Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7)

by Robert J. Crane

  “And they blew down our walls,” Ryin said, covering his face, his worried eyes, with a hand. “I don’t see how we stand against that.”

  “Ice spells cast from the parapets,” Vara said. “A careful watch. What spellcasters we have left that are willing, we should make heretic as well, give them all the abilities we can. Imagine a hundred enchanters at our command, that could switch to wizardry in an eye’s blink.”

  “Most of our spellcasters left in the last months,” Mendicant said, sounding oddly indifferent. When he looked up, it was with a curious look. “They, more than warriors or rangers, were acutely aware of the mark of heresy or excommunication and wished to avoid it most assiduously. Still, training those we have left …” His eyes glittered with hints of excitement.

  “That’s what we’ll need to do,” Cyrus said, nodding. “We need time. Time to train these people. Time to study the defenses, to anticipate the movements of those would come to us. We’ll prepare, we’ll watch, and we’ll watch for openings. We’ll grow stronger, and perhaps they’ll lose their resolve?”

  “Against heretics?” Erith asked, her voice like ground glass had been run down her throat, choked and lifeless. “Not likely. They’ll never forget us. They’ll never let up. They will come eventually, one way or another.”

  “And we’ll be waiting,” Cyrus said, keeping his eyes low.

  “But defending the wall with less than a thousand?” Longwell asked, shaking his head. “It would be … a slaughter if they break through.”

  “No,” Cyrus said. “Because if it comes to that … we’ll leave before they get the chance.” And with a weight in his heart, he looked at the faces around him, filled with as much despair as he found resting in his own heart at the thought of leaving Sanctuary behind.

  15.

  The dawn’s breaking found Cyrus awake, Vara already dressed in her armor by the time his eyes opened from a slumber he had thought would never find him. He stirred sleepily to see her sitting in a chair on the far edge of the bed, an envelope grasped in her fingers. “Message from Cattrine,” she said, fatigue showing in the dark circles under her eyes and the way her hair was still mussed from sleep. “We have a meeting arranged in Termina today.”

  Cyrus got out of bed, cringing inwardly at the feel of the cold floor beneath his feet. The hearth was quietly burning, nearly down to ashes, but it sprung to life as he got up, a new energy within it, as though it sensed his wakening. “Who brought the message?” he asked as he began to slip on underclothes, soft and clean.

  “That druid of Terian’s, Bowe,” Vara said, still as a statue where she sat. “Apparently he has been vouched for as one of the only people our dear Sovereign considers completely trustworthy in this.”

  “If he’s good enough for Terian,” Cyrus said, his chainmail rattling as he pulled it on over his head, “I suppose he’s good enough for me.” He stifled a yawn; he’d been awake into the small hours of the morning, too many thoughts awhirl for him to sleep.

  “Trust does seem to be an active concern going forward,” Vara said, rubbing her face, causing her pale cheek to turn red. “For example, with Bowe already gone, we have no way of easy transport to our meeting.”

  “Damn,” Cyrus said as Vara got up to assist him in fastening his armor on. “We’ll have to take a druid or wizard along, I suppose.”

  “Disguise will also be necessary,” Vara said, pulling hard the strap to Cyrus’s breastplate and backplate, ratcheting it tight against him enough to elicit a grunt of discomfort. “I’ve already left a message for J’anda under his door. Hopefully he will be awake enough for us to collect him when we head down.”

  “I suppose it would be asking too much for them to let us teleport into Santir and walk into Termina as we are,” Cyrus said as he fastened one arm’s vambrace while Vara tended to the other. He gave her a smile, a thin one that was nonetheless motivated by the grim humor he found in the whole situation. “Though it would be funny to show up, declare ourselves, and then—”

  “Die, horribly, at the end of many arrows and swords,” Vara said dryly. “There is most likely a garrison in Santir at the moment, though hopefully they will not be at the portal. There is definitely an army in Termina, watching the bridge carefully in fact—”

  “And of almost no use now that there is no dark elven army moving across the plains to cross and sack the town,” Cyrus said with a hearty yawn. “Armies—always looking to fight the last war.”

