“I don't get it,” Cyrus admitted. “So Curatio taught Vaste some spells. What's the problem?”
Niamh's words came out in a low hiss that gained volume until it turned into a shriek of outrage. “By doing that they've risked making us all HERETICS!” The last word came out as a curse and her eyes blazed as she looked at each of them in turn. “A healer's training, through the Leagues, is supposed to take ten years! Ten years to master spellcasting whether it's druid, enchanter, healer... you cannot tell me you've instructed him in...”
“About six weeks?” Curatio said. “I did. He received the rudimentary training at the Healer's Union in Fertiss, but his instruction was very basic and they kicked him out after a year because he's a troll. I filled in the blanks. He was hardly a master, but after I finished I would have put him against anyone who spent the ten years in the 'complete' training.”
Cyrus looked around the table. “I know I'm not well versed in magic since I don't use it, but I can't help but feel there are things that some of you know,” he nodded to Vaste and Curatio, “that others of us don't.”
“That's because,” Niamh replied, her words suffused with righteous indignation, “everything they're discussing is the stuff of heresy, the kind of things that could bring the full weight of the Leagues upon you. You know what heretics have in common? They aren't just hunted in the kingdom they've committed the crime in, they're hunted in all Arkaria by every power; the Leagues see to that.”
“Like the Wanderer's Brotherhood and the Healer's Union?” Cyrus asked, uncertain.
“Yes, but as a group they're referred to as the Leagues.” Niamh's fury had died down only slightly. Her complexion still struggled to dominate the red of her hair, coming damnably close. “They train paladins, dark knights, enchanters, druids... all of us.”
Alaric broke his silence. “This discussion is unprofitable for us, friends. We will consider the possibility of training additional healers in the resurrection spell later. At the moment, we have Reikonos to deal with –”
A knock interrupted them and Nyad, face gray, opened the door and carried forth two envelopes to Alaric. Without another word, she left and the Ghost stared at each in turn.
“You're not going to open them?” Terian asked.
“I know what they say.” Alaric's hand moved from his mouth to his forehead and began to massage his temples. His other hand reached down and slid one of the letters to Curatio and the other down the table to Terian. “Be my guest.”
The room was quiet as the letters were read. “It's a summons to appear before the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar to answer for the crime of robbery and treason.” Terian looked around the table. “It's addressed to me and J'anda.”
“The other is a notice to appear before the Elf King,” Curatio said as he refolded the letter and placed it back into the envelope. “It names all of Sanctuary.”
“They will seek monetary recompense for the lost shipments,” Alaric said. “I expect that in light of the fact that we do not have the financial resources to make restitution they will resort to sanctions.”
“I would have expected them to employ the death penalty,” Vaste muttered darkly.
“In the case of the Sovereign of Saekaj, I wouldn't rule it out,” Terian said without enthusiasm.
J'anda looked at him with curiosity. “I thought he was gone?”
“He's back,” Terian replied, looking like a child submitting himself for punishment. Looking around the table, he answered the unspoken question. “The Sovereign led the dark elves into the last war, a hundred years ago, which we lost. He... recused himself for a while. All governance was through a tribunal, but as of a few weeks ago... he's back.” Terian took a deep breath. “And he's not a merciful Sovereign.”
“Who is he?” Alaric asked.
Terian grunted but said nothing. J'anda answered for him after casting a sidelong look at the dark knight. “It's not anyone you'd have met.”
“But perhaps someone we've heard of,” Alaric said.
“Perhaps. It is not my place to say.” J'anda's face was inscrutable.
Cyrus buried his face in his palms. “Are there... any... of you at this table that aren't keeping secrets?” Frustration edged into his voice.
Vaste raised his hand. “I don't think I have anything to hide, so no.”
Cyrus's head swiveled to fix on the troll. “So how did you find me in the Mountains of Nartanis? And how did you know what the specter did to me in the Realm of Darkness?”
“I stand corrected.”
“Now, now,” Alaric said, “think how boring life would be if you knew everything?”
“Speak for yourself,” Vara said. “I know everything and am rarely bored hanging around with you lot.”
“Let us focus on what must be done,” Alaric said. “Terian, J'anda, you will stand before the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar and present our defense.”
“Great,” Terian muttered.
“Curatio, you will take Nyad and speak with the King of the Elves in Pharesia,” Alaric said, turning to the wizened elf. Curatio nodded in acknowledgment. “Perhaps hearing from his youngest daughter that we have no involvement with these attacks will soften his resolve. Meanwhile, Cyrus and I will present our case before the Council of Twelve in Reikonos. I doubt it is coincidence that the hearings are set for the day after tomorrow. We have an Alliance meeting at the same time, so needless to say, that will not be attended unless Vara and Vaste would like to go in our stead...”
“No,” Vaste said in a tone of voice that offered no room for argument.
Vara smirked. “I think I'll do something more enjoyable, such as light my entire body on fire.”
“So long as you keep your personal pyrotechnic displays out of the common rooms,” Alaric replied without expression. “We have an opportunity to stem some very unfavorable consequences if we act properly. By presenting our case, we may buy the time necessary to uncover the real culprit.”
