“Well, she is from Termina,” Cyrus muttered, drawing another ireful look from Vara.
Merrish favored Cyrus with a patronizing smile. “You don’t see it, because you have grown up within the bounds of the Confederation with all its wondrous opportunity for ascent. Why, you, most disfavored of them all, son of a heretic, have now become one of the most powerful men in Arkaria, and still you reach forth the hand.” He leaned on the hoe, crooking his elbow around it, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You, Cyrus Davidon, could be the kingmaker in this land, if you should use your opportunities right.”
“And would I be making you the king, should I follow that course?” Cyrus asked, trying to take some of the sting out of his question now that they’d come around at last to what he wanted to know.
“I don’t want to be king,” Merrish said with a fervent shake of his head. “I’d rather no one was king, that we chose not to bend the knee to one person, for fear that they might end up a singularly vain and insecure, petty person caught up in their own self.”
“So you’re one of the ones that longs for the fragmented days of old,” Vara said, drawing wearily to her conclusion, “before the union of the Kingdom. Admittedly, I wasn’t there, but all the tales I have heard of those days indicated that there were still hierarchies of birth, but there were also internecine battles between the various lords who considered themselves kings of their own lands.”
“I’m not opposed to a king or queen,” Merrish said, seeming to reverse himself. “I would prefer not to have one, but I am hardly the lone decider of these matters. But at the very least, I would like the distinctions between class destroyed.”
“No more nobility?” Cyrus asked with undisguised amusement. “I don’t think your fellow lords are going to like that much.”
“There can still be lords,” Merrish said, “since trying to wrest their hereditary lands out of their corpulent hands would prompt a war in the kingdom unlike anything seen since before the union.” He sighed impatiently. “I only wish to see the distinctions of caste washed away. It is a prison, more odious than some idiot who four generations ago swore service to Danay and received land and title for it. Lords can parcel off their land and sell it to a highborn, if so possessed. But a lowborn cannot rise above their station in life regardless and can never hope to own a parcel of land outside of Termina. This needs to change.”
Vara’s skepticism was well buried. “This is the price for your help in our … endeavor, then? Promises of reform?”
“Yes,” Merrish said with a hard nod. “A promise of reform, and also a guarantee.”
“What’s the difference?” Cyrus asked, watching the elven lord with a smoldering level of irritation.
“One can be empty words,” Merrish said with a glint in his eyes, “the other carries with it some level of enforcement.” He lifted off the long wooden handle of his implement. “Say I help you put together this … this conspiracy, call it, for I can give you the key to unlock the door to Lady Voryn, whom I know you seek.” He smiled. “Let us assume we bring her together with Oliaryn Iraid, and perhaps a few more, for I’m sure you have others aiding you. You could promise in front of all of them that you would try very hard to garner what I’ve asked for when it is all done and whatever—hmm, change, let’s call it—has been made to the Kingdom in your favor. But when it is all said and my part is done, what assurance do I have that the others, whose faces I can imagine at my mere suggestion of this to them, will not simply speak with you quietly and convince you that a try is all that is required? ‘Oh, we have tried, but no one wishes to make this change.’” Merrish’s voice went high, and his eyes settled into a knowing look. “Of course no one wishes to make the change. It is not in their favor and will surely cause them to lose support among their highborn friends as their stations are swept away.”
“What assurance could we possibly give you that would mean a damn?” Vara asked, frowning.
“The only one that matters,” Merrish said, eyes agleam once more. “One bound by the authority that no one would deny.”
Vara’s face became a stiff mask. “That is not an assurance I can make at present.”
“I recognize that,” Merrish said, still smiling pleasantly. Little droplets of sweat were falling off him now as he shivered, his time spent resting apparently causing him to grow chilly. “But when you have the means, I expect it. I will not move without it, and should you try to bypass me, you will find me a swift enemy of yours.”
