Warlord (17 page)

King Danay paused for a moment. “We are … considering this problem.”

“Well, consider this,” Cyrus said, leaning forward and thumping a gauntlet on the table, rattling the fine silverware and china. “It’ll be easier to deal with them with the help of allies—allies like Sanctuary, and possibly others.”

“You come straight out of one war that nearly destroyed our world,” Danay said, so quietly Cyrus struggled to hear him even in the stark silence of the green-tinged dining hall, “and are so eager to plunge right into another. Truly, I do not wonder that you were the favored of Bellarum.”

“I don’t want this war,” Cyrus said hotly, “but your people are standing in harm’s way, and presently—as far as I know—Amti has the only pure-blood elven children other than her,” he pointed at Vara, “born in two centuries. Are you aware of this?”

Danay did not stir but his answer came swiftly. “I am.”

“And you don’t care?” Cyrus looked at him in disbelief. “She’s not the last born anymore. Amti could hold the future of your kingdom.”

“It would take weaker ears than mine not to have heard the sentiments of Amti’s citizens regarding my rule,” Danay said stiffly. “And it would take perhaps a stronger man than me to ignore that in the face of all other considerations—the foe we face, the distance away they are, the danger of war with the titans so soon after the destruction of our fight with the dark elves … I believe it would take nearly human ears to have missed all that.”

You royal prick
, Cyrus thought. “It wouldn’t take human ears,” he said instead, “just a frozen heart.”

“I think we have reached our end,” King Danay said, and a steward stepped up to slide his chair out. The King was clad in his rainbow garb, so bright and beautiful that when last Cyrus had seen it up close, he’d wondered how many years and how many master seamstresses it had taken to craft it. “I bid you better luck in your next meeting, Cyrus Davidon.” With a polite nod and a bow, he turned toward Vara. “Shelas’akur. I wish you both … whatever measure of happiness you might find together.” And he stiffly walked out of the dining hall.

“The hell?” Cyrus asked, turning to Vara. “Was he being a jackass because he genuinely can’t help, or was there an undercurrent of tension because I’m sleeping with his nation’s last hope?”

“I wouldn’t care to wager on which was the winning factor in this decision,” Vara said, placing her napkin in a balled-up wad on her plate. “But I daresay the decision was made before word of our request for an audience was received.” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps long, long before.”

“This place brings back bad memories,” Cyrus said as he stood with Vara in the darkened hall. The mighty wooden throne that had once rested in the Sovereign’s chamber was gone, replaced by a dual throne that stood in the middle of the room and looked, to Cyrus’s eyes, slightly more approachable than the monstrosity that Yartraak had sat upon. It certainly looked less luxuriant, though now it was as empty as Yartraak’s had been when last Cyrus had been here.

“I don’t care for the wait,” Vara said, looking about nervously. There were guards at the back of the room, barring their exit. Curatio had teleported Cyrus and Vara directly into the Grand Palace of Saekaj, and then left them to be escorted to the throne room while the healer had remained behind in what looked to Cyrus like little more than a broom closet.
A broom closet guarded by half a hundred dark elves with spears and swords
, he thought.
At least Terian learns that much from his predecessor’s errors.

“I heard you had a meeting with the King of the Elves before you came here,” Terian’s voice rang out from somewhere in the dark behind the throne. Cyrus squinted to see him, but without the benefit of any sort of spell to increase his visual acuity, he failed to discern so much as a shadow. “I assume it went badly?”

“Fair assumption,” Cyrus answered into the darkness. “King Danay has some trepidation after the war with your people.” He looked at Vara, whose features were barely visible even next to him.
Damnable eyes.
Why did humans get the worst eyes in Arkaria?
Vara turned to look at him and he was treated with a blast of her blue irises.
Like those. Those are beautiful.

“I know how he feels,” Terian said from somewhere in the darkness, though Cyrus could tell by the sound of boots on wood that he was approaching. “I’ve felt much the same, drawing a circle around myself and placing all the people I care about within it. All else? I would have been content to watch burn, so long as those I counted most dear were protected.”

“Is that so?” Cyrus asked, feeling a tinge of sourness on his tongue and in his mind. “You still feel that way, do you?”

