Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Is he right?” Ryin asked into the silence that followed. J’anda casually tipped his staff back and bopped Ryin lightly in the forehead, drawing an “Owww!” from the druid. He pulled his hand away, still frowning. “Fine. Forget that I asked.”

  “No,” Cyrus said, standing and put his hand on his helm, clunking it against the table, “he’s not right. Because Malpravus’s very concept of what a guild is, is utterly irreconcilable with my vision of the same. He wants power, and he built Goliath around that idea; everyone there is bound by their common ambition. He even views leadership differently than we do, which is probably why he turned our table to ash on his way up to the tower.” Cyrus pulled his hand from the helm and started to pace to the left around the long table. “Sanctuary was never like that. I may have come here with that in mind, but Alaric deprived me of any illusion that this was the reason for Sanctuary to be relatively quickly.” He landed a hand on the back of Terian’s seat. “Our reason for being here isn’t common ambition.”

  “Damned right,” Terian said under his breath, forcing a weak smile.

  “Our reason for being here isn’t because we’re desperately seeking to live forever, to put the stopper in the sands of time,” Cyrus went on, striding past Calene.

  “But … but we wouldn’t mind doing that if we could, would we?” Calene asked in a small voice. “I mean, if it’s not too far out of the way …”

  Cyrus continued his slow walk, pacing past a nodding Scuddar. “It’s not petty ambition, it’s not armor, it’s not—”

  “PIE!” Vaste shouted as Cyrus passed him. He shrugged with only a little contrition. “What? Pie is at least as important as armor and ambition.”

  “We fight for home,” Cyrus said, nodding at Longwell, who nodded back as Cyrus passed behind him, the dragoon thumping the haft of his lance into the floor in approval. We fight for … family,” Cyrus said, passing Quinneria with a look that traced its way over the features of a mother he only barely recalled. He went around the empty far end and stopped behind Aisling’s seat. “We fight for redemption, for the things we’ve done wrong in the past.” She looked back at him, just a glance, and then looked away. “We fight for our people,” he said as he passed Cattrine. “For the right to be our best selves, to be known for us rather than those who we spring from,” he passed Mendicant, “to be—”

  “Immense, contrary pains in the arse,” Ryin said with a smirk as Cyrus went by him.

  “—to speak our minds freely,” Cyrus said with a smile, “to not be cowed into silence because our opinions do not jibe with our fellows.” He paused behind J’anda’s chair. “We fight to not be afraid.” He walked slowly behind Vara, trailing a hand over the back of her chair as he went by, “and we fight for those we care most about.” She looked into his eyes, her blue ones shining in the summer sun filtering in from the balcony windows as she nodded.

  “You should have said that when you were walking behind me,” Vaste said.

  “Malpravus will never truly understand any of those things,” Cyrus said, coming back to his own seat, “for Malpravus only cares about Malpravus, and to hell with anyone who gets in the way of that.” He thumped down heavily into his chair. “No, I won’t ever go back to how I was.” He lowered his voice. “Since the day I entered these halls, I’ve paid a price for these things I believe. I’ve lost …” He thought of Narstron, of Niamh, of Andren, of Alaric and the countless others, and his throat felt too small to let his voice out. “… too much to go back. But that doesn’t mean I can’t go to Malpravus in Zanbellish …” a nervous grumble ran through the room, but Cyrus only smiled, “… and pretend I see it his way.”

  85.

  “This is a mad, terrible idea,” Vara said only a few minutes later as they all stood around the Council Chamber in a nervous circle that mirrored the shape of the old table that was now replaced behind them, the long shafts of light coming through the balcony windows illuminating the deeper grain of the new table’s wood. The fires crackled low in the hearths, and everyone stood silent.

  “So it’s like all of my ideas, then,” Cyrus said with a smile, trying to reassure her.

  She looked worried. “Let me come with you,” Vara said.

  “No.” Cyrus shook his head. “This is not a fight, it’s an ambush. We’ll be going in at Malpravus’s mercy, and I’ve heard from too many people that he has none for you. I can’t take the chance.”