“Lovely,” Cyrus said, his blood chilling. “We didn’t have enough of those before, obviously …” Cyrus gave a long sigh. “Why not one more impossible task? Amidst so many already, this one won’t be much more of a burden.”
Merrish grinned. “I’m certain that for the man who freed the slaves of Arkaria, upending a simple caste system can be done with greatest ease. But in lieu of a reciprocal promise of my own, I offer this.” Merrish nodded his head in seeming concession. “Two things I will do for you in order to show my sincerity in this matter. The first—Lady Voryn. She has received your missives but sent them back, yes?”
“Yes,” Vara said cautiously. “She is absent, according to her retainers.”
“Lady Voryn is the most faithful woman you will ever meet,” Merrish said, eyes still gleaming. “She is devoted to her beliefs, to the Goddess of Life, beyond anything else. That is her key.”
“I see,” Vara said quietly.
“I expect you do,” Merrish said, smirking. “The second thing I will do for you is arrange an introduction to another friend of mine. His name is Allyn Frost, and I was told you that you might need to make his acquaintance.”
The Governor of the Northlands, Cyrus thought, suddenly frozen at the Lord’s admission. Did he hear that from Iraid? If not … Cyrus’s blood ran cold. Well, there’s nothing for it, now. If what we’re planning is widespread knowledge outside of our little shadow council … we’re going to be absolutely burned.
“Power speaks to power, you see,” Merrish said, looking straight at Vara. “I’ve known Governor Frost for many years and have had more than a few dealings with him. When you leave, you’ll be given an envelope with the time and date of your meeting. It will have to take place at his keep in Isselhelm, for he will not journey to you and you would not want him to in any case.”
“Of course,” Cyrus whispered, suddenly ashen with worry at the thought of more of his secrets exposed. This is a pox of a thing, trying to hide your intentions and worrying when anyone roots them out. I miss open battle, open war, charging enemies fearlessly knowing strength will decide the contest.
I hate being weak. It’s like hiding at night at the Society again in fear that someone is going to prey on me when I’m sleeping. I thought I’d left those days behind me, but it’s like they’re back, only now my enemies are more fearsome than ever before.
“Thank you most graciously for meeting with us,” Vara said, nodding politely to Lord Merrish, who bowed, his bronzed chest dipping with the rest of him and raising Cyrus’s ire as he did so.
“It was hardly an imposition on me,” Merrish said with a smile gentler than he’d yet shown. “I wish you all the best in these endeavors, and I hope to hear from you very soon in regards to that guarantee.”
“I shall work on it with the utmost effort,” Vara said, though the words seemed to stick in her throat. She bowed her head once more. “Lord Merrish.”
“Shelas’akur,” Merrish returned.
Vara turned on her heel and started back across the field, each step hindered slightly by the upturned soil. She took an envelope extended by Merrish’s dark-haired servant and then she gestured to Vaste and J’anda, each of whom nodded and began to cast the return spell. Larana, in the distance, did the same, shimmering into the light before any of the rest.
Cyrus, for his part, glanced at his wife but held his tongue as he cast the spell for himself and the chilly field disappeared, replaced by the stone walls and open doors of the Tow
er of the Guildmaster.
“That was unbelievably rude,” Vara said before she’d even finished appearing from the spell. “Merrish consents to meet with us after untold waiting—”
“About three months, really,” Cyrus grumbled.
“And you go and make a fool of yourself by butting heads with the man—”
“I saw you looking at his chest, I don’t think I’m the one who made a fool of myself—”
“Well, it would have been hard not to notice, and it’s not as though I sat there with drool dripping out of my mouth as you once did in the Temple of Vidara over a group of bare-chested priestesses several thousand years your senior—”
“Excuse me,” came a soft voice, drawing both of them out of their spat. Terian stood in front of the west-facing balcony, undisguised amusement stretching his lips into a broad smile. “Ahhh. Marriage. Isn’t it grand?”
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Vara snapped at him, pivoting as she folded her arms over her chest, making a fortress of herself.
