Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 24

  He laughed at her, and she smiled at him. “You know,” she changed the subject quickly, “I admire the effort you’ve put into this recruiting drive; especially how much fortitude it must have taken to do this.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I doubt… no, I know that I could not have handled this as well as you have.”

  “It’s not that bad; I haven’t been in combat.”

  “No,” she said with a grimace, “you’ve been dealing with rubes, which is infinitely worse.” He shot her a look of confusion and she explained, “In combat, at least you get to strike down those who offend you. You can’t kill a rube simply for being stupid, no matter how much you’d like to.”

  He laughed. “You’re certainly not the patient sort.”

  “I would say that I have never been one,” she said with an air of sweetness, “to suffer fools gladly.”

  “The problem with that approach is that you so loosely define ‘fool’ to encompass anyone whose name isn’t Vara.”

  She feigned shock, mouth comically agape. “That’s simply not true! It would also encompass Alaric and Curatio.” The smile widened, mocking him.

  “I see. Then I suppose there’s no room in your heart for a certain human warrior to join that definition.”

  “My heart?” She stuttered, a bit caught off her guard.

  He grimaced and cursed to himself. “Sorry, poor choice of words.”

  She seemed rattled by his comment, and they proceeded in silence to the next town, where they met with people throughout the day and at night retired to the inn, where they enjoyed a quiet meal next to the fire. Vara had removed her armor and was wearing her cotton pants and shirt. As she came down the stairs, the firelight glinted on her fair hair and a smile covered her lips, pushing up the edges of her mouth and making Cyrus realize for the first time that she in fact had very slight dimples in her cheeks. He rose to greet her, and kissed her hand in an oddly formal manner that brought a blush to the cheeks he had just been studying.

  They chatted pleasantly through dinner, avoiding any serious subjects. He got her to laugh three times, aided by a very good wine suggested by the innkeeper that came from elven vineyards close to Amti in the southern lands. By the end of the evening, the blush on her cheeks was permanent, and in his somewhat weakened condition, he too felt the effects of the spirit.

  “I think I’ve finally come up with an idea for our little wager,” he said with a smile.

  “Oh?” Her eyes bored in on his. “Do tell.”

  “I think that if I win, we do this,” his hands moved in a sweeping gesture to encompass her and the room, “again. Except next time, you have to wear a dress.”

  She frowned. “I have never cared to wear a dress.”

  He grinned. “I’m sure it interferes with your ability to swing a sword.”

  A small laugh escaped her. “In point of fact, it does.”

  “And if you win…?”

  “When I win, you mean? I haven’t given it much thought. Perhaps I’ll have you fetch my slippers in the morning and bring them to my bedside.”

  His grin grew wider. “So I’ll be the first thing you think of when you wake up?”

  Her eyes rolled. “Alas, Brevis could not have come up with a more pitiful response than yours.”

  “I am feeling a bit short on wit lately.”

  She snorted, almost spitting her wine back into the glass. “Terrible, that was.”

  “I have to know,” he said after another sip of wine, “something that I’ve been wondering for months now…”

  “What is it?”

  “One of the other elves told me… that every elf knows your birthday and how old you are.”

  She pulled the glass to her lips, stalling. “Is that so?” she asked when she had returned the glass to its position on the table.

  “Yes, that is so,” he said, narrowly avoiding slurring his words. “So I asked… this elf, the one that told me that about you, and she said you’re not royalty. What conclusion should I draw from that?” he asked with what he thought was an endearing smile.

  She met his smile with one of her own that twisted her mouth as she considered his question. “I think you should presume that elves are very funny people with a culture unlike your own and that putting together the pieces of the puzzle you just described would be very difficult… without further information.” Her smiled turned a bit wistful at the last.

  Cyrus regarded her in seriousness. “Would Alaric know the answer to my question?”

  She laughed. “Alaric might, but it would not be from me answering it. I suspect he and Curatio would have discussed that bit of elven trivia at some point.”

