“You’re sure it was him?” Vara eased down to kneel next to his legs. “Absolutely certain?”
“I am absolutely certain it was Danay, yes,” Cyrus said, nodding, not looking at her. “The way he looked, the way he spoke, the way he … the way he talked about us, Emerald Fields … it was him. I know it.”
“Goddess, if this is true …” Her voice drifted off. “If you’ve done it …”
“Then there will be a convocation called,” Cyrus finished numbly. “And you’ll need to put your plan into effect, because Danay very definitely indicated that he had his own plans, and they sounded an awful lot like enlisting help to destroy Emerald Fields in a grand invasion.”
“Dammit,” Vara said, drawing a sharp breath. “We can’t even react to this news, you know. To send word announcing his death would be—”
He looked up at her. “I know. I left no evidence suggesting what happened was related to us in any way.”
“But the blame will have to go somewhere,” Vara said. “We always knew that.”
“And you already have a solution for it,” Cyrus said, not able to smile.
“Yes,” she said, “and hopefully it will work.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, but it was perfunctory and bereft of the passion they’d so often shared. Cyrus could still smell blood on himself, and it left his stomach unsettled.
49.
Cyrus did not awaken so much as he was jarred out of a reluctant stupor by the echoing sound of a hand slapping against his door at the first light of dawn. Tiny hints of blue were peeking through the windows to the balcony, and Cyrus sat upright to find Vara rousting herself out of thick slumber beside him. “Hello?” Cyrus called toward the stairs.
“Did you do it?” Terian called, his head appearing as the paladin stormed up the steps, Alaric’s helm crooked under his elbow. “Well, did you, you magnificent bastard?”
Cyrus wished for a moment he could deny it, here in the solitary, quiet atmosphere of the tower, which seemed so unsuited to what he was about to confess to. “I did,” he said.
“Excellent,” Terian said, his expression like a lion’s that had just had fresh meat thrown in front of him. “All of Arkaria is abuzz, naturally. They found his head late last night, no sign of a body save for a pile of ashes. My spies got the news out this morning, after the grounds had been swept three times by an army division they brought in to help.” His smirk grew broader. “They have nothing save for some vague rumblings about an elf who came as aide to Yemer and wandered off into the gardens to have a look around.”
“That’d be me,” Cyrus said. “Is Yemer in trouble?”
“I doubt it,” Terian said, “since he’s not even at the palace at this point, nor at either of his homes. Trust me, they searched.”
“They’re going to blame it on him, aren’t they?” Cyrus asked with gnawing dread.
“They’re going to blame it on us, actually,” Terian said, “since we have the obvious motive.” He turned his attention to Vara, who was still blinking sleep out of her eyes and had the sheets clutched against her in spite of her silken nightgown. “You’re going to fix that, right?”
“Perhaps after coffee,” she said with a yawn. “Yes, of course we will.”
“Gods, this is the greatest news,” Terian said, positively bubbling with enthusiasm. “Finally, a triumph, and especially after yesterday …”
“How long is it going to take you to dig out?” Cyrus asked.
Terian’s smile immediately evaporated. “Months. We’re working on alternate routes to bring food in, but we’ve also begun to ask for volunteers to join our surface settlements in the interim, hoping to alleviate the problem. The fewer mouths we have to feed below, the less I’ll worry over the next few months.”
“But you will still worry,” Kahlee called from over her husband’s shoulder, slipping quietly up the stairs, her reddish hair like a fiery cloud in the morning light.
“How can I not?” Terian grumbled, turning back slightly to look at her. “They’ve cut off our line of supply and buried us in the earth.”
“We should have expected this,” Cyrus said with a shake of the head.
“Yes, just like Danay expected to be assassinated while hiding in his own garden disguised as a lowly servant,” Terian said, smirking. “You can’t predict the insane lengths Goliath and their friends are going to go to kill us all, Cyrus. No one could have imagined that attack.”
“You’re sure it was them, then?” Vara asked.
