“They say you have died before,” Cattrine said. “I have heard the tales that western priests hold the power to return life.”
“Some do.” Cyrus nodded toward Curatio, who sat at the next fire, his back to them, staring into the flames. “He does. But only for an hour after death, and only when the death was caused by battle, or injury-he can’t heal natural illnesses, like fever or sickness.”
“What does it feel like … to die?”
“Depends on how you go about it. I’ve never enjoyed the sensation any of the times I’ve died, from what of it I remember. Coming back might be worse but better than the alternative, I suppose. Makes you sick,” he said in answer to her unasked question. “Powerful nausea, an ill feeling that settles in your stomach, and you come back weak, like you’re sitting on the edge of slipping back into death at any moment and a good sneeze will carry you back to the other side.”
“Is it … does knowing you won’t die … not forever, anyway,” she halted, trying to find her words, “is that where you get your fearlessness?”
“I’m not fearless,” he said. “Not exactly. I just don’t scare easily. They taught me in the Society of Arms how to bury the fear, how to master it. The natural instinct is to run from that which you fear. That doesn’t work for a warrior, we’re supposed to take the hits without flinching, to commit to battle so hard that our opponents back away knowing they’ll have to stand toe to toe with our fury in order to best us. That doesn’t work when you’re afraid all the time.” He looked away. “So they taught us that any time you fear something, you come at it with all your strength-not stupidly, mind you, but to attack it-and almost always that thing you were afraid of turns out to not be so bad. Because fear’s not tolerated in a warrior, not in the Society of Arms.” He took a deep breath. “Neither is running.”
“Could you teach me?” She sat next to him, and he could scarcely hear her breathe. “Could you teach me to be as fearless as you? Because I …” She looked away, and he could feel the vulnerability within her, at the surface, and he wanted to reach out, to touch her shoulder, but refrained. “I am afraid all the time. It kept me in a place I hated, kept me prisoner to a man who hurt me, and made me …” she swallowed heavily, “… made me come to you, offer myself to you without even knowing you, just to hold on to what little I had.” She turned back to him and straightened. “I don’t wish to be afraid anymore. I want to go to this new life-whatever it turns out to be- because I want it, not because I want to run away from what I had.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I learned most of it in an arena-the place where they put us from the time we were kids, where we’d fight day in and day out.” As he spoke he could feel the sands around his bare feet, as though he were there. “They started us from a young age, and you learn to revel in it.” He thought about it for a moment. “Or hate it. Some came to truly hate it. They didn’t last. Either way, I don’t think that you necessarily need to fight in order to banish your fear. You lived under the thumb of a man who was so far beyond cruel as to defy any explanation. I’m certain it was difficult for you, to feel … trapped, that way. I have felt … similarly before.”
“Oh?” She was next to him, closer now, and he could feel the warmth of the fire, mixed with his life’s blood coursing through his veins, reminding him that he was alive, and that she was a woman who had offered herself to him in ways that he wanted, needed. “I find it hard to believe that a man such as you could have felt that way.”
“It’s true,” he said. “Long ago, I was on my own for many years, without anyone to turn to or to trust.” He felt his face harden as the bitter pangs came back to him. “I … I’m sorry.” Emotions, strange, similar, crippling in their own way, washed over him and he stopped talking for a beat. “I …”
“What?” He felt her at his arm, her hand resting upon the plate of his shoulder. “What is it?”
He swallowed heavily. “I think … I have come to the point of sleep, for the night. I suspect tomorrow will be a long day.”
He felt her freeze against his side, and slowly her hand withdrew. “I see.”
“If you’ll excuse me …” He stood and looked down at her, saw the regret behind the eyes as her hand came to rest on her lap, slow, like a snake coiling back up, and she smiled but not sincerely.
“I should turn in as well.” Her smile faded. “I’ve lost my appetite for conversation anyway.”
“I apologize,” Cyrus said with a deep bow. “Perhaps someday I’ll continue my story, but it’s something I haven’t spoken of …” he thought back, tried to remember his time with Imina, and realized he had never told her either. “Ever. Not ever.” He forced a smile-a thin, tight one. “Forgive me, madam.” He bowed again and went to his bedroll, still bound up by its cord. He untied it and spread it across the ground by the fire.
“I understand,” the Baroness said, getting to her feet. “What I told you, about what the Baron did to me-I’ve never told a soul that. Some of his acts were seen, obviously, others not. But even those that know, I never … confessed or made mention of because to do so would seem to make it … more real, I suppose. There are other things, varied and horrific, that I would not wish to speak of, not ever.” She held herself up, and Cyrus saw her wither in the light. “Little venoms that I will keep in my soul until the day I die.” She straightened. “Should the day ever come that you wish to expunge yours, I would willingly listen. And perhaps,” she licked her lips, “trade you for a few of my own, that it might lessen the sting of them.”
“Perhaps.” Cyrus stood next to his bedroll, staring at the woman before him-so close to broken, yet so unbowed. He marveled at her and felt the crass urge to take hold of her, to kiss her-“Good night,” he forced himself to say. “I will see you upon the morrow.”
“Good night,” she said, and turned to leave him. She took a few paces and stopped, turning back. “Why?”
He had already begun to lie down, and paused, crouched on one knee. “Why what?”
“You were married,” she said. “You had this Vara, whom by all accounts you loved, and yet you never told anyone of these dark days in which you felt alone and desperate and had no one to trust?” She seemed unsteady, as though afraid to overstep her bounds, afraid of his reaction. “You have friends, and people who respect and admire you. Yet in all these people, in all your closest confidants, you found no one you could speak of this to?”
Cyrus felt his mouth go dry, and his head took on a slow spin. He took a sharp intake of breath and felt the sting of what she said, yet curiously he felt no anger or resentment for broaching the question. “There are some who know, but not because I told them,” he said at last. “And much like yourself,” he lied, “perhaps I didn’t want to speak of it as it would become … real to me. I have long said that things past are best left there. They are done, why give them new life by speaking of them?” He tried to smile but failed and knew it, so instead he lay down on his bedroll and stared straight up, into the sky and the few stars he could see beyond the light given off by the hundred fires around him. After a few moments, he heard the Baroness’s steps pick up and fade as she walked away.
Chapter 14
They had nearly reached the castle by midday next, when the sun was hot overhead and the feeling of spring had subsided and been replaced by the sensation of early summer. Cyrus felt the rays of the sun heating his armor and him within it, causing him to sweat, and wondered if this were what pottery in a kiln felt like. The smell of horses was especially heavy, and the conversation from the ranks of the army behind him was louder, more boisterous, now that the months of travel had come to a close and their destination was in sight.
The last taste of the conjured bread was still with him as Cyrus felt a crumb fall out of his beard.
The castle Vernadam was close on the horizon, and Cyrus could tell it was bigger than any castle he could recall ever seeing. Though perhaps not as tall as the Citadel in Reikonos, it was quite large, easily larger than the sprawling monstrosity of a palace in the elven capital of Pharesia. The castle itself was built on a steep hill, using