“Less and less,” Terian said, still invisible in shadow. “But it was how I was in Sanctuary, obviously. How I was as you knew me.”

“Until you found a mystical berry tonic that cleansed the selfish asshole out of your soul?” Cyrus asked, losing all patience with the Sovereign of Saekaj and his hiding in the dark.

Terian’s laugh echoed in the hall, and he stepped into the light, causing Cyrus to only stifle a gasp by long experience at hiding his emotions. “Something like that,” Terian said, making a flourish of his hand that encompassed his entire armor from head to toe. The smile was visible in a way it wouldn’t have been had Terian been wearing the armor Cyrus had always known him to wear.
But this …

Cyrus swallowed heavily, as though he could compel the incredible wash of feelings attacking him to leave him alone simply by hoping for them to. “That’s a new look for you.”

“We can’t all pull off wearing black all the time,” Terian said, stepping further into the light. Cyrus stared at him, wondering if an illusion would drop, if his vision would clear, if somehow, some way, he would change his shape back into the old Terian, and not this one …

… this one who was clad in the armor of Alaric Garaunt from helm to boot.

“I wondered where that helm went,” Cyrus said, tasting something acrid in his mouth. “Curatio told me not to worry about it.”

“You should have asked your lover,” Terian said, looking at Vara, his eyes glinting through the thin slits of the helm. “She was the one who gave it to me.”

Cyrus slowly turned his head to look at her and found her waiting with an offhand shrug. “He needed it to complete the ensemble,” she said simply. “And he was about to be somewhat embroiled in a battle for the fate of his city at the time.”

Cyrus looked back at the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar and noticed at last the axe slung across his back. “Is that …?”

Terian drew it slowly, hefting it in his hand and swinging it once before reversing his grip and offering Cyrus the long heft. “Noctus, the Battle Axe of Darkness.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes unconsciously. “… So now
you
have a godly weapon, too?”

“Is that a hint of jealousy I hear?” Terian almost sounded like he was crowing.

“More like worry,” Cyrus said, “since your last weapon did end up causing me some minor harm, and it wasn’t quite so powerful as the current one.”

Terian took another step forward, offering him the long handle of the axe. “I meant it when I said it was over on my end, Cyrus. When I got your message inquiring about help, I sent a reply offering this meeting as quickly as I could. My desire to put the past behind us is sincere.”

“Put your axe away,” Cyrus said, dismissing him with a wave of the hand. Terian spun it in his grip and did exactly as asked in the flash of a second, causing Cyrus a moment’s alarm. “Is that … what I look like when I’m wielding Praelior?”

“Something like that, I suspect,” Terian said, stepping closer now that he was unarmed. “So … you had a run-in with Ehrgraz, yes?”

“He came for a visit,” Cyrus said, “and I’m hesitant to trust his word.”

“Don’t hesitate,” Terian said, shaking his head as he removed Alaric’s helm—his helm—from his head. “Ehrgraz’s word is good. If he offers you counsel or alliance in this, he’s sincere. Ehrgraz is like the lone voice of reason among the dragons.” He put a hand through his hair, which glistened with sweat in the torchlight. “He’s been warning them for centuries that the titans were going to be a threat, but no one wants to listen.”

“If they haven’t listened to him thus far,” Vara said, “why would they start now?”

“I’m at a loss to explain that,” Terian said. “I assume he has a plan of some sort.” His eyes fixed on Cyrus. “As do you.”

“You don’t even have to assume that,” Cyrus observed. “You know.”

“I know,” Terian said. “When have you ever gotten close to a battle without a plan? I knew the minute I heard about Emerald Fields that you’d be working on something.” He beckoned them toward the throne. “Spill it. What’s the idea?”

Cyrus hesitated. “Listen … I just need your help with the dragon end of—”

“So you don’t want my troops?” Terian asked, turning around, lips thin and light blue from pressing together in a straight line as he waited for Cyrus’s answer.

Cyrus exchanged a look with Vara. “You just came out of a war—”

“And if the titans decide to come north,” Terian said, looking at him evenly, “we’ll be in another. Emerald Fields is feeding Saekaj and Sovar at the moment. Much like Vaste, if someone attacks our food, we take umbrage.”

