“But you are a heretic,” Urides said with a gleam in his eyes. “Just as your mother was before you. Heretics and heroes—it’s a fine line.”
“You’re a heretic,” Cyrus said, slashing at him but missing entirely as Urides stepped back once more, as quickly as Cyrus could advance.
“I am not, in fact,” Urides said with a cackle. “Do you know what makes you a heretic?” His smile broadened. “The fact that I say so. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Then I guess when I kill you, I will be a heretic no longer,” Cyrus muttered.
“You can’t kill me, fool,” Urides said with a laugh. “You can’t even lay a hand on me with everything you have. You will fail, you will die, and then your little bride—the last hope of the idiot elves—will follow, and so will your friends, for you have no idea what you face with me.” He grinned maliciously. “You’ve been practicing these magics for a year; I’ve been practicing them for a lifetime. A very long lifetime, in fact. I have forgotten more about single combat than even you know, Davidon.”
“Then why haven’t I ever seen you fight?” Cyrus slipped forward, dodging around a chest, and came at Urides with a leading strike, a stabbing lunge pointed right at the old man’s heart. It struck true, crashing into the man’s ribs—
And stopped cleanly, shock reverberating back up the hilt to Cyrus as Urides grunted, his smile widening as he locked eyes with Cyrus.
“Because only a true fool like you would announce to everyone that he had a godly weapon,” Urides said, and brought the end of Philos around so quickly that Cyrus did not see it coming until it had knocked the helm cleanly off his head. There was a flash behind his eyes, and pain at his left eyebrow, shocking and agonizing, and Cyrus hit his knees without realizing he had even lost his feet. The sound of his greaves rattling as his knees impacted the ground was a dim in his ears, barely audible over the rushing of blood.
“And because no one who ever challenged me has lived to tell it, Cyrus Davidon,” Pretnam Urides said, looking down at him as he raised high his staff. “Neither will you.” The blow was sure to kill him, Cyrus knew, and yet there was nothing he could do to stop it as it began to descend—
69.
A soft glow lit the mist, orange, like a hearth in the distance, as Cyrus watched Urides bring down the staff to kill him. It was a certain thing. Rodanthar hung limply in his fingers, and he could barely see. His left eye was sheerest agony, pure pain, and he could not see out of it at all. Is this how it was for Alaric …? he wondered dimly, the thoughts coming slowly as the staff came down.
The room smelled of humidity, the sweat and stink somehow more potent for the thick air, and Cyrus could nearly taste it upon the back of his tongue. He saw the veins jutting from Urides’s forehead, the smile of self-satisfaction as he brought down the killing blow, lit by the orange glow behind him, quartal chainmail peeking out from where Cyrus had rent open his robes.
The glow grew brighter as Urides’s staff came closer. Its end came to a severe point, the force of a godly weapon tightly bound in a small area, certain to dash Cyrus’s brains out the side of his head when it struck true. And it would strike true, for only Rodanthar could halt its sweep now, and the sword was nearly upon the ground. Cyrus’s fingers clung numbly to it, but it was dangerously close to falling out of his hand altogether.
The blaze of orange grew in the light behind Urides until he was all-consumed in shadow and mist, like a dragon had loosed its breath behind him. But there are no dragons in Reikonos, Cyrus thought, blinking. Not—
Urides’s hand slowed, jerking the staff’s end away from its intended path. His eyes widened in pain, magnified as though he had his lenses on once more, and he convulsed, looking as though lightning had hit him squarely in the back. His lips went from the cruel smile to agonized fury in less than a second, and Cyrus was reminded of seeing a soldier stabbed in the back by Longwell’s lance. The pain on Urides’s face was writ large, and the glow increased in brightness until—
Flame burst out of Urides’s chest in a tight circle, concentrated, and flared between the links of the chainmail as it burned the heart out of him. Urides jerked like someone had taken hold of his strings and was yanking them. He tried to speak, to cry out, but smoke streamed out of his mouth and a smell like burning meat filled the air. Cyrus rolled aside, falling to his back, unable to get his balance as the flames burning through the chest of Pretnam Urides raged hotter and grew wider, enveloping his wide paunch and cutting him in half with fire.
