Cyrus felt a hard pang of regret in his stomach as he recalled Praelior once more, the squeak of the soft, worn leather on its hilt. “I was thinking … someone needed my help, which, I faintly recall, is something that we render when asked here in Sanctuary.” He did not feel compelled to elaborate, having fully explained the entirety of the note’s origin to the Council once already.
An awkward silence hung over the room. Vara seethed beside him, now sitting in the Elder’s seat previously occupied by Curatio, her appointment to the post still fresh, done less than a month ago. Her blue eyes glistened like the frost on the Reikonos streets. There was a danger there, a wrath he could not recall seeing from her since the day they’d been wed.
“Perhaps we should leave aside Cyrus’s error in judgment for a later time.” J’anda Aimant spoke softly into the silence. His aged face looked particularly wrinkled in the flickering firelight, and his eyes were tilted down as he spoke. “Say, for your bedchambers when the two of you are alone, and the rest of us need not suffer through watching a very unpleasant marital argument and hopefully, after that, a more pleasant marital making-up.”
“They could just do that here,” Erith Frostmoor said from across the table. “It might add an element of entertainment to otherwise very bad news.” There was a hint of mischief in her eyes as she drew looks from everyone in the room. “Come on. With all the departures, partners of one’s own and delights of the eyes are getting harder to come by.”
“I cannot even muster the words to describe how much I vote ‘nay’ on that idea,” Vaste said, his head down. “As if adding troll applicants were not enough asininity for one day …”
“How many of them were there?” Ryin Ayend asked, looking slightly sick to his stomach. The human seemed more than a little discomfited by the heresy pronouncement.
“How many … what?” Cyrus asked, looking at the druid. “How many members of Goliath? I counted Malpravus, Orion, Carrack, Ermoc … then there was Archenous Derregnault of Amarath’s Raiders,” he tried not to look at Vara, but he could see her bristling out of the corner of his eye, “plus some Reikonos guards and what looked like members of the elven army, all waiting around to watch the show.”
“I thought Rhane Ermoc was persona non grata in Reikonos,” Samwen Longwell said, his ruddy face twisted in concentration. “Didn’t he betray them by opening the gate on the dark elves during the war?”
“All of Goliath was an enemy of Reikonos,” Cyrus said. “They led the invasion of the city. But it would appear that they’ve decided to put aside their differences in order to murder me.”
“It’s a shame about your sword,” Mendicant the goblin said, his voice low. “And of course about the heresy pronouncement as well, and the attempt to kill you,” he added the last two quickly, as though he’d forgotten them at first.
Cyrus waited for further comment then realized with a start, not for the first time, that every single one of the remaining officers of Sanctuary had just spoken. Even after all this time, the emptiness of the room jolted him every time he thought about it. “Somehow I doubt it’ll be their last attempt.”
“No, this is almost certainly just the opening gambit,” J’anda said, sounding very drawn. “Now the enemies will circle, since the pronouncement has been made. So many it almost defies the counting.”
“Goliath, Amarath’s Raiders, the Leagues,” Ryin Ayend said in a glum voice, “The Human Confederation, the Elven Kingdom …” He blinked. “I … think that’s it.”
“Don’t forget the God of War!” Vaste added cheerily. “You know, I think it might be quicker just to list the people who aren’t our enemies at this point.”
“The gnomes, the dwarves, the goblins,” J’anda started, “the dark elves, the Luukessians, the elves of Amti, the trolls and possibly the dragons.”
“Heresy makes us enemies of the gnomes, the dwarves, and possibly the dark elves,” Vara said quietly.
“No,” Cyrus said, “Terian won’t join in.” He looked around, and there was a pause.
“THE SCOURGE,” Vaste announced definitively, slamming a hand down on the table and drawing every eye to him as he broke the silence. “Sorry. The mood was lightening entirely too much. I thought I almost felt a glimmer of hope, and I needed to quash it.”
“Well done,” Vara said acidly.
