Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (28 page)

“I will leave you three to it, then,” Kahlee said with a nod. “Unless you desperately want to drag me along to your adventure.”

“Are you just going to sit here and await their return?” Cyrus asked with a frown.

Kahlee glanced around the room and her eyes fell upon the table by the bed, where Vara kept her favorite book. “I’ll read that, if it’s all the same to you. Unless you have something more interesting, or you’d prefer I just poke around your personal possessions.” She smiled thinly, as though goading him.

“If
The Champion and the Crusader
whets your appetite for entertainment in our absence, have at it,” Cyrus said. “The only other volumes you’re likely to find here are old histories of wars and battles that—although I find them appealing—are rather dry for most.”

Aisling peered around the room with great interest. “I always found it interesting that none of Alaric’s books were here when you ascended to the seat of Guildmaster.”

Cyrus paused, thinking. “How do you know Alaric had books?”

“He spent so much time in this tower,” Aisling said with a faint smile on her pale, illusioned face, “I can hardly imagine he spent all those hours staring at the walls or out the windows.”

“It’s what I do,” Cyrus said quietly. “Though I suppose it’s possible I have more on my mind than he did before he … well, you know.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” Aisling said with that same smile. “And I suppose he could have just faded into the ether and wandered around the world when we all assumed he was up here. There’s really no way to be certain.”

“True enough,” Cyrus said, and he glanced back at the sun. “The hour draws near.” He looked to Bowe. “Take us to Isselhelm?”

The druid nodded subtly, even in his Northman guise, and the power of his teleportation spell whipped around them with a rising wind. Cyrus’s eyes found Aisling, and hers his, and there was a flash of discomfort between them in the storm as they caught each other’s gaze and then looked away swiftly as the tornado of magic swept them away and far to the north.

Isselhelm was a city of mud roads and wooden houses, crude structures that looked quite a bit like Santir to Cyrus’s eyes. It was just out of the mountains, a mere handful of miles off the border of the Dwarven Alliance, and situated on a river that flowed south, carrying all the minerals and metals of the dwarves to markets in other lands. One enormous, domelike mountain stood close at hand, nearer to the city, like a foothill against the backdrop to the north, and the howling of wolves in the distance reached Cyrus’s ears even over the city noise.

The smell of manure hung heavy in the air, along with the burning of coal, dark smoke clouding the sky. Cyrus took a few steps away from the portal to see suspicious guards in boiled leather. They had the look of local men rather than of the human army, and they watched him and his cohorts closely as the wind of the spell faded around them.

Cyrus gave them a nod, checking to see if his illusion had held through the teleportation. It had, but it was only then that he realized his error; Bowe did not look anything like a druid, and neither did he or Aisling.
Shit
, he thought.
Let’s hope these guards are morons.
While they watched suspiciously, they did not look unduly alarmed, and Cyrus beckoned Bowe and Aisling to follow him and struck out to the north, where he remembered the local keep being.

He cast a look back, ostensibly to check on his party, and then waved them into an alley. “I made an error,” he said, once he was sure the guards gathered round the portal had remained there, on guard, and safely out of earshot. “I forgot to make Bowe look like a druid.” His words echoed down the quiet alleyway, the dripping of water off the eaves into a muddy puddle punctuating his statement.

“Oops,” Aisling said mildly.

“Yes,” Cyrus agreed, “a potentially costly mistake should they dwell on us. We need to throw off suspicion immediately.”

“Three wanderers gives them a definite number of us to look for,” Aisling said. “Perhaps we should reduce our number to two.”

Bowe stood very neutrally, casting his gaze to Cyrus. “I will accompany you if you wish, but if you would prefer, I will leave you here.”

“I can get us back to the tower,” he said, turning to look at Aisling, “but if anything happens to me at any point—”

“I’ll be stuck on my own in a potentially very hostile city, yes,” she said, taking it all in and giving a nod. “If Bowe leaves, we’ll be a lot better able to blend in here.”

Cyrus frowned. “How so?”

The amusement in her eyes showed through the illusion; they practically sparkled. “Because almost everywhere in Arkaria, including here, two is a couple and three is a crowd.”

Something prickled down Cyrus’s back, ending in a twinge at a scar just to the side of his spine. “You want us to pretend we’re together?”

“I’m not exactly aflame with the prospect,” she said, “but it gives good cover. This city is large enough to guarantee that not everyone knows each other. With Bowe beside us, we’re stuck looking like traders or something of the sort. If he leaves, we can walk along giving the illusion of lovers on a stroll in a different part of town, all the way up to the keep. Throw a little overly affectionate acting in, the sort even you humans find sickening in your young lovers, and the guards will avoid us out of sheer discomfort.” As she spoke, the amusement dried up. “I don’t find the prospect appealing, just to be clear, but I am here because when it comes to deception, you are a fool and I am the expert. Trust me on this if nothing else, and we’ll make it to our meeting without arousing suspicion.”

