Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7)

by Robert J. Crane

  17.

  Santir was smelly and crowded, and not at all how Cyrus had remembered it. But then, Cyrus’s memory of the town had come in the days before it had been sacked and burned completely to the ground by the dark elves, so this was not unexpected. What had sprung up in the ruins was something entirely different, a bustling new city that had taken root around the portal. His horse led the way for their small party of dark elves, his eyes searching the streets for hints of danger.

  The streets were dirt, not a cobblestone in sight. The sound of the horse hooves thumping steadily against the ground was soft in Cyrus’s ears. On either side of them, new wooden buildings, constructed in the last few years, were already showing signs of weathering, the wood streaked and darkened from the ashen rains. The skies here were clouded, as though the burnt remnants of the original town still lingered in the atmosphere, waiting to be returned with the next downpour.

  There were gaps between some of the buildings, vacant lots covered over with weeds or the occasional small garden, with its earth left empty for the winter, tilled and fallow. There was no sign of the snow that blanketed Reikonos, just a bitter chill in the air, much harsher than that around Sanctuary.

  Cyrus could see the scars of the war everywhere. The road ahead led through the spare and struggling town, hints of industry springing up here and there. A massive building just ahead echoed with the sound of sawing wood, a lumber mill brought to life, probably charged with taking wood floated down the River Perda and turning it into boards for new buildings.

  The residents in the streets seemed to have little life to them. They watched Cyrus and his party with undisguised suspicion. Eyes followed them even as they made their way toward the Grand Span, the massive bridge in the center of the river that led to Termina.

  At the bank of the river, the stolid atmosphere of Santir suddenly changed. The river was practically a living thing, so thick with small boats, barges, and other craft that Cyrus wondered if he would even have needed the bridge to cross. It seemed to writhe with activity, vessels navigating past their moored fellows, all trying to squeeze up to docks that were already occupied on both sides of the river. Santir certainly seemed to be getting the lesser traffic of the two, with Termina and the western bank stacked up with barges filled with elves and humans and dark elves and even dwarves and gnomes yelling at each other to clear the channel, each with their own objective for their boat, aiming to deliver cargo or receive it.

  “That’s more like it,” J’anda breathed as they started up the Grand Span, their horses’ hooves clicking against the cobblestones.

  When they reached the apex of the bridge, the city of Termina lay spread out before them, still a shade of its pre-war glory. Cyrus took in the spectacle, trying to focus on it rather than the uncomfortable memories of where he was presently riding. The bridge was scarred, the cobblestones black in some places from rampant, raging fire spells that had scoured their surface. Cyrus caught his bride looking down at them, forlorn even through her illusion, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. How could she not be thinking of Chirenya?

  Soon enough, though, all their eyes were on the city. The traffic on the bridge was light, but elven sentries stood in the middle, watching the parties come through, gazes fixed on the horizon. Watching for sign of a dark elven army, Cyrus realized with numb surprise. They’ll be watching that way for a thousand years or more after being caught so flat-footed last time.

  Innumerable burned and blackened structures were still dotted around Termina, the wreckage of war obvious in the landscape. Other portions of the city appeared completely demolished, either by fire or intentional razing. As Cyrus watched, an explosion went off to his right, a booming that echoed across the river, and a whole block of houses disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  “No cause for worry,” one of the elven guards standing atop a makeshift wooden platform at the side of the span called out to the traffic blow. “It is a controlled detonation of damaged housing.” He waved a hand, beckoning the suddenly stopped traffic to be on about their way. “Move along.”

  “I imagine they’re having to do quite a bit of that,” J’anda said, once they were a hundred meters past the guard post. Another stood ahead of them, more elves waiting atop it, staring at their brethren ahead, the clear start of a chain of relays, where word of any potential invasion could be shouted back into the city within minutes.