Cyrus peered at him in the dark. “You’re willing to do this? To fight with us?”
What’s your game, Terian?

“Couldn’t pick a better partner, really,” Terian said with a shrug. “I don’t know many in Arkaria who fight like you two.”

“You trying to make up for your attempt to kill me?” Cyrus asked.

Terian made another sweeping gesture at his new armor, and there was an unmistakable sadness in his answer. “Just trying to walk the path.”

Cyrus traded another uneasy glance with Vara, who seemed to be experiencing considerably less doubt than he was. “We don’t even know if we’re going to get involved in this yet—” he started to say.

“Oh, you will,” Terian said with a quick nod. “And when you do, let me know, because we’ll be right there with you.” He stepped up and took his seat on the left hand throne, and now Cyrus saw him sink a little into the padding of the chair. “We don’t have as much as we did before the war, but we’ve got some spellcasters we can bring to the fight, some warriors and rangers, and …” he reached up and slapped the handle of his axe, “… me, of course.”

“You?” Cyrus asked, staring at him in surprise. “You’re the Sovereign.”

“I’m also the foremost paladin in Saekaj and Sovar,” Terian said, smiling just a little smugly.

It took Cyrus a moment to fully comprehend what he’d said, and when he looked at Vara, he could tell she was getting to the conclusion at the same time he was. “I’m sorry …” she said, speaking first, “… but you meant ‘dark knight,’ right?”

Terian just smiled and raised a hand at a torch in a sconce some twenty feet away. With a movement of the lips, a small blast of force shot forth from his hand and snuffed the torch, sending it clattering to the ground and decreasing Cyrus’s ability to see by a considerable margin. “I said what I meant, I meant what I said,” the Sovereign’s voice echoed in the hall. “Call on me when you’ve decided to pursue this thing. I’ll be with you, completely.”

Cyrus stood blinking while he waited for some further signal. It was only when Vara took hold of his arm and began to lead him out that he realized Terian must have departed. “What the hell was that?” he asked when they were nearly out the door of the throne room.

“A white knight,” she said, sounding considerably more relaxed than he felt, “and we should thank our respective gods for him, because if ever there was a clearer sign than that to indicate Terian has changed, I don’t know what it would be.”

“If he was wearing a tutu and dancing around the throne room?” Cyrus suggested as the throne room doors were opened by the guards. Cyrus caught a dirty look from one of them and he shrugged. “If this is a sign, I don’t know what exactly it’s a sign of, other than that perhaps some luck has finally broken our way.”

“At long last,” Vara said, as they were led back through dark and winding corridors to the portal which would take them home.

Cyrus sat at the head of the Council Chamber, all of them assembled around him, looking at the uncertain faces before him, and took a deep breath of the sweet, smokeless scent of the torches as night fell out the window behind him. “And so here we are,” he announced, feeling strangely like the previous occupant of the chair.

“Gods, that’s a bit of the dramatic,” Vaste said. “As though we’ve strolled up to some momentous occasion rather than being blindsided by a raft filled to the brimming with oversized turds.”

“This is a serious decision,” Cyrus said, watching the assemblage around the table ripple at Vaste’s pronouncement. Cattrine was there, along with all of the officers, their faces lit by the orange glow of the torches. “This will have far-reaching consequences—”

“Can we just beat the holy hell out of these bastards already?” Longwell asked, his lance leaned up against the table next to him, its large and unwieldy head always maintaining perfect balance where he set it.

“They’ve called down the thunder,” Andren agreed. “The great big gits deserve a bit of the lightning, too.”

“They have lightning of their own,” Cyrus said, cautioning them.

“All our foes have,” J’anda said from his place next to Curatio. His own staff leaned against the table like Longwell’s. “Save for the dead.”

“This is nothing like facing gods,” Erith agreed, her blue skin looking almost like a piece of cloth had been cut out of night and draped over her. “Is it?”

“They
might
be as strong as them,” Cyrus said, looking at each of them in turn.

“And if your aunt had the appropriate genitals, she’d be your uncle,” Vaste said.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Andren said after a moment’s pause had filled the chamber. “If—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vaste said, waving him off, “the point is—”

“Wait, we get interrupted by you in the middle of making points all the time,” Vara said. “It feels as though there should be some level of reciprocity—”