Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7)

by Robert J. Crane

  “I never—” Her head snapped up. “I was a heretic, Cyrus. You know the pain that comes from the whole of the land turning against you, but you knew it with a guild at your back—”

  “A much-reduced, constantly shrinking, schisming-with-perpetual-betrayals guild, but I suppose, yes—”

  “You weren’t alone,” she said quietly. “But when I left you … when they turned on me … I didn’t see it coming, and I was alone. My friends couldn’t help, even the ones who wanted to—Cora, Pradhar, Erkhardt, Raifa—”

  “Your friends are curiously symmetrical with the founders of Sanctuary,” Vara said, her voice quiet, almost displaced, as though it did not belong in this tower at all. She sounded small, Cyrus realized.

  “They were my friends before they were the founders,” Quinneria said, taking her eyes off of Cyrus only long enough to answer Vara’s question. “I knew them before Alaric did. I brought them here—”

  “I don’t need to hear this,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “Not now. If you want to share the history of Sanctuary, you can do at a Council meeting on the morrow.” He took a sharp breath that felt like a dagger in his lungs. “We need one anyway, to try and figure out what to do next, how to handle Malpravus—”

  “I can help you with that,” she breathed, loud enough to be heard over the wind, only barely.

  “Wonderful,” Cyrus said, thinking it was anything but. “We’ll see you in the morning, then.” He gestured at the stairs.

  “Cyrus, I—” Quinneria began, but a great cracking sounded above them, and only too late did Cyrus realize it was not thunder at all.

  A wooden beam that ran the length of the roof came crashing down, dragging the top of the tower with it. The cracking and moaning of the shingles and wood in the wind had been disguised in the fury of the storm. But now it had reached its end, and collapsing, Cyrus could see it all rushing down at them, falling precipitously—

  Red spell-light blasted forth, consuming every bit of the ceiling as it fell, all save for that large beam that had held it all together. It hit the ground between them, splitting neatly between Cyrus and Quinneria as it landed. The rest of the roof was swept away in the coursing magic of destruction cast by his mother, the only remains ashes that fluttered down from the heavens with the drenching rain.

  They stood there, exposed, the rain pounding the completely uncovered Tower of the Guildmaster, Cyrus breathing steadily in and out as he was showered with the downpour, staring across the fallen beam at his mother and beyond her, his wife. “Thank you,” he said coolly, without a trace of actual gratitude, for he found he could not even find that particular emotion in himself at the moment. There were others absent as well, but he did not care. “Now … if you’ll excuse me …”

  Cyrus went for the staircase, the rain rattling him as much as the events of the evening, but his name, called out forcefully in a voice he had not heard in twenty-seven years, stopped him. “Cyrus!”

  He turned slowly and saw the face of his mother, the disappointment in her eyes. “What?” he asked, softly in the storm.

  “Ask it,” Quinneria said as Vara eased past her. “I know … I know you feel it … just … ask me the question on your mind … the one above all others.”

  Cyrus stared back at her, his mouth still dry. He turned his face to the heavens, letting the rain soak him, hoping it would bring him back to life, but it did not. He stared at her through the falling water between them. “Why …” he began, and his voice cracked partway through the question, “… why did you leave me?”

  “Because I thought you would be better off without me,” she said, and the profusion of emotions melded together in her voice and upon her face left him in no doubt of her sincerity.

  “Well … I wasn’t,” he said simply. Vara came to his side, and they walked down the stairs together, leaving his mother, and the storm, behind them.

  81.

  “Cyrus,” Vara said as they circled the stairwell back down to the officer quarters, torchlight dancing orange and yellow upon the stone walls, “we should talk about this.”

  “Can we not?” Cyrus asked, letting his feet slam down upon each stair. He did not intend to stomp, but driven by his slowly emerging emotions, each step became more forceful. He stopped abruptly and she nearly slammed into him, her face leaning down to his as she halted. “Two of our officers just betrayed us and opened our halls to Goliath. For all we know, the rest of the guild is dead.”

