Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (37 page)

Danay’s face fell in an instant. “Im … poss …”

“I’m afraid not,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “Unlikely, perhaps … and yet here we are.”

“You … won’t … s … ave …” Danay started, spitting up red that slipped down his chin as he spoke, the color leeched by the white moonlight. “You … can’t …” He sank to his back, his strength fading.

“Perhaps I won’t be able to stop you, your plans, in time,” Cyrus said, kneeling down before the King of the Elves. “You certainly did hate us, hate Sanctuary, hate Emerald Fields. Enough that I would have known it was you with my eyes closed by the time we reached the end of our conversation.” Cyrus smiled, but his expression was sad. “I think, though, without you at their head, whoever ends up in charge here might just see things differently.” He brandished his blade in front of him, and pressed it against the king’s throat, eating into the skin as the eyes of Danay the First widened for the last time. “And even if they don’t … at least we’ll be rid of you.”

Cyrus was sitting on the couch in the Tower of the Guildmaster when Vara returned. He had scrubbed his skin raw and cleansed his sword of its bloody stain, and was waiting, his hair dripping onto the soft cotton shirt he was wearing, his armor already placed back upon its dummy. The torches burned around him as he stared at the stone floor, the last look on Danay’s face still flashing before his eyes, that shocked betrayal at a casual conversation so quickly turned to his own death. It was a look Cyrus had seen many a time in battle, where men knew that death was a possibility, yet still it came as a shock.

Cyrus stared at his red arms, exposed, the hair rippling up and down them. He had turned the water in his shower as hot as it could go, and it had felt as though it had been heated by the breath of a dragon or a particularly strong fire spell—like the sort that he had used to incinerate Danay’s body after decapitating the king and leaving his head on the edge of the fountain to be found. He had done it to guarantee that there would be no chance of resurrection. He could still feel a phantom sense of blood on his hands, even though they had been covered by his gauntlets the entire time.

“I have been assured of Lady Voryn’s support,” Vara said, striding up the steps into the Tower. “So that is done.” She flashed a smile at him, triumphant but weary. “How did your meeting with Yemer go?”

“He informed me that Danay had surely heard we were instigating rebellion against him,” Cyrus said, watching Vara’s muted enthusiasm fade, the corners of her mouth pulled down by the revelation. “I also learned that Danay was planning to bring in Goliath and Amarath’s Raiders as well as, presumably, the humans in a bid to crush Emerald Fields, to remove them utterly from our side of the board.”

“Goddess,” Vara breathed, letting the gauntlet she’d been pulling off clatter to the ground with a hard rattle. “We must warn them.”

“I’ve sent warning to Emerald Fields,” Cyrus said, nodding. “It was the first thing I did when I got back, but … I doubt Danay’s attack against them will go off as planned.”

“I see no reason why it wouldn’t,” Vara said, sounding suddenly urgent. “If he’s aware that we’re plotting against him, his reaction will be swift, and our plan is almost assuredly at an end.” She ran a hand over her smooth, pulled-back hair. “What now?” she breathed, almost to herself.

“In a day or two, when the convocation is called,” Cyrus said, in a low, unworried, nearly dead voice, “you’ll go and do what we’ve been planning to do all along.”

Vara almost seemed to miss his statement. “My dear, there will be no convocation. If Danay is forewarned, then we will not be able to kill the king.” She let out a low breath. “All our planning, all this deal-making … all for naught.”

“I think all of it will come in handy during the convocation,” Cyrus said quietly, still staring at the stone floor. Wide eyes flashed before his own, and he shuddered at the thought of the blood running down the doublet of the king of the elves.

Now she stared at him. “Why do you expect they would call a convocation when the King is not dead?”

He looked up at her, and he spoke in a hoarse rasp, the same voice he’d used to talk to Danay before he’d killed him. “Because the King is dead.”

Her face twisted. “I beg your pardon?”

“I killed the King,” Cyrus said, lifting his hands. “Only an hour ago. Stabbed him through the chest, once in each lung, cut off his head and left it for them to find, burned his body—”

“How?” Vara asked, inching closer to him, caught somewhere between fascination and horror. “How did you do this?”

“Yemer got me into the palace grounds,” Cyrus said, looking up at his wife, his own emotions flitting somewhere between a desperate sort of pride and hope for approval and sick disgust at what he’d done. “They wouldn’t let me into the palace itself, though, so … I went for a walk in the gardens … and ran into a steward of our mutual acquaintance.”

