“It’s either that or I go out of my skull from the stink,” Cyrus said. “I’m rather amazed that the two of you can even tolerate being within a hundred feet of me; I know how well attuned elven senses are.”
“You get used to it after a while,” Martaina said with a slight smile. “You haven’t descended to the depths I’ve come to expect from most dark elven men, so I wouldn’t worry about it yet.”
“I’m not worried for your sake,” Cyrus said, “I can hardly stand it for mine. I’ve been in battles where I’ve been covered in blood and smell less offensive than now. All I want is a bath; where can I go to immerse myself in water?”
Martaina exchanged a look with Curatio, who shrugged. “There’s a river a quarter of a mile away. I doubt you’ll be able to walk there under your own power.”
“I can,” he said. “I will. I’ll be fine so long as I have my sword in hand.”
“I do hope you’re talking about your blade and not-” Martaina gave him a crooked smile.
“Thank you for that,” he said dryly. “Let me walk for a bit, get used to my legs beneath me again. If I’m not back by nightfall, I’m sure you’ll come looking for me.”
“You were assassinated a mere three weeks ago,” Martaina said, “and that was hardly the first attempt. Are you certain you want to go about without guard?”
Cyrus shrugged. “You can follow, I don’t care. Just let me test my strength.”
“If you’ve got this quite under control,” Curatio said to Martaina, “I have things to attend to before this day is done.”
“Yes, I suspect I can keep a dozen or two of Actaluere’s finest away from him if need be,” Martaina said, with a vague and dismissive wave. “He could probably take one or two more.”
Cyrus did not argue with her, instead pulling his hand off his hilt for another brief spell; the vertigo had lessened but muscle fatigue had set in. She might not be far wrong.
“Very well then,” Curatio said and produced the most infinitesimal nod of the head, which reminded Cyrus of a bow for some reason. “I’ll inform Briyce Unger and Milos Tiernan that you’ll be ready to join their strategy talks tomorrow, if you’d like?”
“I’d like,” Cyrus said. “Very much so.”
With a final nod, Curatio turned, the hems of his white robes trailing behind him as the healer threaded his way behind a tent and out of sight. “He’s a worrier, that one,” Martaina said as he disappeared. “With good cause, obviously, but still a worrier.” She turned to fix him with a gaze, after a cool survey of the area around them. They were at the edge of the encampment now, and Cyrus could see the open fields, unspoilt by men as far as the eye could see. “So what’s this really about, this desire to bathe yourself? Because I have my suspicions.”
“Oh?” Cyrus asked. “And what are those?”
“More than mere curiosities, less than full-blooded accusations.”
“Yes, very clever,” he said, letting his legs carry him on. The river was obvious in the distance, a thin blue line cutting jagged strokes across the uneven, loping plain, the early fall grasses already turning a golden yellow. “Why don’t you go ahead and share your suspicions with me, so I’ll be better able to gauge the truth of them.”
Martaina snorted. “When it comes to assessing yourself, I suspect you are no more able to see the truth of things now than a titan would be capable of discerning the individual toes on a gnome’s foot.”
Cyrus didn’t pause, didn’t slow down, and in fact increased his stride. He felt a little stir of irritation to couple with the feeling already boiling inside him, that restless stir. “Oh? You think I’ve become myopic now?”
“I think you have. I think you’ve run from one pain into another, and now you’re just going for the sake of going because the alternative is too much to bear.” She said it matter-of-factly, and he listened for some insult or harshness, but it wasn’t there.
“What’s the alternative?” He kept his eyes on the river in the distance. If I can just make it there, get clean for a bit, feel better …
“To stand your ground and face the pain, the fear that’s crept over you of late.” That held accusation, he heard, especially the note of her wording for fear.
Cyrus turned, and his hand fell away from Praelior’s grip. There was no lightheadedness now, no spin to his thoughts, just a simple, knife-edged focus on Martaina, her brown hair spilling into the green hood of her cowl, banded behind her to keep it out of her face, as it always was. Her tanned skin was slightly more flushed than usual, though she did not appear indignant to his eyes. He saw one of her fists clenched shut, and he wondered if it meant she was angry or if she intended to hit him.
“Throwing the word ‘fear’ at a warrior of Bellarum is not something to be done lightly,” Cyrus said, and he felt the cold edge creep into his words, frostier than the north winds by more than a matter of degrees.
“Yet I have done it, just now.”
“And I so recently apologized to you for my mistrust of your motives and actions,” Cyrus said, and his eyes narrowed of their own accord. “Is there some reason you throw this insult into my face on the eve of my return to the planning of this battle? A battle in which we’ll be facing this implacable foe, this ceaseless enemy? Is there some detail of my actions that you’ve witnessed that would lead you to believe me unfit to lead an army? When you accuse me of fear, do you suspect I’ll be cowering at the back of the fight, waiting for my soldiers to win the day for me?”
“I suspect you’ll be at the fore, slinging your sword with the rest of them, and that you’ll fight to the death-again-even if it means losing your body and never being able to come back from it.” Her nostrils flared at this. “The fear came and went, as far as I’m concerned, came and went like a wildfire in the forests of old, gutting the underbrush and leaving no trees standing. That is you, near as I can tell-the fear of losing Vara, the pain of what she did, it covered you, burned out your insides, left you hollow. New growth started with the Baroness, but soon enough that was scorched through as well. I wish you still feared, feared to lose what you’ve already lost. Because now you’re so empty there’s nothing left for you to fear. The fear’s already had its way, no taking that back now.”
“You make it sound like there’s nothing left of my own mind. I’m what? An empty vessel, waiting to be filled with whatever comes along?”
“What of this cause you’ve latched yourself on to?” Martaina said. “Defending the Syloreans?”
“You think I wouldn’t have done this if Vara had-” he stuttered, “if she hadn’t- hadn’t-”
“If she were with you, your lover or your wife,” she said it plainly, but the words twisted like a knife all the same, “I think you would still be here to fight for Luukessia, but I think you would do it for a cause and for obligation, for the repayment of a debt or the cessation of a consequence we caused. I don’t think you’d be doing it half-hearted, empty-hearted, as though you have to drag yourself along to the next place we’re fighting-”
“I did just recover from a fairly injurious wound-”
“And that’s another thing,” she said, the full force of her rolling downhill now, the momentum behind her words. “You did just spend weeks on your back, surely enough, no doubt. If you want to go and have your way with Aisling in order to relieve your strain and empty some more of your soul, by all means, do so-”
“Excuse me?” He asked her frostily, but it came out strained.
“-without making elaborate excuses about why you need to bathe yourself. Do you think me a fool? Do you think Curatio some sort of idiot? We know what you are doing, it’s as plain as the head atop your neck, now.” She glared at him.
“You think I need to hide my desires?” He glared back, and wondered why he’d felt so sorry for sending her away before. “As though I have some secret shame to hide?”
“Yes,” she said. “And it does you no favors, nor Aisling either. You keep running from pain to pain, and now there’s nothing left to feel, nothing left to fear, nothing left to lose. You’ve come to the point of bottom in your journey, and yet still you won’t admit it, perhaps even to yourself.”