  “It’s not as though there’s much cause for the elven army to go elsewhere,” Vara said, tightening Cyrus’s right arm bracer to the point where he felt a numbness even under the chainmail. “I believe the rest of the elven army is gathered south of Pharesia, massed in case the dark elves and Luukessians around Emerald Fields get any imperial ambitions and decide to come north. Or in case Danay decides to make the first move.”

  “An unsettling if entirely plausible scenario.” Cyrus turned his attention to the bracer just fastened by Vara, loosening it slightly as she watched, unamused. “I’ll need to meet with Calene, Menlos, and Scuddar later today to inform them of their impending officership.”

  Vara rolled her eyes. “More people in the Council that we cannot fully trust. This appears to my eyes to be some sort of window dressing, husband. Why do we need more officers now, when our numbers are sunk to their lowest level in years? And as much as you might bemoan the exodus last night, we have lost some ten times more than what we saw yesterday eve.”

  “Not at one time, though,” Cyrus said quietly. “Not all in one go.”

  “I suppose their exit was somewhat more dramatic than the steady trickle of departures that came before,” Vara said, thick with tiredness, “leaving in their ones and twos, often in the middle of the night, without a word of warning, as their hope dwindled. I confess I thought perhaps we were through the worst of it, knowing how many we had lost, but … yes, from an emotional point of view, seeing that many go at once does leave something of a mark on the soul.”

  “A little bit,” Cyrus admitted, stooping to fasten his greaves. That done, he straightened in silence, sighed, and placed his helm upon his head as Vara reached for hers and did the same. Cyrus cinched his belt, the sword resting loosely in the scabbard upon it, and then turned his head to look for a chest that he’d thought he’d seen stored somewhere in the room. His eyes searched the corners until they fell upon a wooden box in one corner that had been moved with the rest of his personal effects when he’d taken over as Guildmaster. He strode over to it lazily, pausing over the thigh-high chest with its metal bindings around every edge to hold it together, an object clearly made by a skilled craftsman—or two, even; a blacksmith to piece it all together with the metal and a carpenter to make the sides.

  “What are you doing?” Vara asked, watching him carefully.

  “Placing my thumb on the scales currently weighted against us,” Cyrus said, opening the unlocked chest to find exactly what he was looking for within. “To balance things slightly.” He took hold of the mystical ball and chain stored away within the chest and began to wrap it around his armor. He started by draping the length of chain around his waist, then crossed it diagonally over his chest both ways, winding the long chain around himself until it ran out of length. At one end was a steel ball covered in spikes, and at the other, a simple leather-wrapped handle, which he hung so that he could easily reach it with his left hand.

  He turned to see Vara staring at him, a look of revulsion over her face, warring with her obvious weariness. “I guess you remember this, then,” he said.

  “It would be hard to forget,” she said with a mild shudder, “seeing as you acquired it during our last trip together to Termina. I honestly thought that Unter’adon was going to kill you.”

  “He had a good chance,” Cyrus agreed, taking hold of the handle of the chain and feeling the very slight power imbued in the weapon rush through him. It was no Praelior, that much was certain, but it was better than nothing. He drew the swo
rd on his belt and practiced with a sudden feint, then a forward strike. “Well?”

  “You’re faster than you were without it,” she said, though she sounded almost pained to admit it. “Let’s hope you don’t find yourself in need of it, however.”

  “Yeah, against Rhane Ermoc and my own sword,” Cyrus said, letting loose of the handle, “it’s not going to be as much use. But I might be able to take on a small army with its aid.”

  “Very small,” she said, and he started past her toward the stairs, not wanting to address the sickened look on her face. He knew all too well that the mere sight of the weapon he was now forced to hang around his body for added strength and speed was a terrible memory for Vara. Too many unpleasant associations with that night.

  Cyrus was halfway down to the door when a gentle knock sounded. “Who is it?” he called, Vara a few steps behind him.

