Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (38 page)

Cyrus looked around for the presumptive heir, but did not feel comfortable asking the cloaked figure any questions about elven politics. He considered asking one of their escorts, but it seemed a strange conversation to have here, in the midst of a convocation where the next King or Queen of the elves was to be decided.

So instead Cyrus held his tongue, sniffing the varied perfumes that hung in the air. Some were pleasant, and some seemed to conspire to deny him of his breath in much the same way as he’d deprived Danay of his. Fortunately, there was a strong scent of spring in the air around him, which diluted the worst of the perfumes. Still, Cyrus’s skin crawled to be in this place, at this time, and knowing full well what he had already done to make this meeting occur.

The arrival of the Lords and Ladies was a thing of pomp and circumstance. They came in a procession, all dressed in finery and looking very serious. He found himself pitying them in some small measure as they were escorted to their seats, had the wooden chairs pulled out for them, and slid back in. He saw Lord Merrish, fully clad in a doublet on this occasion, and felt an annoying rush of relief. Cyrus straightened in surprise when Cora came striding in, wearing her blue cloak, and took a seat at the far end of the table.
I didn’t know she was a Lady of the Kingdom. I thought Amti was well cast out
.

Oliaryn Iraid came in toward the end of the procession, taking a seat at the head of the table and relaxing within its bounds, surveying the group before him as if it were his own kingdom.

Vara entered in full armor and to an eruption of murmurs through the crowd. She ignored the attention, even as it buzzed in a frenzy, and took her place, sitting stiffly in her seat, eyes fixed straight ahead.

If there was a buzz for Vara, there was a considerably louder and less pleasant reaction when Cattrine entered the room, Longwell at her side. Longwell did not have his lance, apparently denied the privilege of carrying it. He looked strange without either it or the spare sword he carried upon his belt, but he escorted Cattrine to the seat set aside for the Lord of Emerald Fields and allowed her to take it; he remained standing just behind her, drawing scandalized looks from all around and prompting another hum of conversation in the surrounding crowd.

The buzz quieted seconds later as Fortin stepped into the chamber, drawing gasps before the entire throne room was silenced. If the rock giant was in any way affronted or taken aback, he did not show it, walking with measured stride and great care to the seat beside Cattrine and carefully removing the well-made chair as daintily as if he were picking up a child, offering it to Longwell, who took it graciously and pulled up to the table beside Cattrine. Cyrus could almost hear the breath stuck in the throats of onlookers, every eye in the room on the Lord of Rockridge.

“This promises to be interesting,” Cyrus’s companion said in a low voice into the silence. Cyrus did not reply with words; fearing to draw any attention to himself, he merely nodded. A few scattered heads turned to look at them, but Cyrus ducked his head beneath the cowl and saw his companion do the same out of the corner of his eye.

Morianza Yemer appeared in the door, apparently the last to arrive. Another shocked silence greeted him, followed by a quiet thrum of whispers, surely loud enough that the elves in the room could hear them, for Cyrus could pick up the bare hints here and there.

“… heard he might have known the murderer …”

“… could have snuck them in himself, I reckon …”

“… but who would do such a thing?”

“In my capacity as Oliaryn of Termina and largest landholding Lord at this table,” Iraid began, leaning forward, his grey beard particularly well trimmed on this occasion, “I call this convocation to order. We assemble here today to go about the grim business of determining succession of our throne in the wake of the tragic death of King Danay the First—”

“Hear, hear!”

“Let it be war!” came a howl from the crowd, answered by many, many more.

“Now hold on, there,” Iraid said, frowning, putting a hand into the air that cut the room into silence. “This is a convocation of succession for the throne, not a council of war.”

“She and her bastard heretic friends killed the king!” a woman in the front row screamed, pointing a finger right at Cattrine, who turned to look back at her accuser with little surprise. Cattrine looked as unflappable as Cyrus had ever seen her;
I suppose when you’ve been through all she has, it takes more than a few screaming highborn elves to cause concern.