  “The dark elves held portions of the city for quite some time,” Vara said stiffly. “They fought street by street when King Danay ordered his troops in to reclaim it, and they did not yield easily. Var’eton—the lowers—where that house was destroyed—it was the site of some of the most pitched fighting, as I understand it. As was Ilanar Hill.”

  “Mmm,” J’anda said with a nod. “Of course. Someone gave me a mansion there once, though I imagine that that offer has perhaps been rescinded now, given current events.”

  “Shh,” Cyrus said, watching for any sign that anyone had overheard J’anda’s snide remark. “They’ll take more than that from you given half a chance.”

  J’anda shrugged, almost indifferent. “They may try. There is little left to take, and the price I would exact before they succeeded would be ruinous.”

  They rode into the city of Termina by the old Entaras’iliarad, the main avenue into the town. Cyrus had recalled this street bustling with life, and it still did, workers and residents moving up and down it. Ahead, he could see the wreckage of the Chancel of Life, the shrine to Vidara, Goddess of Life. Where before it had been a domed building, a massive edifice in the center of the city, now it stood less than half its previous height, covered over in scaffolding, a modest effort at rebuilding clearly underway. Wooden cranes moved in the circular roadway surrounding the chancel, lifting block and wood up to the heights upon which they were constructing the new Chancel, possibly upon the bones of the old. With the scaffolding in place, Cyrus could not tell if there had been any remainder or whether the dark elves had spitefully dragged it down stone by stone.

  From the bridge he’d spied the old sites of the other two largest buildings in Termina as well. The old Bazaar, a massive, square market that spanned an area the size of a small city, nestled in the southern reaches of Termina, had lost its roof to fire and the sack, but the bustle of commerce had clearly returned to it, even absent its ceiling. The government center, though, a squat and unattractive building that had sat in the Olenet’yenaii, the northern artery that ran to the Chancel’s square, seemed to have been destroyed altogether. Innumerable tents dotted the square where it had stood.

  “Where are we going?” Cyrus asked, looking over the tent city.

  “Oliaryn Iraid runs the provincial government out of his own personal manor on Ilanar Hill,” Vara said with a barely disguised smile that he recognized as ironic. “Apparently it was one of the least damaged structures in the city.”

  “I’m surprised the dark elves did as much damage in the siege as they did,” J’anda said. “They must have barraged the most important buildings with trebuchet and catapult in order to bring them down.”

  That’s it, Cyrus realized with a start. They didn’t haul down the building brick by brick; they bombarded their choicest targets from across the river and turned them to wreckage over the course of years. For him it was something of a revelation, going from trying to figure out why an army struggling to hold onto the city would waste time and manpower destroying key buildings just to demoralize their enemies. They didn’t, he realized. They just sat back and knocked it down from a distance with their artillery corps, probably once they’d lost control of that sector of the city. All they would need would be some stone, which surely they could drag from the quarries north of Santir. It would be a practically infinite supply of projectiles.

  They passed buildings that had clearly been bombarded, some by massive pieces of stone charred from being doused in oil and lit afire, and others by stones simply hurled in haste, no time or oil wasted upon them. One
house had had its red tile roof completely crushed in, all the windows broken and the sky shining through, revealing that every floor had been destroyed. Cyrus could see the projectile that had done the damage, still lying within the shell of the house, probably on someone’s list of wreckage to clear, someday.

  Work like that was going on all around as they took a right down a wide avenue that cut from the Entaras’iliarad to the square where the government center had sat. The tents were visible ahead, canvas billowing in the breeze, probably a half a hundred of them, of various sizes. Troops were surely quartered within, though Cyrus doubted it was enough to keep the entire army of the northern kingdom here. They were undoubtedly also staying in any number of houses within the city, raising to Cyrus the question of exactly how many residents of old Termina had returned to this place after its destruction.

