Vara stared at him, at the specter of quiet and defeat that hunched the Ghost’s shoulders. We should protect our own gates, take care to watch our backs now. What has happened to these people of Luukessia is unfortunate, all the moreso because of our part in setting loose this scourge, but to send more of our army to aid them would be to sentence those remaining behind to defend Sanctuary to a terrible and bloody death, especially now that the Sovereign has learned how to breach our very foyer and send his troops in directly. No, further excursions would be a terrible idea, awful in its application and idiotic in the stripping of more forces from our own walls …
Even still, she spoke. “Perhaps …” she said, “… if I went to the front south of Reikonos and spoke with my sister, who helps head the defense of human territory, we might gather some idea of how goes the war in general, and the disposition of forces. With that insight, we might know if it were safe to send another expedition to assist our beleaguered forces in Luukessia.” She clamped her mouth shut after it was said, and wanted to scream. Where the hell did THAT come from?
“An interesting idea,” Vaste said. “And here I thought you were firmly against committing any more troops outside of our walls. I wonder what might possibly have shifted the weight in your mind against that idea.”
“An outpouring of concern for our army across the sea, no doubt,” she said icily.
“Because you spend a vast majority of your time concerned about the plight of our new recruits,” Vaste replied with a barb and a raised eyebrow.
“I spend my time as an officer concerned about our entire guild, you miscreant.”
“Of course,” he said contritely.
The doors opened to the hall behind them, a slow creak of the hinges as Erith Frostmoor entered the chamber, her white hair bound behind her in a long braid, her robes tattered, the white thread now brown and smudged. “The hour is over,” she said as she took her seat, as though it were an explanation of itself.
“The hour is … what?” Vara asked her with a cocked eyebrow.
“Is over,” Erith said, her usual mischief faded, her eyes weighed down in hard lines, lips tight, the purple flesh that made them stand out from the blue skin of her face tightly compacted in a line that wavered. “The hour we have to resurrect people who might have been killed in the tower collapse is up, and they were still pulling bodies out of the stone when I left a few minutes ago.” She lowered her eyes. “It looks like a quarry where it came down, piles of block everywhere, and you can still hear moans and cries from inside, so all hope is not lost, but …”
“A terrible day,” Alaric pronounced. “To see so many of our brethren fall in a battle that we didn’t even truly partake in. How many unaccounted for?”
“Eighteen,” Erith said, her head hanging. “Some yet live, and our strongest are working to unearth them, but some are certainly lost. Then there are the consequences of the collapse. It looks like someone took the corner of the building and dragged it down, exposing all the lower floors to the air and elements. You’ll have to have someone more familiar with design tell you how that will affect things. We’ve lost a good many quarters, though, I can tell you that much.”
“We have empty housing enough,” Vaste said. “Not to marginalize the loss of the tower or the deaths, which are unpleasant, no doubt, but we will make do. The bigger concern is if the dark elves come again, with more men, more war machines.”
“The Sovereign is unpredictable yet spiteful,” Alaric said, still holding himself to his seat, pensive. “Yes, I think it might be wise to have you speak to your sister about the war’s progress,” he said with a nod to Vara. “We need to know what to expect, what will be coming and how it will hit us.” He brought his hands around to steeple in front of his face. “You will go immediately, and return as soon as possible.”
“Very well,” Vara said, and began to stand.
“Hold,” Ryin said. “I will take you to Reikonos, but there is one last thing I have to report.”
“Oh, good,” Vara said, lowering herself back into her chair. “Because you weren’t overly dramatic enough with any of the other information you brought us. What pointless drivel have you left to-”
“Terian,” Ryin said, and Vara stopped speaking, a knifeblade cutting into her under the armor, as though something unseen had stabbed her.
“What about him?” Alaric said, stiff, shifting in his seat to focus attention on Ryin.
“He attempted to kill Cyrus while they were on the northern expedition.”
“Attempted to kill him?” Erith said with mild surprise. “What, did he cook his infamous vek’tag casserole again? Because that isn’t technically an attempt to kill, though your digestive tract won’t know the difference.”
“It goes somewhat beyond cooking,” Ryin said archly.
“Not many non-dark elven palates can handle that spider-meat your people consume like some of us eat chicken,” Vaste said, chiming in, “though I’ve always found vek’tag to be something of a delight.”
“Shut up,” Vara said, her voice only a whisper. How could he have known?
“What?” Vaste said, watching her. “You can’t seriously mean that Terian would actually try to kill Cyrus? This must surely be some sort of-”
“It is no mistake,” Ayend said. “It was deliberate, plotted. He cursed Cyrus and slit the throat of his horse while he was on the run from the scourge. Save for the efforts of Aisling and Mendicant, he would have died.”
“They saved him?” Vara said, and her voice cracked slightly.
If Ryin noticed, he did not call attention to it. “It was how Cyrus and Aisling discovered the origin of the scourge. They became entrapped behind enemy lines together for several days after their retreat was cut off.”
“How … fortuitous that she was able to save him,” Vara managed to choke out.
“Yes, you sound extremely pleased that she was able to risk her life in order to spare him from our guildmate’s treachery,” Vaste said. “But if I may observe, you and Alaric seem unsurprised that Terian would try such a thing. Whereas I am shocked, and there is little that shocks me, aside from the smell that comes from Erith’s quarters.”
Erith flushed a deeper blue. “I’m not much of a housekeeper.”
Vaste snorted. “And they say that trolls smell. But that is neither here nor there. The point remains that our esteemed Guildmaster and fellow officer seem to know something of this that the rest of us do not.”
“While in Termina, defending the bridge,” Vara began, “Cyrus killed a dark knight. He was Terian’s father.”
“Oh, dear,” Vaste said, his green face wiped clear of amusement for once, and his mouth open into an ‘o’ that was distorted by his ungainly teeth. “The sword.”
“What sword?” Alaric said, leaning forward now.
“Aisling brought the sword of that dark knight back to Sanctuary,” Vaste said, and shifted to one side in the chair. “She carried it with her in the escape and presented it to Cyrus as a trophy of his accomplishment.”
“His accomplishment?” Vara leaned onto the table. “I fought the bloody bastard almost to the death before Cyrus stabbed him in the back-”
“Let us keep sight of what has happened here,” Alaric said gravely. “Terian discovered a truth we hoped he would not find out until we could comfortably present it to him here, in carefully controlled circumstances.”
“It would appear the circumstances have spiralled far, far out of your control,” Erith said with a furrowed brow.
“Yes, and your predictive powers are usually spot-on,” Vaste said mildly. “I suppose we’re all allowed a failure of judgment every now and again.”
“It was not a failure of judgment,” Alaric whispered, “it was a failure of communication. I saw no way for him to know that his father had died, and so I worried not about it but of the myriad of other things we have to deal with. Had I known, I could have predicted his response, the slyness of it, the wait, the consideration. Terian is many things-conflicted, devious, somewhat cold-but revenge is not out of the question for him. If he knew what had happened, I would have assumed vengeance could follow, in its own time, and that it would be in a manner of his choosing.”