  “And yet,” Vara said, patiently as if talking to a child, “your mother has just returned from death—”

  “She wasn’t dead,” Cyrus said, “she was hiding all along, right among us. She could have said something at any moment in the last seven years. But she didn’t.” He pulled himself up tall and found himself looking his wife straight in the eye on her higher step. “I don’t want to deal with … this … at the moment.” And he turned and started back down the stairs.

  “Then what do you want to deal with?” she asked, trailing behind him.

  “Absolutely anything else,” he said, almost running into Vaste as he came round the corner at the landing.

  “Oh, there you are,” Vaste said. “I was hoping to run into you post-argument.”

  “And you usually are so very interested in the dramatic interplay between our members,” Vara tossed down from above. “I find it hard to believe you wouldn’t want to be present for a conversation between Cyrus and his long-lost mother.”

  “You forget that his long-lost mother killed some ten thousand of my people,” Vaste said, staring up at Vara with little amusement. “I don’t really want to be in the same room with her at all, and while I’m certain I’m not feeling it the way Cyrus is, he’s not the only one stinging from her betrayal.” He rubbed his stomach. “I’ve been eating cooking prepared by the sorceress ever since I got here. I think my stomach is objecting.” He shook his head in disgust. “She lulled me with those luscious fruit pies. Why, she could have been poisoning me all along, for all I know.”

  “You are still with us,” Vara pointed out drily, “thus it seems unlikely she was poisoning you, unless it was the sort of poison that slowly kills the brain … which I might find believable.”

  “She’s your mother-in-law,” Vaste said, “aren’t you supposed to hate her on that basis alone?”

  “Vaste,” Cyrus said, “the guild?”

  “Oh, right,” Vaste said, deflating slightly. “It seems Erith and Menlos weren’t the only traitors that rose up against us tonight. There were some pitched battles in the north towers while we were battling things out in your quarters. I just got a runner back from the wall, and it appears we’re down to four hundred and fifty two.” He sighed. “We lost a few in the fights as well. No resurrection possible.”

  Cyrus punched the wall with Praelior still clutched in his fist and it left an indent in the stone. “Godsdammit.”

  “You’re angry,” Vara said.

  “And you’re beautiful and terrifying,” Vaste said, and when they both turned to look at them, he said, “Sorry. Thought we were just stating obvious facts.”

  “Damned right I’m angry,” Cyrus said, pulling back his fist, still clenching the sword. “We lost a lot of good people tonight, and all to treachery.” He looked down at Vaste. “Tell J’anda to bring Erith out onto the lawn. Assemble the guild.”

  Vara leaned forward and placed a clinking gauntlet upon his shoulder. “Wait. We shouldn’t do this now.”

  “Now is exactly the time we should do this,” Cyrus said, turning about. “Do you imagine the resolution will be different tomorrow? Or the day after? Ten weeks from now? A year?”

  Vara withdrew her hand, her eyes falling. “No. No … it … it wouldn’t.” She nodded once. “I suppose … we might as well, then.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Vaste said, standing stiffly on the landing, as though all the breath had gone out of him. “You want me to … to gather everyone together and … and tell them—”
/>
  “Tell them it’s time for an execution,” Cyrus said, far more calmly than he felt on the inside. “Tell them it’s time for Erith Frostmoor to die for her crimes against Sanctuary.”

  82.

  The rain poured down in the muddy yard around them as Cyrus stood steadfast against the winds. The big doors to Sanctuary were wide open, the bloody remainder of the great battle still obvious on the floors around the great seal within. The steady rattle of the rain, absent the earlier lightning and thunder, suggested to him that the worst of the storm was now over. The chill remained, however, as members of Sanctuary filtered out under the night sky in small groups, clinging tightly together and muttering among themselves.

  The officers were clustered around Cyrus, silent as he was, and every last one of them stood tall and proud, unbowed. The only one absent was J’anda, who Cyrus knew was waiting, waiting until everyone had time to gather to bring the prisoner out.

  “We’re actually going to do this, then?” Vaste asked, quietly, as a distant rumble echoed across the sky.

