Cyrus listened intently as Yemer told his story. There seemed to be no deception in him, but the words reaching Cyrus’s ears sounded too good to be true. “That’s a peril of ruling, I’m told,” Cyrus said.
“You want to kill him,” Yemer said bluntly.
“He very nearly did the same to me when I came to deliver the news about his daughter,” Cyrus said. “He had guards surround us, archers fill the top level of the throne room … he was going to ambush me, have me dismembered and my body destroyed. He threatened the same to my wife and another officer of my guild. If not for the actions of one I called friend and another I felt sure was my enemy, I would not be here now, not be heretic nor anything else save ashes and dust, sprinkled in the gardens of the palace in Pharesia.”
“I don’t fault you for your anger,” Yemer said. “Danay pursues you because of Nyad.” He looked up, then away again. “Not because he knew her or loved her, I think, for he did not do either, not in any way a normal person could conceive of it. He loved the idea of her, the youngest of his impossibly large brood. She was a symbol, something more to him than a mere person, which allowed him to ignore the person herself with her failings and rebellions.”
“He never did seem to know her,” Cyrus said, thinking of the time that Nyad had come face to face with her father in the palace and had not even recognized him, dressed in the garb of a simple steward of the house. “Or she him, at least.”
“How could he?” Yemer asked softly. “He had countless children, many wives.” Yemer lowered his voice. “I had one of each—my wife died in an attack by the trolls during the last war, thanks to the King’s lack of vigilance against our enemies, and my son was exiled for his courage, for his bravery—for the vigilance our King lacked. For his virtues, he was cast out of his own homeland. It’s as if Danay said bravery was not welcome here in the Kingdom any longer, not under his rule.” He looked up at Cyrus calmly. “What about you? Is it as I’ve heard? Do you favor bravery?”
“I’ve often said that we accept none but the brave in Sanctuary,” Cyrus said. “Though we are not now what we once were, I still count every man and women among my company brave.”
“All Arkaria is against you,” Yemer said. “Or so it seems to me.”
“It seems that way to me, too,” Cyrus said quietly. “Often.”
“Well, not all Arkaria, perhaps,” Yemer said, standing once more. “My son sent me letters, frequently, which I was obliged, by my station, to ignore.” He sniffed. “I now find myself hating my station, hating my King, and realizing, as an old man, that I have no one but myself to blame for either. If I’d had the courage my son exhibited, I would have stated my mind before my king, and I would have gone into exile with my son or blocked it by my action. Either way,” the old man once more stirred with emotion, “he might not be dead now.”
Yemer looked up at Cyrus, barely holding himself together. “Danay surely knows of your plans to gather allies against him. If you mean to assassinate him, to end this war against your allies in Emerald Fields before it begins, you must do it now. Tonight.”
Cyrus felt as though a dagger had been plunged into his belly. “I would, but … for all the plans we’ve made, for all the support we’ve had pledged, the one thing we don’t have is a way into the palace in Pharesia. We have no way to kill the king.”
“You do,” Yemer said, nodding slowly. “For I am, this very eve, right now, going to the palace in Pharesia to see Danay, his old advisor returning to him on the eve of war.” He smiled grimly. “And I will bring you, in disguise, as my aide. I can get you into the palace, but not into a meeting with Danay. From there, you will have to make your own way.” His smile faded as the darker considerations of what he was proposing seemed to settle over him. “You will have to find him yourself … and you will have to end him with your own hand.”
46.
Despite wearing both an illusion and a heavy cloak and cowl, Cyrus half expected to be killed the moment he appeared at the portal in Pharesia, but he was allowed to pass, riding at the old man’s side on a borrowed horse, with nothing more than a cursory look from the guards surrounding the portal.
He’d parted with Larana and Windrider with great reluctance on the part of both horse and druid. Larana had insisted upon casting his illusion. “I’m a practiced spellcaster,” she’d said, “and I will think of nothing but maintaining your illusion from now until you return to Sanctuary. You’ll be thinking of other things.” He’d acceded and also convinced the reluctant Windrider to return with her, his fears threefold: one, that the distinctive Windrider might be recognized even if Cyrus was not; two, that he’d be forced to flee the palace in a manner that left his horse behind; three, and perhaps most vexing, that even if he managed to escape with Windrider using the return spell, he would have to somehow walk the horse down the enormous staircase of Sanctuary in order to return the poor beast to the ground. It seemed to be on the third point that Windrider relented, though Cyrus did not know how the horse could possibly know how many steps there were from the top of the tower to the foyer.
“Pharesia will be a city in silence at this time of night,” Yemer said from beside him as they rode forth toward the walled city veiled in moonlight ahead of them. The portal was outside the city gates, a considerable distance away, as though the elves did not want the threat of invaders or easy transport at hand. “We may be approached by guards, given that we are at war.”
“But they can’t see through my illusion?” Cyrus asked.
“Most would not be able to,” Yemer said, the hoofbeats of their horses echoing in the night. “I expect most of the spellcasters who could provide them with the ability to see through illusions are even now moving our troops south in preparation for the march on Emerald Fields. We will need to be hasty.”
