“Forgive me, Curatio,” Cyrus said, “but do I detect a hint of gloom in your voice?” He watched the elf’s normally sunny disposition change not a shade.
“No gloom,” Curatio said, “but perhaps some tempered expectations. I have been in many battles in my life, and I have yet to see a single one go precisely to plan. Things go wrong in war, and this enemy is even less predictable than most. I hope with all that is in me that we will crush them and drive them back as predicted. However, I would hope that our General might bring his own insight into our foes to the battle plan before we go into the fight, so that any troubles unseen by the esteemed leaders of Actaluere and Syloreas might be anticipated before we march headlong into the teeth of these beasts.”
“I doubt Briyce Unger would be foolish enough to lock me out of the discussions,” Cyrus said and coughed weakly. “Unless for some reason Milos Tiernan holds a grudge against me for what difficulties I’ve handed him.”
“None that I’ve seen during the planning sessions,” Curatio answered. “He’s been courteous and careful to listen to all our advice thus far. Unger has asked after you and when you’ll be able to meet with them, so I suspect that won’t be an issue.”
“Oh, good,” Cyrus said, feeling his loping steps lack some of the bounce that they had before he had been felled outside Enrant Monge. After a moment’s thought, he had to concede that any bounce had been gone long before that, probably before even leaving Vernadam. “The last thing we need is a turf war. Especially as we’re facing the ghosts of our past sins.”
There was no response from either Martaina or Curatio that he heard, but they carried on, the cool breeze encouraging him, the warm sun alternating with it, giving its heat when the wind would die down. It was a perfect sort of early fall experience, and the air held only the slightest hint of what winter might be like in this new land. At a normal time, Cyrus might have found it invigorating; now, it kept him going in spite of all that was on his mind. “You said that J’anda and Aisling helped retrieve me,” Cyrus said, turning to look at Martaina. “I haven’t seen either of them to thank them properly since I’ve recovered.”
“J’anda is quite busy,” Curatio said. “Odellan may run the troops, but J’anda keeps careful track of our spellcasters. He’s been helping them in pushing their boundaries-especially the newer ones-to build their capacity for magical energy.”
Cyrus blinked at that. “What?”
“Magical energy,” Curatio said. “The finite amount of power we have for casting spells? You are familiar with this concept?”
“Yes,” Cyrus said, “having seen a woman bleed part of her life energy out last year to go past the limit, I am familiar with it.”
“It can be grown over time and with mastery of our craft,” Curatio said. “J’anda is working to grow that ability before we go into the battle, especially with our healers.”
“How does one … go about such a thing?” Cyrus asked.
Curatio sighed. “It would be difficult to explain to someone who has not cast spells before. Probably the easiest explanation is to say that we go about it very much the same as you go about building muscle with which to swing your sword-repetition, effort, practice. Exercises can be done.”
Cyrus shrugged. “If you say so. Where is Aisling, then?” He waited for a response from either of them but got none. “Never mind. I forgot she doesn’t do well at being kept track of.”
Martaina gave him a slight smile as they made their way around some tents that had been brought by the Luukessians. As always, the army of Sanctuary seemed to prefer bedrolls for lighter travel and keeping the need for wagons to a minimum. Cyrus paused for a moment and stretched, taking his hand off Praelior. The lightheadedness came back, and he fought it, let it wash over him, tried to keep his bearings as it caused his head to dip and bob, as though he were floating in water. He let his hand return to Praelior and the feeling subsided.
“Perhaps we should begin to walk back to the wagon?” Martaina suggested. Cyrus turned to look at Curatio, but the healer was quiet.
“Not yet,” Cyrus said. He felt a strange call within him, a hollowness and a need coupled together that were like an itch beneath his skin. “I need to bathe. I can no longer stand the smell of myself or of the wagon.”
Martaina raised an eyebrow at him. “You can barely stand without the aid of your sword. Are you certain that this is the proper moment to go searching for somewhere to wash yourself?”
“It’s either that or I go out of my skull from the stink,” Cyrus said. “I’m rather amazed that the two of you can even tolerate being within a hundred feet of me; I know how well attuned elven senses are.”
“You get used to it after a while,” Martaina said with a slight smile. “You haven’t descended to the depths I’ve come to expect from most dark elven men, so I wouldn’t worry about it yet.”
“I’m not worried for your sake,” Cyrus said, “I can hardly stand it for mine. I’ve been in battles where I’ve been covered in blood and smell less offensive than now. All I want is a bath; where can I go to immerse myself in water?”
Martaina exchanged a look with Curatio, who shrugged. “There’s a river a quarter of a mile away. I doubt you’ll be able to walk there under your own power.”
“I can,” he said. “I will. I’ll be fine so long as I have my sword in hand.”
“I do hope you’re talking about your blade and not-” Martaina gave him a crooked smile.
“Thank you for that,” he said dryly. “Let me walk for a bit, get used to my legs beneath me again. If I’m not back by nightfall, I’m sure you’ll come looking for me.”
“You were assassinated a mere three weeks ago,” Martaina said, “and that was hardly the first attempt. Are you certain you want to go about without guard?”
Cyrus shrugged. “You can follow, I don’t care. Just let me test my strength.”
“If you’ve got this quite under control,” Curatio said to Martaina, “I have things to attend to before this day is done.”
“Yes, I suspect I can keep a dozen or two of Actaluere’s finest away from him if need be,” Martaina said, with a vague and dismissive wave. “He could probably take one or two more.”
Cyrus did not argue with her, instead pulling his hand off his hilt for another brief spell; the vertigo had lessened but muscle fatigue had set in.
“Very well then,” Curatio said and produced the most infinitesimal nod of the head, which reminded Cyrus of a bow for some reason. “I’ll inform Briyce Unger and Milos Tiernan that you’ll be ready to join their strategy talks tomorrow, if you’d like?”
“I’d like,” Cyrus said. “Very much so.”
With a final nod, Curatio turned, the hems of his white robes trailing behind him as the healer threaded his way behind a tent and out of sight. “He’s a worrier, that one,” Martaina said as he disappeared. “With good cause, obviously, but still a worrier.” She turned to fix him with a gaze, after a cool survey of the area around them. They were at the edge of the encampment now, and Cyrus could see the open fields, unspoilt by men as far as the eye could see. “So what’s this really about, this desire to bathe yourself? Because I have my suspicions.”
“Oh?” Cyrus asked. “And what are those?”
“More than mere curiosities, less than full-blooded accusations.”
“Yes, very clever,” he said, letting his legs carry him on. The river was obvious in the distance, a thin blue line cutting jagged strokes across the uneven, loping plain, the early fall grasses already turning a golden yellow. “Why don’t you go ahead and share your suspicions with me, so I’ll be better able to gauge the truth of them.”
Martaina snorted. “When it comes to assessing yourself, I suspect you are no more able to see the truth of things now than a titan would be capable of discerning the individual toes on a gnome’s foot.”
Cyrus didn’t pause, didn’t slow down, and in fact increased his stride. He felt a little stir of irritation to couple with the feeling already boiling inside him, that restless stir. “Oh? You think I’ve become myopic now?”
“I think you have. I think you’ve run from one pain into another, and now you’re just going for the sake of going because the alternative is too much to bear.” She said it matter-of-factly, and he listened for some insult or harshness, but it wasn’t there.
“What’s the alternative?” He kept his eyes on the river in the distance.
“To stand your ground and face the pain, the fear that’s crept over you of late.” That held accusation, he