That tingle in Cyrus’s scar seemed to flare, not in pain exactly, but more as a reminder. His reluctance found its own voice in that unease, and he took a long breath. “Fine,” he said at last. “Bowe, thank you for bringing us here.”

Bowe gave him a sharp nod and was gone in the twinkle of a return spell a moment later, without saying a word.

“He’s a taciturn one,” Cyrus said, staring at the waning light where the druid had been.

“He’s a pleasure to work with,” Aisling said, all business. “No pointless conversation. Now, give us a different illusion. Drape yourself in heavy furs, and give yourself a short sword here,” she tapped him at the belt, “and reduce your height by at least a foot.”

“I can understand the height reduction,” Cyrus said, frowning, “but the sword?”

“Northmen all carry swords of a shorter length,” she said, eyes darting about the ends of the alley as if she were expecting trouble. The alley was mud and half-melted snow, and it made a sucking sound with every motion they made. “All but the traders, and they carry their daggers hidden, as though everyone does not know they’re hiding them. If you want to blend in, be the rule, not the exception.”

“All right,” he said, visualizing his own illusion in his mind, trying to hew closely to what he’d seen on the countless Northmen he’d known throughout his years. When the spell-light faded, he found himself in heavy furs, with a sword of the length Aisling had suggested.

“Good,” she said with a nod, looking to either end of the alley again. “Now, for me—make me taller. The women of this land have at least six inches of height on me, on average. Give me a bulge here,” she patted her waist, “and furs over it. The women here carry their blades out of sight as well. Red hair seems to be commonplace in Isselhelm,” she waved at the darker shade that crowned her current illusion, “so use that. Also, these,” she pointed at the sandals barely visible, exposing her feet, “are not a great choice for this land or these streets. Boots would be more advisable.”

“You really do have an eye for detail,” he said, shrugging, trying to visualize a Northlands woman in his mind. He twisted the illusion and then let it loose, and when he opened his eyes again, Aisling had turned into the very image he’d imagined, taller and less willowy, thicker with muscle on her arms and chest, her slender biceps replaced by muscular ones hidden under furs.

“Details save your life when you’re in my position,” Aisling said, feeling for her dagger, which Cyrus noticed was in the opposite position of the one cast into illusion, bulging slightly at her waist. She leaned in and pretended to kiss him, but this appeared to be all for the illusion because he knew her actual face was practically upon his neck, though when he looked out she appeared to be right up on him, pressing her lips to his illusory ones. There was no contact between their faces, but it was still a strange sensation, and he closed his eyes, even though the only actual touch he could feel from her was her body against his armor, lightly.

She broke away, eyes darting to the left. “There was a guard passing,” she whispered in explanation.

“It’s all right,” he said, looking down at her in faint amusement. “That was, perhaps, though, the most false kiss we’ve ever shared, and that’s truly saying something.”

She smiled faintly, though he would have sworn he saw danger behind her eyes. “Come along.”

She took his hand and led him out of the alley in the opposite direction. She led him, and when he came around close enough to see her face, an illusion of its own sort was pasted upon it. She looked satisfied, an odd glow on her cheeks, a coy smile upon her pale, human face. “Try to act like you’re young and in love,” she muttered. “I know it won’t be easy—”

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem for you,” he observed, still feeling quite cold at the way she was conducting herself.
It’s as though every fear I ever had about her—heartless, soulless, able to shed who she really is like a snake in an instant—is all true.

“I spent years throwing myself at you,” she said, under her breath, that same pleasant smile poised on her lips, even though the tone she was letting out was dark, coupled with a slight hiss, “on the orders of a god and his closest servants, in order to try and save the life of the man I loved. Once I finally got you, I had to maintain that hold by any means necessary.” She glanced back at him, her pleasant disposition making a strange contrast to her soft, menacing words. “However wounded you were by my ‘betrayal,’ realize that I didn’t want to be trapped where I was, a dupe in someone else’s game, forced to subjugate everything about myself—my mind, my body, my damned soul, if such a thing even exists—to seducing you.” Her bitterness bled out around her happy expression, and Cyrus’s blood ran colder than a frozen river. “I’m sure you devoted endless thought to how horrific what I did to you was, and it certainly was, no doubt. But realize that I wanted to do
none of it
. Not one bit, and that includes being with you in the first place.”

Her harsh, remorseless tone felt like a hard slap to Cyrus’s face. “Well,” he said, cheeks burning, “I didn’t know I was with someone who didn’t want to be with me, or I assure you I wouldn’t have been.”

“And that’s why you need me now,” she said, all trace of the bitterness gone. “Because I’m the sort of person who will do whatever is necessary, no matter how horrible … and you’re not going to survive without that.”