They rode under the massive wall of Pharesia, it taking only a few words from Yemer to get past the guards. The moonlight shone on grassy green, the color of Pharesia as Cyrus remembered it. He could not recall any other city so verdant, so teeming with plant life.
They threaded through the wide streets toward the immense trees that were planted at the four corners of the palace, trees so mammoth and massive as to be larger than anything Cyrus had ever seen until he’d laid eyes on the Jungle of Vidara in the southern lands. These were trees fit for hiding titans, and they provided shade for the palace grounds, like mountains on the horizon in these flat lands.
A sweet smell hung in the air as they rode into the palace proper, its towers glinting faintly in the moonlight. The palace itself was colossal, and Cyrus recalled rainbow colors upon its towers when they were visible in daylight. At night, they were shadows under a bright moon, the evening cool but not uncomfortable. When he turned his gaze north, Cyrus saw the disused wing of the palace where he’d once spent a month with Vara as she recovered from a grievous wounding at the hands of assassins.
And now I’m returning to this palace once more as an assassin myself, he thought. In four short years, I’ve become what I despised. He smiled grimly. Imagine what I could be in another four years.
They headed straight for the primary entrance, with its enormous portico. “I don’t know where he’ll be,” Yemer said, not looking at Cyrus. “He could be anywhere in the palace.”
“Could he be sleeping?” Cyrus asked.
“Unlikely,” Yemer said as they grew closer to the portico, which had at least twenty servants waiting to take horses, to open carriage doors, even at this time of night. “He never could sleep when there was inevitable action to be taken, such as war.” Yemer shook his head. “Sometimes he merely disappeared, and no one could find him for hours at a time. The palace is gargantuan. I presume he has hidden places where he could while away time, go to think.”
Cyrus nodded as they came under the shadow of the portico and it blotted out the moonlight above them. Torches burned on every column, shading everything around them in a gentle orange light. Two footmen ran up and took their reins as
Cyrus and Yemer dismounted. They started toward the entry doors, but a man in a long cloak ran to them, descending the stairs and practically throwing himself to his knees before Yemer.
“My apologies, Morianza,” the man said, and Cyrus thought for a moment he was going to kiss Yemer’s feet in his haste to debase himself. “No one but staff and closest advisors of the King are allowed in the palace at the moment.”
Yemer drew himself up, bristling, to his full height. “And does that include me?”
“Of course,” the man said, bowing his head again. When he came up to look at Yemer, Cyrus could see the man’s eyes, which were wide and pleading. Cyrus scanned the face, remembering the times that Danay had dressed as a mere steward in order to move freely about his palace without being noted by the staff. It was most certainly not him; this man was pudgier, had wider cheeks, a more sloped forehead, and his teeth were entirely wrong. “But your servant—he may not enter.”
“I am a Morianza of the Elven Kingdom,” Yemer said dangerously. “One step below the King himself.”
“I realize this, your Grace,” the servant said, practically throwing himself facedown upon Yemer’s mercy, “but the orders come directly from King Danay himself, and he has issued a decree that any violators will be subject to immediate death.” The man brought his obsequious face back up again, and Cyrus almost imagined he saw tears there, though there was no glinting in the shadowy orange torchlight. “I would not wish you to be deprived of your servant’s life.”
“I can wait out here, your grace,” Cyrus said, suddenly uncertain. Damn you, Danay. You really do know we’re coming. “Perhaps … explore the gardens for a time, until your meetings are over?” He glanced at the servant, who was staring hopefully at him at this suggestion. “Unless that also carries the death penalty?”
“No, no,” the servant said, “that would be perfectly, wonderfully acceptable!”
Cyrus exchanged a look with Yemer, unsure of how much was conveyed beneath his illusory facade. “I will wait in the gardens,” Cyrus said. “Look around a bit, perhaps, if that is acceptable to you?”
“I will return in an hour or perhaps two,” Yemer said curtly, as though speaking to a servant. “If you need to depart before then, I release you to do so, and will make my own way, so worry not over me.” Cyrus caught the hidden message in his statement—If you find a path into the palace, do what you need to and get out.
Cyrus bowed sharply, though not nearly so deeply as the servant, who was just now scraping himself up off the ground, and watched Yemer walk away, up the steps, the servant following him. At the top of the steps next to the entrance to the palace, Cyrus saw guards, watching him carefully, their spears at attention. He was sure that if he approached any closer, the spears would come off their shoulders and be rammed into his body as expediently as possible.
With nary a look back, he turned and made his way out from under the portico, wandering slowly toward the gardens. He paced himself, took his time, and followed as near to the side of the palace as he could, searching the entire time for any possibility of entry so that he could commit the murder he had come here for.
47.
In the dark of the night, Cyrus found himself staring at the walls of the palace of the king, searching for entry. The windows were all high up above the ground, however, and sealed, glass glittering with the reflection of the moon. Not one was open, no sign of billowing curtains on any of the floors above, and even the balconies he could see appeared to be closed tight.
