Crusader

moment. Who wants to be part of a guild that’s likely to be blockaded by dark elves at some point in the future?”

There was a stark silence. “I hate that you spoke of it, too,” Vaste said. “Because now I’m thinking about it, and I wish I weren’t.” The troll leaned his face into his hands, elbows on the table. “Can we not have … can we not mourn for just a small amount of time? Think of how many we’ve lost, how much battle we’ve seen …” He scanned the table, eyes coming to a rest on Cyrus. “I mean … some of you just watched an entire land-three whole Kingdoms-go down in flames.”

“Aye,” Longwell said, “and some of us will never forget it, not for the rest of our lives.”

No one spoke for a long time after that. When the silence was finally broken, it was Cyrus who did it. “We have a lot of survivors of Luukessia who have no homes and no place to go. We can feed them here for a time, but-” He shrugged. “I doubt they’d want to settle close by here. We seem to be a magnet for trouble of late. Especially of late.”

“I had an idea about that,” Longwell said, looking up. “As you may recall, in addition to being the King of a land now lost,” he said with a sharp taste of bitterness, “I am also a Lord of the Elven Kingdom with a very nice holding not far from a portal in a green, verdant, and unfarmed land.” He looked around the table. “I have spoken with some of the dragoon captains, and with a few leaders among the survivors. If I can secure King Danay’s permission, I will settle the survivors there on my land.” He looked to Nyad.

“He’ll likely consent, especially if you get them to pay taxes of some form,” Nyad said. “He’ll agree to just about anything if it increases his coffers right now. The destruction of Termina and the war have left them quite dry, I suspect.”

“I doubt your people have much in the way of money,” Cyrus said quietly.

“They do not,” Longwell said, “but I think I know of a way they might earn their keep, might add some value in a place that could grant them incomes.”

Cyrus watched the dragoon cannily. “Go on.”

“If you would care to have tens of thousands of new applicants to Sanctuary,” Longwell said, drawing the silence around him as surely as if he had slammed a sword into the table, “I believe we would be quite content to put our weapons to your service.”

Vaste rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I can see we’re going to move right past that mourning and on to the next conquest.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said. “We’ll mourn. But we need to focus on something other than grief before it chokes us to death.” He scanned the table. “Alaric believed that we of Sanctuary had a greater purpose than merely acquiring wealth and fighting enemies to take from them. He believed we were supposed to protect the helpless and give aid to those who need it.” He looked each of them in the eye in turn. “How might we give aid if we have no money to give it with?” He waited for an answer but found none. “We’ll go to Purgatory again with the new applicants from Luukessia. We’ll get them equipped, build our guild bank, get some coin dispersed among our people again to make up for this catastrophic year.” He held his head high when he spoke, though he didn’t feel it. I’ll protect Sanctuary, Alaric. I’ll do it however I have to. “We’ll rebuild, become what we were before but stronger. We just won an epic battle against the dark elves. That has to be worth something in the eyes of the people of Arkaria. That has to enhance our reputation at least some. We need to keep growing.” He felt his voice crack as he said the last. “It’s what Alaric would have wanted.”

Chapter 120

The Council broke in silence, some to their duties, some to their beds. Cyrus waited, though, head down at the table, hearing them file out one by one. There was a taste of bitterness in his mouth, an acid in the back of his throat that caused him to realize he had not eaten a substantive meal in a day or perhaps two. Yet I do not hunger. His mouth was parched, he realized, but he didn’t care.

“Cyrus,” Longwell said, and he blinked at the dragoon. “The first groups of survivors have begun to come through the portal. I wanted you to know.” He hesitated then looked across the table as though guilty of some crime, and Cyrus’s gaze followed his to where Vara sat, in her seat, still reclined, watching them both.

“Out with it,” Cyrus said, but Longwell hesitated, casting a look at Vara, uncertain. “Go on.”

“Cattrine is with them,” Longwell said. “I have … allocated her quarters here in Sanctuary for the night. I did not wish to overstep my bounds, but as she was of the royal family of Actaluere, it seemed … appropriate, somehow-”

“That’s fine,” Cyrus said, with a dismissive hand.

Longwell nodded slowly then stepped aside, walking out the door. Behind him, J’anda remained, as did Curatio. Vara was still in her seat, Cyrus noted, still looking quite weathered-and beautiful. Always beautiful, even when she’s been through hell. Her cheeks looked thinner, but when she looked at him in response to his stare, he did not look away afterward.

J’anda coughed. “I don’t mean to interrupt your long, meaningful look at each other, but I did want to …” he paused. “Well, I had to show someone.”

“Show someone what?” Vara said slowly, as though she were so tired that she were pushing the words out one syllable at a time.

“I stayed behind with the Luukessians on the beach when the cavalry teleported back here,” J’anda said. “Myself and one of the druids went back with a couple rangers, back to the site of the bridge destruction, to go underwater, to see if we could find anything.” He looked down, chagrined. “We used Nessalima’s light, as brightly as we could, and spells that allowed us to breathe underwater. We searched for two hours, shifted some of the rubble-”

“Did you find anything?” Cyrus cut him off, leaning forward. “Did you see-” He stopped, and felt the pressure build in the back of his throat.

“We found the bodies of more scourge than you would care to count,” J’anda said quietly. “And this.” He reached into his robes and pulled something out, something rounded, and set it upon the table with a thunk, right where it usually sat on the table next to its owner-

Alaric’s helm.

Cyrus sagged back into his seat, felt the weight of the thing, the true loss it represented. He stared at it, the empty eye slits staring back at him, accusing him- If only you had believed sooner. If only you had listened to me in Death’s Realm-

“Thank you,” Cyrus said in a choked voice, and J’anda nodded mournfully and shuffled toward the door. It shut quietly behind him, and Cyrus was left staring at the helm with Curatio, whose face was an iron mask of reserve mixed with regret, and Vara, whose lip actually quivered as she stared at it.

“Thus ends an era,” Curatio said softly, almost too low to be heard. He placed his hand on the top of the helm and ran his palm across it, closing his eyes and bowing his head for a moment as though he were praying. “So long, old friend,” he whispered, and then his long, weighted, shuffling steps were audible as he made his way across the floor of the Council Chambers and out the door. It shut just as quietly behind him.

“He is truly gone, then,” Vara said, drawing his eyes toward her. Hers were rooted on the helm, and she stared at it with a little horror before she squinted her eyes shut and lowered her head onto her hand.

“I think so,” Cyrus said. “He knew he wasn’t going to get away from it. He talked about making sacrifices for what you believe in, and he gave me this,” he realized with a start, reaching under his armor and pulling out the pendant. He looked at it in the light. The smooth edges felt strange to his naked palms, and he removed it and set it beside his gauntlet on the table.

“He was a Crusader to the last, then,” she said quietly. “Dying for the cause he believed in.”

“Yes,” Cyrus said. “Yes, he did.” But he did not look at her.

“Can we talk?” she asked, almost choking on her words as they came out. He looked at her in surprise. She watched him with greatest hesitation, even fear.

“I think … we are, right now.”

“I meant about us,” she said, voice no more than a mere whisper. He strained to hear her, watching her as she spoke.