“So Dismal Swamp was your doing?” Vaste asked, stepping out of the mist to Urides’s left as the fire continued to flare from behind the wizard. Urides’s head turned, jerkily, to look at the troll, eyes nearly uncomprehending. “Then I owe you this.”
Vaste plunged the spear-tip of his staff into Urides’s jaw and pushed. The wizard’s legs fell below him, severed from the top of his chest by the fire spell that had consumed him whole from breastbone to groin, the quartal chainmail lingering behind like a meatless skeleton as the flame stopped, dissipating to reveal—
Larana standing some five feet behind him, her face impressively red, lip quivering, eyes welling up, her hands thrust out with smoke pouring off them. She said nothing, but the way she looked at Urides’s remains, which were split between his legs fallen to the floor and his head and shoulders hanging from Vaste’s spear, was purest hatred.
“Care to roast the rest of him, too?” Vaste asked, dangling the dead remainder of Urides and his streaming chainmail before her. She shook her head, now seemingly embarrassed. “Fine, I’ll do it, then,” and the troll unleashed a much smaller flame spell that cleansed the head of his staff in a few seconds, leaving only a few smoking bones behind, hidden in the quartal chainmail. “Hmm … they can resurrect that, can’t they?”
Larana nodded slightly and then thrust out her hands. Vaste stepped back only a second before she flooded the room with another heat of such intensity that Cyrus was forced to look away, still unable to see out of his left eye. He lay there, watching, as Larana finished her spell and nothing remained save for the chainmail and a blackened scorch on the floor of the tower; no bones, no ash, not a sign that Pretnam Urides had ever even been at this place, save for—now that the mist was clearing—his mail, his staff lying upon the floor a few feet away, and his lenses upon the table by his bed.
“Hmm,” Vaste said, swiping the staff from the floor. “Philos, the Burden of Knowledge?” He looked at the scorch mark that was all that remained of Urides. “I guess you’ve been unburdened.”
“And you were never burdened to begin with. Not with knowledge, anyway.” Vara stepped away from one of the nearby balcony doors, now open, wind clearing the steam from the room.
“Hah,” Vaste said without mirth. “You didn’t seem so smart when he clocked you from the side. You didn’t even see it coming.”
“Because he was using a godly weapon,” Vara said, the blood staining her face and hair causing Cyrus to cringe. She laid eyes upon him and extended a hand, then stopped when she saw Larana’s fingers already glowing white. Cyrus’s head cleared less than a second later, the pain in his left eye fading as his sight suddenly returned.
“Speaking of which,” Vaste said, looking at Philos in his hands. He glanced up, and tossed the weapon to Larana, who caught it with fumbling fingers. “I think you deserve this.”
“I …” Larana mumbled, looking down at the staff uncertainly. “You … you …”
“Yes, I know,” Vaste said, nodding sagely, “I stepped in and neatly stabbed right through his ugly, stupid face, which, let’s face it, was a service to all Arkaria. But …” he nodded at the staff now cradled in Larana’s hands, “You had him, fairly. You deserve it.”
“I …” Larana began.
“Take it,” Cyrus said to her, pushing to his feet as J’anda came from behind him, another balcony door opened, the air clearing further now that a wind was seeping through the tower. “You deserve it.”
“All right,” she mumbled, turning the staff about in her hands. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for not letting me get killed by that rank bastard,” Cyrus said, rubbing his head, fresh blood still dripping down upon the day’s stubble on his cheek and jaw. He stared right at Larana, who met his gaze with those vivid green eyes. “That would have been intolerable.”
“I could probably tolerate it for a while,” Vaste said, “but I suppose sooner or later I’d get lonely. You know, because of the—”
“Utter lack of troll beauty, yes,” Vara said.
“I said ‘intelligent troll beauties within—” Vaste began.
“I know,” Vara said, cocking her eyebrow through the smear of blood on her face, “and I meant what I just said … entirely.”
