Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Ah, you’re back.” Cyrus turned to see Vara sitting upon the couch, Kahlee Lepos across from her, the two seemingly engaged in a quiet conversation before he and Aisling had appeared.

  “And you as well,” Cyrus said expectantly, though Vara’s eyes widened as she looked from Cyrus to Aisling. She looked almost insulted, but the disquiet died in an instant on her lips. “How did it go?”

  “We have what we needed,” Vara said, a little less energetically than was normal for her. “I have sent a messenger to Lady Voryn already, and I suspect we will have an answer back from her within the day.” She looked from Cyrus to Aisling. “And for you?”

  “Frost is a prick,” Aisling said, before Cyrus could speak, “but he laid out a way to remove the Confederation from your path.”

  Vara’s gaze flicked to Cyrus. “Is this true?”

  “It is,” Cyrus said, nodding slowly, ignoring Aisling’s rolled eyes at his side. “All of it. Frost suggests that the Governors of the Southern Reaches and Riverlands are ripe for withdrawal from the Confederation, and that ninety percent of the army around Reikonos is theirs and will return when called.”

  Vara’s eyes narrowed. “Then why do they not simply return home?”

  “They surely fear Pretnam Urides, yes?” Kahlee asked, stepping up into the conversation. When Vara looked at her curiously, she went on. “He has such ties to the Leagues in Reikonos, I’ve heard it said he might even run them from far, far behind the scenes.”

  “Alaric once told me he’s tied to it all, but I’m not sure how deep,” Cyrus said, nodding. “It’s a mystery to me how the Leagues operate, and who exactly is in charge. I mean, we know they’re tied to the gods somehow, but they’re somewhat shadowy in how they do things—”

  “That is not so,” Vara said, shaking her head. “I mean, each League, in and of itself, has a master, as I’m sure your Society of Arms did—”

  “Yes, but the Society of Arms had its strings pulled from without,” Cyrus said. “Recall, they were handed me, and after I made it through their gauntlet of near-death, they wanted me to languish in poverty, with not one guild to pick me up. Those dictates came from somewhere.” His jaw tightened. “And that somewhere is the top of the Leagues, I suspect.”

  “They’re our shadowy opposites, then,” Kahlee said quietly. “For in Saekaj, the Leagues were run by their heads, as Vara said, and then reported to Yartraak. Presumably there is some similar conduit between the patron gods of the Elven Kingdom, the Human Confederation, and the dwarves and gnomes.”

  “But the dwarves and gnomes aren’t coming after us,” Cyrus said.

  “Yet,” Aisling interjected, a little harshly.

  “Does that mean that their leadership is less predisposed to get in a fight?” Cyrus asked, thinking out loud. “Or that their ‘patron’ gods are less invested in seeing us knocked flat?”

  “Well, I don’t think Vidara is much invested in seeing us ‘knocked flat,’ as you put it,” Vara said with undisguised sarcasm. “My bet would be on Danay pushing the issue in the Kingdom because of his grudge with us.”

  “Which means perhaps Pretnam Urides is pushing the Confederation, perhaps for much the same reason,” Cyrus said, nodding.

  “Urides was not as personally motivated to see to our downfall,” Vara said. “We’ve not killed any of his children.”

  “That you know of,” Aisling said with a cocked eyebrow of amusement.

  “I don’t believe he has any,” Kahlee said.

  “Whatever the case, motives be damned at the moment,” Vara said. “If this Governor Frost has opened up a path to removing the Confederation from our plate of troubles, I say bravo. If we can sweep clean the Confederation and the Kingdom from coming after us, it is unlikely to spur the gnomes or dwarves to come make trouble. That will leave us with only Amarath’s Raiders and Goliath to contend with.”

  “And whoever is pulling the strings at the Leagues, whether here on Arkaria or up in the realms,” Cyrus said. “Lest we forget, Amarath’s Raiders and Goliath are still no pushovers.”

  “But without enormous armies to help back them up, they are less of a threat, especially if it came to a siege,” Kahlee said. “Why, with Goliath and the Raiders as your only foes, our little alliance might be able to stop them.”