  She held herself out, away from him, standing at her place in the circle while he remained in the middle, and he could feel the gulf between them like a distance of thousands of miles. “But you can take the chance with him?” She pointed at Cyrus’s companion in the circle.

  Ryin Ayend stood next to him, frowning. “That’s an excellent point. Why are you bringing me along, out of all the possible options available to you?”

  Cyrus did not look at the druid as he answered. “Because you’re the least threatening choice.”

  Ryin bristled. “I’ll have you know I cut a very imposing figure in battle.”

  “Oh, I know,” Cyrus said, “I saw what you did to Mathyas Tarreau.”

  Ryin settled slightly, looking a bit mollified. “Well, the bastard deserved it. Who knows how many good people he cost us?”

  “So,” Vaste said, staring intently at Quinneria, “you’ve been conjuring all of our meals, all this time?”

  “Well, I did have to cook some when people brought me food,” Quinneria said, “from hunting game and from Emerald Fields’ harvests and such, but I used magic to do the preparation and just hid behind an illusion all the while.”

  Vaste was frowning. “So … what were you doing with all that free time when it appeared you were cooking?”

  “Well, I learned blacksmithing,” she said, “and carpentry, and continued my research into arcane spellcraft with Curatio’s assistance, some of the practices of natural, medicinal healing …”

  “Oh, good, then you can take over the Halls of Healing,” Vaste said. “Also … this explains why the cuisine didn’t suffer the year of the siege …”

  Cyrus looked up at Vara and saw the fear in her eyes. “I'll be back, I swear it.”

  “Your return does not concern me half as much as your leaving in the first place,” she said.

  “Remember,” he said with a smile, “I told you everyone leaves.”

  She gave him a look that dripped with familiar annoyance. “Your mother came back, dunce, and I am still here. Your point no longer stands.”

  “Cyrus,” Terian said, stepping up to him in the circle, “say the word and I’ll come with you, ten thousand troops at my back.”

  “Absolutely not,” Cyrus said.

  “Hmph,” Terian said. “You’re turning down the aid of the foremost paladin in Saekaj Sovar.”

  Vara made a face. “You’re the only paladin in Saekaj Sovar.”

  “And thus the best,” Terian said with a smirk. “Come on, Vara. Usually you’re smarter than this. What’s wrong? Is a steady diet of warrior seed killing your intelligence?”

  Cyrus tossed an ice spell against Terian’s helm, frosting it lightly across the eye slits. “I’m not just a warrior anymore.” He stared at the paladin as Terian brushed the ice out of the way, and suddenly he knew what he had to say. “And you can’t drag your nation, your people, into war to save me and my three hundred anymore, Terian.”

  “I can,” Terian said, pulling Alaric’s old helm off his head and wiping clean the face. “I will. Because as you just pointed out, that spirit, those bonds—that’s what Sanctuary is.” He looked around the circle. “And while I may not be here as a member with you anymore, I wear this armor for a reason. Saekaj Sovar is governed by the principles you elucidated.” He put the cleaned helm back on his head. “And I still stand with you—brother.”

  “Feeling a little weepy,” Vaste sniffed. “Dangerously weepy.”

  “Would you like another pie to soothe your nerves?” Quinneria asked.

  “Oh, gods, I�
��m going to cry,” Vaste said.

  “At the risk of interrupting Vaste’s tearful moment,” Cattrine said, “I would like to add to what Terian said—we of Emerald Fields stand with you as well, in the same way you have stood by us through all that came. If you need us, we will send every single soldier wherever you require it, at a moment’s notice.” She smiled warmly. “Together we stand.”

  “And there’s not even a demonic porcupine or squirrel to blame this time,” Vaste murmured, his big eyes glistening.

  “Take utmost care, Cyrus,” Aisling said, eyeing him with an appraising look. “I’d offer you my dagger, but it seems you have more weapons than you know what to do with.” She nodded at Rodanthar, which was presently thrust inside his belt, no scabbard to call its own.

