“You’re welcome,” Calene said, nodding. “If there’s nothing else …?”
“That’ll do it,” Cyrus said, giving her the nod of dismissal. The ranger gave a small salute and walked back toward the door. Cyrus followed her with his eyes and did not stop watching her until she’d closed the door behind her. He turned to face Vara. “What is it?”
“I have to go,” Vara said, her face suddenly split between hope and agony. “Right now. The meeting we’ve been waiting for has been arranged, but it’s now.”
“Damn,” Cyrus said, leaning back against the balcony rail, the metal of his greaves scraping against the stone. “How are you going to get there?”
She gave a shrug. “I need someone to teleport me.”
“You should take J’anda,” Cyrus said seriously.
“J’anda is to take you to Isselhelm to meet with Frost.”
“I can have Larana do that,” Cyrus said.
“That’s daft,” Vara said, rising up, cheeks heated. “We can’t have anyone knowing about the Frost meeting.”
“We can’t have anyone knowing about yours, either,” Cyrus said. “That’d be a more definite guarantee to set tongues wagging than me taking a meeting with the governor of the Northlands.”
Vara sighed, turning to look out over the balcony. “Weeks of pointless waiting and then once again it all breaks loose at once. Do you get the feeling sometimes that we’re meant to be divided?”
“Only insofar as us divided is the easiest way to take us apart,” Cyrus said, facing in toward the tower, staring into the shadowed interior. “If we were at the strength we had even a year ago, before the battle in the jungle with the Avatar of the God of War—”
“But we aren’t,” Vara said quietly. “You might as well wish for us to be back in the time before we had to suspect half the members of our own council of betraying us to Goliath and the others. The sundial’s shadow does not move back, dear husband, it only goes forward. We remain trapped in these unyielding circumstances until we wriggle free of them by our own ingenuity or until our enemies foist death upon us.”
Cyrus felt a small smile take root on his face. “Which one would you bet on right now, if forced?”
“I would always bet upon us,” Vara said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Are you sure about taking Larana to Isselhelm?”
“No, but she wouldn’t be the only one coming with me,” Cyrus said, and he saw the flicker of distaste across his wife’s face as she recalled.
“Ugh,” Vara said. “The harlot. You should take Vaste with you.”
“No. Someone should remain here, just in case,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “Aisling … she’s saved our lives more recently than she tried to take mine. And if she kills me …” His smile turned rueful. “Well, she’ll be beating out a long line of people for the privilege.”
“I don’t like this,” Vara said, staring out over the plains. “I don’t like this at all. The line between enemy and ally has become far too muddled for my taste. All of the people we face now … they were all friends at one point in time.” A flicker of emotion ran over her features. “In some cases, much more than that.”
“Things change,” Cyrus said, nodding. “It seems to me that it’s these times, these … trying times … that you find out who really matters most. Who you can count on. It’s not when your tide is rising that you can test the loyalties of those around you; it’s when the tide has gone out and left you stranded in a long waste of empty sand … that’s when you find out who’ll stand with you.”
“There aren’t nearly as many people standing with us as I would have thought given everything we’ve been through,” Vara said quietly as the wind whipped stray strands of her hair around her.
“Aye,” Cyrus said, a slight choking feeling crawling into the back of his throat. “I thought we’d bought more loyalty by our service, too. But apparently we haven’t, and so this is the price we pay. Once again, odds against us, backs to the wall.” He nodded at the note in her hand. “But if things could change …”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said and kissed him on the cheek. “You should consider taking Vaste. At the least, take Larana along with you for the meeting? She’s trustworthy. She adores you, after all.”
“I’ll consider it,” Cyrus said, ignoring the last bit, “if Terian doesn’t provide us with a wizard or druid for transport.”