  Cyrus frowned. “I question that. Goliath and the Raiders are highly trained, and the dark elven army is … well, it’s very inexperienced. And while I respect the skill of the Luukessians and their dragoons, Malpravus has proven he can stop them cold.”

  “Still, we move closer to our goals,” Vara said, looking straight at him. The tower smelled of cold air now, as though Cyrus had brought the winds of Isselhelm with him in the return spell. “You’re going to need to write to Morianza Yemer again, and soon. Tonight, if possible.”

  “If you do it now, we can take the letter with us and have it brought to Cattrine for delivery in the Kingdom,” Kahlee said.

  Pain struck Cyrus’s chest, almost as though he had received a spear to the heart. “All right,” he said at last. He glanced at the desk in the corner. “I just …” He sighed. “I wrote to him before. There was no reply.”

  “What did you say?” Kahlee asked.

  “I requested a meeting,” Cyrus said tightly. “I kept it formal.”

  “That’s the entirely wrong tack,” Vara said, staring at him as though he were bereft of brain. “Did you even acknowledge his son in the missive?”

  “No,” Cyrus said, swallowing heavily. “I didn’t think I … I didn’t know how to broach it.”

  “You don’t know how to write to a man to talk about his son dying?” Aisling asked, deadpan. “Don’t they teach that in the Society of Arms?”

  “I doubt they teach it anywhere,” Cyrus said, walking the short distance to the desk. The quill and inkwell loomed on the flat, golden-wood top of the desk, and he pulled a spare length of parchment out of the drawer, listening to the squeak as he shut it.

  “Would you like some help?” Vara asked, easing up behind him. “This is necessary. Whatever you write, it has to capture his attention. Perhaps we should—”

  “I think … it’s best if I write this myself,” Cyrus said, staring at the blank page before him, wondering what he could possibly put upon it with quill and ink that could express everything he felt roiling in that hole in his center. Odellan was one of the bravest men I have ever met, and if not for trying to save me from my foolishness, he might still be alive, and Sanctuary might still be whole.

  The thought stung, a bitter slap to the face harder than the wind in Isselhelm. He turned to Vara, standing behind him, and then looked past her to Kahlee and Aisling. “Would you mind … waiting out on the balcony?”

  It was Vara’s turn to raise her eyebrow. “Two of us have seen you naked, yet you object to us witnessing you drafting a letter?”

  Cyrus’s face reddened. “I … I know it sounds ridiculous, but … I feel like I need to be alone for this.”

  His wife stared down at him, looking as though she wanted to argue. Behind her, out the balcony door, the sun was sliding lower in the sky; in a few hours it would set. “Very well,” Vara said after the determination to argue seemed to have passed. “Ladies … perhaps we can watch the empty sky for a time.”

  Cyrus listened to them walk outside, heard Vara shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the Tower of the Guildmaster with only a deep sense of grief and responsibility, which he tried his best to pour out onto the page.

  41.

  “The room looks so much less empty than when last we met,” Cyrus observed to the Council Chambers a few days later, the officers, new and old, stood around the circular table. Cyrus had left his helm on the wooden surface, black quartal against the dark wood, and glanced at the faces arrayed around him. Vara, straight and silent, sat to his immediate right, then J’anda, Ryin and Mendicant sat in unbroken succession, only Ryin showing any emotion. The druid looked strained, though he put on a polite smile f
or the newcomers. Menlos had taken Andren’s old seat, and Erith sat to his right. Beside her was Odellan’s old chair, still empty. Longwell came next, looking distracted but with his hand still on his lance. Vaste, next to him, looked around with his usual humorous expression, though he said nothing yet, and Scuddar had chosen Thad’s old seat to Vaste’s right. Calene sat next to him, leaving Vara’s old chair at Cyrus’s left empty. “We’re moving in the right direction in terms of filling the Council,” Cyrus said, trying to push a smile of his own onto his face, which was resisting him.

  “And in the wrong direction in terms of our other numbers,” Ryin said, softly but loud enough that everyone heard it. When he was sure he had everyone’s attention, he spoke once more. “We are down to five hundred and twelve members as of this morning.” He looked slowly around the Council. “We now are at the bottom threshold for defending the wall. If we lose any more, they will be able to overwhelm us given but time, numbers, and effort.”