“I,” Terian said, very slowly, very dramatically, “have most excellent news … and something to show you.”
“Marvelous,” Vara said acidly, “show us, then.”
“Can’t do it here,” Terian said, smirking. “You have to come with me to Saekaj.” His eyes danced with unfathomable excitement. “I would tell you what it is, but really … it’s the sort of thing you need to see in order to believe it.”
30.
They huddled awkwardly closely to Terian for his return spell (“I never wished to be this near to you,” Vara said. “I know,” Terian agreed with a knowing smile, “that’s why it’s so marvelous.”), carrying them back to the Grand Palace of Saekaj. Cyrus cast the spell of Eagle Eye upon his vision, the fine wood appointments to the palace becoming visible under the light of his spellcraft.
“Kind of a relief to be able to do this for myself now,” Cyrus said as they strode out through the main doors under a large portico. The sound of rushing water heralded the two enormous waterfalls that emerged from either side of the palace’s facade. A small moat ran in front of them, underneath a bridge that led to immense, wide-open gates. Cyrus could see movement beyond as a carriage rattled to a stop in front of them.
They boarded the carriage wordlessly and it rattled along the dirt and rock path of the cave. The seats were padded but the interior was dark. Cyrus sat next to Vara, both of them staring at Terian, who lazed in Alaric’s old armor against the backrest as though he were ready for a nap, smile of satisfaction draped across his face like he himself was draped across the seat.
“When are you going to tell us what we’re here to see?” Vara asked, more than a little snappishly.
“I’m not,” Terian said with a grin. “I want to see the look on your faces when you lay eyes on my surprise.”
“Hmph,” Vara said, making a snorting noise as she once more folded her arms against her chest. “Months of inaction and now suddenly we have two meetings in one day. Why do you suppose things happen like that?”
“Who else did you meet with?” Terian asked, sitting up straight in his seat.
“Lord Merrish,” Cyrus said, a frown suddenly upon his face. “My wife thinks he’s a tasty morsel.”
Vara focused her eyes on the ceiling of the carriage. “I think your brain would be a tasty morsel for some hungry troll, and your senses have become inflamed by not only your outsized ego but also your raging insecurity.”
“What did he want?” Terian asked.
“For Vara to gawk at his physique, apparently,” Cyrus said.
Vara let out a grunt of distinct impatience. “Goddess, husband, this is not an attractive side of you.”
“Much like your arse,” Terian said, nodding at Cyrus. “Sorry. Maybe it’s just me, but it just doesn’t seem proportioned properly. Too long? I don’t know, maybe it’s the armor—”
Cyrus looked at Vara. “Is it my arse?”
Vara turned her head to stare at him incredulously. “Yes. Yes, it’s your arse. That’s the reason I was looking at a very fit man with his doublet off. But by ‘your arse,’ I mean it as Niamh meant it, that it is the entirety of you, not a singular part of your anatomy which I normally find to be a wonderful handle with which to grasp you—”
“Ooh, I think this carriage ride is suddenly making me queasy,” Terian murmured. “No. No, wait, it was that little revelation, not the ride.”
Cyrus looked out the window as the carriage came to the end of an avenue lined by enormous manors walled off from the street and rattled past smaller row homes all built together. A market lay off to the other side, filled with immense numbers of haggling people and a raucous crowd. “So this is Saekaj. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever really had much chance to look around here. Last time we just sort of marched through, army behind us …”
“And you won’t get much of a look right now, either, except as we pass,” Terian said, seemingly eager to turn the discussion away from Cyrus and Vara’s little spat. “But I will tell you, the markets now are the busiest I’ve ever seen them in my life. Now that we’ve got regularly commerce between Saekaj and Sovar—”
“You didn’t before?” Vara asked, her face pinched.
