“I spent years throwing myself at you,” she said, under her breath, that same pleasant smile poised on her lips, even though the tone she was letting out was dark, coupled with a slight hiss, “on the orders of a god and his closest servants, in order to try and save the life of the man I loved. Once I finally got you, I had to maintain that hold by any means necessary.” She glanced back at him, her pleasant disposition making a strange contrast to her soft, menacing words. “However wounded you were by my ‘betrayal,’ realize that I didn’t want to be trapped where I was, a dupe in someone else’s game, forced to subjugate everything about myself—my mind, my body, my damned soul, if such a thing even exists—to seducing you.” Her bitterness bled out around her happy expression, and Cyrus’s blood ran colder than a frozen river. “I’m sure you devoted endless thought to how horrific what I did to you was, and it certainly was, no doubt. But realize that I wanted to do none of it. Not one bit, and that includes being with you in the first place.”
Her harsh, remorseless tone felt like a hard slap to Cyrus’s face. “Well,” he said, cheeks burning, “I didn’t know I was with someone who didn’t want to be with me, or I assure you I wouldn’t have been.”
“And that’s why you need me now,” she said, all trace of the bitterness gone. “Because I’m the sort of person who will do whatever is necessary, no matter how horrible … and you’re not going to survive without that.”
“I notice you don’t seem too torn up about what you did to me,” Cyrus said.
“I did what I did,” Aisling said, still smiling, but now he saw the hollowness there as they passed a public house, its windows shaking with drunken singing. “I became what I am. Looking back is pointless. There is no time for regrets, even if I had them.”
“Do you have them?” Cyrus asked.
Now there was an undercurrent of danger in her reply. “I regret more that I was forced into my position with you than anything I did to you as a result of it.”
It took every bit of will he had not to rip his hand out of hers. “So that’s a convenient way of saying that if you had to do it all over again, you’d screw me and stab me and still not worry about it.”
“You seem to have come out of it all right,” she said with a shrug, and now her smile was maddening, and Cyrus clamped his mouth shut tight to prevent a hasty, nasty reply.
They wended their way through alleys and down side roads, Aisling leading him. He had a vague sense that they were still heading north, but the rage in his mind was clouding his concentration. She did what she did because she got backed into a corner and because she cares more about her own skin than that of anyone else caught up in her whirlwind. He tried to conceal the look of fury that he was sure stuck out on his face even through the illusion, but concentration was impossible beyond the bare minimum he was using to maintain their illusion. Even that much was a strain.
“Get your head out of your ass,” she muttered, and he saw the flicker of his illusion fade, her skin turning a shade darker.
“I’m sorry,” he said mildly, barely containing his anger, “I’m just trying to wade through what you just said. I suppose I’d assumed remorse on your part after I let you walk away in Saekaj.”
“Don’t assume,” she said, her voice still dark. “And why would I be remorseful now? You’re married to the woman you always wanted, you’re fit as a boarhound, and all your recent adversity and setbacks have nothing to do with anything I did or put you through. Why should I waste time feeling bad? I’m here helping you, aren’t I?”
“I still have a scar on my back thanks to you,” he said, resisting the urge to yank her around.
“Does it ache in the cold?” she sneered. She did not slow her pace. “I still have scars of my own, courtesy of you and others, but you don’t hear me carping about them.”
“My people died at Leaugarden thanks to you,” he said, his anger rising, the thin threads holding him in check breaking as they stepped into another alley, this one blocking the sun with thatched roofs overhanging on either side. The light dripping of water into puddles on the muddy ground echoed under his whispered accusation.