“You’re sure it was him?” Vara eased down to kneel next to his legs. “Absolutely certain?”

“I am absolutely certain it was Danay, yes,” Cyrus said, nodding, not looking at her. “The way he looked, the way he spoke, the way he … the way he talked about us, Emerald Fields … it was him. I know it.”

“Goddess, if this is true …” Her voice drifted off. “If you’ve done it …”

“Then there will be a convocation called,” Cyrus finished numbly. “And you’ll need to put your plan into effect, because Danay very definitely indicated that he had his own plans, and they sounded an awful lot like enlisting help to destroy Emerald Fields in a grand invasion.”

“Dammit,” Vara said, drawing a sharp breath. “We can’t even react to this news, you know. To send word announcing his death would be—”

He looked up at her. “I know. I left no evidence suggesting what happened was related to us in any way.”

“But the blame will have to go somewhere,” Vara said. “We always knew that.”

“And you already have a solution for it,” Cyrus said, not able to smile.

“Yes,” she said, “and hopefully it will work.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, but it was perfunctory and bereft of the passion they’d so often shared. Cyrus could still smell blood on himself, and it left his stomach unsettled.

Cyrus did not awaken so much as he was jarred out of a reluctant stupor by the echoing sound of a hand slapping against his door at the first light of dawn. Tiny hints of blue were peeking through the windows to the balcony, and Cyrus sat upright to find Vara rousting herself out of thick slumber beside him. “Hello?” Cyrus called toward the stairs.

“Did you do it?” Terian called, his head appearing as the paladin stormed up the steps, Alaric’s helm crooked under his elbow. “Well, did you, you magnificent bastard?”

Cyrus wished for a moment he could deny it, here in the solitary, quiet atmosphere of the tower, which seemed so unsuited to what he was about to confess to. “I did,” he said.

“Excellent,” Terian said, his expression like a lion’s that had just had fresh meat thrown in front of him. “All of Arkaria is abuzz, naturally. They found his head late last night, no sign of a body save for a pile of ashes. My spies got the news out this morning, after the grounds had been swept three times by an army division they brought in to help.” His smirk grew broader. “They have nothing save for some vague rumblings about an elf who came as aide to Yemer and wandered off into the gardens to have a look around.”

“That’d be me,” Cyrus said. “Is Yemer in trouble?”

“I doubt it,” Terian said, “since he’s not even at the palace at this point, nor at either of his homes. Trust me, they searched.”

“They’re going to blame it on him, aren’t they?” Cyrus asked with gnawing dread.

“They’re going to blame it on us, actually,” Terian said, “since we have the obvious motive.” He turned his attention to Vara, who was still blinking sleep out of her eyes and had the sheets clutched against her in spite of her silken nightgown. “You’re going to fix that, right?”

“Perhaps after coffee,” she said with a yawn. “Yes, of course we will.”

“Gods, this is the greatest news,” Terian said, positively bubbling with enthusiasm. “Finally, a triumph, and especially after yesterday …”

“How long is it going to take you to dig out?” Cyrus asked.

Terian’s smile immediately evaporated. “Months. We’re working on alternate routes to bring food in, but we’ve also begun to ask for volunteers to join our surface settlements in the interim, hoping to alleviate the problem. The fewer mouths we have to feed below, the less I’ll worry over the next few months.”

“But you will still worry,” Kahlee called from over her husband’s shoulder, slipping quietly up the stairs, her reddish hair like a fiery cloud in the morning light.

“How can I not?” Terian grumbled, turning back slightly to look at her. “They’ve cut off our line of supply and buried us in the earth.”

“We should have expected this,” Cyrus said with a shake of the head.

“Yes, just like Danay expected to be assassinated while hiding in his own garden disguised as a lowly servant,” Terian said, smirking. “You can’t predict the insane lengths Goliath and their friends are going to go to kill us all, Cyrus. No one could have imagined that attack.”

“You’re sure it was them, then?” Vara asked.

“I’m sure,” Terian said, nodding. “It’s not as though we have any witnesses, but it seems like just the sort of evil that Malpravus would plan.”

“I suppose,” Cyrus said, slipping out of bed. His feet hit the cool stone floor, and his soft cloth shirt rustled against his chest hair.

