … I can identify with that.

Their path led them on a long, circuitous route, at first following the road that had led them to Vernadam. When they passed a massive lake, they turned north on a wide road; at the signpost Cyrus found he still couldn’t read the Luukessian language, and worse, he found he did not care. North, south, east or west, they all seemed much the same to him.
We’ll settle this war, and then …
he thought of Vara, and it still stung, like a dagger picking at an old wound. He thought of Cattrine, and the pain was fresh, like a sword biting at his innards. He pictured the wall of ice again, building it within him block by block and it seemed to soothe the ache, although it did not go away.
I don’t know what we’ll do then.

Cyrus’s black misery did not seem to lessen as the days went by; if anything, time and isolation made it worse, like a festering wound. He went to sleep thinking of Vara and Cattrine, Cattrine and Vara, and he felt them trouble his dreams, the two of them, like predatory lionesses, circling him while wounded on a battlefield, each one striking in turn, taking a piece of him away until there was scarcely anything left.

Enrant Monge was on a plateau in the center of Luukessia. As they approached, the ground became hilly, the slope rising and falling as they navigated the hills. After a few days of this, it began to level, and Cyrus found himself looking upon the castle one evening as they were close to their end for the night.

“The King told me when I supped with him earlier that we’ll leave the army nearby,” J’anda said, stirring Cyrus from his silent reverie. “When we stop for the night, they’ll encamp there for the time that the moot takes place. He’s asked you and no more than five other officers to come along when he and the rest of the court goes to the moot.”

“Fine,” Cyrus said, his voice scratchy from disuse. “You, Longwell, Terian, and Curatio. We’ll bring the Baroness as well, give her an opportunity to see her brother.”

“I can’t decide whether that will be a very good idea or a very bad one,” J’anda said. “But I suspect it will be one of the two.”

“Either Tiernan will be happy to see her or he won’t,” Cyrus said. “It doesn’t much matter to me which it is.”

“It would not much matter to you if you were being slowly picked apart by vultures on a battlefield, I suspect, “ J’anda said, prompting Cyrus to send him a look of indifference. “Thank you for proving my point, I think.”

“Impressive,” Cyrus said without feeling. “You sussed that out without even having to reach into my mind.” He laughed, a low, grim laugh that caused the enchanter to edge away almost nervously. “I wonder what you’d see if you cast a mesmerization spell on me now. What do you think my heart’s desire is at this moment?”

“I …” J’anda swallowed deeply, and Cyrus could hear the reluctance in his answer. “I don’t think I would care to know, whatever it is. Your thoughts are not your own, they’re the blackest sort of darkness. You look at a bright summer’s sky like we’ve had for the last three weeks and it looks bleak and grey to your eyes. You are covered in it; it swallows you whole, infects you in a way I have only seen happen to you once before—and this time, it may actually be worse. And since last time involved a death of someone dear to you, I would have thought that that would be impossible.”

“Well, doesn’t that just make you all kinds of wrong,” Cyrus said. “Before I just mourned the loss of a friend. Now I get to watch my faith in others gradually disappear.”

“I don’t think it’s others you’re losing faith in,” J’anda said. “I don’t think it’s that at all. I think you’re starting to lose belief in yourself, that that is what is really eating at you—your confidence is shaken because you feel betrayed. After all, how could this happen to you, twice in a row? You trusted them, you opened your heart to them, and they hurt you. You are wounded. You are licking those wounds. You may think it’s your belief in others that is waning, but this is a problem of you, my friend. You are taking it too personally; these sort of things happen.”

“What do you know?” Cyrus snapped. “I haven’t seen you with a woman in three years.”

“I wasn’t talking about women,” J’anda said coolly. “I was talking about you. Have you not seen me with you in the last three years? Because then I might be speaking of something I know not.”

“Listen—”

“I’m going to ride off now,” J’anda said. “I am not upset with you, though I expect you are with me; I just imagine that you’re running a bit low on people to talk to and I don’t want to make it easy for you to drive another away. We’ll speak again later.” With that, the enchanter rode off, leaving Cyrus staring at him in openmouthed irritation.