  “And Malpravus surely knows that,” Vaste said, entirely too cheerily for Cyrus’s taste. “What? They’ve got a hundred and seventy five thousand troops to their names, we’ve got five hundred.”

  “They know we still have allies,” Cyrus said, putting on the brave face. “That’s got to figure into their calculations.”

  “They’re surely not sitting idle while we watch our numbers dwindle,” Ryin said, leaning forward. “I know our plan was to wait this out, but … when we decided that course, we did not know how bad things were going to get in terms of desertions. We need a new plan.”

  “I’m open to all manner of possibilities,” Cyrus said glancing around, “if anyone’s got an idea.”

  “You’re telling us you don’t already have a plan?” Erith asked, a faint accusation in her voice.

  “I have the plan we agreed upon,” Cyrus said smoothly. “But as Ryin said, it was essentially to try and wait it out, hoping none of our enemies would march on our walls and trusting that the threat of total war between them and the dark elves plus Emerald Fields would keep us in a state of truce while we waited for things to improve.”

  “I agree with Erith,” Longwell said, seemingly ignoring Cyrus, not even looking at him. “Some of you have gone to meeting after meeting. If I were the suspicious sort, I’d be accusing some of us of either backroom scheming or flat-out treachery.”

  “Hey, hold on now,” Menlos said, leaning forward. “That’s a bit strong, don’t you think? Who would you be pointing that accusation at?”

  “I think if anyone’s been leaving regularly lately, they know who they are,” Longwell said, finally looking at Cyrus. “I don’t see a need to drag names through—”

  “Cyrus,” Erith said quietly, staring straight at him. “Vara.” She looked at the elf. “J’anda, Vaste.”

  “Well, there they are anyway,” Menlos said, looking a bit flustered.

  “Are you accusing us of anything in particular?” Cyrus asked, holding still in his seat. “Or just … leaving Sanctuary from time to time?”

  “I think you’ve got something else going on, now that they bring it up,” Ryin said, squinting, concentrating, looking at Cyrus. “And I want to know why we weren’t included.”

  “What would I be including you in?” Cyrus asked coolly.

  “Whatever you’re in,” Longwell said, staring him down.

  “What if it’s group sex?” Vaste asked.

  A deathly silence fell. “Well, it’d be nice to be asked,” Longwell said finally.

  “What if it included me?” Vaste pressed, now leering.

  “Then it would not include me,” Vara said, shuddering.

  “Or me,” J’anda said.

  “Fine, it’s just Cyrus’s long arse and my supple one, then,” Vaste said, shrugging. “Small group, I suppose, but still—”

  “This is ridiculous,” Ryin said.

  “I agree,” Vaste said, “I mean, have you looked at his arse—”

  “I meant this story,” Ryin said, lashing the room with his voice. He turned to look at Cyrus. “Are you working on something? Some plan that you’re not sharing with the Council?”

  “I don’t know where you would get that idea—” Cyrus began.

  “You can’t even lie well,” Ryin said, thumping his hand down upon the table and then cringing from the sting.

  “Ancestors,” Longwell said in a quiet whisper. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but you’re cutting us out. Right now, you’re cutting us out of whatever you’re doing.”

  “I’m not—” Cyrus said.

  “Let’s all just hold on a minute,” Menlos said, raising a hand. “Cyrus is Guildmaster, and I’m sure, whatever he’s doing, he’s leading—”

  “Leading us into a ditch to die,” Ryin said, laughing mirthlessly. “We stood and …” He dragged himself to his feet, his robes sweeping around him. “We proclaimed to a messenger of the Leagues that we were standing together as heretics, joining … gods. I feel such the fool.” He looked right at Cyrus. “Did you even wait until that meeting was over before you started scheming behind our backs?”

  Cyrus sat there, trying to hide his shock, feeling as though he were back in Allyn Frost’s tower, his weapons ripped away and the Governor lording his powerlessness over him. “As Menlos said, I’m the Guildmaster of Sanctuary. And you should all know by now that both the holders of this position that you’ve known have had their secrets.”