“I notice you don’t seem too torn up about what you did to me,” Cyrus said.

“I did what I did,” Aisling said, still smiling, but now he saw the hollowness there as they passed a public house, its windows shaking with drunken singing. “I became what I am. Looking back is pointless. There is no time for regrets, even if I had them.”

“Do you have them?” Cyrus asked.

Now there was an undercurrent of danger in her reply. “I regret more that I was forced into my position with you than anything I did to you as a result of it.”

It took every bit of will he had not to rip his hand out of hers. “So that’s a convenient way of saying that if you had to do it all over again, you’d screw me and stab me and still not worry about it.”

“You seem to have come out of it all right,” she said with a shrug, and now her smile was maddening, and Cyrus clamped his mouth shut tight to prevent a hasty, nasty reply.

They wended their way through alleys and down side roads, Aisling leading him. He had a vague sense that they were still heading north, but the rage in his mind was clouding his concentration.
She did what she did because she got backed into a corner and because she cares more about her own skin than that of anyone else caught up in her whirlwind.
He tried to conceal the look of fury that he was sure stuck out on his face even through the illusion, but concentration was impossible beyond the bare minimum he was using to maintain their illusion. Even that much was a strain.

“Get your head out of your ass,” she muttered, and he saw the flicker of his illusion fade, her skin turning a shade darker.

“I’m sorry,” he said mildly, barely containing his anger, “I’m just trying to wade through what you just said. I suppose I’d assumed remorse on your part after I let you walk away in Saekaj.”

“Don’t assume,” she said, her voice still dark. “And why would I be remorseful now? You’re married to the woman you always wanted, you’re fit as a boarhound, and all your recent adversity and setbacks have nothing to do with anything I did or put you through. Why should I waste time feeling bad? I’m here helping you, aren’t I?”

“I still have a scar on my back thanks to you,” he said, resisting the urge to yank her around.

“Does it ache in the cold?” she sneered. She did not slow her pace. “I still have scars of my own, courtesy of you and others, but you don’t hear me carping about them.”

“My people died at Leaugarden thanks to you,” he said, his anger rising, the thin threads holding him in check breaking as they stepped into another alley, this one blocking the sun with thatched roofs overhanging on either side. The light dripping of water into puddles on the muddy ground echoed under his whispered accusation.

“Your army suffered a loss at Leaugarden because you underestimated both the Sovereign and Malpravus,” she said matter-of-factly, finally stopping, turning loose his hand, and coming around to face him with blazing eyes. “You are blind, Cyrus. You walk in the world of battle and war and miss all else, including spying and subterfuge. Even now you want to ignore the fact that there are undoubtedly people in the midst of Sanctuary doing far worse things than I ever did. You want to believe that your people are all good people, that loyalty runs thicker than blood, but you should see by now that this is a lie. There’s a reason you’ve had an exodus, and it’s not all down to greener pastures elsewhere. Malpravus and his allies are taking you apart a piece at a time, and you still fret about wrongs I did to you in years past. Well, I got wronged, Cyrus,” she pressed herself up in his face as he lost the concentration to maintain her illusion, and her navy skin was almost purple with rage. “My own body got used to try and keep you on the hook even as you tried to wriggle away like a caught fish.” Her cheeks blazed dark and her brow arched. “You and I got stabbed in different ways, in different places, with different weapons, by the same damned culprits—Yartraak and Malpravus and all their various and sundry servants.” She slammed her fingertips into his chainmail at his side and it rattled, his illusion falling. “But always in the weak point. When I was with you, against my will, the life of my only lover up to that point—my only love—hanging in the balance …” Her voice trailed off, her fury finally coming out after a pause to build. “When the day came when I got the word to do it …” measured loathing marked her words as her dark blue skin faded, “I actually felt a prick of conscience. I did you wrong, but you became the reminder of everything I’d let Yartraak and Dagonath Shrawn do to me, every piece of dignity I let them strip, every last bit of … hope, of belief that I was a person rather than just an object that you could pour your seed and your secrets into.” She drew up, short once more, her fury seemingly spent. “I was never less alive than when I was with you. I took every bit of myself and threw it into a deep, dark hole inside. So, no, I suppose I don’t have much remorse. I did what I had to in order to survive, and the way I see it, you’re fine. There are others that got in my path, got killed … they’ll never have the chance to be fine.” Her lips twisted in a sullen way. “You didn’t die. I didn’t die. It all worked out. And now here we are.” She blew out a low breath. “I can help you, if you’d stop living in the past and put all your bitterness aside. We both got screwed.” She looked sick and angry as she said it. “You got the better end of the deal, in the end. You got your great love. Mine …” She looked away, but there was an unmistakable flare of emotion that she did not manage to hide quickly enough.