“Why must you hate us so?” Vaste mused idly.
“Perhaps she simply does not appreciate you,” J’anda said, frowning at the blood on his robe’s shoulder. “At all.”
“Few do,” Vaste said, shaking his head sadly as the night breeze blew through the tower.
Cyrus looked around the room. “This really is quite similar to—”
There was little sound from the stairs below now, and a clatter of feet on the steps came loud a second later, as Terian came up. “Well, that was no easy thing,” the paladin said, brandishing his sword. “How did you f—” His eyes fell on the chainmail and the scorch mark. “I hope like hell that’s Urides.”
“It’s what’s left of him,” Vaste said. “We thought about saving you some, but figured it was just best to be done with it.”
“We did a similar thing to the rest of the Council of Twelve,” Terian said, nodding at the scorch. He frowned at the chainmail. “Is that quartal?”
“I assume so,” Cyrus said, “since it resisted all our efforts to burn it to ash.”
Terian looked at it for a moment and then pointed. “Is anybody going to take that? Because if not, I could use—”
“I doubt it would fit me,” Vara said, turning away.
“I doubt it will fit him,” Vaste said, waving at Terian. “Did you see the paunch on Urides? Better start eating more if you want it to fit comfortably, Lepos.”
“We should leave,” Larana whispered, still turning over the staff in her fingers. She spoke normally, though still hushed.
“Good advice,” Terian said, scooping up the chainmail under his arm. He looked right at Cyrus. “Unless you can think of any reason to stay?”
Cyrus’s mind was muddled, his eyes drawn back to the blackened place where Pretnam Urides had met his end, a thousand thoughts warring for his attention at once. One won out over the others. “I think we’ve done enough for today,” he said at last, nodding. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
70.
“You have a lovely home,” Isabelle said after appearing with Vara in the Tower of the Guildmaster a few days later. Vara had left with a heavy escort, under illusion, meeting Isabelle with an escort of her own at the portal outside Pharesia. Cyrus had been waiting nervously for them to return together, and now that they were here, both sisters standing before him, he felt relief wash over him after hours of tension.
“You didn’t see the tower when you were here for the wedding?” Vara asked, taking a step away from her sister, her boots echoing against the floor. A placid breeze swept through with the breath of summer, as lovely a day as Cyrus could have envisioned, from across plains clear of so much as a convoy.
“I did not,” Isabelle said with the trace of a smile. “I think we were rather busy, you recall, with the wedding and all the festivities it entailed.”
“Well, here you are now,” Cyrus said, sweeping a hand around to encompass the four open balconies around them. “If you ever get to the top of the Citadel in Reikonos, you’ll find a very similar bit of architecture.”
“Will I?” Isabelle arched an eyebrow. “I suppose there’s a story behind that?”
“Not one that I know,” Cyrus said, feeling like he was standing as an island in the middle of the room. He took a short walk over to the sitting area and lowered himself onto the seat. “Would you like to sit down?”
Isabelle smiled gracefully. “I wouldn’t mind at all.” She threaded her way over and took the seat opposite him, lowering herself into the chair as she smoothed her robes and vestments.
Vara followed her and seemed to hesitate, torn between the choice of sitting on the couch next to her husband or in the chair next to her sister. Finally, she moved to squeeze in next to Cyrus.
Isabelle watched them with amusement. “I recall a time in a carriage when you would not sit next to him, and so I had to.”
Vara made a noise of impatience. “It wasn’t that I wouldn’t sit next to him, it was that squeezing two people in armor next to each other in a confined space is unpleasant. Better you than me, at the time.”
“And now?” Cyrus asked, looking askance at her.
“Well, now I’m married to you, so I can no longer foist that responsibility off on others,” Vara said with a straight face and a twinkle in her eye.
“I see the honeymoon is not yet over,” Isabelle said, adjusting her robes again.
“If you can call being declared heretic and set upon by the largest armies in Arkaria a honeymoon, then no, hopefully it is over,” Cyrus said dryly.