  “You were never like this before,” Longwell said in quiet accusation.

  “Well, it’s my first time being declared heretic,” Cyrus said.

  “We were supposed to be in this together,” Ryin said, incredulous. “We said we stood as one to the Leagues.”

  “We are in this together,” Vara said.

  “No, we’re not,” Longwell said, staring around the table. “If you’re hiding things from us—I mean, now of all times—this is the moment where we should be united like never before, especially if there’s hope of a plan, because I see him—” He pointed at Cyrus. “I see him walking around now with a little more power in his step, and I see people leaving, and I think … maybe he just still believes. But now I’m thinking he’s got something to believe in, and I want to know what it is.”

  “Why?” Cyrus asked quietly, looking right at the dragoon.

  “Because maybe I’m worried your plan’s going to leave me in the dust,” Longwell said, more viciously than Cyrus would have ever expected from the dragoon.

  “That’s unfair,” Menlos said.

  “We’re all together on the gallows,” Erith said, her own words a quiet accusation. “We’re the Council. We were supposed to be united.”

  “I thought we were,” Cyrus said, looking to his right to see Vara staring at the table, seemingly stunned into silence. “But now I’m not so sure. You’re all leaping to rather remarkable conclusions, given the circumstances. We have some allies, and the key to maintaining those allies is to make sure that we have regular communication with Administrator Tiernan and the Sovereign of—”

  “No,” Ryin said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but that’s just not so. I know Mendicant has taken you places, and so has Larana. If you wanted to go see either of those people, go visit our allies, you could use any wizard you desired—”

  “No, I couldn’t,” Cyrus said, a line of attack dawning upon him at last, “because Vara and I have already been ambushed by Amarath’s Raiders and nearly killed once; I have no interest in giving them further opportunities.”

  Silence fell over the room, as though Cyrus had blown an immense fire spell in the middle of the table. “What?” Ryin asked, aghast. “What did you say?”

  “Just before the start of the year, Vara and I went to meet with her sister,” Cyrus said, searching his Council’s faces for signs that they might have heard this before. “We picked the Mountains of Nartanis portal. Mendicant spoke the destination aloud in the foyer and dropped us off there. Almost immediately, we were set upon by a nasty little war
party from the Raiders. They cut off our retreat with a cessation spell, and if not for Vara’s quick thinking and forceful attacks, we would be dead.” He paused for effect. “Someone told them we were coming.” He neatly left out the admission by Isabelle that her guild had been rife with defectors to the Raiders. They probably did find out from her, but there’s no need to spread that around when I can simply repurpose it to quiet this crew for a little while—hopefully.

  “You don’t think this is the sort of thing you should report to the Council?” Ryin asked, eyes narrowed. “For all we know, one of the people passing by when you left is a traitor.”

  Mendicant was flushed a deep green. “I am so very sorry, Lord Davidon,” the goblin said, practically gasping, breaking his silence for the first time in the meeting, “I apologize—”

  “It’s not your fault, Mendicant,” Cyrus said. Clearly the goblin did not consider himself a traitor. Which is good, Cyrus thought, because I don’t think he’s a traitor either.

  Or maybe I just don’t want to believe anyone in Sanctuary—especially in the Council—is a traitor.

  “Gods, I hate to bring out the pitchforks and tar,” Menlos said, “but do you know who was around you when you this happened? Might be nice to get an idea of who among us could be a traitor.”

  “You think there are traitors among us?” Calene asked, her wide eyes large as teacup saucers. “Oh … oh, gods.”

  “It is a natural assumption in times such as these,” Scuddar said in his quiet voice. “Especially after what Malpravus’s corpses said to us at the wall.”

  Ryin’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What did the corpses say?” He turned an accusatory look at Cyrus. “And why did we not hear about it?”

  “He just suggested, in his lording-it-over-us sort of way,” Cyrus said, struggling to stay as casual as possible, “that Mathyas Tarreau, who walked out with half our guild, was doing his man-of-the-people act at Malpravus’s behest.”