Cyrus awoke after a fitful night of sleep. The Baron’s bed was massive, almost as big as Cyrus’s bed back at Sanctuary. This one was carved entirely of wood, however, and had four posts that reached the ceiling, with hanging curtains for some illusory privacy should someone else be in the room. There was a chill from where he had left the window open, a thin port that allowed blue sky to filter in from outside along with crisp morning air. Cyrus felt the heavy covers over him, soft cotton cloth that smelled of other people.
He rolled out of bed, felt the cold on his skin, and went rummaging for underclothes in a wooden dresser. The first drawer he opened presented him with women’s undergarments. “Oh,” Cyrus said after staring at them for a moment then shut the drawer. He walked across the room to the armoire on the other side and opened it to find male attire. He selected a cloth shirt and pants that he proceeded to stretch until he fit into them comfortably. Once finished, he began to strap on his armor.
Before placing his helm upon his head, he walked to the mirror and took a long look. His hair had grown long, long enough to place into a ponytail. His beard had also come in thick, black, and heavy. He sighed, thinking about how much more he had liked it when his face was bare and dismissed the thought. “I’ll shave again when I’m back home,” he said. “And not before.”
When he opened the door to the Baron’s quarters, he found Martaina outside with the same three guards. She didn’t look tired at all but stood stiff against the wall at attention. “Have you been out here all night?”
When he spoke, she seemed to stir, angling her head to look at him. “Of course. There was a concern that some of the Baron’s men had hidden away in the castle, and we couldn’t take a chance on them getting to you in the night.”
Cyrus felt a smile struggle out from beneath his stony facade. “Then … shouldn’t someone have been in the room with me?”
Martaina’s eyes flashed, and her jaw tightened. “I suggested as much, but Curatio believed that a thorough search of the room before you turned in was a good enough precaution.”
Cyrus suppressed a snicker. “Ranger, horse whisperer, master archer, guard-tell me, Martaina Proelius, is there anything you’re not proficient at?”
He watched the emotion fall off her face, little cracks of it, hiding behind a wall she built in the span of a second. “Very little,” she said with an emotionless smile. “Very little, indeed.”
“Did you manage to get all the valuables taken out of the Baron’s quarters last night when you swept through?” Cyrus gestured for Martaina to follow him, which she did.
“We found quite a few riches, yes,” she said, stepping shoulder to shoulder with him. Martaina was taller than most of the other women in Sanctuary, only slightly shorter than six feet tall. “I think we found most everything of value.”
“Consider taking some of the liquor if you’re into that sort of thing,” Cyrus said, feeling a slight ache behind his eyes. “I get the feeling it wasn’t cheap, any of it.”
“I’ll inform Terian. I think he would perhaps get more use out of it than any of the rest of us that are here.”
Cyrus smiled. “Because Andren isn’t here, you mean to say.”
“I mean to say.”
They emerged in the throne room to find it largely clear of people. Only a few souls lingered, engaged in quiet conversations. Cyrus passed through the entry doors to the courtyard, Martaina still at his side, and the sunlight caused him to blanch. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Nearing nine o’clock,” came the soft voice of J’anda Aimant. The enchanter sat on a wooden chair just outside the door, lounging in the shadow of the rampart over his head, his feet on another chair in front of him. “We assumed that since our General was unready to move forward, it might be safe to wait a while longer before hustling to be ready ourselves.” J’anda had a silver goblet in his hand and a bottle of wine was on the ground next to him, the cork removed. He took a drink from the goblet after holding it up in silent toast to Cyrus.
“I take it you’ve insured that the Baron’s wine cellar didn’t go unattended?” Cyrus asked.
“I only took a few choice vintages. With Longwell’s help, actually. I thought all humans spoke the same language, but these Luukessians have the most curious handwriting. It looks nothing like any of your words.”
“That’s because the writing of humans in Arkaria is based on the elvish alphabet,” Martaina said.