  “We are,” Cyrus said.

  “Far be it from me to argue,” Calene Raverle said, shivering beneath her cloak, “but are you sure she betrayed us?”

  “Malpravus brought her up to our quarters and she as much as admitted she opened the portal for him,” Vara said in a dead voice. “Menlos was more enthusiastic in his admission of betrayal, but I don’t think there’s much doubt she was betraying us.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” Calene said. “And I especially can’t believe all that happened while I was on the wall. We had no idea anything was even amiss until the tower exploded.” She shook beneath her cowl, rain dripping around its edges. “What a night.”

  “This is a good choice,” Longwell said, his voice shaking as he spoke. “I can’t fathom it, either, but if you say she’s guilty, I believe you.”

  “She’s guilty,” Cyrus said, standing immobile in the rain, feeling the cool streaks running down his face. “You’ll see.”

  In the great doors came another shadow, a familiar silhouette lit by the illumination within. For a moment, it stole Cyrus’s breath, seeing that helm, the armor, and then he remembered that it was not Alaric Garaunt within it.

  Terian came down the steps, Dahveed Thalless and Kahlee both behind him as he hurried over to Cyrus. “Gods, Davidon,” he said as he came up, “Mendicant just delivered the word to us. You’re all right?”

  Cyrus frowned. “I’m fine. Why did Mendicant come to you?”

  “Because I told him to,” Vaste said. “I figured our allies ought to be made aware that we’d been attacked from within our own walls. Give them a sporting chance in case Malpravus planned to do the same to any of them.”

  “My guards are on highest alert,” Terian said, nodding his thanks to Vaste, “as are the ones at Emerald Fields.” He leaned in to speak to Cyrus. “Is it true? Did Erith let them in?”

  “She did,” Cyrus said dully, water sliding coldly down his spine. “We’re about to deal with it.”

  Terian pulled back and removed his helm, his face creased with a heavy frown. “Deal with it how?”

  Cyrus stared back at him blankly. “How do you usually deal with traitors?”

  “Well, I kill them, personally,” Terian said, breaking into a weak smile, “but you—you usually let us traitors go after we try and kill you, giving us plenty of opportunity to do the same again. It’s something of a pattern with you.”

  “The pattern is now over,” Cyrus pronounced. “Erith is going to die … right now.” He saw J’anda leading the prisoner out, Zarnn and his trolls providing a guard.

  Terian spun around, helm still in hand, his hair soaked through after only a few seconds with his helm off. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or depressed at this change, Davidon.”

  “Just be glad it didn’t come two betrayals ago, I’d say.” Cyrus kept his eyes on the condemned as Terian took a place beside him, Dahveed and Kahlee maintaining their position behind the Sovereign.

  Vara leaned up behind him and whispered in his ear. “You can’t be the one to do this.” When he half-turned to hear her out, she went on. “Let me.”

  “Why?” he asked, blinking away his surprise.

  “Because I’m the Elder,” she said.

  “Why … really?” he asked.

  “Because you have enough on your mind,” Vara whispered, “and you don’t need to add this—and possible regret later, once you’ve cleared it somewhat.”

  “I doubt I’ll regret this,” Cyrus said as Erith was led down the steps. J’anda kept poking her in the back with his staff, hard, and she was resisting him all the way. Clearly, the mesmerization spell was no longer in effect.

  “All the same,” Vara said, “I should be the one to do it. The Elder is the Guildmaster’s right hand; that’s why I sit where I do at the table.”

  Cyrus opened his mouth to protest, then stopped himself. Why not? I won’t feel a thing if I do it anyway—not anger, not satisfaction, nothing. “All right. Have at it.”

  Vara stepped forward, and her voice boomed out over the storm, over the rain falling in the great puddles standing all around them. “Erith Frostmoor … you are accused of treason against Sanctuary. Malpravus himself named you responsible for opening our portal to invasion by our enemies, Goliath, and you yourself did willingly acknowledge him to be truthful.”

  “I … I did not!” she cried. “I was—I was under the influence of a spell!”

