Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (34 page)

“You could be walking into danger,” Larana whispered. “You need someone to go with you. To watch out for you.”

“If I wanted someone with me,” Cyrus said, casting an irritated look back at her, “don’t you think I would have asked Vaste or J’anda or Ryin or one of the other Council members?”

“They’re busy,” Larana said quietly. “And you’re worried Goliath’s next move will come at Sanctuary, since their last two hit our allies.”

Cyrus took a breath, raising an eyebrow at the druid. “So now you’re a blacksmith, a cook, a druid, and in your spare time you’ve been studying strategy and tactics?”

“I’ve also been studying heresy,” she said, blushing as she looked away. “At your command.”

“Windrider …” Cyrus said, but the horse did not move. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Windrider whinnied, and to Cyrus it sounded like pure obstinance. “Fine,” he said at last, “come along, then.” The horse made another irritable noise. “I don’t speak horse, but I think he’s suggesting you should get on his back.” Another surprising whinny, this one somehow slightly more accommodating, suggested to Cyrus that he’d read Windrider’s intentions correctly.

Larana got onto the back of the horse with little difficulty, her Falcon’s Essence spell allowing her to avoid any climb. Once she was on the back she clung loosely to Cyrus and said quietly, “Are you in a great hurry?”

“Almost always,” Cyrus said, feeling he’d gotten the worse of this particular bargain. “Even when I’m not, I’d rather hurry up and get where I’m going so I can do my waiting there.”

The soft glow of a spell spun around them, and Windrider’s hooves lifted off the ground under the influence of Falcon’s Essence. Cyrus clung tight to the reins in surprise. “Whoa! I don’t think—”

“He can handle it,” Larana said, and Windrider leapt into motion, charging into the air. They gained altitude quickly, soaring a hundred, then two hundred feet up as Larana’s spell of light faded, falling back to the earth. They rose up above the copse of trees that shadowed the portal to the west, and the horse ran steadily into the night, clearly at ease, without fear of the empty space beneath his feet.

The night deepened as Windrider galloped beneath a rising crescent moon. Cyrus held tight to the reins, a sense of beleaguered worry clawing in his stomach like an animal scrabbling to get out. He did not dare turn to say anything to the druid at his back, though he could tell even through the barrier of his armor that she was far more at ease with this state of affairs than he was. The land was laid out before them, dark treetops, the occasional farm, a river that glistened in the silvery moonlight, and there, in the distance, a manor house with many lights lit in its windows.

Windrider began to descend without Cyrus even telling him to, approaching the house in the distance as though he knew full well where they were going. “You seem awfully certain that’s our destination,” Cyrus breathed into the chilly air, and the horse responded with a whicker that left Cyrus once more in no doubt that his horse was something more than ordinary.

Windrider’s hooves hit the hard-packed clay of the estate’s road like some Pegasus soaring down from the heavens. The power of the Falcon’s Essence spell seemed to subside all at once, though whether it did or the horse simply steered them so low as for it to be pointless, Cyrus could not say. Windrider took them right up to the front door of the house where a well-dressed elf in a silk doublet waited, eyeing them upon their approach. Cyrus did not know whether he had seen them make their landing down the drive, but knowing what he did of keen elven eyesight, he would not have bet against it.

“I am to see Morianza Yemer at once,” Cyrus said, dismounting and offering the envelope to the footman, who hurried down to take it. He read it while Cyrus offered a hand to Larana, still covered in the illusion of an elven woman in highborn attire, a spell she had cast without him even noticing. She took his hand and he helped her down, though he had a sense as he was doing it that she did not require any assistance at all.

They stood, waiting for the footman to finish reading the letter of introduction. When he was done, he said, “Of course,” and bade them enter. Beyond the doors to the manor was a well-lit entry hall, all marble and finery, with banners hanging and art that would have pleased Oliaryn Iraid hung upon the walls. It was clearly the country estate of a landed lord, a man of power and refinement, and when the footman led them into a door to the right, Cyrus felt certain that based on what he had seen of the house from the air, they would be wandering for quite some time before reaching the Morianza.

