“What?” He felt her at his arm, her hand resting upon the plate of his shoulder. “What is it?”
He swallowed heavily. “I think … I have come to the point of sleep, for the night. I suspect tomorrow will be a long day.”
He felt her freeze against his side, and slowly her hand withdrew. “I see.”
“If you’ll excuse me …” He stood and looked down at her, saw the regret behind the eyes as her hand came to rest on her lap, slow, like a snake coiling back up, and she smiled but not sincerely.
“I should turn in as well.” Her smile faded. “I’ve lost my appetite for conversation anyway.”
“I apologize,” Cyrus said with a deep bow. “Perhaps someday I’ll continue my story, but it’s something I haven’t spoken of …” he thought back, tried to remember his time with Imina, and realized he had never told her either. “Ever. Not ever.” He forced a smile-a thin, tight one. “Forgive me, madam.” He bowed again and went to his bedroll, still bound up by its cord. He untied it and spread it across the ground by the fire.
“I understand,” the Baroness said, getting to her feet. “What I told you, about what the Baron did to me-I’ve never told a soul that. Some of his acts were seen, obviously, others not. But even those that know, I never … confessed or made mention of because to do so would seem to make it … more real, I suppose. There are other things, varied and horrific, that I would not wish to speak of, not ever.” She held herself up, and Cyrus saw her wither in the light. “Little venoms that I will keep in my soul until the day I die.” She straightened. “Should the day ever come that you wish to expunge yours, I would willingly listen. And perhaps,” she licked her lips, “trade you for a few of my own, that it might lessen the sting of them.”
“Perhaps.” Cyrus stood next to his bedroll, staring at the woman before him-so close to broken, yet so unbowed. He marveled at her and felt the crass urge to take hold of her, to kiss her-“Good night,” he forced himself to say. “I will see you upon the morrow.”
“Good night,” she said, and turned to leave him. She took a few paces and stopped, turning back. “Why?”
He had already begun to lie down, and paused, crouched on one knee. “Why what?”
“You were married,” she said. “You had this Vara, whom by all accounts you loved, and yet you never told anyone of these dark days in which you felt alone and desperate and had no one to trust?” She seemed unsteady, as though afraid to overstep her bounds, afraid of his reaction. “You have friends, and people who respect and admire you. Yet in all these people, in all your closest confidants, you found no one you could speak of this to?”
Cyrus felt his mouth go dry, and his head took on a slow spin. He took a sharp intake of breath and felt the sting of what she said, yet curiously he felt no anger or resentment for broaching the question. “There are some who know, but not because I told them,” he said at last. “And much like yourself,” he lied, “perhaps I didn’t want to speak of it as it would become … real to me. I have long said that things past are best left there. They are done, why give them new life by speaking of them?” He tried to smile but failed and knew it, so instead he lay down on his bedroll and stared straight up, into the sky and the few stars he could see beyond the light given off by the hundred fires around him. After a few moments, he heard the Baroness’s steps pick up and fade as she walked away.
Imina. Narstron. Andren. Vaste. Terian. Alaric. Niamh. Vara. Some closer than others, and yet I would not tell a single one of them. Not one. He felt a strange weight in his chest, as though a great stone were upon it. Because after all this time, and all that I’ve been through, in truth … he felt an odd satisfaction as the truth came to him, … I’m just as alone now as I was then.
Chapter 14
They had nearly reached the castle by midday next, when the sun was hot overhead and the feeling of spring had subsided and been replaced by the sensation of early summer. Cyrus felt the rays of the sun heating his armor and him within it, causing him to sweat, and wondered if this were what pottery in a kiln felt like. The smell of horses was especially heavy, and the conversation from the ranks of the army behind him was louder, more boisterous, now that the months of travel had come to a close and their destination was in sight.
The last taste of the conjured bread was still with him as Cyrus felt a crumb fall out of his beard. Perhaps I should get rid of the whiskers, he thought. Or at least shave and let them grow out again. They don’t seem to be doing me any favors by getting this long.
The castle Vernadam was close on the horizon, and Cyrus could tell it was bigger than any castle he could recall ever seeing. Though perhaps not as tall as the Citadel in Reikonos, it was quite large, easily larger than the sprawling monstrosity of a palace in the elven capital of Pharesia. The castle itself was built on a steep hill, using the mound it was on to boost it to exceptional heights. An array of towers sprung out of a central keep, a circular one that twisted and rose, almost like a spiral rising into the sky. The tallest towers were high above the rest of the castle, one ranging far above the other, the two of them clinging together for support, like a child leaning upon a parent to walk. The whole thing seemed like an unnatural mountain, rising alone above a flat earth.
The city that lay in the shadow of Vernadam was visible by that time; a town that had sprung up around the foot of the hill, with no tall buildings, only three-story shops and dwellings clustered around a central square and tightly packed streets. Cyrus estimated that no more than a hundred thousand might live there, perhaps more if they were not particular about the amount of space each family had.
Cyrus rode at the front of their procession, with Longwell at his side. They passed all manner of people, horses and carts, all moving aside so the army of Sanctuary could pass.
It was a mile outside of town that a rider on the back of a stallion approached them. His navy armor was almost a perfect match for Longwell’s, down to the surcoat with the Lion insignia, though he was considerably wider than the dragoon in both shoulder and belly. A wide smile broke out on the man’s face as he got close enough for them to see. “Hail, Sir Samwen Longwell,” he said in a deep voice as he approached.
“Hail, Sir Odau Genner,” Longwell said, lips curling into a smile. “What news from Vernadam?”
Sir Odau Genner brought his horse into the formation alongside Longwell’s. “We sent Teodir to find you months ago. We’d begun to worry he was lost along the way.”
“He is with us,” Longwell said. “I came as soon as word reached me, and I have brought …” Longwell raised an arm and gestured to the army behind him, “… a few friends with me to heed my father’s call.”
“Indeed you have,” Odau said with a broad grin. “We had heard you were coming with a force weeks ago from our spies afield, that you had crossed the border with western magicians and knights and footmen, but I scarce believed it until I saw it with my own eyes through the spyglass atop the tower only an hour ago. Your timing could not be more fortuitous.”
“It goes poorly, then, the fight against Syloreas?” Longwell’s face drew up, muscles contracting.
“We are but days from defeat, total and wretched, like the conquests of old-though the Kingdom does not know it yet.” Odau Genner pointed north, and Cyrus looked in the direction indicated. “The army of Syloreas is encamped a day’s ride from here. We will meet them in battle the day after tomorrow, in a final defense.” Odau looked at Longwell with undisguised relief. “Our defeat was virtually assured before your arrival. They have a knight with them, a westerner, and his power is fearsome. He and his compatriots have won every battle for Syloreas, their mere presence sends our dragoons and footmen onto edge and they retreat far more easily than they should given their numbers.”