“You have no choice,” the man said quietly. “If there were any other way, I would find it, but-they-are watching you closely, and there is no avoiding their gaze. You must follow this path, do this, stay within the bounds of the Society, to be safe. Do you understand?”
“But I don’t wish to-”
There was a draft then, but the man’s words overcame it and interrupted Cyrus in the gentlest way. “The mark of a man is his willingness to do things that he must do but doesn’t wish to. You were a boy only months ago, yet now you are forced into the role of a man, forced to look out for yourself because no one else watches out for you, because all who did so are now gone.” The man’s hand landed on Cyrus’s shoulder, but it was different than the Guildmaster of the Society’s, lighter somehow. “If you are to endure, you must do the things you don’t wish to. You are afraid. I know this. Were I in your place, I would be afraid too, to feel so alone. But I tell you now, be not afraid, Cyrus Davidon, because you are not alone, however it might appear. Don’t fear.” The man’s hand came across Cyrus’s cheek and the soft touch of his thumb, even in the gauntlet, smeared away the wet droplet that had fallen.
He felt the world wrench, then the man’s armor against his face, and he cried the tears he thought he had no more of, felt the strength and unyielding of the armor against his skin, even as the cloak wrapped around him. The wetness of his tears ran slick against the man’s breastplate, and Cyrus felt himself lifted, cradled, carried along, as he quietly wept. There were reassuring words, he could hear them, but the ones that stuck out was the constant admonishment: “Don’t be afraid.”
They were outside the gates of the Society when next he looked up. The stranger’s eye was puckered shut, as though it were too cold for him to open it. “Be brave,” the man told him, and Cyrus saw another man just inside the gates, the dwarf from the arena. “Erkhardt,” the man said to the dwarf and gently handed Cyrus over.
The dwarf gripped him firm under the armpits and laid his feet back on the ground as Cyrus took up his own weight again. He was tall, already up to the dwarf’s chin. “Made quite an impression earlier, this one did,” the dwarf said with a sort of grim amusement. “Wouldn’t play along with the test. Stabbed the Guildmaster in the belly.” He lowered his voice but Cyrus heard it nonetheless. “They’ll not go easy on him for that, you know. Not that they were going to before, but …”
“He will endure,” came the stony voice from the man in armor. “And you will ensure that no harm comes to him.”
“As ordered,” the dwarf said. “Come on then, lad,” he said to Cyrus, “let’s get you in and see about making amends where we can.” The dwarf saluted the man. “Safe journey to you.”
“You are not alone, Cyrus,” the man said as Cyrus walked the stone path through the gates and toward the old, darkened building of the Society of Arms. “Never alone. You are strong, show them that. And be not afraid.”
Cyrus watched him, looking over his shoulder with regret, longing, really, even as the dwarf named Erkhardt was at his side.
Chapter 53
There was a rough bump, and the darkness swirled around Cyrus, lit now by daylight somewhere in the distance. It was above him at an angle, but it washed through the air and shone in beams that rested all over the space around him. His eyes were bleary, and no matter how many times he blinked, they did not clear quickly. He began to wonder if they would clear at all.
The smell of horses permeated his consciousness, filled his nose, and he heard the sounds of them, of people talking somewhere outside his field of vision. There was a pain around his neck as he turned his head, but the pain was only a dull ache, a long-ago reminder of some agony, he supposed.
“Would you care for some water?” The voice was soft, feminine, and cut over the clack-clack he heard every few seconds.
Cyrus coughed then cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, but his voice was hoarse, and his throat scratchy. A skin of water was thrust to his lips and tilted, just so a little ran out on his tongue and down his mouth, as though he had forgotten how to capture the liquid that was coming to him. It felt cool as it fell over his cheeks, and he realized the air was hot, and he had a blanket weighing him down.
He swiveled his head and saw the face that went with the voice that had spoken to him. “You,” he said. “I … I don’t remember …”
“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘your name,’ then you’d best prepare yourself for a thrashing.” She sounded serious.
“Calm yourself, Aisling,” he said with a wicked grin, and saw the flash of irritation crest her tanned, elven features. “Kidding, Martaina,” he said, laboring to get her name out. “Your name is Martaina Proelius.”
“Good to know you still recall the important things,” she said, and pulled back the skin, capping it. “You gave us quite a stir, you know.”
“Didn’t intend to,” he said with a cough. “As I recall, I was just going along, minding my business, when someone shot me with an arrow and proceeded to lop my head off.” His hand came to his throat, felt the slight ridge along the middle of it, a scar that seemed unlikely to ever heal. “Hoygraf said he’d take it in order to keep me dead. His revenge.”
“Yes, well,” Martaina said and shifted, sitting against the canvas backing of the wagon, looking over him, “it didn’t happen, obviously.”
“Obviously. What did happen?”
“We managed to retrieve that empty gourd you used to think-you know, before you switched to using your groin-and reunited it with your body,” Martaina said.
He ignored her jibe. “We’re at war with Actaluere?” He felt the tautness in his muscles, surprising given how out of sorts he felt.
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “In fact, Milos Tiernan has brought his army north with us.”
Cyrus felt himself stop, as though everything ceased moving all at once around him. “Tiernan did? He’s not attacking Galbadien?”
“No,” Martaina said, and Cyrus could see her face go masklike. The ranger was good, no doubt experienced at hiding herself; but he had known her long enough to see through it.
“What happened?” Cyrus asked and put enough of a commanding voice into the question that it cut through the rasp. Martaina’s eyes turned rearward over Cyrus’s head. “How long was I out?”
“Over a week,” she said at last, and her hand disturbed the flap of canvas enough to let some light in, which caused Cyrus to blanch and close his eyes. “Curatio kept you well-medicated with opiates from the local poppy fields during your … ailment. He had some difficulty reattaching your head because of the time that elapsed between when it was severed and when we received it. It was a very near thing, and your arrow wound and other injuries had to heal naturally because they missed the window to be cured through magical means.”
“What happened while I was recovering?” Cyrus asked and tried to sit up. Martaina’s boot landed upon his chest, keeping him down. His armor was absent, and he felt no desire to fight her attempt to keep him flat, letting his head sink back to the padded, moving floor of the wagon.
“Actaluere joined with Syloreas and sent the forces they had on hand at Enrant Monge north with us.” She kept a canny eye on him, but her reaction was still closely guarded, he knew. “They mean to help fight against the scourge and have sent for more forces to come north while the first army moves up with us.”
“Are we close to battle?” Cyrus asked. “If we’re only a week out of Enrant Monge? Have the scourge reached this far south already?”
“It would be best if you didn’t concern yourself overmuch,” she said calmly. “We’re holding at a line south of the mountains, here in Syloreas’s southern flatlands, waiting for one of Actaluere’s northern armies to meet up with us. After that, we’ve a week’s march north to the rallying place where we’ll be fighting them.”
“Flat plains,” Cyrus said, pondering. “Let them come at us?”
“That seems to be the consensus,” Martaina said, looking down at him once more. “With Actaluere joining