Cyrus walked the silent, empty grounds, no sign of guards anywhere. The grounds were expansive, he supposed, and not a high priority to patrol. His footsteps against the soft grass carried him away from the palace as he debated his course, wondering what to do next.
What am I thinking? Cyrus wondered, pulling his cloak close to him. He could not even see himself beneath Larana’s illusion, no sign of his black armor in the moonlit night, no hint of his sword at his side or the chain wrapped around his chest. He could feel them all the same, though, but there was no reassurance there.
What am I becoming? he wondered, every step carrying him further from the palace, from the king. He looked over his shoulder at the shadow of the massive structure. Up on the roof above the main wing, he could see guards on patrol, walking the edge, eyes scanning the heavens in case someone tried to storm the bulwarks to attack from the skies.
“That’s not going to work,” he muttered under his breath as he walked toward the shadowy north wing. The massive tree at the northwest corner was directly in front of him, standing taller than the palace itself, and a considerable walk from where he was, sprawling gardens laid out before him, between him and the trunk of the tree.
I’m not going to be able to get in there, Cyrus decided, casting a last look at the fortified palace, not sure whether the despair he felt tugging at his insides was the result of feeling as though his mission was already a failure or if it was the result of feeling that he’d come here to do something he’d never have believed he would have done. Why am I doing this? he wondered, his feet carrying him along as if he were in a trance, into the gardens.
The leaves of the bushes and trees looked oily and black all around him as he pondered thoughts darker than the night that surrounded him. Would I truly assassinate Danay, if I had the chance? If they threw open the doors to the palace right now and invited all in, would I seek him out? Would I plunge my sword into his chest, look him in the eyes as he died?
Cyrus tried to remember the king’s face. He could vaguely recall the hatred, the look of fury when he’d seen him last year, leering down from the throne, his rage palpable, shaped into the form of a small army that ringed the room, ready to kill Cyrus, Mendicant, and even Vara.
Ready to kill us all, now. Cyrus took a deep breath, and the sweet-smelling air of some night-blooming flower crawled up his nose and into his mind, causing it to further swirl. It was a lovely aroma, and as he turned his head to the right it seemed to grow stronger. His feet carried him in that direction, past a line of shrubs shaped into a solid block of shadowed green.
The gardens reminded him vaguely of the Realm of Life as he’d seen it in its wildest state, with endless mazelike hedges that seemed to cut one off from the rest of the world. He followed a passage of bushes in the direction it led, wondering when he should simply give it all up and return to Sanctuary.
I would kill him, Cyrus realized, the King’s face flashing into his mind once more. I would absolutely kill him. And I would do it for Sanctuary. A rueful feeling settled over him. I was locked into it the moment my officers rose around me in front of that messenger—what was her name? Agora. Agora Friedlander. The moment Ryin defied her and threw his shawl, the moment the others followed … He shook his head as though he could clear the feelings shrouding his heart, but he could not. That was when I was stuck upon this course. No surrender, no retreat, for they would accept neither from me, and those I have sworn to protect were thrust into this danger with me beyond any chance for withdrawal.
King Danay would kill me, kill Vara, and raze Sanctuary to the ground if it were within his power. Then he would crush Emerald Fields and bury the dark elves. Cyrus bowed his head. “And that is why,” he whispered to himself, “why I must.”
“Why you must what?” came a soft voice from behind the hedge.
Cyrus jumped in surprise, turning his head to the impenetrable bushes with rising alarm. He stared into the darkness, following the edge of the bushes to a break, slowly, and then peeking his head through.
Within the hedge was a beautiful winter garden, rectangular water features bordering it, night-blooming jasmine planted at the corners, vines growing from stone trellises on two of the sides. It was a perfectly hidden alcove, and at its center was a small fountain, water spraying out in a slow stream.
A man stood at the fountain’s edge, looking at Cyrus. He was clad in servants’ robes, watching with his head cocked curiously at the apparent intrusion to his solit
ude.
“I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, his voice rasping unintentionally. “I didn’t … realize anyone else was out here.”
“I am but a humble steward,” the man said, turning his back on Cyrus to look at the fountain. His voice was damnably familiar, though, and Cyrus’s eyes widened. No … it can’t be. “Everyone else is closed up within the palace for fear of this war and its tidings. Should you go anywhere else in these gardens, you will find the solitude you seek.”
“I’m not … necessarily looking for solitude,” Cyrus said, stepping carefully into the winter garden, evergreen pines planted around its edges, keeping his voice at the unintentional rasp. He forced his pace to stay languid, his body to relax. It is almost impossible to imagine that of all the servants in this place, this would be the one.
“I understand the desire for company,” the servant said, still staring at the fountain. “For fellowship. To be alone in the night is a worrying thing in most cases. The instinct, the fear … the idea that some evil waits in the shadows to devour you is a primal one, even among our people, removed as we are from the savage worries of the humans, or the dark elves, or the dwarves.”
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 28