  The sound of hammers, of pick and axe, echoed through the streets. Shouted commands in elvish and the human tongue drew Cyrus’s curiosity. He passed an all-human work crew who gazed at him suspiciously, and he realized with a start that they were Luukessian by their accents, and saw a cloak that suggested at least one was from the Kingdom of Actaluere and a former soldier, at that. Must have hired themselves out for work here. Though I’m surprised they didn’t stay in Emerald Fields to build for their own people …

  They went on, through the wide avenue, and circled around the edge of the tent city in the old wreckage of the government building. Cyrus could recall being led through the warren of corridors in the squarish building once upon a time. The smell of dust and sweat lay thick upon the air, and he could see the faint hints of where the building might once have stood, but it appeared that almost all of it had been hauled away by horse and cart, leaving the empty ground for the tent city.

  “There are whole fields that have been filled with the refuse from the destruction of the city,” Vara said quietly. “Sifted through for usable stone and wood, the waste hauled off and discarded to help clear the streets. It’s left quite a blight on the landscape outside the city, as I understand.”

  “Hmm,” Cyrus grunted, letting Vara lead him. She angled them on a path through the tent city, weaving between the unevenly placed tents and up a road on the other side. They traveled that path north for a time as the buildings thinned and the damage from the war seemed to fade, its intensity nowhere near what it had been in the main avenues of Termina. The smell of dust was fading as they went. They were on a winding path now, heading west once more, and the ground sloped upward, an obvious incline. “This is Ilanar Hill?” Cyrus asked.

  “It is,” Vara said, her eyes slowly taking in the first of the mansions, behind a low wall to their left. It looked like a white stone building that had collapsed in on itself, the walls forming a V in the center of the rectangular structure. The bare hints of red tile roof that were visible in the mess suggested to Cyrus it might once have been a luxury home, more massive than the Sanctuary foyer, and perhaps more lushly appointed as well. The lawn leading up to the building was brown with winter’s touch, and he tried to imagine it green and inviting, with the building standing as it might have in better days. “These were the homes of the wealthiest and most powerful of Termina,” Vara said, a hint of longing in her voice. “They were … glorious, I must admit. Marvels of elven architecture, more stunning even than the beautiful, classic homes of the Old District where I grew up. Every one had its roots in our culture, was designed to be an outward representation of everything the Kingdom had accomplished in all its long years, even before its official foundation under Danay.” She looked away from the wreckage. “And just like so many other things … now they are destroyed.”

  “Indeed,” J’anda whispered under his breath as they went on, horse hooves clopping along the lonely cobblestones. There was no reconstruction here, only quiet grounds, grey skies, and wreckage. The street ahead of them was empty. And why would it not be? Cyrus wondered.

  They rode another twenty minutes, seeing countless ruined mansions through felled and bare trees on either side of the road. Was one of these mine? Cyrus wondered, his eyes flitting over collapsed edifice after collapsed edifice. Was one of them Vara’s? Danay promised us, promised the defenders of Termina each a mansion here. Was this one to be mine? His gaze fell on a house that had clearly been hit multiple times, only one wall still standing. He could count at least eight boulders the size of wagons lying in the wreckage. Whatever the dark elves intended to do to the main structures of Termina, it would appear that demoralizing the wealthiest citizens was also part of their plan. Or perhaps these were just some of the biggest targets.

  Finally, a mansion that had survived intact came into view. Its soft lines reminded Cyrus of an egg where it tapered to a dome in the middle of the structure. Two wings swept out, one each to the left and right, more angular but still regal and graceful. He stared at the building, trying to piece together in his head if any of the wrecked buildings he had seen had looked anything like this. He could not recall any of them hinting at the shape of this one, with its marbled walls and stone roof, so unlike the tiled ones he had seen in the wreckage of the other mansions.

  They rode through a gate without being stopped, the soldiers on either side nodding to them when they saw the emblems upon their cloaks. They went onward, into a courtyard between the two wings of the house, up to a portico that stretched out over the cobblestone courtyard, clearly designed to allow egress from carriages in inclement weather. Servants stood with their backs straight, not even looking at Cyrus and his party as their horses trotted up.