“What do we do when we find them?” Niamh asked, complexion returned to normal.
Alaric's eye narrowed. “They have slaughtered hundreds of guards and traders and are besmirching our honor. When we find them, they will be made to suffer consequences so great that they shall never ponder a course of action such as this ever again.”
“Oh,” Cyrus said. “I just assumed we would kill them.”
“That too.”
Chapter 13
On his way to dinner that evening, Cyrus ran across Andren in the foyer, drink in hand, skulking outside the doors to the Great Hall. After a nod of hello from the healer, Cyrus launched into the question that had been on his mind for hours. “Why didn't you ever learn the resurrection spell?” Cyrus looked at the elf in curiosity.
Andren shrugged. “Never bothered to go back to the Healer's Union to study it.”
The inner turmoil of his emotions over recent events overrode whatever tact Cyrus had. “There's a spell that can teach you how to master death and you never bothered to go back to learn it!?” The last words came out in a bitter scream, one that echoed in his ears long after their conversation had ended.
“It takes years!” Andren said in protest. “And the Healer's Union has a certain standard of conduct. For some reason,” he said with a shrug, “drinking is not allowed. So I'd have to give up ale for AT LEAST two years. I decided it wasn't worth it.”
Cyrus bit back the first response that came to his mind. Then the second. And third. “Your drinking,” Cyrus said in a hollow voice, “has gotten worse since Narstron died.” Cy looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. “I thought it was better when we were chasing the godly weapons and going after Ashan'agar, but it's gotten worse. And I don't know how it was the six months before that –”
“Because you were gone, yeah.” Andren flushed. “You were gone a fair sight before that, though, weren't you? Adventuring every day, morning 'til night – never asking me if I wanted to go along.”
“When you sleep until no
on, you miss out on things,” Cyrus said, an accusatory note creeping into his voice. “I'm not going to argue with you. It's your business; keep it under control.”
“It is under control!” Andren shouted, voice filling the foyer. Cyrus looked around to find that everyone was already either watching them or pretending not to. Andren noticed as well, and lowered his voice. “It is under control. I'm fine. I just don't want to go to the Healer's Union in Reikonos almost two millennia after I finished my training, all right?”
Cyrus frowned. “Why would you go to the one in Reikonos? Didn't you get your training in Pharesia?”
“Yeah, but that one's closed.” Andren dismissed it with a wave. “Point is, I don't want to do it.”
“Fine,” Cy nodded. “I might have an alternative. Could take less time too.”
“Sounds dodgy.”
“When have you ever cared how dodgy something was?”
“Good point.”
They filed into the Great Hall and Cyrus took his seat at the officers’ table after going through the line last with the other officers. “Bigger quarters, private bathrooms, but we have constant meetings and get the last pickings at supper.” He frowned at his plate. “Not sure if this officer thing is worth the tradeoffs.”
Niamh sat down beside him. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“I hope it's not a mutiny.” All the color drained from his face as her expression remained serious. “Please tell me it's not a mutiny. I know you were upset by the heretic talk in Council today –”
“It's not that,” she interrupted, “although I'm not pleased at the thought of being an outcast. It's something else. I meant to talk to you about it after the Darkness invasion, but we –”
“Found that convoy. So what is it?” She winced at him. “Uh oh. Out with it.”
“Well...” she began, struggling for words. “We have a new applicant. I'm afraid you're going to be upset.”
“Why?” Cyrus laughed. “He's not a troll, is he?”
“What's wrong with trolls?” Vaste rumbled from a few seats away.
“They're violent, ill-tempered, stupid and they smell like the chamberpot at the Reikonos Inn after meat pies are served.”
“I can't argue with any of that,” Vaste admitted and returned to eating.
Cy turned back to Niamh. “You know Vaste and I made our peace after our... excursion to the bandit lands. If you're looking at additional troll candidates that are as good as Vaste, I think we'll be fine.”
“No one is as good as me,” Vaste corrected.
“It's not a troll,” Niamh said with hesitation. “But you're on the right track. He is an outcast among his people.”
“We already have a troll, a rock giant... is it a titan?”
“No.”
“I don't know what I would have a problem with.” Cyrus's eyes narrowed. “Unless it's Orion.”
“It's not Orion. His name is Mendicant and he's a wizard. Which is unusual because magic is feared among his people.”
“Mendicant?” Cyrus shrugged and smiled. “I'll give anyone a fair chance, regardless of where they come from, Niamh. My experience with Vaste has taught me that much, and there's no other race that has wronged me as badly as the trolls have.” His smiled evaporated. “Unless... he's...”
“Yes.” She grimaced. “He's a goblin. I've known him for years and he's not like other goblins; he's been out of Enterra for a very long time.”
A long pause hung in the air. Cyrus looked away, caught up in the background noise of dinner in the Great Hall; plates clinking against silverware, voices raised in merriment. The smell of succulent cooked meat wafted through the air and Cyrus realized he hadn't touched his plate. “They don't know yet, do they?”
Niamh blinked, confused. “Know what?”
“About the trouble that's headed our way. The hearings.”
She looked out across the sea of their guildmates. “No, they don't. Alaric won't announce anything until after the hearings.”
