Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (6 page)

“That sounds oh-so-familiar,” Vaste said, still staring at the hearth. “Didn’t you people do that to us once before?”

“This time it will be worse,” Agora said. “A decree of heresy will follow into every land. You will not be welcome anywhere outside this guildhall, and soon enough, even these walls will be closed in upon by the forces allied against you.” She stared right at Cyrus. “You know of whom I speak.”

“I know of whom you speak,” Cyrus agreed quietly.

“Give yourself over now,” Agora said, “and the question, the agony … it will all be over so very quickly. This is promised.”

“Promised by whom?” Vara asked.

“Pretnam Urides himself,” Agora said. “He guarantees it.”

“Of course Pretnam Urides would send a mere child into danger rather than coming himself,” Vara said contemptuously.

“I am not afraid of you,” Agora said, holding her head high. “If you kill me, he will get his answer, and I will die for the cause.”

“You really are a true believer,” Cyrus said wearily, looking at the table.
The entire guild will suffer for my sins. Or …

Or I could just suffer for my sins and be done with it.

“This is on me,” Cyrus said, and started to stand, pushing his seat back carefully. “I acc—”

“You are a duly recorded witness for the Leagues, yes?” Ryin Ayend asked Agora, still staring at the table. “Your word is binding? You speak for them? Witness for them?”

“Yes,” Agora said. “I do. And that is why you may be certain that when I make this offer, I speak the truth. It will be recorded. It is guaranteed.”

Ryin looked up, and there was an anger in his eyes. “Witness this, then.”

He raised his hand, and a force blast gently blew Agora Friedlander onto her backside.

Agora gasped sharply upon the floor as Ryin stood to look down at her. “You—that was a paladin spell and you’re a druid—”

“My name is Ryin Ayend and I stand with the Guildmaster of Sanctuary.” Ryin unwound the druid vestment from his shoulders and tossed it into her face. “The Leagues are liars and have lied all along, for as long as they’ve existed. I would not trust your word if you were to promise me that the sky was blue and the season was winter.” He extended a hand to point at Cyrus. “You may have this man over my dead bloody body, for I, too, am a heretic, and you may tell your League masters that it is so.”

Mendicant jumped upon the table, tearing off his own wizard vestment and tossing it at the feet of Agora Friedlander. He ran a claw over his finger and drew green blood, then his fingers glowed with the light of healing and the wound sealed itself. “If you want a heretic, we will give you heretics.”

J’anda stood, clutching his stave, and tossed his own vestment at Agora Friedlander. “I will spare you the display, but you may be assured that if you come for me … you will see a fire spell that will destroy enough of your number to affirm your fear of heresy from now until the end of your days—which I predict will be soon, should you persist in this course.”

Erith rose slowly and removed the vestment on her shoulders. “What they said.” She tossed it at Agora, who still sat upon the hard stone.

“You face a guild of heretics now,” Vaste said, rising to his full height. He reached under his robes, fishing for something as Cyrus watched him, stunned. The troll pulled out a most curious implement that gleamed with the sheen of quartal, freshly mined and smithed, a pointed spear head some foot long with an empty space in its center, as if it were to be attached to something else. As Cyrus watched, the troll lowered his staff with its crystal tip and screwed the attachment upon it, the crystal sitting in the small gap in the middle of the metal, turning his staff into a deadly spear. “No need to pretend anymore, then. If you come at us, we will come at you with everything we have … and it will be considerably more than what you’re allowed, should you hew to your fancy rules.” He clunked the staff down and looked like a proper fighter with his spear. “So … come after this man, and you come for us all. Deliver that message to your cowardly leader who doesn’t have the balls to come tell us himself. And take this with you.” He tossed his vestments at her like the rest.

“I will tell him what you have said,” Agora Friedlander said, her nostrils flaring in fury. “I will tell him what you have become. And you should know … it will change nothing. We will not stop.”

“Neither will we,” Vara said, rising from her place at the table. “We have killed gods.” She smiled in cold satisfaction. “You idiots couldn’t even win your own wars without us. Consider carefully what you do now.”

Agora Friedlander’s expression of rage disappeared in the twinkle of her return spell, and Cyrus sagged against the table, putting his hand to his face. “That was foolish. Utterly foolish, all of you.”