“We need to talk to our allies,” Cyrus said, feeling more than a little worn. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for months and months. It’s time to—”
A knock at the door silenced him, quieting the Council Chambers, and Cyrus paused, exchanging a brief glance with Vara, the crackling of the fire the only sound. “Come in,” Vara called to the door, loud enough to be heard through it.
The door rolled slowly open, wide enough to admit the tumbling brown hair of Calene Raverle, the human leader of the Sanctuary rangers. Her eyes darting nervously about the chamber. “Uhh, sirs … madams … err …”
“What is it, Calene?” Cyrus asked, leaning forward and brushing his helm, which lay upon the table, a black shadow in the darkened chamber.
“There’s a messenger,” she replied, her glance still flitting from one member of the Council to the next. Vaste extended a hand straight up and waved at her floridly. A perplexed look spread across her face, but she returned his wave with much more reserve. “They’ve come from Reikonos …” She looked right at Cyrus. “They say they’ve come to accept your surrender.”
6.
“I hope you told that ponderous idiot it’ll be a frosty day in Reikonos before they’ll be seeing our madman of a Guildmaster surrender to their tender mercies!” Vaste said, his voice loud and tinged with bitter amusement.
The Council Chambers were quiet save for the troll’s ringing voice. Cyrus was the first to speak after that. “I’m sorry, did you say … my surrender?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair as if to speed up the haste with which Calene might answer him.
“Yours only, in fact,” Calene said, nodding. She pointed with a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ve got the messenger under guard two floors down on the staircase if you want to hear from her. Menlos and a detail are watching her.”
Cyrus’s brow furrowed. “I …” He looked around the Council Chambers. “We do, don’t we?”
“Why?” Vara asked, sounding severely put out. “So they can make empty threats?”
“With the combined forces of Goliath and Amarath’s Raiders on their side—not so empty, I think,” J’anda said. “To say nothing of the remnants of the human and elven armies.”
“Yes, we need to hear this,” Cyrus said, ignoring the scathing look from Vara next to him. “Bring her up, Calene.”
“Certainly I want to hear them,” Mendicant said with a nod, then turned to Cyrus. “But … if this person wanted to attack you in the manner of those who just ambushed you—”
“Then she’ll die with a lance in her guts and my boot in her face,” Longwell said, seizing his lance and standing up, his armor clanking as he moved to stand by the door.
“And I’ll also commit horrible violence, et cetera,” Vara said, her voice layered with icy fury. “I think we can handle them, unless they’re so physically imposing we have some cause to worry.”
“It’s a woman,” Calene said, “shorter than me. Surprisingly bold for being in a den of heretics, I think, though. She’s got a real fire burning within.”
“Well, send her up before she gutters out or Menlos starts to deploy his charms,” Vaste said. “Otherwise she’ll jump right down the middle of the staircase, and we’ll never get all the mess out from between the stones at the bottom.”
Calene nodded and left, not bothering to shut the door behind her. Longwell snapped shut his visor and waited, standing silent sentry behind the door.
Cyrus barely seemed to have time to look at Vara, whose cheeks were burning scarlet, before the door opened wide to the chambers and in walked a woman. At first glance, she seemed to be barely half Cyrus’s own height,
though she was probably taller than that. She had the figure of a child and was all but lost in her oversized red robes. Runes on her vestments marked her as a wizard, and the look on her small face was wary anger, barely contained. Her eyes darted around the Council Chamber, taking silent stock of everyone seated within.
“My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he started to say to introduce himself.
“I know who you are, heretic,” she said, one step above a hiss.
“She’s got charm, like Menlos,” Vaste said. “I like her already.”
The wizard glanced at Vaste and made a face of obvious disgust. “My name is Agora Friedlander. I am a messenger from the Leagues of Arkaria.”
“And what is your message?” Cyrus asked quietly, the events of the day settling like a pall upon his bones and suppressing any instinct for action.
“I am sent to inform you, Cyrus Davidon, heretic, son of Quinneria Davidon, the sorceress and heretic—”
“Whoa,” Vaste said, standing up immediately, sending his chair skidding back with a clatter. “Stop right there—!”