Vara sighed as she walked back toward the tower entrance, leaving him behind on the balcony. “You know, I feel as though I am growing immensely as a person right now. To let you go off into a hostile realm with her by your side and without launching into a rather hearty fit …”
“It’s good that you’re growing,” Cyrus said, afraid to look back. When he did, he tried to put as much humor into his expression as he could. “We need to be bigger, after all, in order to face these problems …”
“Not one of your best,” she observed, and with the scrape of boot on stone, she began to turn away. “If I were a lesser, more grudging person, I would tell you to watch your back, as the likelihood that anyone else with you will is lower than I would care for.”
“I will,” Cyrus whispered, confident that she would hear it, even as he listened to her steps fade down the stairs and the door shut softly behind her. “Believe me, I will.”
36.
When the knock sounded at Cyrus’s door a few minutes later, he half expected it to be another messenger. His ears pricked up, and he realized that the heavy thudding was coming from within the tower, not without.
“Come up,” Cyrus said quietly, tearing his attention away from the far horizon, from the sun hanging lazily overhead in the sky and shining down with just enough warmth to make him want to stay outside, on the balcony, for a time longer.
Footsteps sounded, soft and gentle, as Kahlee Lepos, her hair now a stunning scarlet color, led Aisling and the druid Bowe up the stairs. Cyrus watched the dark elven triad with a strange sense of resignation. Curious bedfellows, he thought, and then mentally slapped himself. Vara would not be pleased to hear that verbalized.
“Greetings, Lord Davidon,” Kahlee said with a faint smile and a respectful bow of her newly colored head.
Cyrus stared at the bright hair, then bowed his own. “Lady Lepos,” he said, realizing he still didn’t know her title, even as he made to pay his respects.
“Good enough,” she said, her smile widening just a touch. “You know Bowe and Aisling, I believe?”
“I’ve made their acquaintance,” Cyrus said with a trace of irony.
“Where is your lady wife?” Aisling asked, a little stiffly, as if expecting ambush from behind. She was strangely still, unmoving just below the top step.
“Called away to a last minute meeting that, well, that she needed to attend,” he said, arching his eyebrows. He could see that at the least the women got his message. Bowe, for his part, remained inscrutable, his long white hair queued over his shoulder, his posture relaxed yet somehow attentive.
“And J’anda?” Aisling asked, biting at her lip, not relaxing one whit.
“I sent him with her,” Cyrus said. “He’s learned the teleport spells.” He took a sharp intake of breath. “I assume Bowe can provide transport?”
“Yes,” Bowe said simply.
“But not illusions,” Aisling said.
“I can handle that,” Cyrus said, drawing himself up to his full height.
Aisling managed her surprise well. “Truly?”
“I’ve been practicing,” Cyrus said with a smile. He lifted his hand, visualizing the results desired in his own mind as he said the words under his breath. He closed his eyes in concentration, and when he opened them, Aisling bore the very image of a Northlands woman, clad in furs and leather rather than her finely crafted armor. Bowe looked like a dark-haired human with a facial tattoo, and Cyrus glanced down to see his black metal armor transformed into a bloodstained tunic of the sort a butcher might wear.
“Impressi
ve,” Aisling said in a neutral tone of voice. “I admit, even knowing you’re an outcast heretic, I find your abilities … surprising.”
“I find them surprising as well,” Cyrus said, coming in off the balcony only with great reluctance. It was as though he could feel the warmth of the sun fading with every step he took, crossing back into the dark shade of the tower. “Since only a year ago, I couldn’t have cast a spell if my life depended on it.” He frowned as his own words sunk in. “Or perhaps until my life depended on it, given how things unfolded.”
“I will leave you three to it, then,” Kahlee said with a nod. “Unless you desperately want to drag me along to your adventure.”
“Are you just going to sit here and await their return?” Cyrus asked with a frown.
Kahlee glanced around the room and her eyes fell upon the table by the bed, where Vara kept her favorite book. “I’ll read that, if it’s all the same to you. Unless you have something more interesting, or you’d prefer I just poke around your personal possessions.” She smiled thinly, as though goading him.