“You’re welcome,” Vaste said. When Cyrus looked at him, the troll shrugged, dipping the point of his new spear. “This is Sanctuary. Doing utterly foolish things is our specialty.”

“That and loyalty,” J’anda said, giving Vaste a pitying look.

“Yes, and that,” Vaste agreed. “We combined the two, see.”

“You’ve committed us to war,” Cyrus said, looking around the table, seeing the last hope of peace evaporate. He honed in on Ryin. “You, of all people … why?”

“Because they’ve lied all along,” Ryin said, looking up from his spot at the table where he had returned to staring. “I don’t believe for a moment they would’ve offered you a painless death, or that they would have been content with only you. Trust a liar once, and it’s their disgrace if they break faith. Trust them again, and it becomes your folly.” He straightened up. “I don’t mean to be a fool again. They’ve lied about the nature of magic, they’ve lied about who can use it, and they would come for us with all they have, sooner or later, because knowing what we know makes us a threat to everything they’ve established.”

“So it’s war,” Cyrus said, his voice nearly cracking. “Again.”

“Sometimes you have to fight,” Ryin said, and there was a series of nods around the table. “And this … is most certainly one of those times.”

Cyrus and Vara ascended the stairs to the Tower of the Guildmaster in utter silence after the meeting of the Council broke. Cyrus stole careful glances at his wife. He could feel the storm brewing between them.
It’s to be hard wind and lashing rains tonight, I suspect,
he thought as he climbed the last few steps and followed her through the door to their quarters.

He expected an explosion when he shut the door; when it did not come, he looked up the stairs to see Vara’s retreating back, her silvery armor disappearing at the top of the steps. He followed with some hesitation, listening to her boots strike against the stone floors with a steady cadence as she walked toward the wooden dummy that held her armor when she wasn’t wearing it.

Cyrus slowly came up the stairs and looked after her. Vara was shedding her armor now, the breastplate and backplate already unfastened. They clanged against the ground with a hard rattle, and she undid her greaves and vambraces next, the chainmail beneath them rattling as she moved, undoing the latch points.

Cyrus eased up the stairs into the tower. The doors were closed on all four balconies, battened down for the season to keep the chill out.
So it’s to be silence before the storm breaks, then.
One of the balcony doors rattled forebodingly in the wind; Vara did not look up from what she was doing even to spare it a glance.

“Are you going to bed?” Cyrus asked, wondering if she would answer him.

She inclined her head slightly, though she did not look back at him. “It’s barely evening. Why would I go to bed at this hour?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said, stepping up to the level of the tower floor. “I don’t … know what you’re thinking.”

“Have you considered asking?” She sounded a little stiff. “It’s not difficult, though it takes a small amount of courtesy and consideration for your spouse. Something simple, such as, ‘My darling, light of my very life, wife who speaks to my heart itself—what are you planning to do with your evening?’”

“That’s a little effusive, isn’t it?” Cyrus asked.

“Oh, well,” Vara said, still concentrating on her armor, “I find it’s generally wise to lay it on a bit thick when you’ve been monumentally stupid. It helps salve any wounded feelings that might be present in the situation, you see.”

“Do you have wounded feelings?” Cyrus did not move closer, waiting to see. He could feel the tension ratcheting up in her voice the longer she spoke.

“Do I have wounded … hah … hah!” Her laugh was low and dangerous, devoid of actual humor. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

“I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, and after she did not react for a moment, standing still and quiet, he went on. “I’m sorry I lost Praelior—”

“That—bloody—sword—” She rounded on him and threw the vambrace in her hand carelessly as she did. It whizzed past his head and smashed into a painting of a landscape that had hung between two of the balconies since before he’d taken the quarters over from Alaric. “You think I give a damn about you losing your sword?”

“Apparently not,” Cyrus said, flinching a little at the wrath that gleamed from her slitted eyes. “So … it’s the fact that I went to Reikonos to—”

“It’s the fact that you nearly
died
in Reikonos,” Vara cut him off, steaming like an old kettle, “and you didn’t tell anyone—not me, not Vaste, not the guard, not any—bloody—one—” she tore her last bracer off her wrist and hurled it through the air to the side. It crashed into the paned window in one of the balcony doors. The sound of breaking glass was muffled by the curtain that covered it. “You could have been killed because you walked into stupid trap without any help. And you could have had help. In spite of those trolls, you could have had help. You could have had
my
help.” Her lips twisted in pain. “But you didn’t want
my
help.”