A silence lasting no more than a second fell over the Council Chambers before everyone exploded into reaction at once.
Damn, Cyrus thought, catching Vara’s worried look at him. They had not told the Council the secret of Cyrus’s parentage yet. That cat just burst every seam of the bag to reveal itself a lion.
Ryin Ayend’s voice came first, choked, “Your mother was the Sorceress?”
Mendicant’s voice came almost immediately thereafter, but awed. “Your mother was the Sorceress?”
“What the hell, Cyrus?” was Erith’s reply, her jaw almost hanging to the table. “Did you know?”
“This explains why you hated trolls so much!” Vaste said, his eyes wide and focused on Cyrus, the pupils as big as a human hand, “your damned mother was the original slayer of our kind—”
“ENOUGH!” Vara called, her voice crackling over the table and silencing all. Wary eyes were aimed at Cyrus from Erith and Ryin, respectful ones from Mendicant. J’anda had his head down, fingers steepled to cover his mouth. Cyrus did not even care to speculate at the enchanter’s reaction to the news. “This is not the time to have this discussion,” Vara finished. “We have a guest.”
“You knew, too?” Vaste asked, voice cracking with betrayal. “Of course you did. Of course you knew. You look utterly unsurprised.”
“We have a League messenger in our midst,” Vara reminded them loudly.
“Well, the Leagues should know,” Longwell pronounced, startling Agora Friedlander into jumping; apparently the messenger had not noticed the dragoon lurking three paces behind her when she’d entered the room. “I don’t give a bloody damn if Cyrus’s mother was Mortus and his father was Yartraak.” He thumped the end of his lance against the ground. “You come for us, you best bring an army and a load of shovels, because you’re going to be digging a lot of graves for your own dead.”
“The Leagues don’t want to come for any of you,” Agora Friedlander pronounced through puckered lips. “None of you are heretics. He’s the one who’s used magics unlawfully—”
“He wasn’t supposed to be able to use magics at all,” Vara said, leaning forward, voice arch. “That’s the line the Leagues have fed us, in any case. That magic is the province only of those properly trained. So … how does the fact that a warrior can use magic fit with League doctrine?”
“Because he’s the child of a heretic, obviously,” Agora said, a cool glint in her eyes. “He was taught fundamentals improperly at an early age, the building blocks necessary for him to use spellcraft later in life. She paid for her crimes with her life—”
“I used a spell inadvertently when I was being attacked by the Avatar of the God of War,” Cyrus said, staring at the messenger who met his gaze without fear.
“And you used a return spell in the markets of Reikonos just hours ago,” Agora said, a small smile of triumph on her face. “The thing about you heretics … you don’t stop once you’ve had a taste of your wickedness.”
“By your League standards, Cyrus should have been trained by your people,” Vara said, still combative, settling in for the long argument; Cyrus knew that look well.
“But of course he wasn’t,” Agora said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “No fool would train a child of a heretic in magic. He’s fortunate he wasn’t put to death as a precaution.”
“I was six,” Cyrus said quietly. “And your Leagues did try to put me to death. They cast me out from the Blood Families in the Society of Arms. That was as good as a death sentence. I dodged the executioner’s axe only because it was clumsy.”
“Well, your days of dodging have run out,” Agora said, expression stiff. “If you surrender now and come back with me to face judgment for your crimes—”
“She means ‘death,’” Vara said, with a cold fury.
Agora Friedlander looked right at Vara, smiling as though it were obvious. “But of course I mean death. This man is a heretic. There is no other punishment for that most odious crime. He has twisted the laws of nature, laws put in place to protect us, the people, from unnatural perversions of magical spellcraft. Imagine a field of warriors casting fire. Imagine the destruction they could wreak in a city. There is a very good reason why not everyone has magic. It is the province of the well-disciplined, the carefully trained, the—”
“The elite,” Vaste said quietly, staring straight at the hearth.