“Long story, but no,” Terian said, shaking his head. “Anyway, things have changed. They’re better, more stable, less violent and oppressive. The lower chamber, Sovar, is finally starting to prosper after thousands of years of the Sovereign smashing them down. And,” he said brightly, “we’ve begun to open up surface settlements again, reclaiming some of the open territory above and farming it with our own people rather than the slave labor of before. People are establishing homesteads up there, and we’ve got five towns growing under the sky.” He puffed with pride. “Give us a few years and we won’t just be sustaining ourselves on root vegetables, mushrooms, and spiders.”
Cyrus exchanged a tempered look with Vara, whose face was now squeezed with disgust. “Uh … that’s good,” he said, as delicately as he could.
Their reaction did not escape Terian. “I know,” he said. “It sounds bad. Hell, it was bad. But it’s getting better. We’re finally coming out of the dark.”
The carriage rattled as it took a turn and suddenly ran down a steep slope, as though traveling down a mountain. Cyrus braced himself against the sudden force of gravity at his back, threatening to push him toward Terian, who looked quite relaxed. “What the …?” Cyrus muttered.
“Oh, right,” Terian said with a grin visible in the thin slit of his helm. “I knew there was a reason I picked this side of the carriage.” He smiled at Cyrus and Vara’s obvious discomfiture. “So … what did Lord Shirtless want? Surely not just to inflame Vara’s loins?”
“My loins are quite cold at the moment, I assure you,” she said in a tone that left them in no doubt that it was the truth.
“He wants us to dissolve the elven caste system,” Cyrus said, pushing aside the bitterness that he’d felt toward Merrish throughout their discussion. “Also, he knew we were angling for meetings with Lady Voryn and Governor Frost—”
“Whoa,” Terian said in sudden alarm, bending to lean forward even against the weight of gravity, “how’d he know that?”
“I’m not sure, but it worries me,” Cyrus said tightly.
Terian leaned back against the carriage. “That is worrying. Our plans are supposed to be secret.”
Vara sighed. “Did it not occur to you both that he might simply have been led in that direction by Oliaryn Iraid, who in fact pointed us toward the Confederation territories specifically?”
“It occurred to me,” Cyrus said with a nod that Terian matched, “and then I rejected it because worrying about the other ways he—and who knows who else—might have heard about it is so much more ulcerating.”
“Cyrus speaks the truth,” Terian agreed, looking unsettled. “If you’re right, Vara, it presumably costs us nothing that Iraid might have hinted at our plans to a kindred spirit. But imagin
e for a moment he wasn’t talking to a kindred but someone who would sell us out in a heartbeat to the Leagues. All our planning, all our scheming would come to naught. Goliath and the rest would have ample time to counter us.”
“There seems little we can do about it at present, save for send a message to Iraid asking him if he divulged these details, and requesting he keep his tongue still in the future,” Vara said, “though that might deprive of us of further allies which we sorely need.”
“And might reach the ears of spies, which we sorely do not,” Terian said, settling back in the carriage once more. “So, this thing Merrish wants …”
“Dissolving the elven caste system,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “Seems the lord is a bit of an egalitarian.”
“It seems the lord is a bit of a fool,” Vara said. “Dismantling the caste system is well nigh impossible.”
Terian smirked in the dim light. “So was the thought of killing a god only just a few short years ago.”
“Not so,” Vara said. “Requiem’s Guildmaster did that very thing, if you recall, some ten thousand years ago, and apparently others did as well, if Alaric and Curatio were to be believed.”
Cyrus frowned. “But that guildmaster used a godly weapon to do so—Ferocis, the Warblade of Bellarum.” Something prickled in the back of his head at that thought.
“Yes, well, there were quite a few of them lying around Arkaria until just a few years ago,” Vara said with a helping of sarcasm as they rattled over a particularly hard bump. “We’re not even traveling past houses anymore. Where are you taking us, exactly?” Her voice rose in mild concern.
“Oh, stop with the suspicion already,” Terian said, shaking his head. He thumped his axe’s haft against the seat behind him. “I’m taking you to our prison, the Depths.”
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 18