Crusader

minutes. “Go on.”

Cyrus took another step toward the boy; he was over him now, hovering, and looked down over the patch of blond hair, where two grubby hands, smeared with dirt were held against the boy’s face. He was writhing, sobbing quietly, no older than Cyrus. Younger even, perhaps. It was so hard to tell.

“Go on,” the said Guildmaster again. “You want to be fearless? Be a warrior; do what a warrior does. Kill him.”

Cyrus swallowed, as though he could drown his fears inside him. He stared down at the boy and felt only pity, looking at the ragged cloth, at the shoes that were no more than foot covers with holes in them. “They’re orphans, all,” Belkan had said when he brought Cyrus to the Society. “Like you.”

Cyrus stepped closer, toward the lad, who was looking up at him now, eyes half-closed, curled up like a baby Cyrus had once seen sleeping at a neighbor’s house. The boy was still, though, breathing steady, watching Cyrus closely, but with a far-off look in his eyes.

“Go on,” the Guildmaster said from behind him. “Have at it.”

There was a still in the arena and the place was dark, lit only by the lamps all around them, a thousand of them, perhaps, and Cyrus wondered idly who took the time to light them all. The boy waited for him, unresisting, crying softly, and Cyrus saw the little droplets of water that ran down the boy’s cheeks, remembered the feel of his own before he ran out from overuse. Pitiful. He’s not there yet but close. Then he’ll be like me.

The air was quiet, everyone watching him, even the men at the door. Beyond them he could see snow falling outside, damp, and even more quiet out on the streets than it was in here, with the men watching and waiting. The fear bit at him, and he knew he was failing the test, hesitating, and he stared down at the boy again. The smell of urine was strong now, and he could not tell whether it was from the boy or from himself. He looked again at the boy, then at the gate to the world outside the arena, so small, and getting ever so much smaller by the minute, the quiet, snow-covered streets. The sand beneath his feet was crimson, red with blood.

Cyrus felt a weight on his shoulder, the Guildmaster’s gauntlet resting on him. “Are you afraid to do it? Afraid to end him?”

Cyrus thought about it for a minute, looked again at the boy, and realized with utter clarity that he was not afraid at all, for once, that he really just felt sorry for him-

The dagger came around and plunged into the Guildmaster’s belly without Cyrus even being truly aware of what he was doing. There was a sharp grunt from the man and his gauntlet squeezed Cyrus’s unarmored shoulder tighter for a moment before he broke away, falling to his back, his hands clutching his midsection. There was a stunned, continued silence in the arena, and before the Guildmaster could speak, could proclaim, could say anything, Cyrus was off, running, dodging past the men at the gate, and his feet were slapping against the cobblestone street, stirring the wet snow and mud. He heard one of his pursuers slip and fall behind him as he dodged into an alleyway and past an open door where the smell of eggs wafted into the cold evening air.

The streets were twisted, and there were shouts behind him, a great clamor, but he ran, and when he came to the markets the noise was all but gone, buried in the sound of Reikonos by evening. There was still noise, in the distance, but Cyrus kept to the shadows. He saw guards in their armaments, patrolling, he saw men in heavy cloaks, and a few women wearing little enough beneath their robes, talking to every man who passed. He went unnoticed by them all, following the signs, the monuments, the things he knew and was familiar with. The stall in the corner of the market where the big man with bad teeth always gave him an apple. The house on the corner where the boy his age watched from the high window, never allowed to play in the street with the other lads. The spot where the man stood and called the news of the day, made announcements and proclamations from the Council of Twelve. He went slowly, carefully, but the streets were quiet and he had little to worry about. The evening shadows grew stronger as he went, and he could hear the torchlighters making their rounds in the distance. They had already passed here and the lamps shed a little light for him, enough to see as the snow came down harder, clumps of white that covered his shirt and turned it wet. He had no cloak, no coat, and his soft footcovers were soaked through.