“If The Champion and the Crusader whets your appetite for entertainment in our absence, have at it,” Cyrus said. “The only other volumes you’re likely to find here are old histories of wars and battles that—although I find them appealing—are rather dry for most.”
Aisling peered around the room with great interest. “I always found it interesting that none of Alaric’s books were here when you ascended to the seat of Guildmaster.”
Cyrus paused, thinking. “How do you know Alaric had books?”
“He spent so much time in this tower,” Aisling said with a faint smile on her pale, illusioned face, “I can hardly imagine he spent all those hours staring at the walls or out the windows.”
“It’s what I do,” Cyrus said quietly. “Though I suppose it’s possible I have more on my mind than he did before he … well, you know.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” Aisling said with that same smile. “And I suppose he could have just faded into the ether and wandered around the world when we all assumed he was up here. There’s really no way to be certain.”
“True enough,” Cyrus said, and he glanced back at the sun. “The hour draws near.” He looked to Bowe. “Take us to Isselhelm?”
The druid nodded subtly, even in his Northman guise, and the power of his teleportation spell whipped around them with a rising wind. Cyrus’s eyes found Aisling, and hers his, and there was a flash of discomfort between them in the storm as they caught each other’s gaze and then looked away swiftly as the tornado of magic swept them away and far to the north.
37.
Isselhelm was a city of mud roads and wooden houses, crude structures that looked quite a bit like Santir to Cyrus’s eyes. It was just out of the mountains, a mere handful of miles off the border of the Dwarven Alliance, and situated on a river that flowed south, carrying all the minerals and metals of the dwarves to markets in other lands. One enormous, domelike mountain stood close at hand, nearer to the city, like a foothill against the backdrop to the north, and the howling of wolves in the distance reached Cyrus’s ears even over the city noise.
The smell of manure hung heavy in the air, along with the burning of coal, dark smoke clouding the sky. Cyrus took a few steps away from the portal to see suspicious guards in boiled leather. They had the look of local men rather than of the human army, and they watched him and his cohorts closely as the wind of the spell faded around them.
Cyrus gave them a nod, checking to see if his illusion had held through the teleportation. It had, but it was only then that he realized his error; Bowe did not look anything like a druid, and neither did he or Aisling. Shit, he thought. Let’s hope these guards are morons. While they watched suspiciously, they did not look unduly alarmed, and Cyrus beckoned Bowe and Aisling to follow him and struck out to the north, where he remembered the local keep being.
He cast a look back, ostensibly to check on his party, and then waved them into an alley. “I made an error,” he said, once he was sure the guards gathered round the portal had remained there, on guard, and safely out of earshot. “I forgot to make Bowe look like a druid.” His words echoed down the quiet alleyway, the dripping of water off the eaves into a muddy puddle punctuating his statement.
“Oops,” Aisling said mildly.
“Yes,” Cyrus agreed, “a potentially costly mistake should they dwell on us. We need to throw off suspicion immediately.”
“Three wanderers gives them a definite number of us to look for,” Aisling said. “Perhaps we should reduce our number to two.”
Bowe stood very neutrally, casting his gaze to Cyrus. “I will accompany you if you wish, but if you would prefer, I will leave you here.”
“I can get us back to the tower,” he said, turning to look at Aisling, “but if anything happens to me at any point—”
“I’ll be stuck on my own in a potentially very hostile city, yes,” she said, taking it all in and giving a nod. “If Bowe leaves, we’ll be a lot better able to blend in here.”
Cyrus frowned. “How so?”
The amusement in her eyes showed through the illusion; they practically sparkled. “Because almost everywhere in Arkaria, including here, two is a couple and three is a crowd.”
Something prickled down Cyrus’s back, ending in a twinge at a scar just to the side of his spine. “You want us to pretend we’re together?”