Vara was first to her feet. “I am the shelas’akur, and I am one of her ‘bastard heretic friends.’” A gasp ran through the room. She did not hold her place, coming around the table, storming right up to the woman who had spoken, hands on her hips, and leaned in to the accuser’s face. “Do you want to make war upon me as well?” She stared, unflinching, and Cyrus noted the woman who had spoken seemed to be trying her utmost to melt back into the crowd. “Do you wish to defeat me, see me broken in death, and glory in the power of your kingdom to destroy life—
as Danay intended to do before he died?”

It was as though someone had cracked a whip into the chamber, lashing nearly everyone in the throne room across the face. To Cyrus it had the effect minus the sting of landing, as though it had stirred the air before him and sent a jolt of energy through the room, and he smiled.

“Shelas’akur,” Oliaryn Iraid said, still holding up his hand even though now the chamber was quiet, “it profits us little to insult the memory of a man now dead.”

“I don’t seek profit,” Vara said, the crowd she’d nearly waded into withdrawing, giving her a wide berth, “I seek peace. Peace for the kingdom, peace for my people, peace for myself. It seems some in this chamber are of a mind that war is the better course. I can only assume they are not residents of Termina or Emerald Fields, two places in the Kingdom that have borne the brunt of war these last years and are quite heartily sick of it, enough that we wish the rest of you would damned well catch up and stop trying to start one with us.”

“I, for one, would be quite happy to accept peace and get on with my business,” Cattrine announced, Longwell nodding beside her. “My disagreement with Danay, distilled to its simplest form, was entirely about his threatening of our lands so that he could kill the shelas’akur and her husband.”

A ripple of shock ran through the waiting crowd. “LIES!” someone shouted.

“These are not lies,” Fortin said, standing up and silencing the whole room once more. “Lies are untruths; these are facts unpleasant to your tiny, soft, sensitive, pointed ears. Your King tried to kill your shelas’akur.”

“This is truth,” Vara said, and the crowd went silent. “He attempted to do so in this very room, only a year ago. We were saved through the intervention of the dark elven ambassador, of all people.” That caused more than a little disquiet, whispering voices echoing with shock in the chamber.

“Again,” Iraid said, the noise of the crowd subsiding, “we attack the memory of a man now dead. While I am firmly in favor of not retreading the ground you mention, having no interest in killing the shelas’akur, I think we should firmly focus upon the matter before us: the succession.” Iraid’s part in this was straight man, Cyrus knew, the one to keep the discussion on track and to look impartial, even though he was steering things precisely where he intended to.

And herein lies the problem
, Cyrus thought.
Danay had his course, and it was to throw in with the Confederation, the Leagues, and Goliath.
Was he the loudest voice, the deciding vote in that debate, as we suspect?
For if he was not, then someone in this room will be working against us in earnest …

“Whoever is chosen,” Iraid said, looking around at the royals interspersed in the crowd—perhaps they were all royals, for all Cyrus knew—“be it the designated heir or another, they will have a heavy task before them. I submit that peace should be a decided course before we agree to anoint anyone. This monarch’s first act cannot be to carry us into chaos once more, for none of us want war—”

“I want war!” a man in the front row shouted, his face red. A dozen others in the crowd rang out with the same chant, shouting at Cattrine, ignoring Vara.

“Well, that’s decided,” Cyrus said, shaking his head at the outburst. “I think this is your moment.”

Under the hood, the figure next to him nodded subtly and gently pressed through the crowd. The cloak was a flowing green, and the hands that extended from beneath it were golden, skin smooth and supple. They did not shove their way roughly through the crowd but touched lightly upon shoulders, causing people to turn, to be stunned, and to step out of the way with a bow, practically falling over themselves to clear a path to the table at the center of the room.

It was a short journey, and Cyrus watched it happen, even as most of the room, unaware of this passage, dissolved into shouts and jeers, calls for war, and angry dissembling. It was only when the cloaked figure reached the center of the room that the cries finally began to dissolve.

The cowl came back, the delicate hands lifting it back to reveal dark and shining hair, crowned by a vine with flowers as its jewels, and eyes as green as spring, almost alive as the grasses of the plains, that flashed as they looked over the crowd. The figure cast a slow gaze around the entire throne room, and every single voice was quelled in an instant.

“The Goddess,” Cyrus heard someone in front of him say in awe.