“Your army suffered a loss at Leaugarden because you underestimated both the Sovereign and Malpravus,” she said matter-of-factly, finally stopping, turning loose his hand, and coming around to face him with blazing eyes. “You are blind, Cyrus. You walk in the world of battle and war and miss all else, including spying and subterfuge. Even now you want to ignore the fact that there are undoubtedly people in the midst of Sanctuary doing far worse things than I ever did. You want to believe that your people are all good people, that loyalty runs thicker than blood, but you should see by now that this is a lie. There’s a reason you’ve had an exodus, and it’s not all down to greener pastures elsewhere. Malpravus and his allies are taking you apart a piece at a time, and you still fret about wrongs I did to you in years past. Well, I got wronged, Cyrus,” she pressed herself up in his face as he lost the concentration to maintain her illusion, and her navy skin was almost purple with rage. “My own body got used to try and keep you on the hook even as you tried to wriggle away like a caught fish.” Her cheeks blazed dark and her brow arched. “You and I got stabbed in different ways, in different places, with different weapons, by the same damned culprits—Yartraak and Malpravus and all their various and sundry servants.” She slammed her fingertips into his chainmail at his side and it rattled, his illusion falling. “But always in the weak point. When I was with you, against my will, the life of my only lover up to that point—my only love—hanging in the balance …” Her voice trailed off, her fury finally coming out after a pause to build. “When the day came when I got the word to do it …” measured loathing marked her words as her dark blue skin faded, “I actually felt a prick of conscience. I did you wrong, but you became the reminder of everything I’d let Yartraak and Dagonath Shrawn do to me, every piece of dignity I let them strip, every last bit of … hope, of belief that I was a person rather than just an object that you could pour your seed and your secrets into.” She drew up, short once more, her fury seemingly spent. “I was never less alive than when I was with you. I took every bit of myself and threw it into a deep, dark hole inside. So, no, I suppose I don’t have much remorse. I did what I had to in order to survive, and the way I see it, you’re fine. There are others that got in my path, got killed … they’ll never have the chance to be fine.” Her lips twisted in a sullen way. “You didn’t die. I didn’t die. It all worked out. And now here we are.” She blew out a low breath. “I can help you, if you’d stop living in the past and put all your bitterness aside. We both got screwed.” She looked sick and angry as she said it. “You got the better end of the deal, in the end. You got your great love. Mine …” She looked away, but there was an unmistakable flare of emotion that she did not manage to hide quickly enough.
Cyrus was struck to silence. “What happened to him?”
“I killed him,” she said, cold, almost malicious, her violet eyes caught somewhere between shedding a tear and issuing him a warning.
The chill wind ripped through the alley, hard out of the north, the bare breath of winter reaching out of the mountains ripping through the spring day. “Why?” Cyrus asked quietly.
“Because he …” She stared back at him, seemingly stunned, as though … shocked, he realized, that he’d asked the question. “He wasn’t …” She choked off her reply. “Because he … because he had scars of his own, after years spent in dungeons,” she managed to get out at last. “And because unlike you—hopefully—he couldn’t let them heal and move on with his damned life after being wronged.”
“Well, that seems like a cautionary tale,” Cyrus said, pulling his arms tight around him, his armor silent as practically hugged himself, the chain wrapped around his chest rattling, exposed now that his illusion was gone.
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” Aisling said, and he saw the faint sparkle of glassy tears in her eyes. “I don’t really
care about your part in my … whatever. It’s over now.”
“Then I suppose I’ll let go of your part in my humiliations,” Cyrus said, and the wind whipped between them again.
“Wonderful,” Aisling said, in a voice that implied it was nothing of the sort. “Can we get on with this, then?”
“All right,” Cyrus muttered, trying to visualize the illusion he needed to cast again. “In a hurry to get away from me?”
“I just want to go home,” Aisling said, twisting at the waist, as though repelled by his mere presence.
“It’s getting to the point,” Cyrus said, still trying to summon up the will to cast the spell, “when I begin to wonder what’s going to be left of my home when this is all done.” He took a breath and cast the illusion, opening his eyes to find Aisling returned to her taller, paler, human state.
She adjusted the furs draped over her, as though the illusion could protect her from the bitter wind rolling between them. “It’ll never be the same,” she said. “Speaking from personal experience,” she added a moment later.