“I’m sure,” Terian said, nodding. “It’s not as though we have any witnesses, but it seems like just the sort of evil that Malpravus would plan.”
“I suppose,” Cyrus said, slipping out of bed. His feet hit the cool stone floor, and his soft cloth shirt rustled against his chest hair.
“Regardless of who did it,” Terian said, “it’s hampered us. Killing Danay gives us a chance to even the score, because now, as long as Vara doesn’t screw this up, we can remove fifty thousand soldiers from Malpravus’s hands. It’s not exactly yanking the blade out of his bony grip, but it’s at least like pulling away his backup dagger.” He stood there thoughtfully for a moment before going on. “Where are we on the Confederation now?”
“I need to meet with their governors,” Cyrus said. “Coulton in the Southern Reaches and Waterman in the Riverlands.”
“When you meet Reynard Coulton, don’t mention my name unless it’s to curse it,” Terian said.
“A very good practice for any occasion,” Kahlee said with a smile.
“You’re far too wise to have married him,” Vara said.
“So I’m often told,” Kahlee replied.
“You know, I’m quite the catch, being the Sovereign of a whole land,” Terian said with annoyance. “But besides that …” He turned his attention back to Cyrus. “I just want to remind you … don’t get complacent now that you’ve had one triumph. This is a war, General, and it would be best if you pounce on fighting your next battle as swiftly as possible.”
“Cattrine is our avenue in with Karrin Waterman and Reynard Coulton,” Cyrus said, “and I’m fairly certain she’s a bit distracted at this moment, what with the impending war and all—”
“Fine,” Terian said, “but get back to it as soon as you can resolve this. Hell, maybe before. You don’t know, Cattrine might be looking for a distraction.”
“Right now I expect she’s looking for a way out of seeing elven armies charging across her fields and destroying her peoples’ hard-grown crops,” Vara said.
“I won’t coast on my achievement of last night,” Cyrus said, nodding along. “I don’t feel it was much of an achievement in any case, decapitating a man and burning his corpse. We weren’t in a battle, he wasn’t armed, and he didn’t even see it coming until the blade was in his chest.”
“If only all our enemies would expose themselves in such a way, this little war of ours would be over in an hour,” Terian said. “What’s the likelihood Malpravus prances around a secret garden in his hidden base down in the Bandit Lands?”
“I don’t see him doing much in the way of prancing,” Cyrus said, thinking it over. “He’s more of a glider.”
“When will the convocation be?” Kahlee asked, pushing them back on the road.
“Danay is the first monarch to be killed,” Vara said. “Hell, he is the first monarch, period. I expect we’ll know within a few days when the summons reach us.”
“And you’re sure they’ll still call for you?” Terian asked. “Because … this doesn’t go so well without you there. All of you.”
“Even if they send no invitation to the Lady of Nalikh’akur, they will have no choice but to admit the shelas’akur,” Vara said simply, her eyes narrowed in anticipated anger. “To deny me would be foolish—”
“Danay tried to kill you last year, let’s not forget,” Cyrus said.
“And he was the King,” Vara said. “No one else would be able to manage it in public life and expect to not be mur
dered afterward by a bloodthirsty mob. I will be safe there.”
Terian looked at Cyrus. “And you? Seems a little unlikely the elves are going to let a heretic just walk into wherever they’re holding this meeting.”
“He will be safe as well,” Vara said, a thin smile dancing upon her lips. “For the way he shall enter the convocation … there is not a chance that anyone will dare to interfere with his passage.”
50.
The convocation came a mere five days later, and Vara had received her invitation, brought to her by a servant from her keep at Nalikh’akur only hours after it had been received there. It listed the time and place of the meeting, and little else. “Just as well, that way no one will know what to expect,” Vara opined after reading it thrice, searching for any information she might have missed.
Once more time seemed to have slowed its passage. Though Cyrus felt somewhat confident in the plan they had and the allies on their side, he also harbored doubts that festered while they waited. He could see how it weighed on Vara, too, in the restless way she turned in bed at night. He realized late one night that they had not so much as touched hands for several days. He resolved to remedy it on the morrow, but that day was the convocation, and they both rose early to prepare.