  “Elven trivia?” he said with undisguised curiosity, made all the worse by the heat of the wine. “Niamh said it was an internal matter, and you don’t discuss it with…” he leaned across the table toward her, “…outsiders.”

  “Oh, Niamh said that, did she?” The hint of a smile graced her lips. “We’re very private people, the elves. We keep a very intimate inner circle. What a human would call a friend, elves have a much deeper word for — covekan. It denotes an intimacy than humans can’t experience because elven relationships can last millenia.” She sipped from her cup once more. “Our closest covekan are with us throughout our lives, and the bond that entails means that once someone is part of your inner circle, you can truly share yourself with them. There are no barriers to communication, no withheld thoughts.”

  “The elven version of a circle of friends, but more intimate?” Cyrus asked.

  “Yes. The fortunate human lives between eighty and one hundred years. In that hundred years you would meet literally thousands of people and have a few good friendships — but most of them would start in your twenties or so. A quarter of the way through your life — and they take at least a few years to build true depth.” Her smile faded and her eyes became a bit lonely. “The average elf lives over five thousand years, some as many as six thousand. It takes over a hundred years for an elf to become covekan in the traditional sense of the word.” The light in her eyes grew dimmer still. “Imagine how close you could grow to someone in a hundred years.”

  “You never did answer my question about you,” he said.

  “My point is, elves do not let people into their confidence all willy-nilly. I hope you don’t take it as an offense, but I don’t think it’s something I’m ready to discuss with anyone.”

  “So there’s no one yet that is covekan to you?” he asked.

  She laughed. “No. As you pointed out, I am young by elven standards — at twenty-eight, I have not lived long enough to form that sort of attachment to anyone.”

  “By your very actions you seem to try very hard to discourage any sort of attachment at all.”

  “Yes,” she said, voice filled with regret. “There is that too.” She did not say anything for a few moments after that, but did not look away. She blinked a few times, then seemed to recover her newfound cheer. “So tell me,” she said, eyes alight, “what’s this I keep hearing about a sword you’re working on?”

  Cyrus was overtaken by a sudden coughing fit. “There are no secrets in Sanctuary, are there?” She shook her head. “It’s just something I’m working on.”

  “You’re blushing,” she said with great amusement. “You’re actually embarrassed!” She stopped, perplexed. “Why would you be embarrassed?”

  “It’s a grand quest, but it’s ultimately fairly selfish for me to want a new sword so badly I’d try and drag our guildmates to some fairly dangerous locations,” he explained with a shrug.

  “I don’t think it’s selfish,” she said. “We all want things.”

  “Even paladins?” Cyrus grinned.

  Vara laughed. “Even the holiest of holy warriors wants something, although in most cases it’s to complete their crusade.” Her eyes refocused on his. “If you’re providing service to the guild, I don’t think it’s selfish unless you don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Then you’d be ve
ry selfish to drag your comrades at arms into danger unknowingly.”

  He chuckled. “And what is it that you want?”

  She bristled for a moment and then relaxed. “That remains to be seen,” she said, almost as though she were pondering whether she should tell him more. “I think I should retire for the evening. It’s been a long day, and we have a longer one ahead of us tomorrow.” She stood up and he joined her out of gentlemanly reflex. “Goodnight.”

  He leaned in close to her and felt the pressure of her hand as she deflected him gently to a kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight,” he said with a whisper of sadness. As her back retreated up the stairs, he watched her go.

  “What changed?” he called out. Blood hammered in his temples, filling him with a sudden recklessness. “A month ago you hated me. You would have danced on the day I left Sanctuary if you had heard I was never to return.” He shrugged. “I’m the same man I was a month ago, so what changed?”