  “’Tis I, as bid,” J’anda called through the door, and Cyrus opened it to find the enchanter standing there, looking much more awake than he or Vara. “Are you ready to go?”

  Cyrus looked back to find Vara a study in glumness. “This is mad, isn’t it?” he asked, not sure whether he was speaking to the enchanter before him or his wife behind him.

  “No madder than sitting here and waiting for the axe to fall,” J’anda said with a very slight smile that, Cyrus thought, perfectly represented the enchanter—wry and encouraging, with none of the desperation that he and Vara were exhibiting. “There is much to be done, my friends,” J’anda said with a twinkling of his eyes, “come—let us begin.”

  16.

  The foyer of Sanctuary was quiet, the new troll applicants standing around near the lounge with a few other solitary souls, the quiet morning light streaming in through the circular stained glass window above the doors. Cyrus nodded to Zarrn, who nodded back. One of the other troll applicants gazed unabashedly at him as Cyrus came down the stairs, watching him as he crossed to the great seal. Cyrus stared back, meeting the troll’s eyes, and saw a probing intensity there. This particular troll wore a beard as black as the caves of Enterra, and after a long look, he seemed satisfied and nodded at Cyrus, who returned the courtesy.

  “Our portal is still shut,” Vara said, which Cyrus already knew, having ordered Mendicant to close it months ago, as a precaution when Sanctuary had begun hemorrhaging wizards who knew the spell to carry them and any who wished to come with them right into their hallowed halls. “We’ll need to use return to get back.”

  “Or come in at the northern portal and walk,” Cyrus said, peering into the lounge in hopes of seeing a wizard or druid within. Alas, no luck there; three rangers and a warrior in mystical armor were sitting in isolated seats, reading or merely staring off into space, in their own thoughts. “Hmm. We should, perhaps, learn some wizard teleportation spells of our own, I suppose.”

  “That would make it considerably easier,” Vara said. “Though casting fire is one thing; I am not sure I trust myself not to accidentally carry us somewhere beyond the ether if forced to cast a teleport.”

  “Perhaps we should start by teaching you some illusions,” J’anda said with a raised eyebrow. “Those cannot go so wrong. At worst, you might become a gnome instead of a dark elf.”

  “As though that’s not a catastrophe of its own.” A half-smile cracked Vara’s tired facade, but she abruptly turned serious, her gaze fixed on the doors to the Great Hall. Cyrus looked to see what had stopped her and saw Larana there, her matted brown hair falling frizzed upon the shoulders of her muted brown robes. The vestments of the druid that she habitually wore hidden beneath her hair were cast off, now, and he caught a glimpse of her green eyes looking up at him from beneath worried brows as she shuffled toward him shyly.

  “Larana,” Cyrus said, greeting her with a nod. She had not, that he could remember, ever approached him of her own accord. She always trailed behind, looking at him with those fearful green eyes, as though he might strike at her any moment. She looked ready to recoil, and even seeing that in her gaze made him want to shy away himself, uncomfortable at what it might indicate. “How goes it this morn?”

  She stopped, seemingly taken aback by his simple query. “Very well, my Lord Davidon.”

  “Glad you’re having a better morning than the rest of us,” Cyrus said with a sly smile. At least someone isn’t in darkest despair around here, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at her.

  “M’lord,” she said, bowing her head even further, so that he could no longer see her eyes at all, “I—I am loyal to you. To Sanctuary.” Now she looked up, just barely, enough that he caught a glimpse of smoldering sincerity beneath her tangled hair. “Please … let me help you. Any way I can.”

  Cyrus regarded her carefully, feeling a tightness within his chest. This is a woman who, on her own accord, and with her own resources, acquired enough quartal to smith my chainmail. Even if she were dearest friends with the Elves of Amti, that can’t have come cheaply. A question occurred to him presently. “How loyal are you, Larana?” he asked, peering down at her, noting the pinched look on her face as he asked. “Are you willing to do heresy for me?”

  The answer came without hesitation. “Anything,” she said, nodding sharply.

