Curatio’s eyebrow twitched slightly higher. “Do you think they’ll succeed, General?”
The elf’s odd formality stirred Cyrus’s irritation. “Not if we’re careful, they won’t. But even a hundred men with no magic could wipe out an army ten times their size if they were to catch us sleeping.” Cyrus clutched the bread tighter. “We have a journey of several weeks across their territory. That’s a long while that they could cause us problems, and a very long time to maintain an all-hours watch, especially after a hard march every day.”
“Good practice,” Curatio said, taking a bite of the thick, hard crust of his bread. “After all, we are here to season our young and inexperienced recruits.”
“A march of several weeks, with the threat of attack hanging over us every hour of the day?” Cyrus looked at the bread in his hands and was suddenly no longer hungry. “That will season them, all right.” He stood, and looked over the stirring army. “I’d rather have peace from them, though, and stay at their inns, buy fresh food from their people, spread our gold around their realm on our march than seed their lands with sword and fire.” The sergeants of the army were shouting now, yelling their displeasure at the recruits, stirring them out of their stupors as the sound echoed down the shore.
“Aye,” Curatio said softly behind him as the the noise of the rousing army carried on, “always better to have peace than war. But in my experience, it’s not always a luxury we are afforded.”
It took another hour to get everyone fed and formed up to move. They reached the bridge after another hour’s walk, and took a break in the shade by the span. The stone bridge was wide enough to accommodate ten columns of their troops walking side by side. After the army was formed up again, Cyrus began the procession to lead them over. He kept his horse, Windrider, in front of the army, a few yards ahead of the rest of the mounted members of Sanctuary. The steady clip-clop of hooves against the stone of the bridge lulled him.
The sound of someone next to him jarred Cyrus, causing him to look up. As soon as he saw who it was, he relaxed. “You,” he said with a sigh.
“Me,” Aisling said. Her hair was white, flush against the navy skin it framed on her face and an exaggerated amount of cleavage was on display under her traveling cloak, which was open. Her usual leather armor was gone, replaced by a cloth garment of deepest red that hugged her belly and her upper body.
Cyrus stared at her, his expression in near-disbelief. “Are you wearing a bustier?”
Her eyebrows danced up and her lips pursed in a smile. “I’m surprised you know what that is.”
He looked away, shaking his head in annoyance. He hadn’t intended to give her any sort of encouragement. “My wife used to wear them.” He looked back, slightly uncomfortable. “From time to time.”
“Oh?” Her voice trilled in interest. “You were married?”
“A long time ago.” He turned his head to look at her, a little too much frost in his voice, even to him. “Try not to pretend you didn’t know.”
She shrugged expressively, exaggeratedly, and as though every bit of chill in his words had melted somewhere between the two of them. “I was just being polite. Of course I’ve heard the rumors about you being married. I’ve heard a great many rumors about you. But then, I’ve heard a few about myself as well and not always true, so I prefer to glean the fact of them directly from the source before I go believing something I hear in passing, no matter how good it sounds.”
Cyrus felt the breeze off the sea stir the hair under his helm and reached up to take the metal contraption off, securing it to a hook on his saddle. With that done, he ran his hand through his hair, felt the slight sweat that had developed on his forehead, and wiped it onto the sleeve that stuck out of his gauntlet. Once done, he looked back to Aisling, who still rode next to him, watching him, almost expectantly. “And what rumors would you have me dispel?”
“Just one,” she said, but the slyness and her smile were gone, replaced by something else: an almost primal hunger, as though she were thirsty and waiting for a single drop of water to fall upon her tongue.
“Just one?” He looked back at her. “Then what? You’ll ride back into the line and trouble me no more?”
“For today, yes.” The hunger on her face grew, an insatiable curiosity. “I make no promises about tomorrow.”
“Ask your question, then.” He felt his hands on the reins, on the leather, felt them squeeze tightly against the dry material that lined the inside of his gauntlets, felt the hint of perspiration on his palms. “Ask and then be gone.”
“Is it true …” She started and then stopped, but the desire had grown in her eyes. “Is it true that you and Vara …?” She didn’t finish, as though she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. “I mean, in Termina you were together, but I heard … it was rumored …”
“It’s true,” he said, bowing his head, feeling the despair overwhelm his desire to snap back at her, to growl, to tell her to ride off the edge of the bridge. “It’s all true.” He twisted his neck to look at her. “Now say it and be done.” He spoke with no acrimony, his voice was dry and hollow.
“Say what?” She looked at him, and all the emotion he had seen writ upon her face was gone, replaced by a slight furrowing of the lines of her brow, a puckering of her full, purple lips.
“Whatever racy suggestion you’re going to throw my way,” Cyrus said, still wary. “Just say it. Get it over with.”
There was a subtle flicker in her eyes, and the curiosity washed from her face, replaced by something else-
Cyrus rode on. The bridge stretched before him as far as he could see-and so did his pain.
Chapter 4
The days ran together, one upon another, until all Cyrus could remember was the bridge, the endless grey stone that went on infinitely into the distance. On either side the waters were blue, and a cool breeze ran through the cracks in his armor, keeping the heat of the sun at bay. By the end of the third day, Cyrus imagined throwing himself over the side into the water below, letting his armor drag him down, down to the bottom of the sea, letting his boots sink into the sand, the water rush into his lungs, drowning all his despair along with him …
The conjured bread grew old by the fourth day, and Cyrus was sick of chewing it, the light airy flavor turning to nothing but mush in his mouth. The conjured water was even worse, less satisfying somehow. Without wood to burn, they slept without fires at night. The only flame available to them was that conjured by wizard and druid, and there were only five of those. Three times a day, long lines were cast over the edge of the bridge and fish were caught, but it was a paltry amount, enough to feed but a few and as flavorless as the bread.
The others steered clear of Cyrus, as though they could sense his foul mood, save for Aisling and Curatio, each of whom made at least one attempt per day to speak with him. Curatio’s efforts were squarely in the realm of morale, of worry about the army’s waning enthusiasm as the journey across the bridge dragged on. Cyrus spoke in a perfunctory manner, and at the beginning and end of each day attempted to deliver a somewhat motivational speech urging them onward, mentioning that green lands and fresh meat were somewhere over the horizon.
His conversations with Aisling, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. The dark elf had taken to speaking with him in a cheery manner. Cyrus kept the acidity of his responses low, usually not deigning to answer rather than say something that might drive Aisling away. In something of an odd move for her, Aisling had steered well clear of any innuendo in speaking with him-a fact that by the fourth day was not lost on Cyrus.
“So you were born and raised in the Society of Arms in Reikonos?” she asked him.
Cyrus gripped Windrider’s reins tighter. He could feel the horse tense under him, and he ran his gauntlet along the side of the horse’s neck gently. “No. I was dropped off there at age six, after my mother died.”