“It seems to be drawing to a close,” Isabelle said lightly. “I have been listening as you asked in your last letter, and I have many things to report from Reikonos.”
“Oh, good,” Vara said, “and I was worried that you would have nothing more than idle gossip of washerwomen in the fountain at the square.”
“I have that as well,” Isabelle said, tapping her long ears idly. “But more than that … Amarath’s Raiders is done. Their guildhall is nearly emptied, and almost all their number have come to us or Burnt Offerings.”
“Oh, good, treachery divided,” Vara said.
“There are no surviving officers save one,” Isabelle said, plowing onward, “and it was a warrior of my acquaintance that came to us only two days ago. He seems genuinely repentant, or at least his ambition hides his feelings on the matter—”
“You didn’t accept him as an applicant,” Vara said.
“We did,” Isabelle said with a shrug. “It would be foolish not to; it’s not as though Amarath’s Raiders remains anything approaching a cohesive whole any longer. They have no goals, no purpose. They’re utterly incapable of causing further trouble for you, like a headless man.” She smiled once more. “But they have very well-equipped people.”
“Now I see your own ambitions laid plain,” Vara said.
“I didn’t turn away Sanctuary members who have applied to us in past months, either,” Isabelle said, without a hint of shame. “Endeavor needs all the help it can get.”
“For what?” Cyrus asked, watching his sister-in-law carefully.
“We still mean to return to the upper realms, of course,” she said. “While the war and our part in the defense of Reikonos may have distracted us, we are still one of the top guilds, and our reason for being is … well, is obviously not so altruistic as yours.” Vara rolled her eyes, and Isabelle caught her. “Sister mine,” Isabelle said, gently chiding, “recall that before you ran across the virtuous halls of Sanctuary, you pursued the same purpose as I do.”
“Indeed,” Vara said, “and now I do not.” She stiffened in her seat. “So Amarath’s Raiders is done, then. What of—”
“The Confederation?” Isabelle asked. “The outlying districts have announced their withdrawal and the army is essentially gone from where it had been camped outside Reikonos. What remains is barely enough to defend the city were it invaded, which, fortunately, seems unlikely.”
“I’d heard Frost, Waterman and Coulton were living up to their part of the bargain,” Cyrus said, nodding. He’d spoken with the governors when he’d returned from Reikonos after killing the Council of Twelve. Their relief had been obvious, save for Karrin Waterman’s, whose reac
tion was hidden under her steely veneer. “That they broke the Confederation army is also welcome news.”
“Not for the Mayor of Reikonos, I daresay,” Isabelle replied with a smirk. “The poor chap is trying to hold the Confederation together through diplomacy.”
“How goes that?” Vara asked, tensing in her unease.
“Better than I would have expected,” Isabelle said. “He is approaching it from a considerably weakened position, after all, pledging to considerably loosen the hold the capital had been exercising, returning power to the Governors, remaking the Council of Twelve in a much more egalitarian fashion, as they were started, rather than as the tyrannical oligarchs they had become under Pretnam Urides.”
“What’s the likelihood he succeeds?” Cyrus asked, leaning down, elbow clinking against his greaves.
“I don’t rightly know,” Isabelle said with a light shrug. “The Confederation is tied together tightly through trade, interdependent, so I can’t see the districts making war upon each other even if they broke apart. I expect we won’t see that matter settled for some time, but one thing I can tell you is that the Leagues,” she smiled delivering this news, “seem to have forgotten about you for the moment. I have friends in the Healers’ Union, and you have gone from top priority to … well, no priority. Whatever drive there was to apprehend you seems gone, and I doubt you would find yourself in peril even were you to set foot in Reikonos right now.”
“I don’t intend to test that assumption presently,” Cyrus said, letting out a breath as he leaned back in his seat. “Not that I have much reason to go there at the moment.”
“Plus,” Vara said grimly, “there is still the matter of Goliath, and let us not forget they have returned to their guildhall in the city.”
“Oh, but they haven’t,” Isabelle said, raising an eyebrow.
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 42