  Cyrus felt the stab of a breath stuck in his chest, and he looked back at Vara, who nodded. “Very well, then,” he said, nodding. “Why don’t we start with something simple?” And he indicated the doors to the guildhall and led the way out into the day, sunny sky shining down upon them without a single cloud in view. The air was cold and crisp, and they made their way across the quiet grounds to the stable, the only sound muted conversations in the distance being held by the sentries atop the wall.

  When Cyrus reached the stables, the doors were already open, and the stableboy Dieron Buchau was waiting, his red hair nearly glowing in the sun. “Lord Davidon!” Buchau called, “I didn’t know you were coming. Windrider didn’t raise any sort of ruckus—”

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow at that. “I won’t be needing Windrider today.” When the stableboy met his statement with a confused look, Cyrus elaborated. “I need something nondescript. Too many people know Windrider. I need very plain horses for this errand.”

  Dieron Buchau looked around, staring at the horses around him. “By all means, M’lord. Pick anything you wish.”

  Cyrus chose a very plain, old brown mare, and the others selected exceedingly ordinary horses as well. Cyrus paused by Windrider’s stall and offered quiet words of encouragement. The horse whickered at him in a friendly way, seemingly not at all jealous of Cyrus’s choice of a different horse.

  With that task done and the horses saddled, Cyrus rode out of the stables and into the day, leading his small party of four to the side of the guildhall, into the shade of a wide-trunked yew tree. When they had all gathered around him, he looked straight at J’anda. “We’re going to Termina via Santir. What would you suggest for a disguise?”

  “Why are you asking him?” Vara asked with a sniff of annoyance. “Why don’t you ask the person who lived in Termina much of her life?”

  “All right,” Cyrus said, trying to mask a smile. “What would you recommend, my dear?”

  “That you ask me next time, and not try to gallop past your failure of intellect by simply sprinkling a ‘my dear’ upon your error.” She gave him an acrid look and turned her attention to J’anda. “Dark elven merchants. They are doing a booming trade with Termina once more, and I think it is not uncommon to see the more well-to-do ones teleporting in from elsewhere to spare a journey of weeks across the Southern Reaches of the Confederation. They would also, perhaps, have cause to treat with the Oliaryn of Termina, if they were sufficiently well-placed.”

  “Dark elven merchants,” J’anda said with a nod. “This, I can arrange. But then, I can arrange much more than that.” He twisted his fingers around his long staff, and the purple crystal glowed bright before releasing a spell. It snaked around them and Cyrus found himself looking at three dark elves surrounding him,
all in cloth shirts and pants, though two of them were women. Their clothes were much cleaner and of higher quality than any dark elven merchant Cyrus could recall seeing in Reikonos, and they also wore metal bindings that held their cloaks together at the neck. The binding had a logo of some sort upon it, but though it was familiar, Cyrus was unsure where he might have seen it before.

  “It is the Seal of Grimrath Tordor,” J’anda said when he caught Cyrus looking. “One of Saekaj’s highest noble houses, and one that has fared fairly well in the aftermath of the … shall we say … revolution.” He wore a smile perched upon his lips that looked somehow impudent even in spite of his illusion, and Cyrus wondered what was going on in the enchanter’s thoughts.

  “Larana,” Cyrus said, looking to the nearest dark elf to him, “We need—”

  “I’m not Larana,” came Vara’s voice from the dark elf he had fixed his gaze upon, mock-offended. “Apparently you can’t even recognize your own wife. For shame. This is, perhaps, not your day when it comes to pleasing me.”

  “I question whether it’s ever my day in that regard,” he returned, eliciting a snort. He turned to the other dark elven woman. “Larana … please take us to Santir.”

  The druid, hidden well under her dark elven guise, nodded once, and then raised her hand in the air, twisting the forces of magic to her command. The air swirled in a storm of hard wind, a tornado of magic gathered around them, and with the rise of the force of air, swept them away from under the shaded yew tree on the Sanctuary grounds, hundreds of miles away and to a different land.