“Ah,” J’anda said after taking another light sip. “Now that you mention it, I never noticed before, but yes, I see it now. But your letters are so peculiar compared to theirs.”
“They have more than we do,” she replied. “So they had to have added some at some point.”
“Is the army ready to move?” Cyrus asked, looking between J’anda and Martaina.
“Soon,” J’anda said, unconcerned. “Curatio is in the dungeons, taking a final look around, and, if I’m not mistaken, examining our dear, soon-to-be-departed Baron.”
As if on cue, Cyrus heard a great outcry from somewhere inside, and there was a slamming of doors within the keep. A few people joined them in the courtyard, leaving the confines of the throne room behind. Cyrus heard loud footsteps within, and Curatio and Terian emerged, the dark knight looking strangely satisfied and the healer a bit flushed. “What was that?” Cyrus asked.
“The Baron still has some fight left in him,” Terian said. “He got very upset when Curatio tried to look at his wound, so I was forced to settle him down.”
Cyrus felt cool trepidation run through him. “How is he?”
Curatio sighed. “Not well. I suspect he has an infection, something I’m not able to cure. He appears feverish from a distance, but that could just be from the pain of having a large hole in his middle.”
“I know that’s the sort of thing that would tend to put me in a sour mood,” J’anda said, irony dripping from every syllable.
“Well, have him dragged out,” Cyrus said without emotion. “As cruel as I am, I don’t want to burn the man’s house with him still in it. We have a message for him to deliver, after all.” He turned away as Curatio gestured to two warriors standing near the entry to the throne room, motioning them back inside.
Cyrus walked out across the drawbridge and felt a slight current of air as he crossed the filthy water below. The army was present, for the most part, on the other side, but not assembled nor ordered at all. They stood about, in clumps of people, talking in subdued circles. Cyrus could see empty bottles strewn on the ground and suspected that the Baron’s wine cellar had been well and truly pillaged in the night. “I hope no one’s too hung over to march today,” he said as he passed a clump of soldiers. Laughter greeted his words even as he caught sight of a couple green faces in their midst.
Windrider waited with the other horses, already saddled. Cyrus approached him and ran an ungloved hand across his back, causing the horse to whinny at him. He brushed the back of Windrider’s neck and whispered to him before turning back to see Martaina staring at him from next to her own horse, an eyebrow raised. “He seems to understand me,” he explained, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“He does,” she said. “That one is the rarest breed I’ve ever seen. That’s not just an ordinary horse-or even just an exceptional one, for that matter. Where did you find him?”
“He’s Sanctuary’s horse,” Cyrus said. “I’ve been riding him since the first time I had need of a horse, as I recall.”
“Since the day Alaric paired you with him, you mean.” Cyrus turned his head to see Curatio already mounting his steed, a slight smile on his face.”
Cyrus frowned. “I suppose he did, at that. Anyway, I’ve always gone back to him since then.” He ran his hand through Windrider’s mane and was rewarded with the horse turning his head to brush against Cyrus.
“That’s quite a horse,” Martaina said, “I’d keep him close.”
Cyrus put a foot in the stirrup and climbed up. As he settled himself, he saw Odellan a few paces away. “Odellan,” Cyrus said, drawing the elf’s attention. “Did you stay out here all night?”
“No, sir,” Odellan said as his horse trotted over to stand next to Cyrus’s. “All of our soldiers slept behind the walls last night, myself included. We bunked in the barracks in shifts, so everyone got some time in a genuine bed.”
Cyrus shot a look at Martaina, who looked away innocently. “Well, almost everyone.” He looked beyond Odellan to where a few horse-drawn wagons were parked at the far edge of the army. “Is that our spoils?”
“Indeed,” Odellan said. “We’ve made out rather well. The injured prisoners we freed-including Calene-will be riding in the wagons the next few days. The six of them that were men seem to be holding up rather well. They were only beaten, after all. Calene and the other woman-Sinora is her name-are slightly worse for the wear.