  “I can—I can give you the scabbard for that,” Quinneria said, voice hushed like she had assumed the persona of Larana again for a moment. “There are …” She looked in Cyrus’s eyes as he met hers, “many things I could—that I would love to tell you. The history of our family, of … what I’ve learned … or about your childhood … anything you want to know …”

  Cyrus stared back at her, his throat tight once more. “I … I do want to hear them.”

  Vaste sniffed. “This is too much.” Quinneria flicked her fingers and a pie appeared in his hands. “No, wait. Now it’s too much.” He lowered his face and a falling tear sizzled against its warm, flaky top. “Why does this feel like—like the end?”

  “Because our Guildmaster is about to hand himself over to the most evil necromancer who has ever lived,” J’anda said.

  “Nobody mentions me, of course,” Ryin muttered.

  “Let’s get this over with, he-who-was-not-mentioned,” Cyrus said, clapping Ryin on the shoulder. “When we get there, if you can, teleport out immediately. Don’t wait.”

  “You want me to leave you there,” Ryin said quietly.

  “If you can,” Cyrus said, “yes.”

  “I didn’t like the sound of this when we started to discuss it,” Longwell said, looking a bit stricken under his helm, “and it’s not improving with time. The grapes are turning to vinegar, not wine.”

  “Oh … can you make a grape pie?” Vaste asked, looking over at Quinneria.

  “Ryin, take us away,” Cyrus said, turning his gaze back to Vara one last time.

  She waited there, her expression as serious as he could ever remember. She was standing, back straight, her hand drifting toward her sword’s hilt in the same manner as his, watching him. She seemed to be trying to hold it all in, to keep it together, chin up, as she watched him. With a blur of wind, she began to disappear in the power of the druid teleportation spell. It whipped hard around him, like the typhoon in Aloakna, and with a rush he was carried away from his friends, his home and his wife, and some small part of him worried, as they did, that he might not see them again.

  86.

  When the wind of the teleportation spell died down, Cyrus was left with an impression of jungle ruins, swallowed up by time and nature, and of little sign of life save for the greenery that sprouted everywhere. The air was hot and heavy, as though rain were coming soon and the air could no longer contain itself. Sweat started down his back the instant the spell faded around him, and he breathed deeply as he looked around for the inevitable attack.

  “This is … quiet,” Ryin said, bumping his back against Cyrus’s as they both stood, waiting, the sound of insects chirping in the distance like some choir in an elven temple.

  “I thought I told you to leave,” Cyrus said. “Is there a cessation spell over this place?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t tested,” Ryin said, voice tense. “If you think I’m leaving you here, you weren’t listening to your own speech earlier.”

  “Damn you people for being so loyal,” Cyrus said, eyes flicking over a building completely swallowed up by thick jungle vines, trees sprouting out of the strange stones that seemed to make up a road through the ground they stood upon. “I guess if you weren’t, though, you’d be gone like the rest.”

  “True enough,” Ryin said tensely, and his voice scratched as he spoke. “Do you see anything?”

  Cyrus peered into the city’s jungle landscape; it looked very much as though something had stood here once that had been better built than Reikonos or Santir or Isselhelm; it was almost as though one of the elven cities had been utterly swallowed by the greenery the elves so revered, as if nature and life had been given infinite license to run amok in their carefully built places. Something moved and Cyrus followed it without thought; it was a small animal, and he breathed half a breath out. “I see a squirrel. Which, unless you’re Vaste, is probably not cause for concern.”

  “I see grasshoppers skipping through the fields ahead,” Ryin said from behind him, still pressed to his back. “I see fallen buildings hewn out of the same kind of stone as the Citadel in Reikonos, stretching, ruined, as far as my sight reaches.”

  Cyrus breathed in through his nose, felt the heaviness of the air, sweat dripping down his face and tickling his unshaven jawline as it streamed past the hairs. “Same.” He gazed into the distance; Ryin was correct, there seemed an infinite number of the box-like dwellings before him, all carved out of stone, all probably as perfectly constructed as the Citadel at one time, he figured. Now, though, rough edges were showing, chips from the sides of the blocks, a weathering effect unseen in the tall tower in Reikonos. Time had done its hard work upon this place in a way that the Citadel had not seen, and the vines that covered everything hinted at a fate that Cyrus did not wish to ponder too deeply. “I don’t hear anything but nature.”

