Crusader

“Oh gods,” Terian said in disgust. “Chamber pots? We’re to use chamber pots? Why not just stay with the army? At least I could walk away from the latrine.”

“We clean your quarters every morning, sir,” the steward asserted, seeming to make a slight recovery. “I assure you, we take the utmost pride in-”

“Cleaning my shite?” Terian asked, darkly amused. “I’m sure you do.” He took note of Cattrine, standing behind him and bowed in an exaggerated manner as he moved aside to allow her to pass. “A thousand pardons, my lady.”

“You’ll need a thousand and one, since you presumed to call me ‘your’ lady.” Cattrine stepped past him as though he were no longer there.

“I apologize,” Terian said, fake contrition oozing over his voice. “A thousand and one pardons to Lord Davidon’s bedchamber wench, I apologize for-”

She slapped him hard; whether it was because he did not see her attack coming or because he chose to let her hit him, Cyrus could not say.

Terian rubbed his jaw where her hand had landed, a slight smile on his face, the skin already deepening to a darker shade of blue. “Is that not considered to be violence in this place of peace?” Terian asked the steward.

“I saw no violence, sir,” the steward replied without emotion. “Even were it to happen again, I suspect I still would not see it as such. Enrant Monge is a place of peace, not a place of veiled insults or unkindness toward women.”

“Well, isn’t this a fine place to stay,” Terian said acidly. “Perhaps you’ll show me to my own room now, so that I may express my sentiments to my chamber pot.”

The steward led them on, and Cyrus saw Cattrine disappear behind the door of her room, giving one last look at him before she shuttered herself within.

Cyrus was the last to get his room, a floor above the Baroness’s, and not next to anyone but Terian, who had entered his own without comment. Cyrus found his accommodations small but did not complain nor say anything but a brief thanks to the steward, who closed the door and left Cyrus in his room.

Cyrus stared at the walls, the small, rectangular space reminding him of the dungeon room he had taken for a brief time at Sanctuary over a year ago. With a sigh and some reluctance, he began by unstrapping his belt, grasping the scabbard of Praelior, holding it in his hands while he studied it. Avenger’s Rest, he thought, remembering the name of the scabbard. I just came from a month of rest, and already I am weary again.

He placed the sword with care upon the bed then eased himself down on the frame, careful to not land too heavily upon it for fear of breaking it. I find myself again rampant with desire. He removed his helm and laid it upon a nearby table. I had a month of free expression of that as well; after such a long time of lacking, it now feels strange to go without the touch of a woman. He grimaced, feeling his desire blossom inadvertantly once more. This needs to stop if I’m to be attired in cloth during my stay here, lest my embarrassment become a constant.

He tugged at his boot, felt the first of them give, sliding around his heel and off, as he set it upon the stone floor with a quiet clang. I could have been back at Sanctuary now. Back among the others … Vaste, Andren … Alaric. The Guildmaster’s name brought a slight tremor of unease; he remembered Alaric’s anger, his rage at Cyrus, the night before they had left. How is it that I can take wrath and anger from creatures as tall as a building that want to kill me-from a god, enraged, ready to smite me-but that of a man smaller than I, a simple paladin and Guildmaster, terrifies me? He felt a burning heat under his collar and slid the gloves from his hands, one by one, placing them upon the dresser. All he did was raise his voice, and I cowered before him, as though I were a child again, listening to the thundercrack of my father’s voice. Cyrus paused. I don’t even remember my father’s voice.

He worked loose the pauldrons from his shoulders, and laid them at the foot of the bed. We killed a god. I had saved Vara. It was a moment of triumph, and he … merely yelled at me. Cyrus slid off his vambraces, one at a time, working them free to expose the sleeves of his undershirt. He tossed them upon the bed next to the pauldrons. I had scarcely thought of that, since five minutes later I was neatly gutted and tossed aside by Vara but … that might prove tense, if Alaric is still upset with me when I return.

His eyes ran across the room, searching for something familiar but finding only his own armor and darkened surroundings, the single portal window shedding light. It’s been months now, doubtless he’ll have forgotten whatever irritation he held for me by the time I return. He was fine, after all, when we spoke a few minutes later. He even rallied the army for me to take along. Cyrus’s greaves came off and slid down, and he laid them at the foot of the bed on the stone floor, careful not to let them drop for fear of the awful clangor they would make when they hit.

What awaits me at Sanctuary when I return? Possibly a still-angry Guildmaster. A woman who has rejected my advances, who has rejected me … He stopped and pictured her, Vara, as he had seen her once in the garden behind Sanctuary on a sunny day, her hair glowing in the light. He felt the stab again. She is unlikely to have changed her mind; she is more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met. He unfastened his breastplate and backplate, and took them off, lowering them to rest on top of his greaves. So I’ll have at least her to contend with. A light blanket of misery settled upon him. Which might not be so bad, save for the fact that … He rubbed his eyes, as though by blotting out the world he could change it to suit his liking. … I don’t know that I feel any differently about her than I did when I left.

Cyrus lifted his chainmail over his head in a single motion, slipping it off and depositing it with the other armor he had left on the bed. He paused, noting a few new holes in the links where blades had slipped through since he’d last had it mended, and shook his head. All this heavy armor and I’m still vulnerable to all manner of attacks. He smiled ruefully. Perhaps the secret is to not get hit. That might be a better solution than armor. But I suppose it’s rather like not falling in love-and he felt the searing pain of Vara and now Cattrine-if only it were possible to prevent.

He looked at the full-length mirror in the corner, at the stained and messy cloth undershirt and sighed. What the hell am I supposed to wear to this ceremony? His eyes fell upon the dresser, a tall armoire next to it. He opened the dresser first, finding cloth shirts within of varying sizes, even one large enough to fit him, and then pants as well, with laces for the front.

Upon opening the armoir he blinked. Long robes of green cloth occupied the interior, the same style and cut as had been worn by the stewards that had greeted them upon arrival, but the green was far deeper and more lively than the dull grey worn by the brethren who seemed to maintain the castle. Cyrus wondered at them, at their origin. Do they come from one of the Kingdoms? Or are they set apart and stay here? I should ask Cattrine- The thought cropped into his mind before he could quell it, a remnant of the month they had spent together at Vernadam. He felt the bitterness of the thought; it had occurred to him infrequently on the journey, creeping up on him when he least expected it, when he forgot the argument, forgot her betrayal.

A gonging in the hallway drew his attention as he finished slipping into the robe. It fit over his head, thick and heavy like burlap, and his new underclothes protected him from the roughness of the cloth. He glanced into the bottom of the armoire where several sizes of boots awaited, and he immediately knew that all of them were far too small for his needs. He sighed and tried on the largest of them, stopping once he had crammed his foot far enough in to know they would never fit. He replaced the footcovers he wore under his boots instead and made his way out of the room.

Cyrus found the others milling about in the hallway, down the spiral of the stairs, and the deep, resonant gonging continued, ringing forth once every thirty seconds as the tower continued to empty. Cyrus led the way, finding Curatio and J’anda still in their own robes. Longwell and Terian had similarly changed into garb resembling his. Longwell appeared to be at peace with his robes while Terian fussed at his, muttering mild curses in the dark elven language that Cyrus knew only because of how foul they were.

Cattrine waited on the landing below, still clad in her riding outfit. The others followed Cyrus, and when he paused to acknowledge her, looking her riding outfit up and down with a flick of his eyes, she spoke. “Women don’t wear the robes of the brethren.” She drew up and folded her arms. “Women are to be clad in dresses at all times and not to adopt the accouterments of men.” He raised an eyebrow at her, letting the unasked question