“Of course not,” he said, feeling oddly choked as he let her take his hand in hers once more. He consoled himself at the reminder that there was a thick layer of plate gauntlet between his fingers and hers, armor all over his body and hers, but it was the chill wind out of the north that seemed to be the greatest division between them. She led him out of the alley, her patently fake smile just a little less bright than it had been before their argument, and onward toward Isselhelm keep, wolves howling in the distance over the drip of melting snow.
38.
Isselhelm Keep was a squat structure built in the style of the Northlands, all stone, rising out of a brown moat replete with refuse and human waste. Little chunks of ice and garbage lingered in the water, causing Cyrus to shudder lightly as he stared at it as they approached. The keep stood in the center of the sprawling city of Isselhelm, a proper home for the governor of the territory, a fortress that could withstand at least small-scale attack, though Cyrus doubted it would last through a concerted siege that included druids and wizards.
Whoever defended the keep must have had that thought as well, for the walls were patrolled by men with bows, watching the approaches carefully. Any force coming at them with the Falcon’s Essence to lighten their steps would be greeted with enough arrows to give the governor time to decide whether to run or fight.
There were audible howls in the distance. Cyrus listened to the wolves and wondered how far out they were. Can’t be more than a few miles outside the city walls, he decided.
Cyrus walked a little closer to Aisling now as they approached the drawbridge, which was extended over the moat. It was a long bridge, consisting of heavy wood and strong chains that stretched back into the keep. As they neared the wooden guard outpost at the end, they were scrutinized by armored Northmen with at least as much suspicion as those who had been stationed around the Isselhelm portal.
“We have a meeting with the governor,” Cyrus said, presenting his letter, his breath misting lightly in the air. Spring had not taken full hold in the north, at least not yet.
The guard before him read the page once, then regarded Cyrus and Aisling with a heavy-lidded glare, as though he could see through their illusions. For all Cyrus knew, he could. “Go on,” the guard said in a rough voice. “Present your letter again at the guardhouse across the bridge. Try anything funny and they’ll riddle you with arrows.”
“Such hospitality,” Cyrus remarked, drawing a sharp look of rebuke from Aisling, exactly the sort of thing that Vara would have done were she here. He lingered on that thought but a moment before deciding that it was not the sort of comparison that would win him any favor from either party. He started across the drawbridge, decoupling his hand from Aisling’s. “No need to maintain that illusion any longer,” he said.
“Indeed,” she said, a little coldly.
The drawbridge shook beneath them, just slightly but enough that Cyrus wondered at how much it would move when a fully laden cart crossed it. “This is awkward,” he said just before they reached the arch of the keep’s gate. The teeth at the bottom of the portcullis were visible where it had been withdrawn, and guards were lurking in the shadows under the arch that entered the bailey. “You and I being here, I mean.”
“I should say so,” Aisling said as they reached the next set of guards and Cyrus presented his letter of introduction. They stayed still and silent until they’d gotten the go-ahead from the guards and were pointed toward the keep across the bailey courtyard. There, they were met with another round of guard inspection as Cyrus stared up at the keep’s central tower.
It was almost a castle in and of itself. It extended up behind the walls and moat surrounding it, a blunt, squat tower that had either been designed as a concession to the fact that a good Falcon’s Essence spell could place invaders on any roof, no matter how high, or because building a taller tower would have cost more money than the governor who built it had at the time. It looked like it had been around for at least a hundred years, the mortar falling out here and there between the stones.
The whole bailey stank of hay and horses and worse, and Cyrus presented his letter for the fourth time and once more waited in silence until finally the guard opened the door to the tower and beckoned him forward with Aisling, leaving his post in order to escort them inside.
Cyrus stepped into the waiting dark, Aisling just behind him, and let his eyes adjust. There was a fire burning in a nearby hearth, and he realized he’d stepped into a small version of Sanctuary’s foyer, with much less space, much less natural light, and a single narrow staircase that hugged the wall, disappearing into the next floor.