  She froze in the middle of the stairs, pondering for a moment in silence before she turned to face him. She stared at him, eyes brimming with a silent sort of despair that he had never noticed in her before. “I think… that in seeing you vulnerable, I saw the real you. Not the blustering warrior who’d jump into the middle of a battle at the drop of a helm; not the dashing and confident — sometimes arrogant — human who was quick with an insult — I think I saw you,” she said, words tumbling out. “And it was… different from what I had expected of you.”

  He closed the distance between them, finding himself on the stairs next to her. “What do you see now?”

  She blinked and turned away from his intense gaze. “Something different.” Looking back for just a moment, she added, “I see a good man, someone who won’t lead us into foolish action or abandon us when things become difficult.”

  “Us?” he said, drawing closer.

  “Yes. Us. Sanctuary.”

  “What about you?” His hand rested on her back, so close he could feel her breath.

  “Me?” she whispered. She pressed her forehead to his for just a moment before he could feel the change in the air. “I’m not ready yet,” she breathed, and pulled from his grasp, taking a few slow steps up the stairs, turning her back on him once more.

  He stared at her receding back as she walked slowly up the stairs. “Just keep in mind, I don’t live as long as you do — if you wait too long, I’ll likely be dead.” Though he meant it as a jest, to lighten the moment, she did not laugh or look back. Upon reaching her room she shut the door and he did not see her again until morning.

  33

  The next day, they did not speak of their conversation and Vara’s guardedness had returned. Although she admitted after a few hours that her head ached from the wine, she did not return to the more pleasant mood exhibited the night before. The next two weeks passed in much the same manner; Cyrus’s repeated attempts to return to a more intimate and friendly conversational style failed. Although Vara remained pleasant, she also remained distant.

  By the end of the week, Cyrus attempted to quicken their pace, striving to finish early. Every time he tried to get ahead of schedule, Vara would interfere with a demand that he take a rest, or that they stay an extra day in some out-of-the-way town. He did not argue, and they ate their meals in relative silence. Once, on the last night, he could have sworn he caught her looking forlorn.

  They met Nyad outside the elven capital of Pharesia at the appointed time. The elf greeted them with silence and a stricken look.

  “What happened?” Cyrus asked her while dismounting.

  “I’ve just come from a meeting with my fa-” she looked flustered. “From meeting with the King of the Elven Empire.”

  Cyrus grinned. “Your father.”

  Nyad rolled her eyes. “He informed me that the Museum of Arms was broken into last night, and that Ventus, the Scimitar of Air, was stolen.”

  Vara’s jaw dropped. “Did any of our detachment report seeing anything?”

  Nyad shook her head. “There was no sign of anyone entering through any of the doors: the intruder appeared to have entered through a skylight from above.”

  Vara blinked. “Can we speak to our guild members from the detachment?”

  “No.” Nyad shook her head. “They are in the process of being released from the jail — it will be several hours.”

  “Jail?” Cyrus said with a start.

  “They were all in proximity to the Museum at the time of the theft,” Nyad said with a deep frown. “I’ve spoken with my father and he’s agreed to release them on my request, but it will take time. Alaric ordered me to transport you to Reikonos. We’ve doubled the size of our detachment and he’d like the two of you to join him there.”

  “He’s there?” Cyrus said. “Where can we find him? Around the Citadel?”

  Nyad shook her head. “There’s a contingent there, but they’ve set up a headquarters at your old guildhall in the slums.” She looked at Cyrus as he blinked in surprise. “Andren is helping to lead the effort in Reikonos; he offered it.”

  “We need to go now,” Vara said. “Who knows how much time there is before they strike Reikonos and takes the Spear?”

  “Assuming they can. And assuming they’re going for it,” Cyrus said. “Who knows how many of these things they’re really after?”

  “They can,” Nyad said grimly. “The Museum of Arms is one of the most well-defended buildings in the Elven Kingdom, complete with mystical barriers and a variety of other spells for defense, in addition to housing a large contingent of troops. If they can steal a weapon from here, they can take it from Reikonos.”