Within the hour, the army was beginning to set up camp in the shade of a forest in the hills. From atop one of them, Cyrus could see Enrant Monge in the distance and other armies, smaller ones, encamped to the north and the west, like the three points of a triangle.

Enrant Monge was a castle but not like Vernadam at all. The blocks that it was made of were smaller, yet the design was less ornate and more functional. A simple curtain wall with parapets extended in a perfect square around a courtyard with three towers in the keep. The towers looked to be of different construction than the outer wall, as though they had been added later; cracks in the wall also looked to have been patched with some sort of grout that was visible in the orange light of sunset as the towers cast shade over the whole scene and a cool breeze blew across them. The castle was only a mile or so away, he estimated.

The journey went all too quickly for Cyrus; a few minutes and it seemed to be over. He and the others—Curatio, J’anda, Longwell, Terian, and the Baroness, the latter two trading uneasy looks—rode along with the small delegation from Galbadien to the gates of Enrant Monge. Cyrus had noted that the castle’s four walls each had a gate, one at each compass point. They entered through the eastern gate, and Cyrus looked back to make sure his delegation was still with him as he followed the King’s over the drawbridge. He saw each of them in turn; Longwell, whose gaze was moving around, examining their surroundings with a little awe, Cattrine, who met Cyrus’s look with indifference and turned away after staring him in the eyes for a few seconds. Curatio and J’anda seemed somewhat wary, and Terian was watching Cyrus when he caught the dark knight’s stare. Terian did not look away, however, but continued to watch, Cyrus could feel, even after he had turned back to the path ahead.

The drawbridge was long, a hundred or more feet, and Cyrus pondered the age of the wood with every step Windrider took. It creaked and he looked down into the water. The dark moat rippled as the last vestiges of daylight sparkled across the surface, the orange sky reflected above the ramparts of the castle’s mirror image in the water. As they crossed under the gate, Cyrus saw a few guards standing at attention on either side of them. They carried poleaxes and did not move, their livery something very different than what Cyrus had seen before, a kind of red and yellow surcoat with a coat of arms that had red diagonally at top right and bottom left and yellow at top left and bottom right, with Luukessian writing in the banner across the top. Their surcoats were flawless, their helms a shining metal that gave him a stabbing reminder of Vara. He cast another look back at Cattrine, but she was looking elsewhere, her gaze sliding off the guards at attention.

They passed through a bailey and into a smaller keep, between the guards standing at attention outside it. Once through the gate, there were no guards, only stewards, unarmed, waiting for them, bowing (
Again with the bowing,
thought Cyrus,
it’s a wonder these people have spines left at all after so much of it
) as King Longwell brought his delegation to a halt and Cyrus stopped his just behind him.

“Welcome to Enrant Monge,” the lead steward, a short man in flowing grey robes with long hair that matched them, said, “the heart of unity in Luukessia.”

Cyrus heard Terian snort loud enough to attract the attention of everyone around him. “Sorry,” the dark knight said, “I guess I must have failed to notice the unity in all the battles I’ve fought since I got here.” Cyrus sent him a dirty look, which was matched by Curatio and J’anda. Terian shrugged, unfazed.

The steward ignored him and continued his clearly pre-practiced speech, hands in the air above him. “The delegations from Syloreas and Actaluere have already arrived, and we will begin with the traditional welcome ceremony of peace in the garden in half an hour.” The steward nodded. “I would remind you that no weapons or armor are allowed in the garden of serenity, and that no violence is permitted within the walls of Enrant Monge under penalty of death.”

“That’s usually how my acts of violence turn out anyway,” Terian said, prompting Curatio to shush him.

“Your tower quarters are prepared,” the steward said. He bowed again, causing Cyrus to unwittingly roll his eyes. “Go forth in peace, brothers.”

“But not sisters, eh?” Cyrus heard J’anda mutter to Cattrine, causing her to laugh airily.