The convocation was held in the very same throne room where Danay had held court. The banners above the throne were black, the coat of arms that of Danay’s own house. A long table had been set in the middle of the room, and Cyrus waited on its outskirts in a crowd of royals and onlookers, escorted to where he stood within the depths of a cloak that was not his. He stood, however, in similar company, next to another person so clad, at the back of the watchers that surrounded the table, which had one seat for each of the Lords and Ladies of the Kingdom.
Cyrus looked around for the presumptive heir, but did not feel comfortable asking the cloaked figure any questions about elven politics. He considered asking one of their escorts, but it seemed a strange conversation to have here, in the midst of a convocation where the next King or Queen of the elves was to be decided.
So instead Cyrus held his tongue, sniffing the varied perfumes that hung in the air. Some were pleasant, and some seemed to conspire to deny him of his breath in much the same way as he’d deprived Danay of his. Fortunately, there was a strong scent of spring in the air around him, which diluted the worst of the perfumes. Still, Cyrus’s skin crawled to be in this place, at this time, and knowing full well what he had already done to make this meeting occur.
The arrival of the Lords and Ladies was a thing of pomp and circumstance. They came in a procession, all dressed in finery and looking very serious. He found himself pitying them in some small measure as they were escorted to their seats, had the wooden chairs pulled out for them, and slid back in. He saw Lord Merrish, fully clad in a doublet on this occasion, and felt an annoying rush of relief. Cyrus straightened in surprise when Cora came striding in, wearing her blue cloak, and took a seat at the far end of the table. I didn’t know she was a Lady of the Kingdom. I thought Amti was well cast out.
Oliaryn Iraid came in toward the end of the procession, taking a seat at the head of the table and relaxing within its bounds, surveying the group before him as if it were his own kingdom.
Vara entered in full armor and to an eruption of murmurs through the crowd. She ignored the attention, even as it buzzed in a frenzy, and took her place, sitting stiffly in her seat, eyes fixed straight ahead.
If there was a buzz for Vara, there was a considerably louder and less pleasant reaction when Cattrine entered the room, Longwell at her side. Longwell did not have his lance, apparently denied the privilege of carrying it. He looked strange without either it or the spare sword he carried upon his belt, but he escorted Cattrine to the seat set aside for the Lord of Emerald Fields and allowed her to take it; he remained standing just behind her, drawing scandalized looks from all around and prompting another hum of conversation in the surrounding crowd.
The buzz quieted seconds later as Fortin stepped into the chamber, drawing gasps before the entire throne room was silenced. If the rock giant was in any way affronted or taken aback, he did not show it, walking with measured stride and great care to the seat beside Cattrine and carefully removing the well-made chair as daintily as if he were picking up a child, offering it to Longwell, who took it graciously and pulled up to the table beside Cattrine. Cyrus could almost hear the breath stuck in the throats of onlookers, every eye in the room on the Lord of Rockridge.
“This promises to be interesting,” Cyrus’s companion said in a low voice into the silence. Cyrus did not reply with words; fearing to draw any attention to himself, he merely nodded. A few scattered heads turned to look at them, but Cyrus ducked his head beneath the cowl and saw his companion do the same out of the corner of his eye.
Morianza Yemer appeared in the door, apparently the last to arrive. Another shocked silence greeted him, followed by a quiet thrum of whispers, surely loud enough that the elves in the room could hear them, for Cyrus could pick up the bare hints here and there.
“… heard he might have known the murderer …”
“… could have snuck them in himself, I reckon …”
“… but who would do such a thing?”
“In my capacity as Oliaryn of Termina and largest landholding Lord at this table,” Iraid began, leaning forward, his grey beard particularly well trimmed on this occasion, “I call this convocation to order. We assemble here today to go about the grim business of determining succession of our throne in the wake of the tragic death of King Danay the First—”
“Hear, hear!”