The smell of the frigid air caused his nose to run, and he felt it freeze on his upper lip as he clasped his hands over his chest, rubbing them against the skin, trying to find warmth. His belly growled, roaring at him like the feisty cat that had lived in the alley behind his house but with more verve, more feeling. He shivered and felt the shake of his limbs, the chill that crept through the skin and went bone-deep. Only a little farther, he thought, and then he saw it.

It was a little house, to be sure, only a one story, but stone, good and strong. The roof was thatched, but he could see from here it had already begun to fail, caved in on one side. The corner where Mother and Father sleep. It’ll be all wet by now, then … The stones were still there, though, still strong.

He slipped from the shadows across the street and came to the door, his feet now slushing in the low places on the road. He could hardly avoid them all, his legs only so long, after all. He didn’t knock at the door, which was slightly cracked, he just pushed his way in. Warmth. A fire, sitting beside the hearth with mother like I used to-

The house was quiet, a dread silence hanging in the air. The corner where the roof had failed was wet indeed, snow piling up in the place where Mother and Father’s bed had been. The hearth was not warm, there was no fire, and it was chill inside. The only change was that the light wind was no longer present, though he could hear it stirring the roof now and again. The place was dark too, shadow consuming the entirety of it, only a little light coming in through the windows from the street and in the corner where the snow was gathering.

Cyrus let the silence hold, let his lips stick together, even as he felt the chatter of his teeth. When he spoke it was quiet, the last ounce of hope running out. “Mother?”

There was a quiet that lasted only one second.

“She is not here,” came the voice from the darkness behind him, and he felt the fear again, the horror of it, and recoiled, backing toward the corner where the snow fell, even as a figure made its way out of the shadows. “Don’t be afraid,” the man said, and Cyrus could see the light catch his face. One of his eyes was squinted completely closed, and he wore a heavy cloak that extended from his neck to below his knees. “Don’t be afraid, Cyrus.”

“Who are you?” Cyrus asked, and shivered.

“A friend,” the man said simply, and he took off his cloak with a simple flourish. He took tentative steps toward Cyrus, who could see now that the man wore armor, though of a different look than Cyrus had seen in the Society; this was older, he thought, more scuffed, and all metal, like his Father’s. He offered the cloak, and Cyrus looked at it for only a half second before snatching it and draping it around his own shoulders, shivering into it, feeling the moisture from his skin absorbed into the cloth, but he also felt the chill reduce a little.

“I don’t know you,” Cyrus said, and looked away, to the hearth again. There was only darkness in it. The pot his mother had used to cook was gone, and the hearth seemed to leer at him, taunting. “Where’s my mother?” He asked it plaintively, though he knew almost certainly what he’d hear.

“Surely you must know that she is gone.” The voice was quiet, subtle, and the drifting sound the snow made as it landed in the corner was almost louder than the stranger’s words. “Belkan told you, did he not?”

“He told me.” Cyrus wanted to keep his distance, recoil, but he didn’t. “I want to see her.”

“I’m afraid that …” the man hesitated, “is quite impossible, now. She is dead.”

Cyrus heard but didn’t hear, listened but didn’t absorb. He shut his eyes tightly, and tried to remember the house when it was warm, when the smell of meat pies cooking over the fire filled the air, when he could feel her arms wrapped around him, and when he would tussle with his father on the bearskin rug-

“Cyrus,” the voice came again, and Cyrus opened his eyes. “I know this must be difficult for you, this … horrible change. But you must … endure. Do you know what that word means? Endure?”

“I know what it means.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was huskier, like one of the boys who was sobbing in the arena.

“You must endure … what is to come.” The man went on, and Cyrus listened-but did not hear, the older Cyrus thought, watching it all, watching this man, this familiar man, give him instruction. “There will come a better day, when you are out of this storm. You must believe in that, hold tight to that conviction, because what will happen between now and then will not be easy on you.”

“I don’t wish to go back to the Society of Arms,” Cyrus said, and the emotion flowed out of him. “I don’t want to be there.”