“Regardless of who did it,” Terian said, “it’s hampered us. Killing Danay gives us a chance to even the score, because now, as long as Vara doesn’t screw this up, we can remove fifty thousand soldiers from Malpravus’s hands. It’s not exactly yanking the blade out of his bony grip, but it’s at least like pulling away his backup dagger.” He stood there thoughtfully for a moment before going on. “Where are we on the Confederation now?”

“I need to meet with their governors,” Cyrus said. “Coulton in the Southern Reaches and Waterman in the Riverlands.”

“When you meet Reynard Coulton, don’t mention my name unless it’s to curse it,” Terian said.

“A very good practice for any occasion,” Kahlee said with a smile.

“You’re far too wise to have married him,” Vara said.

“So I’m often told,” Kahlee replied.

“You know, I’m quite the catch, being the Sovereign of a whole land,” Terian said with annoyance. “But besides that …” He turned his attention back to Cyrus. “I just want to remind you … don’t get complacent now that you’ve had one triumph. This is a war, General, and it would be best if you pounce on fighting your next battle as swiftly as possible.”

“Cattrine is our avenue in with Karrin Waterman and Reynard Coulton,” Cyrus said, “and I’m fairly certain she’s a bit distracted at this moment, what with the impending war and all—”

“Fine,” Terian said, “but get back to it as soon as you can resolve this. Hell, maybe before. You don’t know, Cattrine might be looking for a distraction.”

“Right now I expect she’s looking for a way out of seeing elven armies charging across her fields and destroying her peoples’ hard-grown crops,” Vara said.

“I won’t coast on my achievement of last night,” Cyrus said, nodding along. “I don’t feel it was much of an achievement in any case, decapitating a man and burning his corpse. We weren’t in a battle, he wasn’t armed, and he didn’t even see it coming until the blade was in his chest.”

“If only all our enemies would expose themselves in such a way, this little war of ours would be over in an hour,” Terian said. “What’s the likelihood Malpravus prances around a secret garden in his hidden base down in the Bandit Lands?”

“I don’t see him doing much in the way of prancing,” Cyrus said, thinking it over. “He’s more of a glider.”

“When will the convocation be?” Kahlee asked, pushing them back on the road.

“Danay is the first monarch to be killed,” Vara said. “Hell, he is the first monarch, period. I expect we’ll know within a few days when the summons reach us.”

“And you’re sure they’ll still call for you?” Terian asked. “Because … this doesn’t go so well without you there. All of you.”

“Even if they send no invitation to the Lady of Nalikh’akur, they will have no choice but to admit the shelas’akur,” Vara said simply, her eyes narrowed in anticipated anger. “To deny me would be foolish—”

“Danay tried to kill you last year, let’s not forget,” Cyrus said.

“And he was the King,” Vara said. “No one else would be able to manage it in public life and expect to not be murdered afterward by a bloodthirsty mob. I will be safe there.”

Terian looked at Cyrus. “And you? Seems a little unlikely the elves are going to let a heretic just walk into wherever they’re holding this meeting.”

“He will be safe as well,” Vara said, a thin smile dancing upon her lips. “For the way he shall enter the convocation … there is not a chance that anyone will dare to interfere with his passage.”

The convocation came a mere five days later, and Vara had received her invitation, brought to her by a servant from her keep at Nalikh’akur only hours after it had been received there. It listed the time and place of the meeting, and little else. “Just as well, that way no one will know what to expect,” Vara opined after reading it thrice, searching for any information she might have missed.

Once more time seemed to have slowed its passage. Though Cyrus felt somewhat confident in the plan they had and the allies on their side, he also harbored doubts that festered while they waited. He could see how it weighed on Vara, too, in the restless way she turned in bed at night. He realized late one night that they had not so much as touched hands for several days. He resolved to remedy it on the morrow, but that day was the convocation, and they both rose early to prepare.

The convocation was held in the very same throne room where Danay had held court. The banners above the throne were black, the coat of arms that of Danay’s own house. A long table had been set in the middle of the room, and Cyrus waited on its outskirts in a crowd of royals and onlookers, escorted to where he stood within the depths of a cloak that was not his. He stood, however, in similar company, next to another person so clad, at the back of the watchers that surrounded the table, which had one seat for each of the Lords and Ladies of the Kingdom.