“Unlikely,” Curatio said, “I’m just annoyed by how often you do that. Try speaking more.”
“My throat feels raw, as though someone poured Reikonosian whiskey down it while I was asleep.” Cyrus rubbed his neck.
“We gave you as much water as we could,” Martaina said, standing with him now, in the wagon. She had not left for more than a few hours since he had awakened. “But it’s surprisingly difficult to make a man who’s hallucinating drink and eat.”
Cyrus stood between the two of them, ducking his head to avoid hitting it against the canvas top of the wagon. “I would think after the last few days I’d never want to sleep again.” He yawned. “Somehow I’m still tired.”
“Get some sunlight,” Curatio said. “It’ll do wonders for you, that and walking around for a spell. Not an actual spell,” he clarified, “because that’s impossible and also heresy, but walk for a while.”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus said as Martaina pulled back the tent flap for him. The air in the wagon had grown stale to him, the smell of healed wounds and sweated flesh was near-unbearable. He had put his armor on with Martaina’s assistance, after saying flatly that he’d rather be able to walk ten feet with it on than thirty feet without it. She’d snorted her impatience with his attitude but ultimately helped him. He rested his hand on the hilt of Praelior and felt energized. Thank Bellarum that Hoygraf didn’t know the worth of my blade, or it’d surely no longer be with me.
The air outside came in with a subtle breeze, a coolness, a tinge of winter on the wind even though the sun was shining its warmth down. Cyrus squinted away from it, looking back into the darkness of the wagon to either side, gradually turning his face toward the light. After a minute had passed, then another, he took a step forward unaided, sat down at the end of the wagon and slid himself off the carriage. His feet crunched against the ground where the wagon sat, made soft by a rain he had heard in the night. He sniffed, and realized that in addition to the smell of the campsite, he smelled himself, the odor of the tent and of sweated flesh, healed wounds, and he wondered if there was a river nearby or a pond that would be suitable for bathing.
His first steps were funny things, as though he were regaining the habit of balance, of walking. Martaina stood to the side of him, well clear, but he knew her reflexes were such that she could catch him should he stumble. Her speed was also such that he did not worry about it. The first steps were hardest, but his legs seemed to regain their use as he walked, the whole of the campsite laid out before him, the massive army more than he might have imagined when first he’d heard that Actaluere had joined with them at Enrant Monge. He could not see it all from where he stood, but he knew by what little he had glimpsed of it from the back of the wagon that it was massive.
“Where are Actaluere’s northern armies?” Cyrus asked Curatio, who hovered only a bit behind him, just out of arm’s reach, as though he were hiding the fact that like Martaina, he was lingering to save Cyrus from falling.
“A week’s march, by the accounts we’ve heard,” the elf replied, not stepping any closer to Cyrus. “They’re making haste, and Briyce Unger and Milos Tiernan have been planning the coming battle. Their intent is to throw everything at the enemy, with Sanctuary at the center and our healers in use to help stem the bloodshed and fall of their people. Once we’ve broken the scourge, we’ll march north through the passes to get to the cave where the portal sits.”
“Forgive me, Curatio,” Cyrus said, “but do I detect a hint of gloom in your voice?” He watched the elf’s normally sunny disposition change not a shade.
“No gloom,” Curatio said, “but perhaps some tempered expectations. I have been in many battles in my life, and I have yet to see a single one go precisely to plan. Things go wrong in war, and this enemy is even less predictable than most. I hope with all that is in me that we will crush them and drive them back as predicted. However, I would hope that our General might bring his own insight into our foes to the battle plan before we go into the fight, so that any troubles unseen by the esteemed leaders of Actaluere and Syloreas might be anticipated before we march headlong into the teeth of these beasts.”
“I doubt Briyce Unger would be foolish enough to lock me out of the discussions,” Cyrus said and coughed weakly. “Unless for some reason Milos Tiernan holds a grudge against me for what difficulties I’ve handed him.”
“None that I’ve seen during the planning sessions,” Curatio answered. “He’s been courteous and careful to listen to all our advice thus far. Unger has asked after you and when you’ll be able to meet with them, so I suspect that won’t be an issue.”
“Oh, good,” Cyrus said, feeling his loping steps lack some of the bounce that they had before he had been felled outside Enrant Monge. After a moment’s thought, he had to concede that any bounce had been gone long before that, probably before even leaving Vernadam. “The last thing we need is a turf war. Especially as we’re facing the ghosts of our past sins.”
There was no response from either Martaina or Curatio that he heard, but they carried on, the cool breeze encouraging him, the warm sun alternating with it, giving its heat when the wind would die down. It was a perfect sort of early fall experience, and the air held only the slightest hint of what winter might be like in this new land. At a normal time, Cyrus might have found it invigorating; now, it kept him going in spite of all that was on his mind. “You said that J’anda and Aisling helped retrieve me,” Cyrus said, turning to look at Martaina. “I haven’t seen either of them to thank them properly since I’ve recovered.”
“J’anda is quite busy,” Curatio said. “Odellan may run the troops, but J’anda keeps careful track of our spellcasters. He’s been helping them in pushing their boundaries-especially the newer ones-to build their capacity for magical energy.”
Cyrus blinked at that. “What?”
“Magical energy,” Curatio said. “The finite amount of power we have for casting spells? You are familiar with this concept?”
“Yes,” Cyrus said, “having seen a woman bleed part of her life energy out last year to go past the limit, I am familiar with it.”
“It can be grown over time and with mastery of our craft,” Curatio said. “J’anda is working to grow that ability before we go into the battle, especially with our healers.”
“How does one … go about such a thing?” Cyrus asked.
Curatio sighed. “It would be difficult to explain to someone who has not cast spells before. Probably the easiest explanation is to say that we go about it very much the same as you go about building muscle with which to swing your sword-repetition, effort, practice. Exercises can be done.”
Cyrus shrugged. “If you say so. Where is Aisling, then?” He waited for a response from either of them but got none. “Never mind. I forgot she doesn’t do well at being kept track of.”
Martaina gave him a slight smile as they made their way around some tents that had been brought by the Luukessians. As always, the army of Sanctuary seemed to prefer bedrolls for lighter travel and keeping the need for wagons to a minimum. Cyrus paused for a moment and stretched, taking his hand off Praelior. The lightheadedness came back, and he fought it, let it wash over him, tried to keep his bearings as it caused his head to dip and bob, as though he were floating in water. He let his hand return to Praelior and the feeling subsided. Probably not the best sign, but at least I can still manage without falling over.
“Perhaps we should begin to walk back to the wagon?” Martaina suggested. Cyrus turned to look at Curatio, but the healer was quiet.
“Not yet,” Cyrus said. He felt a strange call within him, a hollowness and a need coupled together that were like an itch beneath his skin. “I need to bathe. I can no longer stand the smell of myself or of the wagon.”
Martaina raised an eyebrow at him. “You can barely stand without the aid of your sword. Are you certain that this is the proper moment to go searching for somewhere to wash yourself?”