  “We’re here for a meeting with Oliaryn Iraid,” Cyrus said as a soft breeze drifted down upon him from over the mansion’s northern wing and swirled through the courtyard. The nearest of the servants did not even look at him before nodding and sweeping an inviting hand toward the steps into the mansion.

  Cyrus handed the reins of his horse to the servant, who took them silently, along with Vara’s, J’anda’s and Larana’s before tying all four off to a nearby post next to a long, silvery trough filled with water. Cyrus walked uncertainly up the stairs to where two more servants waited, opening the doors for them, faces impassive.

  “I wonder if the General of Termina typically meets with dark elven merchants without even inquiring as to their provenance,” Cyrus muttered under his breath as they passed into a silent, empty entry hall. A shining marble balcony encircled the room on three sides, and hearths burned on either side of the room, warming it. Lush purple carpets led from the entry doors, which were closing quietly behind them with a soft click, to the massive stairs that split to sweep up to either side of the balcony that ringed the room.

  “He does when he’s been told who they are and to expect a party that will not be what they appear,” Cattrine Tiernan’s soft voice came from just beside the stairs. Cyrus had not even seen her there when he entered, but she was there now, without doubt, in a cloak of her own, with the cowl pulled back to reveal her chestnut hair. She wore a tight smile, standing in the shadow of the steps. “I’ve been waiting for you, as has the Oliaryn.”

  “I apologize for any delay,” Cyrus said, making his way over to Cattrine, boots crushing the soft velvety carpet beneath every step. She shook her head, and J’anda’s illusion faded away in an instant, leaving Cyrus standing there in his black armor once more.

  Cattrine eyed the chain wrapped around his chest and waist. “That’s new.”

  He did not reply, and she led them forward into a hallway empty of all life. There were no servants here; only silence greeted them, and walls that burned with candles in sconces that emitted a soft, waxy smell as they shed their light. She took them through two turns and finally stopped outside a wooden door that looked new, as though it had been replaced in the aftermath of the sack. It probably had, Cyrus reflected; while this mansion might not have been bombarded, it had surely had dark elven pillagers coursing through it like blood through veins during the siege.

  Cattrine knocked once before a thunde
rous voice bade them enter. Cyrus cast a look back at Larana. “Wait here,” he said, and she nodded once, her eyes downcast. “Keep watch.”

  He followed Cattrine through the doors into a spacious office, Vara and J’anda trailing behind him. Vara shut the door once they were inside, and Cyrus let his eyes adjust to the brightness of the room. There were at least four large windows, all shut, but allowing the grey light of day to stream in. A hearth burned at one side of the room, and in addition to the large wooden desk that had clearly been carved by elven craftsmen for all its intricacy of pattern, there were countless pedestals and shelves filled with artifacts, weapons, and sculpture, and the walls were covered with paintings.

  Cyrus could not help but gawk at the one above the hearth, which dragged his gaze away from the grizzled, grey-haired man in a silken doublet behind the desk. With nary a glance at the Oliaryn he had come to meet, Cyrus found himself drawn to the painting, to the hearth, the warm fire crackling, the sweet smell of smoky cherrywood filling the office and growing stronger as he drew, inexorably, toward the object of his attention.

  “You have a keen eye,” Oliaryn Iraid said, coming over to Cyrus, who took slow, halting steps the closer he grew to the painting. “To pick that, out of all my collection. Though I suppose you can’t help it, can you?” The General sounded amused.

  Cyrus stared at the picture above him. The frame was bronze and lined with flowered sculpture at each corner, a work of art in and of itself. Within the frame lay a canvas of careful oils, brushstrokes that showed the mastery of an elf with thousands of years of experience. The skies in the painting were a true-life, as if someone had taken the grey clouds from the sky outside and somehow laid them across the surface of the canvas. Each of the soldiers in the battle-lines that stretched to either side of the canvas looked as though they were real, breathing, and would be charging out of the painting into actual war right there in front of Cyrus.