“How exciting,” Partus said without enthusiasm.
“While I do not believe we could spare the army Cyrus has called for,” Alaric said, “I believe sending a messenger-or two, as the case may be-would be both wise and prudent. Thus I am considering sending you,” he nodded to Andren, “and Mendicant, to deliver the message to Cyrus that help will not be arriving.”
“Well, won’t that be a fun message to deliver,” Andren muttered.
Mendicant straightened in his chair, and spoke, slowly. “I do not believe sending only two people to deliver that message would be wise.”
Alaric frowned. “Why not?”
“Because to get to Cyrus and the rest of the army,” Ryin said, “the messengers would have to travel through the Kingdom of Actaluere by themselves.”
“I thought you said that Actaluere was now allied with our army’s cause?” Erith asked, frowning. “Why would they deny our messengers free passage?”
“They wouldn’t,” Ryin said, speaking over Mendicant, “but you said Milos Tiernan was at the front with the army?” Mendicant nodded. “Did he leave Hoygraf in place along the route?” The goblin nodded again. “There’s your trouble; we ran afoul of this Baron Hoygraf on the journey in.”
“You didn’t think to mention this?” Vara asked, her irritation rising.
“We’ve been a little busy with our own problems here,” Ryin said calmly. “Far too busy for me to mention the prosaic details of our trip, especially unrelated as they were to the crisis we were experiencing as I left Luukessia.”
“So you presume that this … Hoygraf,” Alaric tested the word, as though he were tasting it and found he disliked it immensely, “would interrupt their passage out of some grudge?”
Mendicant’s gaze shot immediately to Ryin, who kept calm-and yet Vara saw the hint of unease within him. “Yes,” Ayend said, “if he caught a hint that we had messengers passing through-which he would-they would not make through his territory alive, even though the King of Actaluere is now allied with us.”
“What the hell did Cyrus do to him?” Vaste said, low, almost too low to be heard.
“As I heard it,” Partus said with a wide grin, ignoring the look of frozen horror on Ryin Ayend’s face, “he stormed the man’s castle, sacked the place, stabbed the man through the guts and left him to die-which he did not, by the way-then stole the man’s wife and proceeded to cuckold him.” Partus let a hearty guffaw. “I like your General. He’s got style.”
Vara felt the ice pump through her veins, freezing her expression at some bizarre in-between of shock and horror.
“So,” Erith said into the quiet around the table, where every face was split between looking at Vara or looking away to spare her shame, “he took the man’s wife and made her his lover? That does carry something of a sting.” She cast a sidelong glare at Ryin. “I suppose you thought we were too busy for you to mention that Cyrus was taking a taste of the local flavor? And a Baroness, no less.”
“Well,” Mendicant said, his voice coming back to him now in the quiet horror that no one else would speak into, “they had some sort of falling out, you see. The Baroness went back to her husband.” Vara felt the cold ratchet down a few notches. “Cyrus is sleeping with Aisling now.”
There was a dead calm, a quiet so unnatural as to border on the surreal. Vara felt no motion in her face at all, nothing in her head but a screaming void, an interminable desire to cry out but her mouth, strangely enough, stayed well shut, fortunately. She caught Ryin’s face covered out of the corner of her eye and saw Vaste bow his head. Erith tried to give her a smile of support but it was wasted. All that was there was what she saw, the screaming void in her head the loudest silence she’d ever known.
It was into that silence that Andren spoke at last. “Well done, Cyrus,” the healer said, his face a smile of grudging admiration. He looked at Vara and his grin faded. “Uh … I mean … how dare he not spend these last months pining for a woman who rejected him so harshly that he fled the continent afterward.” Andren turned to Alaric, faux outrage on the healer’s bearded face. “I thought you sent him there to fight, not f-”
“Enough.” Alaric was quiet this time, exhaustion seeping through every syllable. “This is no time for levity; our brethren are cut off from us, we remain surrounded. I have no time for petty concerns of who is sleeping with whom, outside of how it affects our lines of communication.” He bowed his head, helm still blocking the view of his eyes. “They will have to remain without assistance and without warning. I see no way to return a messenger to them.”
“If J’anda were still here,” Vaste said, “he would be able to. But none of our remaining enchanters are nearly skilled enough to pull off the illusory treachery it would take to cross that territory, nor would any of our rangers be a particularly good risk.”
“Then we remain on the same course as before,” Alaric said, sweeping his chair back and standing abruptly. “Ryin, organize quarters for our guest, Partus.”
Ryin blinked. “He’s staying?”
Erith’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “He’s staying?”
Vaste clapped his hands together in faux joy. “He’s staying? Oh goody, we can finally have that dwarven sleepover I’ve always dreamed of, the naughty one where the beard gets-”
“You stay away from me, you filthy beast,” Partus said, brow furrowed at Vaste. “I’ll have no part of what ever unnatural plans you’re making with me at the center of them.”
“Can we please come back to why he’s staying?” Erith asked in a hoarse voice. “Sending a wizard or druid to deliver him to Fertiss or wherever he wants to go seems a small price to pay for not having to deal with him anymore.”
“I don’t care to spare anyone at the moment,” Alaric said quietly, and drew up to his full height. “He is our guest until the next time we send out a druid or wizard to somewhere suitably civilized. Until then, he can stay with us.”
“Well,” Partus said, as though trying to reconcile what he was hearing, “surely being under embargo as you are, you’ll be needing to send someone to gather a daily ration of food from a major city-Pharesia, Reikonos-any of them will do.”
“Actually, we’re stealing our food from convoys that the dark elves have purloined from local farmers,” Vaste said. “It’s all very efficient, and saves us from having to-you know, being a former member of Goliath and thus well versed in all manner of banditry-
“So,” Partus said, “you could drop me off on one of your raiding expeditions. I could cross the Plains of Perdamun on horse.”
“Do you have a horse?” Alaric asked-
“Well, no-”
“You could always walk your way across the Plains of Perdamun,” Vaste suggested in an oh-so-helpful tone. “After all, they’re only swarming with dark elves at the moment. I’m sure they’d love to have a conversation with such a charming fellow as yourself.”
Partus’s face fell. “I … uh … don’t really think I’m on very good terms with the dark elves. I wouldn’t care to run across them. Are you certain you couldn’t lend me a horse?”
“I’m afraid we’re rather in need of all the horses we have at the moment,” Alaric said smugly. “But worry not, I’m certain we’ll have a wizard heading toward a safe city in the next six months or so.”
Vara watched him carefully and tried to guess at his game; as usual, the man they dubbed the Ghost was beyond explanation.
“That seems to be enough for now,” Alaric said, and his armor began to fade. He turned insubstantial, into the faint fog, and rolled under the door to the stairs, disappearing faster than he usually did.
“A houseguest,” Vaste said, now sarcastic. “I couldn’t be more thrilled! I’ll bring you the good linens, the ones with small pebbles crushed into them for your comfort and our amusement.”
“If you’ll come with me,” Ryin said, gesturing to Partus, “we’ll find you some accomodations.”
“The dungeons have some particularly lovely quarters,” Erith suggested. “Put him in the one next to the rock giant.”
“You have a rock giant, too?” Partus asked. “Gods, do you have anyone normal?”
Vara didn’t wait for the repartee nor any sort of reply; she was out the door and going, her feet heavy on