“Forgive me for not informing my current wife when I got an urgent request for assistance from the last Mrs. Davidon,” Cyrus said, looking away. “I thought it would be—”

“Well, you thought stupidly in this case,” Vara said, “through and through. Do you think I give a damn?” He looked at her and saw the well of hurt and disappointment on her face. “Do you think I would have—what? Been jealous? I don’t bloody care. You’re not married to her; you’re married to me. Keep up a regular correspondence with her for all the damns I give. But don’t use me—my non-existent potential jealousy—as an excuse to keep you from sensible action in these times.” She looked more thoroughly insulted than he could ever recall seeing her. “If you didn’t want to take me because you felt uncomfortable, there were any number of others who would have gladly gone with you—Longwell, Scuddar, Ryin, Calene, J’anda—any number. Hell, Terian would have come from Saekaj with a retinue of soldiers just to meet the former Mrs. Davidon.” Her voice dropped and the hurt sounded more evident. “You nearly died, Cyrus. You nearly died because of raw foolishness of the exact sort I used to excoriate you for regularly. I never saw it from you then like I saw it from you today. That was simply stupid. There is no other word for it.”

“This is why you shouldn’t throw that imprecation around all willy-nilly,” Cyrus said, feeling that perhaps the worst had passed. She watched him with careful eyes, waiting for him to finish. “Because when I actually do something deeply stupid, you don’t have anything left to deliver. The well of insults is dry.”

“Yes, well, I’ll work on my reserve after you practice dragging your head from your hindparts,” she said sharply. “I’m only glad that no permanent damage was done. It could easily have been otherwise.”

“I think damage was done,” Cyrus said softly. When she looked up at him, he elaborated. “Imina. Malpravus … he was covered in a cloak like hers, wearing what looked like a lock of her hair. The letter they trapped me with … it was written in her hand.”

Vara’s eyes fell. “Do you … think he killed her?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said, scooping his helm from his head and holding it in his gauntlet for reassurance. He squeezed it, and neither it nor his gauntlet yielded. “Malpravus and his allies—” he saw a flash of danger in Vara’s eyes and knew she was thinking of Archenous Derregnault, “they’re not bound by conscience. If they’d received the messenger we did tonight, they would have sent her back without her skin.”

“You don’t need to tell me about the treachery of Archenous Derregnault,” Vara said, speaking the name with loathing, “nor of Goliath. I remember well the many times they tried to fit us for a coffin, to maneuver us into unfavorable circumstances for their own profit. That they’ve now apparently allied and are moving openly against us, along with a sizable portion of the rest of Arkaria …” She pursed her lips. “It is cause for great concern. And caution,” she added vehemently with a pointed look at him. Her voice softened. “What are you going to do about … her? Imina.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Cyrus said. “Every member of Sanctuary is about to be excommunicated by the Leagues; I suppose I could try and hire some outside party to look for her.” He thought about it for a moment. “Terian might have someone we could have look into it. But … there are other problems.” He felt himself quiver thinking about the worst of them. “The big one …” Cyrus said, feeling reticent to even bring it up; it seemed the least of the worries they’d discussed, “… is the sword.”

“Yes,” she said, shrinking slightly, as though the air were leaving her. “It is a loss, admittedly. A great one.”

“A warrior of Bellarum never relinquishes his weapon willingly,” Cyrus said, intoning the old saying by force of habit.

“Oh for the sake of …” Vara rolled her eyes. “One would think that after being nearly killed by said god, and—as you just pointed out—presumably you were supposed to be murdered by the very Society that taught you to parrot some of those ridiculously phrases. You could worry less about your time-honored traditions and dispense with the warrior-ethos guilt.”

“Without my sword I’m just another warrior,” Cyrus said. “A man in armor.”

“A man in quartal armor,” Vara said, her face returning to the acerbic look that she wore when delivering a good barb. “But you are also my husband, and, lest you forget, obnoxious and rather pompous.”