“Let it be war!” came a howl from the crowd, answered by many, many more.
“Now hold on, there,” Iraid said, frowning, putting a hand into the air that cut the room into silence. “This is a convocation of succession for the throne, not a council of war.”
“She and her bastard heretic friends killed the king!” a woman in the front row screamed, pointing a finger right at Cattrine, who turned to look back at her accuser with little surprise. Cattrine looked as unflappable as Cyrus had ever seen her; I suppose when you’ve been through all she has, it takes more than a few screaming highborn elves to cause concern.
Vara was first to her feet. “I am the shelas’akur, and I am one of her ‘bastard heretic friends.’” A gasp ran through the room. She did not hold her place, coming around the table, storming right up to the woman who had spoken, hands on her hips, and leaned in to the accuser’s face. “Do you want to make war upon me as well?” She stared, unflinching, and Cyrus noted the woman who had spoken seemed to be trying her utmost to melt back into the crowd. “Do you wish to defeat me, see me broken in death, and glory in the power of your kingdom to destroy life—as Danay intended to do before he died?”
It was as though someone had cracked a whip into the chamber, lashing nearly everyone in the throne room across the face. To Cyrus it had the effect minus the sting of landing, as though it had stirred the air before him and sent a jolt of energy through the room, and he smiled.
“Shelas’akur,” Oliaryn Iraid said, still holding up his hand even though now the chamber was quiet, “it profits us little to insult the memory of a man now dead.”
“I don’t seek profit,” Vara said, the crowd she’d nearly waded into withdrawing, giving her a wide berth, “I seek peace. Peace for the kingdom, peace for my people, peace for myself. It seems some in this chamber are of a mind that war is the better course. I can only assume they are not residents of Termina or Emerald Fields, two places in the Kingdom that have borne the brunt of war these last years and are quite heartily sick of it, enough that we wish the rest of you would damned well catch up and stop trying to start one with us.”
“I, for one, would be quite happy to accept peace and get on with my business,” Cattrine announced, Longwell nodding beside her. “My disagreement with Danay, distilled to its simplest form, was entirely about his threatening of our lands so that he coul
d kill the shelas’akur and her husband.”
A ripple of shock ran through the waiting crowd. “LIES!” someone shouted.
“These are not lies,” Fortin said, standing up and silencing the whole room once more. “Lies are untruths; these are facts unpleasant to your tiny, soft, sensitive, pointed ears. Your King tried to kill your shelas’akur.”
“This is truth,” Vara said, and the crowd went silent. “He attempted to do so in this very room, only a year ago. We were saved through the intervention of the dark elven ambassador, of all people.” That caused more than a little disquiet, whispering voices echoing with shock in the chamber.
“Again,” Iraid said, the noise of the crowd subsiding, “we attack the memory of a man now dead. While I am firmly in favor of not retreading the ground you mention, having no interest in killing the shelas’akur, I think we should firmly focus upon the matter before us: the succession.” Iraid’s part in this was straight man, Cyrus knew, the one to keep the discussion on track and to look impartial, even though he was steering things precisely where he intended to.
And herein lies the problem, Cyrus thought. Danay had his course, and it was to throw in with the Confederation, the Leagues, and Goliath. Was he the loudest voice, the deciding vote in that debate, as we suspect? For if he was not, then someone in this room will be working against us in earnest …
“Whoever is chosen,” Iraid said, looking around at the royals interspersed in the crowd—perhaps they were all royals, for all Cyrus knew—“be it the designated heir or another, they will have a heavy task before them. I submit that peace should be a decided course before we agree to anoint anyone. This monarch’s first act cannot be to carry us into chaos once more, for none of us want war—”
“I want war!” a man in the front row shouted, his face red. A dozen others in the crowd rang out with the same chant, shouting at Cattrine, ignoring Vara.
“Well, that’s decided,” Cyrus said, shaking his head at the outburst. “I think this is your moment.”
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 30