“If we don’t run him too hard,” the goblin warned. “It’s been a long day, though, and we’ll be needing to rest the horses soon.”
“It’s an hour or so back to the edge of the swamp and a little farther to the crossing,” Cyrus said. “Let’s make camp once we’ve met up with the rest of our army, give our horses a night of rest.” He frowned, adjusting himself in the saddle and feeling a dozen aches and pains. “And ourselves as well. We’ll make our way back to Vernadam tomorrow.”
They took a few minutes to get situated and give the horses ample time to drink from a small stream of fresh water, and then started back. The journey took hours, and seemed slower than the trip in, the party mostly quiet from the fatigue of traveling through the night on the evening before.
Cyrus found himself riding next to Aisling and Martaina at one point, as the two trackers attempted to steer them clearly back toward the plains. “I never did get a chance to ask you,” Cyrus said to Aisling, startling the dark elf, “what was your impression of the Galbadien rulers when we were at Vernadam?”
Her eyes became snakelike as she studied him. “I came to make my report and found you … otherwise occupied.”
“You say that like it’s a curse,” Cyrus said mildly. “You’ve been badgering me for two years to loosen up, and now I have. Perhaps it’s a sour taste in your mouth, some envy that springs from deep within.”
Aisling let out a sharp exhalation of breath, almost like a hiss, and rolled her eyes. “You presume too much. Just because I’ve been honest about my interest in you, don’t assume that I’m so petty and insecure that I can’t handle even the thought of you pleasuring yourself with another woman.” She held her head high as she spoke to him. “I’ve offered in the past to bed you and another woman at the same time, though something tells me that the Baroness wouldn’t be much interested in that.”
“Fair assumption,” Cyrus said. “But still, I point out, your reaction to this turn of events is rather …” He thought about it, trying to find a diplomatic turn of phrase, “… sharp. Less than pleasant.”
“I beg your pardon, my Lord of Perdamun,” Aisling said, bending at the waist in a graceful bow that saw her nearly fold double yet not lose her balance on horseback. “My intention was not to be acute in my response to you. If I was, I apologize. Perhaps I was merely dismayed that after so many times offered, it seemed that you might finally be coming around-and you did, but with someone else.” Her eyes flashed again as she stared at him, and he caught a flippant toss of her white hair. “Forgive me for not quickly adapting to the new state of things.” Some of the acid was leeched out of her words, but enough remained that Cyrus felt the burn of it.
“I … can’t say I feel nothing for you. I am warming to you, but …” he pulled back, not wanting to finish his sentence.
“You felt more for her?” Aisling did not bother to hide the bitterness; she wore it plainly. “I can’t fault you for that; it’s not as though you can control the direction of your feelings. But it does hurt.”
“I have to ask,” Cyrus said, feeling the pull of a question within. “What is it about me that draws you so? You tried to seduce me, even though you knew I was in love with Vara. Now I’m with another woman, and still …” She blanched and he stopped speaking.
There was a pregnant pause before she spoke. “You asked, and in your question you have your answer.”
He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re guileless,” she said with a sigh. “There’s no deception within you when it comes to personal matters. In battle you’re cunning when need be, but you’re straightforward in all else-you go right at what you want, no treachery, no trickery.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow at her. “What about Vara? I danced around her for ages.”
“Not exactly.” She steadied herself on the horse. “That wasn’t guile, that was a form of cowardice.”
“I don’t know whether I should be offended by that or not.”
Aisling shrugged. “You didn’t think you had a real chance with her. When it became obvious she’d warmed enough to you, you tried. Good effort, but it would appear she needed more time. That’s not on you, that’s on her. You threw yourself into the path of a god, ready to die for her. It’s hardly your fault that she became fixated more on what she’d do after she lost you than what she’d get from being with you.”
“That … was sweetly poetic,” Cyrus said. “But I think you give me too much credit.”
“Nope,” she said, voice flat. “Unless you didn’t jump in front of Mortus’s hand, the credit is yours. You were willing to die for her; she was unwilling to live past your death. Kind of a peculiar irony, but there it is. Not all that surprising, though; human and elven ideas about death are dramatically different. Probably has something to do with your lifespan.”
“Not for me it doesn’t,” Cyrus said. “For me it’s training and doctrine. The God of War doesn’t suffer cowardice-at least, not on the battlefield,” he said, face flushing at the recall of Aisling’s earlier mention of his cowardice. “That means committing to the fight, above all else, including one’s life.”
“I don’t hear you talk much about your religion,” Aisling said, matter-of-factly. “One might conclude you’re either not terribly faithful or you’re just not much of an evangelist.”
“Following the path of the God of War is who I am,” Cyrus said, a little miffed. “I don’t evangelize because no one wants to hear about the glory of battle, the sacrifice of blood on the altar of combat. Most Arkarians consider that savage behavior.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing about it sometime,” Aisling said, “but I doubt you’ll get me to change my lacksadaisical worship of Terrgenden to a lacksadaisical worship of Bellarum.”
Cyrus chuckled. “Now who’s the unfaithful one?”
She smiled. “I never said I was faithful. But I would say I’m worth it.”
He laughed again. “Well, I’m not sure I am.”
“From what I heard the other night, you are,” Aisling said, a little regretfully. “And what girl wouldn’t want a man who’s willing to die for them? What you did that day in the Realm of Death confirmed everything I’d felt about you from the beginning. Vara is more the fool for letting you slip away.”
“It’s kind of you to say.” Cyrus steered Windrider out of the swamp as they reached the edge of the plain. The horse whinnied in gratitude when they reached dry land and Cyrus patted him on the back of the neck. “Soon, old boy. You’ll get unsaddled and brushed out, and we’ll get you taken care of. Just a little farther back to the crossing.”
“Sir.” Longwell drifted toward Cyrus, Partus trussed up and gagged on the back of his horse. “Now that we’ve won the battle, my father will want us to stay for a spell, to enjoy at least a moon of feasting and celebration for winning the war.”
“Winning the war?” Cyrus looked at him in askance. “We broke one of Syloreas’s armies, but surely they must have more manpower somewhere. This army was hardly the be-all, end-all.”
“I suspect they do have more, yes,” Longwell said. “It was a weak offering, and uncharacteristic of Unger not to have led the battle himself from the front. For him not to be present at all is simply bizarre.”
Cyrus shook his head. “I can’t imagine he thought that was wise strategy, sending only that many and no more. Unless perhaps Actaluere drew him away with an attack, I would have thought he’d throw everything he had at this fight; after all, he was inches from defeating your Kingdom. That’s hardly the moment to pull back and be cautious.” Cyrus thought about it. “Is it possible he brought another army around wide and flanked us, attacking Vernadam?”