Cyrus stared over them. “I remember my first day, when we had a fifth of the people we do now. I felt an army of that size could shake the foundations of Arkaria.” His smile faded. “Then Enterra came, and I wondered if any victory would ever matter again.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, eyes still scanning the crowd. “I predict a poor outcome for us in the hearings. And I don't know when we'll catch those responsible for the attacks, but I know that every day that passes between now and then, the likelihood grows that an army marches on the front gate of Sanctuary with violence in their hearts.” He looked back at her. “I don't care if your applicant is a goblin or an ant-man. If he's honorable enough for you to call him friend, I'll judge him on his actions.”
Niamh swallowed. Tension bled from her shoulders as she relaxed. “Thank you. I just wanted be sure in light of your recent...” She floundered, searching for the right word.
“Nightmares. I appreciate your concern but I have bigger worries than my nightmares right now. Dark days are coming, and when they arrive, people will leave.” Cyrus swept his gaze back over the crowd. “Soon I may wish for hundreds of goblins to fill the gaps left by those who chose to depart rather than face the trials with us.”
Chapter 14
“Do they have the power to disband us?” Cyrus asked Alaric. They were in a wooden box, pulled by a thick twine through a system of pulleys, making its way to the top of the Reikonos Citadel, the tallest building in Arkaria. The squeaking of the wood as the elevator climbed did nothing to soothe his nerves. The box was open on the sides save for a small rail, and as they passed each floor he caught a glimpse of the Confederation's bureaucrats going about their daily routines.
“No, but they believe they have the power to invade Sanctuary and kill us all, which might be worse,” Alaric replied, helm masking his expression.
“Only 'might be'?”
The Ghost shrugged as the pulley above them screeched. “Sanctuary is my purpose. For me, death would be preferable to losing the guild I have spent the days and years of my life building. For a new recruit being disbanded would be preferable. As always, it is a matter of perspective.”
“Indeed.” They reached the top floor and stepped out as the elevator box banged to a halt. A stone wall stood in front of them, obscuring their view of the rest of the floor. A sign mounted on it indicated the double doors on either side of the wall before them held their destination.
Alaric led the way through the double doors to their left, which were opened by two guards wearing a different coat of arms on their tabards than the Lyrus Guards. They were announced and Cyrus found his way into a circular chamber that was big enough to house combat in its center. Against the far wall sat the Council of Twelve, seated behind a long wooden stand that concealed them below the chest and elevated them above the rest of the chamber. A mixture of men and women peered down from the council bench, which was a rich, dark-stained wood.
A podium stood in the center of the floor before the council and had been the focus of their attention until Cyrus and Alaric entered. A gesture from the member of the Council seated in the center of the bench moved several of the guards into action. The speaker that held the floor took no notice that the focus had shifted from him and continued to drone on about the city water supply.
Two of the guards approached Cyrus and Alaric as they made their way through the rows of benches toward the rail separating the spectator seating from the open area with the podium where the speaker stood. “Good sirs,” the guard said in a polite tone, “I'll need your swords for the duration of the hearing. You may collect them on the first floor when you leave.”
Alaric chuckled. “Very well, but if I meant to assassinate the Council of Twelve I would hardly telegraph my intent by carrying a sword.”
The guard gave him a smile. “It's a concern when people receive unfavorable judgments.”
Alaric returned the guard's smile. “I'm already expecting one of
those, so it should not come as a great surprise or cause me undue rage. But as you wish.” The paladin reached down and handed his sword to the guard.
Cyrus grunted, almost in pain. A warrior of Bellarum never relinquished his weapon willingly.
“Let it go,” Alaric whispered. “If they intend mischief, we can fight them hand to hand.”
Cyrus reached into his belt and withdrew the scabbard, handing it to the guard without meeting his eyes. The guard stepped aside.
“Yes, yes,” came a raspy voice at the front of the chamber. “We get the gist of what you're suggesting.” The man in the center of the council table interrupted the speaker on the floor at the podium.
“But I have five more minutes!” came the protest.
“I am a man to whom time matters a great deal,” came the resigned voice of the chairman. “Five minutes or five hundred won't make a difference in your case,” the chairman concluded. “All in favor?” No hands were raised. “The nays have it, and thank you for bringing this to our attention.”
“But you haven't done anything about it!”
“Yes, but at least now we are aware of the problem, and perhaps we will explore it again at a later date. Thank you,” the Councilman said, dismissing the speaker.
Cyrus opened the gate of the railing for the retreating speaker, a small man with considerable years. “Better luck to you,” the little man said as he hobbled down the aisle.
“Will the representatives from Sanctuary come forward?” The chairman stared at them over rimmed lenses, something Cyrus had rarely seen. The chairman was at least sixty years of age, he estimated, and had jowls at either side of his mouth that shook when he spoke. Deep crimson robes flowed from a cowl that rested around his neck, a scrawl of symbols written around them.
Alaric halted Cyrus, whispering under his breath, “Do not underestimate this one based on his looks. He is one of the most fearsome wizards you could face and I suspect his influence extends far beyond the borders of the Human Confederation.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 11