Agora looked at him with a pinched look upon her face as though she couldn’t quite believe he was speaking. “Precisely,” she finally agreed. “It is for good reason that we keep these things under law, under control. It is regrettable that this particular sore was allowed to fester, but the time has come for the boil to be lanced, the pus to be removed—”
“That particular pustule is my husband,” Vara said. Cyrus gave her a look and she shrugged in half-apology.
“If he surrenders now and admits to his guilt,” Agora said, back to prim and proper, the disgusted look put away for now, “he will be granted a painless death administered by a skilled alchemist via a toxin that will put him into a deep sleep from which he will never awaken. No action will be taken against Sanctuary or its allies.”
“Look at you,” Mendicant said, his low voice rattling, “so smooth with the offer of the carrot.”
“Now let me present you with the offer of the sword,” Agora said, her voice gaining the steel of a threat. “If he refuses, the word will spread to every corner of Arkaria of his heresy. Every member of Sanctuary will be excommunicated from the Leagues. That is permanent. They will never be able to join another guild, and they will be unwelcome in every League city, which is a rather considerable number. The Human Confederation, the Elven Kingdom, the Dwarven Alliance, the Gnomish Dominions—all of them will turn their backs on your members, refusing them entry into their borders, and you will be hounded everywhere you go, driven out like the renegade scum you will be … all for harboring this man.” She nodded at Cyrus, the look of purest hatred returned to her face.
“That sounds oh-so-familiar,” Vaste said, still staring at the hearth. “Didn’t you people do that to us once before?”
“This time it will be worse,” Agora said. “A decree of heresy will follow into every land. You will not be welcome anywhere outside this guildhall, and soon enough, even these walls will be closed in upon by the forces allied against you.” She stared right at Cyrus. “You know of whom I speak.”
“I know of whom you speak,” Cyrus agreed quietly.
“Give yourself over now,” Agora said, “and the question, the agony … it will all be over so very quickly. This is promised.”
“Promised by whom?” Vara asked.
“Pretnam Urides himself,” Agora said. “He guarantees it.”
“Of course Pretnam Urides would send a mere child into danger rather than coming himself,” Vara said contemptuously.
“I am not afraid of you,” Agora sai
d, holding her head high. “If you kill me, he will get his answer, and I will die for the cause.”
“You really are a true believer,” Cyrus said wearily, looking at the table. The entire guild will suffer for my sins. Or …
Or I could just suffer for my sins and be done with it.
“This is on me,” Cyrus said, and started to stand, pushing his seat back carefully. “I acc—”
“You are a duly recorded witness for the Leagues, yes?” Ryin Ayend asked Agora, still staring at the table. “Your word is binding? You speak for them? Witness for them?”
“Yes,” Agora said. “I do. And that is why you may be certain that when I make this offer, I speak the truth. It will be recorded. It is guaranteed.”
Ryin looked up, and there was an anger in his eyes. “Witness this, then.”
He raised his hand, and a force blast gently blew Agora Friedlander onto her backside.
Agora gasped sharply upon the floor as Ryin stood to look down at her. “You—that was a paladin spell and you’re a druid—”
“My name is Ryin Ayend and I stand with the Guildmaster of Sanctuary.” Ryin unwound the druid vestment from his shoulders and tossed it into her face. “The Leagues are liars and have lied all along, for as long as they’ve existed. I would not trust your word if you were to promise me that the sky was blue and the season was winter.” He extended a hand to point at Cyrus. “You may have this man over my dead bloody body, for I, too, am a heretic, and you may tell your League masters that it is so.”
Mendicant jumped upon the table, tearing off his own wizard vestment and tossing it at the feet of Agora Friedlander. He ran a claw over his finger and drew green blood, then his fingers glowed with the light of healing and the wound sealed itself. “If you want a heretic, we will give you heretics.”
J’anda stood, clutching his stave, and tossed his own vestment at Agora Friedlander. “I will spare you the display, but you may be assured that if you come for me … you will see a fire spell that will destroy enough of your number to affirm your fear of heresy from now until the end of your days—which I predict will be soon, should you persist in this course.”
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 4