  “That is not so,” J’anda said from behind her, nudging her once more with his staff. Zarnn and his trolls were flanking her on all sides, looking particularly enraged, even for them. Must be something about treachery, Cyrus thought, perhaps after Grunt, it hits close to home for them. “If you had been under the influence of another enchanter, I would have felt it when I cast my spell upon you during the battle.”

  A ripple of conversations spread through the assemblage; Vara cut it short by speaking again. “Your excuses are like this sodden ground—they hold no more water.”

  “Please,” Erith said, and now she was speaking directly to Cyrus, “I’ve been here for years. I came when no one else would—”

  “At the behest of Malpravus,” Cyrus said quietly, “and to spy for Goliath.”

  Erith’s face was in shadow, but her whole frame was tense beneath her robes, her hands shaking at her sides, either from cold or fear. She looked to Terian and drew a sharp breath. “Terian! Terian, during the revolution, I—I helped you when no one else would! Please! Have mercy! Help me!”

  Terian stared at her, hard, his jaw working. “All right,” he said finally and tossed Cyrus a look. He reached back and unslung his axe as Cyrus watched, and then flipped it so that he was gripping it just beneath the blade. He extended the haft to Vara, who took it cautiously. “Make it clean and fast,” Terian said, and Erith gasped. Terian looked straight at the healer and said, “Our debt is now squared; I’ve done all that I can for you.”

  “There is no mercy to be had here,” Vara said, advancing on Erith, who ran into Zarnn and another troll as she tried to back up. Zarnn shoved her forward, and the healer stumbled. “Kneel, and I’ll do as Terian asked, and make it quick. Resist, and I will tear you apart one piece at a time with a thousand swipes.”

  “No—” Erith gasped. Cyrus could still not see her face, but she stood frozen for a moment, clearly looking out at the crowd. She held up a hand, presumably to cast a spell, but nothing happened; a cessation had been cast by J’anda before he had even put her in her cell. She locked on Dahveed. “Dahveed! You—please, you can’t just watch—I’ve known you since—”

  Dahveed spoke in his low, clear voice. “I have given you every opportunity I could, Erith, but apparently your own choices have led you down a terrible path. I am sorry I ever took you out of Sovar; you would have been better served to stay there, I think.”

  “No,” Erith whispered, but she sank to her knees, white robes drooping into the mud, already
soaked from the rain. “I … I can’t …” she raised her head, and Cyrus could see the glare of wetness on her cheeks, and not just from the rain. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

  “You should have known it would, when you betrayed us,” Vara said, stepping beside her and lifting the Battle Axe of Darkness above her head. “You can find no more faithful friend than Sanctuary … and no more relentless enemy, either—”

  The axe fell cleanly and the deed was done, hints of dark blue staining the puddles of mud lit by the torchlight falling out of the front doors to Sanctuary. “Someone needs to burn the body,” Cyrus said, and turned to detour around the place where the traitor had fallen.

  “What about the head?” Vaste asked, not moving. After a moment, Cyrus realized he meant to do the task himself.

  Cyrus froze on the bottom step, rain falling all around him. “Burn that, too,” he said and walked away from the execution, no more cold or numb than he was when it had begun.

  83.

  “Well, this is a slightly different Council than the one we had a few days ago,” Ryin said sourly on the next day, “and we even have a new table. Will the reckless pace of change around here never cease?” Light streamed in through the windows behind Cyrus, illuminating Council Chambers in which every single seat was full.

  Cyrus had entered the chambers after Erith's execution to find the old round table burnt to ash during the battle. A new one sat in its place, rectangular, dragged up from the Great Hall by some of the survivors. Cyrus sat at its head and stared down at the grain of the wood, unfamiliar and uncomfortable, then at the black soot that stained the ceiling above it. He ran his fingers over the slightly rougher surface, looking up at the black stain upon the ceiling with steadily smoldering fury. It's almost as though Malpravus couldn't countenance the thought of leaving that particular symbol of Sanctuary alive. Truly, I cannot picture many more spiteful swipes at us he could have taken than this.