“This way,” the guard said, metal boots clinking as he led them up the staircase. He wore metal gauntlets and a breastplate, but leather beneath that and very, very thin chainmail. It was the mark of an elite guard who did not possess actual elite equipment. With Praelior in hand, I could carve through a hundred like him in the space of minutes, Cyrus thought. But now … He let the thought die out, not wanting to pursue it.
They followed the spiraling staircase for quite some distance. It seemed to encircle the tower in much the same space-efficient way as the stairs in the Citadel in Reikonos, leaving the center of the tower open for rooms. They passed several, including a kitchen, a very large dining room, and what appeared to be a large war room with a map table. Cyrus tried to see what he could in that room, but he glimpsed the table for only a minute before someone just inside shut the door, foiling his attempt to look further.
Cyrus realized it when they reached the top of the tower because he had been counting the floors they passed and knew that there couldn’t possibly be any more between him and the roof. Here they were led into a large circular chamber with a desk, the only natural light coming from a small window behind it. The desk was gargantuan and looked to be of elven make, with its careful and intricate designs. It was at least as long as Cyrus on its widest side and was covered with depictions of armies of Northmen in their furs and leather battling against the dark elves. There was no sign of a dwarven army anywhere on it, though Cyrus supposed the north had not been at war with the dwarves in hundreds of years.
“You look different than I expected,” the man behind desk said, long hair flowing out from under the thick fur cap that covered the top of his head. If he was indeed balding, as Cattrine had said, his hat was hiding it well. The grey, however, was impossible to hide, and to Cyrus it almost seemed like an extension of the wolf fur that Governor Allyn Frost’s hat was made of. His cloak was made of the same fur, and though his raiment was much finer than that of the people Cyrus had seen walking the street, it felt very much like variations on the same theme. Cloth was impractical here; furs were the fashion. “You look like us,” Frost said, considering them carefully from under a wrinkled brow. “I don’t like it.”
“My apologies,” Cyrus said, bowing to the governor of the Northlands, “I assumed you’d like i
t even less if everyone in Isselhelm knew you were taking a meeting with a heretic.”
“I wouldn’t care for that, no,” Frost said, drawing to his feet, smoothing out his fur cloak and vest. “But …”
With a snap of his fingers, the room around Frost seemed to spring into motion. Guards poured forth from a door hidden in an armoire, the clank of their plate armor and squeak of their leather filling the room. A spell drifted through, stripping Cyrus and Aisling of their illusions. Aisling reached for her blade even as a host of bows were drawn behind them; Cyrus could hear the twine straining and knew that Aisling, at least, would be dead if they were loosed.
Armed and armored guards swarmed around them, filling the space between Frost’s desk and Cyrus and Aisling, swords drawn, pointed right at the guests in his keep. A wizard filled the air with the sound of mumbled chanting as he cast the cessation spell, as clearly part of the plan as the freshly polished swords in their faces.
“… Then again,” Allyn Frost said, a broad grin on his wolfish face, “perhaps it’s not as a big a problem for me as you might think.”
39.
Allyn Frost stared across his desk at Cyrus, a smile of triumph pasted across his face, which was pale under his wolf fur hat, white like a man who’d been through a long winter. “All right,” Frost said, and motioned to his troops. “Take their weapons, and then you can go.”
“We can go?” Cyrus asked sourly as guards stepped up and made to grab for his sword.
“You stay,” Frost said with great glee, “we haven’t had our meeting yet.”
One of the guards started to put a hand on Cyrus’s sword, and he began to jerk his hand toward his chain, but Aisling slapped it away. “Don’t,” she said, her eyes afire, meeting his. She withdrew her dagger from her sheath and handed it, hilt-first, to the nearest guard. “That would be rude,” she said, her eyes twinkling just slightly. She blinked and looked down, and Cyrus saw her weapon in the guard’s hand—
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 23