His assumption proved false mere seconds later when Cyrus found himself in a sitting room with a man who was unmistakably related to Odellan. His hair was silver where Odellan’s had been blonde, but the chiseled features looked very much the same. The only difference was that this man wore a silken doublet rather than armor, and he had considerably more wrinkles around his eyes.
He has age about him
, Cyrus thought,
and it is more rare to see that among elves
.

“Morianza Yemer,” Cyrus said, using the man’s honorific as he waited for Yemer to stand and acknowledge him. Yemer was still seated, one leg crossed over the other, a leather-bound volume placed upon his knee. He’d heard them upon their entry, Cyrus knew, but he seemed to be biding his time, his eyes unmoving, as though steeling himself to do something he did not particularly want to.

“Leave us,” Yemer said to his footman, who bowed and exited the room, shutting the door behind him. Yemer still did not look up, staring stiffly at the page of the book in front of him.

“Larana, can you—” Cyrus began.

“It’s all right,” Yemer said and closed his volume with a rich thump. He took another deep breath and sighed. “She can stay. But if you wouldn’t mind removing your illusions … I don’t care for those types of spells. Never have.”

Cyrus nodded and swept them away in an instant. “I didn’t have much use for them, either, until I suddenly found myself hated and hunted in places in Arkaria where I need to tread. Now I find it hard to part with them.”

“You cast them yourself, now?” Yemer asked, standing up but still not looking at Cyrus. He smoothed the silken doublet as though he were at court and then clasped his hands behind his back.

“It became important to learn,” Cyrus said, feeling as though he were excusing a weakness.

“I would imagine,” Yemer said sedately. “You have been seeking my attention for some time.”

“I would have sought it even sooner,” Cyrus said, “but … I’m afraid your monarch has made me unwelcome in the Kingdom, and I didn’t want to tempt fate by bothering you at a time when I felt certain I was the last person you’d want to hear from.”

Yemer looked at him at last, and Cyrus saw even more of Odellan in him, the careful, surveying gaze, the hints of warmth beneath that had so distinguished his son. “I did hear about your … unfortunate altercation when you came to deliver the news of our heirs’ passing. The King was much aggrieved to lose his youngest daughter.”

“Were you not much aggrieved?” Cyrus asked, watching carefully for the answer. “For as I understand it, he has countless more heirs. You … had only the one.”

“Yes,” Yemer said, his head sagging as he drifted away into introspection for a moment. “And no.” He looked up at Cyrus, and there was the hard edge of a General in his gaze. “I raised my son to be a warrior, as I was. I have seen so many die, as I’m certain you have. He made me proud in Termina, even though politics went against him. When the news came …” He paused. “I took it better than Danay, curiously. I shouldn’t have, for as you pointed out, I certainly felt as though I’d lost more. He had a new heir appointed within the day, and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t disavowed Nyad from the line of succession before. I … lost my only son. My only child.” Yemer straightened, his military bearing obvious even under the fine clothing. “Since then, here I remain. Not in exile, but … certainly not eager to return to Pharesia. I find I enjoy the peace of this place, but lately, the whispers … the rumors … are like maddening voices in my ears.”

Cyrus swept his gaze above the crackling hearth, fire dancing within its stone confines, and saw a portrait above the mantle like in Iraid’s manor in Termina. This one was no battle landscape, however, though he was also well acquainted with its subject. It was Odellan, in a heroic pose, in his winged helm and with his blond hair flowing out from beneath the steel that protected the sides of his face. Cyrus stared at the portrait; a handsomer bit of brushwork he could seldom recall seeing. It captured the essence of the man he’d known, fully and completely, from the bold nose to the pronounced chin. “Rumors?” Cyrus asked, coming back to the moment, to the words Yemer had spoken.

“Yes, rumors,” Yemer said softly. “That you have met with Oliaryn Iraid in Termina and found blessing there. That you have talked with Merrish in Traegon and found his favor as well. That just this eve, as we sit poised on the precipice of war, your consort, the shelas’akur—”

“She’s my wife,” Cyrus said.

“—is meeting with Lady Voryn of the Emerald Coast and will find her quite willing,” Yemer said. “If these words have reached me, solitary and distant, you may be assured they are swirling through Pharesia even now.”

“Damn,” Cyrus said under his breath.
That might just be the end of the game, then, if Danay already knows we’re maneuvering an alliance against him.