“Life-Mother,” another whispered. The room rustled as prayers were murmured and countless elves knelt in the presence of their deity. Cyrus remained standing in his place at the back of the room, as did Vara, in the center, and Fortin. Cattrine and Longwell stayed seated, but every other Lord and Lady knelt before the presence of Vidara, the Goddess of Life.

“War is antithetical to life,” Vidara said in a slow voice, the words dropping gently from her mouth. Cyrus was reminded of the slow bloom of a flower over the course of days, the petals separating to reveal the beauty within. “I hear calls in this chamber, among my people, for war in your own lands … and it fills me with sorrow.”

“No!” Denunciations swept through the throne room from countless bowed heads. “No war!”

That might have been the fastest an angry mob has ever turned peaceful
, Cyrus thought, seeing the red-faced young man who’d first called for war now shaking his head vehemently and renouncing his position of only a moment earlier.

“I am pleased to hear you say that,” Vidara said, strolling toward the head of the table, now abandoned by Iraid in his rush to get to a knee. “For you are all my children, and the thought of you fighting … I can scarcely bear.” She slowly paced her way to Vara, giving her a careful look. “Shelas’akur.”

“All-Mother,” Vara said with a quick bow of the head.

“This is my creation,” Vidara said, running thin fingers through Vara’s hair, studying the fine blond strands. “My blessing, given out for you. Danay attempted to destroy her in a fit of pique.” The Goddess of Life’s gaze became dangerous, Cyrus thought, like a thorny vine, or a storm that darkened the sky. “I find this … unacceptable. This is a child of wonder, a prize ripped from the grip of Death, who tried his utmost to tear my people down into his abyss. To attack her, to kill her, would be sacrilege.”

“Sacrilege,” came a low, repeated mutter through the crowd.

“Your Leagues …” Vidara said more sharply, “… they have grown wild and impetuous, like a forest undergrowth that must be burned lest greater conflagrations result. They would have you do this thing in their names, but not mine. They would have you kill my blessing and kill her husband.” She gave the crowd a hard look. “I would have you
not
.” She surveyed the crowd imperiously, and the green eyes glowed as she swept them. “Which side would you choose?”

There was a long moment of silence, or so it seemed to Cyrus, before the crowd answered in what sounded like a thousand voices. “No!” “Of course not!” “Absolutely not!” “No …”

“I see I still have faithful here,” Vidara said, nodding slowly as she looked into the hopeful eyes of the crowd. “I was afraid after Danay that I had lost this Kingdom forever.” This pronouncement seemed to land like a barrel of Dragon’s Breath, compelling looks of shock from nearly the entirety of the crowd. “Choose your leaders more wisely next time, my children. For none of you is born greater than any other—” there was another stir among the crowd, “—from the perceived low to the thought-of high, I recognize no difference. I care not for the gold you keep in your accounts, nor the estate you maintain in the country. I care about life and your goodness to life, and if you spit from on high to a beggar who is low, then I say that you, truly, are lower than the one you spit upon.”

“But … but …” The red-faced young man seemed to sputter. “But we are … highborn.”

Cyrus couldn’t help but smile.
Vara was right, as usual … I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to say it, but there we go …

Vidara’s eyes flashed in anger, the green turning harder, darkening like storm clouds, and her gaze fixed upon the young noble who had spoken. “Is that all that matters to you, then? That when you were born it was here in a palace and when they were born it was in a field? The miracle of life is not less because it comes in a field.” The Goddess of Life seemed to draw up, increasing in height by a full head as the anger settled upon her. “Very well, then. I see now that letting you have your titles and self-importance and trusting you would not abuse them was a foolish error.” Her voice crackled like thunder. “There will be no more distinctions among my brood. Your titles no longer matter, whether you be Lord or peasant. There will be no more castes. You will live in this land—my land—as though all of you were exactly the same. The low may rise to rule and the high are not guaranteed not to fall just by birth. Am I understood?”

The silence was horror, Cyrus realized, one chubby royal a few feet away from him on all fours, mouth agape, gasps making their way out of his lips every few seconds. Another, a woman, was on her knees, back arched, eyes wide, hand in front of her mouth, staring at the Goddess of Life as though she’d just been struck.