  “Nor do I,” Ryin said, “though I find myself wishing we’d brought an elf now.”

  Cyrus straightened up and drew Rodanthar. He’d kept his hand from the hilt when they’d teleported, fearing to provoke a reaction from Goliath that might result in Ryin’s death, but now that they’d arrived, the jungle noises and the still air worried him more than when he was certain he was teleporting into the heart of the enemy.

  Four large buildings stood grouped around the portal. Cyrus glanced back at the portal itself, expecting to find it similarly covered in vines. It was not, however, and dried branches on the ground around it suggested to him that Goliath had spent a fair amount of time clearing it of vegetation since their arrival. Each of the buildings nearest to them was large; at least as large as the smaller guildhalls in Reikonos, and three or four times the size of the average home in Termina. Cyrus reckoned they were at least three stories tall, but with a wider base. He could see an entry to each of them, stationed roughly on the building where it would have been had any of the powers of the modern day constructed it—centered, and with steps leading up into the dark interiors, no hint of a door remaining.

  Cyrus stared into the shadowy interior of the nearest building and reached back to tap Ryin on the arm. The druid jumped at the touch and spun to face the same direction as Cyrus. “Should we go inside?” Ryin asked.

  “Well, we could stand out here all day and wait for the Goliath guards to come collect us,” Cyrus said, “but frankly, I expected that would have happened by now, and since it hasn’t, I’m starting to think that we should poke around, see if anyone’s still here.”

  “What possible reason could they have to abandon it?” Ryin said, sweat streaming down his own forehead. He wiped at it with his sleeve, darkening the material with moisture. “They have an army significantly larger than our own. Even if they suspected we were coming with everything—dark elves and Luukessians—all they would need do is either shut off the portal or gather around it with spears and plunge them into invaders as they appeared, the way everyone else does.”

  “Malpravus seldom does exactly what’s expected of him,” Cyrus said, starting slowly toward the open door. He rustled the grass with a boot as he brushed over a crack that was splitting wide with green rushes. “I suspect he’s not about to start just because he’s chasing immortality; he’s not got it y
et, after all.”

  “Still,” Ryin said, “it doesn’t make much sense to leave his base behind … unless he needed his army for something else.”

  That caused a cold prick of fear to run up Cyrus’s back. “There’s nowhere he could deploy an army of twenty thousand that he’d be able to have much effect. As you said, everyone’s guarding their portals.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, then,” Ryin said with heavy irony. “Clearly they can do absolutely no harm, anywhere.”

  “If only that were so,” Cyrus said, his boots softly tapping upon the stone with each footfall. He drew Praelior as well, just to be safe, and the world slowed to a crawl around him. More than the effect of each sword by itself, holding both the blades seemed to compound their abilities. A cricket’s chirp dragged over seconds, and he jerked forward in a swift motion, leaving Ryin behind, following at a crawl.

  “Good gods,” Ryin said, every word proceeding slowly from his mouth, barely understandable as language. “You’re so—”

  “I know,” Cyrus said, walking back to him with easy steps. I probably look like I’m dashing around in a blur, worse than Ermoc did when he had Praelior alone, or like Terian does with Noctus.

  They walked together, Cyrus carefully controlling his pace, under a sweltering sun that filtered in from the green canopy above, branches reaching out between the trees that had sprouted in this place. They touched and had grown together, forming a network of branches and vines that seemed bound close to keep out the sun in places. Cyrus observed a shadowed space between two buildings, the boughs and other bindings between them so thick that the alley looked to be in deepest darkness.

  Cyrus kept his ears prepared for something, anything, but over the sound of the insects and their own footsteps, he heard nothing but the occasional chirp of birds in the distance.

  “This is unnerving,” Ryin said under his breath. “I am becoming unnerved.”