  “In any case, would you care to bet the survival of our world on the idea that this nameless, faceless enemy is going to stop before collecting ‘the whole set’?” Vara glared at him.

  “No.” Cyrus shook his head. “All right, Nyad, take us to Reikonos Square.”

  Without a word, the wizard cast a spell that filled Cyrus’s vision with light and landed him in Reikonos Square. He and Vara exchanged a quick goodbye with Nyad as she disappeared in a blast of energy. Cyrus looked to the north to see the massive Citadel filling his view.

  “Ever been inside?” Vara asked, not looking at him.

  “Never.” Cyrus shook his head. “Let’s find Alaric.”

  They made their way to the slums and Cyrus lashed Windrider at a hitching post outside the door of the old Kings of Reikonos guildhall.

  “You actually lived here?” Vara said, voice high in disbelief.

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said without meeting her eyes.

  There was a long pause. “I cannot believe I made that stupid wager,” she said in a low tone. “The comedic possibilities here are endless.”

  “Hush.”

  Cyrus opened the door. Though the interior still contained the old bunk beds, they had been pushed against the walls and their old table had been set in the center of the room with a scale model of the Citadel sticking out from the middle. Clustered around it were Andren, Curatio, J’anda, Vaste and Alaric. Upon seeing them, the discussion halted.

  Curatio greeted them with a smile. “Good to see you both — Cyrus, you’re looking much better.”

  Alaric stood before him, helm placed on the table. The paladin’s good eye surveyed the warrior, and a slight smile creased the lines on the Ghost’s face. “It is good to see you, brother. I feared that I might have sent you to your death.”

  “It’ll take more than a few months of hard work to kill me.” Cyrus smiled as he strode in, Vara at his side, to join them at the table. “What’s our plan?”

  “As I was telling them, we have people here and here.” Vaste pointed at two spots around the Citadel. “A few more are spread out in something of a roving patrol, and we’ll increase our activity tonight.”

  “Do we have any idea how they penetrated the security at the Museum in Pharesia?” Cyrus asked as he looked around the table.

  “Other than entering from the roof?” Vaste quipped.

&
nbsp; “I mean the mystical security Nyad mentioned? Barriers and whatnot?” Cyrus said with a sigh.

  “No.” Curatio shook his head. “Although with their hands on the number of godly weapons they have, it would not be difficult for them to breach any mystical barrier, regardless of size.” The elf looked sick. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “What do you mean?” Cyrus looked at him blankly.

  Curatio steadied himself on the edge of the table, suddenly very pale. “All the magics of our world can be harnessed and used by spell casters to varying effects. Whether it’s a druid, wizard, healer, dark knight or paladin, they all have different spells that harness the magics inherent in our world.”

  The elf looked around the table, pupils dilated, eyes wide. “The weapons that they’ve been capturing have an advantage because they’re not from our world — they’re from the gods. Those weapons can cut through any barrier put up by anyone on our planet. They were created by the gods transferring some of their own power — their own godhood — into the weapon. Our magic is no match,” the healer finished with a sad finality.

  “So why didn’t they just cut their way through the front door if the weapons are so powerful?” Vaste asked.

  “I doubt that whoever is gathering these weapons would dare to risk any of their acquisitions in a frontal assault when they now have the power to bypass the mystical barriers and the stealth to avoid a confrontation.” Alaric leaned forward over the table, scouring the miniature streets.

  “What’s the point of having these weapons if you’re not going to have a confrontation?” Andren mumbled.

  “I’m sure they will,” Alaric said with a rueful smile. “But at a time and place of their choosing, not ours.”

  “So the defenses for Reikonos are weaker than Pharesia’s?” Cyrus looked at Alaric and Curatio in turn.

  Curatio nodded, still pale. “Correct.”

  “So why take that one first?” Cyrus asked.

  “No idea,” Alaric shook his head.

  “Should we consider sending an envoy to warn the dragons?” Vaste asked. “They may have the only other weapon still out there.”