“Take heart,” Yemer said, looking at him sadly, “for all is not lost yet.”

“It’s not?” Cyrus asked cautiously, looking at the older man. “And why would it not be? Are you not a loyal subject of your King?” He watched for reaction, but Yemer did not stir, merely stared straight ahead. “Are you not a man who has served Danay the First for more years than I have lived?”

“I was loyal, I did serve,” Yemer said, nodding slowly. His eyes moved slowly to Cyrus. “Perhaps you might answer for yourself why I would not be loyal any longer.”

Cyrus looked at the painting above the fireplace and noticed something he had not before—it was draped in a sheer layer of black fabric. He cocked his head and saw that it extended from above like a funeral veil and covered the portrait. It was barely visible in the firelight. “Because of him.”

“Because of him,” Yemer croaked softly. “I gave all to this kingdom. My son … I heard tell that even in his exile he fought bravely, and in his death he sought to protect the land I served.”

“He did,” Cyrus said, staring at the painting. “He died in an attack on the dragons so we might bring them into the war against the titans, which, I’m sure you know, were on the verge of overrunning the southern end of the Kingdom last year. He believed in what we were doing, and fought to his last breath so that we might stop them—what he considered to be the greatest threat the elves had faced in … well … quite some time.”

“I heard the rumors, of course,” Yemer said, lowering himself back to his seat. “The whispers of spies in your guild.” He waved a hand at Cyrus. “They were filtered, through the mad grief of another father, one who lost a daughter he barely knew.” Yemer looked at Cyrus. “I
knew
my son. I knew my boy. I raised him, I was there for it. I had him very late in life, and I lavished all the time and attention upon him I could. The way among elves of my birthright is different than among your people, I know. We give over our children to nursemaids who raise them while we go about our lives. Not my boy. I raised him. His mother and I did, happily inviting the ridicule of our friends.” Yemer laughed bitterly. “I did not care, for I had a child, a son, in a time when few did, and I was determined to raise him to be strong and proud and fearless, and I would not chance him failing to learn these things from some nursemaid.” A ripple of emotion ran across his face. “He did me proud in Termina, defending that bridge. He did me proud once more when he took his exile in stride, as a man should, though the cause and fact of it made me sick in my bowels at the cowardice of my king.” Anger flickered across Yemer’s face. “When first I served Danay, he was a man of courage, determined to do right by our people. Now he has become a man of increasing cowardice, worried less about what is right for our people and more about what keeps him comfortable.”

Cyrus listened intently as Yemer told his story. There seemed to be no deception in him, but the words reaching Cyrus’s ears sounded too good to be true. “That’s a peril of ruling, I’m told,” Cyrus said.

“You want to kill him,” Yemer said bluntly.

“He very nearly did the same to me when I came to deliver the news about his daughter,” Cyrus said. “He had guards surround us, archers fill the top level of the throne room … he was going to ambush me, have me dismembered and my body destroyed. He threatened the same to my wife and another officer of my guild. If not for the actions of one I called friend and another I felt sure was my enemy, I would not be here now, not be heretic nor anything else save ashes and dust, sprinkled in the gardens of the palace in Pharesia.”

“I don’t fault you for your anger,” Yemer said. “Danay pursues you because of Nyad.” He looked up, then away again. “Not because he knew her or loved her, I think, for he did not do either, not in any way a normal person could conceive of it. He loved the
idea
of her, the youngest of his impossibly large brood. She was a symbol, something more to him than a mere person, which allowed him to ignore the person herself with her failings and rebellions.”

“He never did seem to know her,” Cyrus said, thinking of the time that Nyad had come face to face with her father in the palace and had not even recognized him, dressed in the garb of a simple steward of the house. “Or she him, at least.”

“How could he?” Yemer asked softly. “He had countless children, many wives.” Yemer lowered his voice. “I had one of each—my wife died in an attack by the trolls during the last war, thanks to the King’s lack of vigilance against our enemies, and my son was exiled for his courage, for his bravery—for the vigilance our King lacked. For his virtues, he was cast out of his own homeland. It’s as if Danay said bravery was not welcome here in the Kingdom any longer, not under his rule.” He looked up at Cyrus calmly. “What about you? Is it as I’ve heard? Do you favor bravery?”