“I’m not exactly aflame with the prospect,” she said, “but it gives good cover. This city is large enough to guarantee that not everyone knows each other. With Bowe beside us, we’re stuck looking like traders or something of the sort. If he leaves, we can walk along giving the illusion of lovers on a stroll in a different part of town, all the way up to the keep. Throw a little overly affectionate acting in, the sort even you humans find sickening in your young lovers, and the guards will avoid us out of sheer discomfort.” As she spoke, the amusement dried up. “I don’t find the prospect appealing, just to be clear, but I am here because when it comes to deception, you are a fool and I am the expert. Trust me on this if nothing else, and we’ll make it to our meeting without arousing suspicion.”
That tingle in Cyrus’s scar seemed to flare, not in pain exactly, but more as a reminder. His reluctance found its own voice in that unease, and he took a long breath. “Fine,” he said at last. “Bowe, thank you for bringing us here.”
Bowe gave him a sharp nod and was gone in the twinkle of a return spell a moment later, without saying a word.
“He’s a taciturn one,” Cyrus said, staring at the waning light where the druid had been.
“He’s a pleasure to work with,” Aisling said, all business. “No pointless conversation. Now, give us a different illusion. Drape yourself in heavy furs, and give yourself a short sword here,” she tapped him at the belt, “and reduce your height by at least a foot.”
“I can understand the height reduction,” Cyrus said, frowning, “but the sword?”
“Northmen all carry swords of a shorter length,” she said, eyes darting about the ends of the alley as if she were expecting trouble. The alley was mud and half-melted snow, and it made a sucking sound with every motion they made. “All but the traders, and they carry their daggers hidden, as though everyone does not know they’re hiding them. If you want to blend in, be the rule, not the exception.”
“All right,” he said, visualizing his own illusion in his mind, trying to hew closely to what he’d seen on the countless Northmen he’d known throughout his years. When the spell-light faded, he found himself in heavy furs, with a sword of the length Aisling had suggested.
“Good,” she said with a nod, looking to either end of the alley again. “Now, for me—make me taller. The women of this land have at least six inches of height on me, on average. Give me a bulge here,” she patted her waist, “and furs over it. The women here carry their blades out of sight as well. Red hair seems to be commonplace in Isselhelm,” she waved at the darker shade that crowned her c
urrent illusion, “so use that. Also, these,” she pointed at the sandals barely visible, exposing her feet, “are not a great choice for this land or these streets. Boots would be more advisable.”
“You really do have an eye for detail,” he said, shrugging, trying to visualize a Northlands woman in his mind. He twisted the illusion and then let it loose, and when he opened his eyes again, Aisling had turned into the very image he’d imagined, taller and less willowy, thicker with muscle on her arms and chest, her slender biceps replaced by muscular ones hidden under furs.
“Details save your life when you’re in my position,” Aisling said, feeling for her dagger, which Cyrus noticed was in the opposite position of the one cast into illusion, bulging slightly at her waist. She leaned in and pretended to kiss him, but this appeared to be all for the illusion because he knew her actual face was practically upon his neck, though when he looked out she appeared to be right up on him, pressing her lips to his illusory ones. There was no contact between their faces, but it was still a strange sensation, and he closed his eyes, even though the only actual touch he could feel from her was her body against his armor, lightly.
She broke away, eyes darting to the left. “There was a guard passing,” she whispered in explanation.
“It’s all right,” he said, looking down at her in faint amusement. “That was, perhaps, though, the most false kiss we’ve ever shared, and that’s truly saying something.”
She smiled faintly, though he would have sworn he saw danger behind her eyes. “Come along.”
She took his hand and led him out of the alley in the opposite direction. She led him, and when he came around close enough to see her face, an illusion of its own sort was pasted upon it. She looked satisfied, an odd glow on her cheeks, a coy smile upon her pale, human face. “Try to act like you’re young and in love,” she muttered. “I know it won’t be easy—”
“Doesn’t seem to be a problem for you,” he observed, still feeling quite cold at the way she was conducting herself. It’s as though every fear I ever had about her—heartless, soulless, able to shed who she really is like a snake in an instant—is all true.
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 22