Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (62 page)

“I bet the gods didn’t like that,” Vara muttered under her breath.

“Nobody likes it when you take the things they want,” Aisling said, and, upon getting a heat glare from Vara, amended, “or so I’ve been told.”

“These ancients are starting to sound an awful lot like Malpravus,” Cyrus said, drumming his fingers on the table.

“And so they were,” Quinneria said, nodding. “Which brings us to him. The spell I used against the trolls … it wasn’t a simple curse.” She glanced at Vaste, then looked away, seemingly ashamed. “I didn’t just … hex their lives away.”

“But they all bloody well died, didn’t they?” Vara asked. “All ten thousand of them?”

“That’s a number that keeps coming up today,” Vaste said.

“It’s very round,” J’anda said. “Like you, if you keep eating whole pies.”

Vaste rested his hands on his ample belly. “It would be worth it for these pies.”

“For those trolls … I … stole their lives away,” Quinneria said.

“WITH PIE?!” Vaste sat up.

“With a branch of magic that was long ago forbidden by the Leagues,” Quinneria said as Vaste relaxed. “For I discovered a very old book in my studies, one that … well, one that I wasn’t meant to see.” She scratched the base of her neck. “It … there were things in there that set me upon my path to heresy, that had me experimenting with magics I wasn’t supposed to know. And when Rusyl died …” she looked right at Cyrus, and once more he turned away, “… I picked up his sword and went right to the war, fighting with Rodanthar the way he’d taught me in our home—just as he taught Cyrus—and wielding my spells, the ones I’d worked on secretly, when no one but Cyrus was watching.”

“This branch of magic you played with,” Terian said, chewing on one corner of his mouth, “was it tied to the dark knight spells that steal vitality?”

“Yes,” Quinneria said.

“I would have assumed necromancy,” Mendicant said, bubbling with excitement, “something in the realm of a Soul Sacrifice.”

“They’re one and the same,” Quinneria said. “The line between them is artificial, drawn by the Leagues to keep people from delving as deep as I did—for reasons that should be obvious. It’s the same magic, the same effect. The only difference is … I didn’t stop where they drew the line. I didn’t use a Soul Ruby,” she swallowed heavily, “I didn’t bother using a blade to inflict harm first, I just reached out with the spell … and ripped the souls of ten thousand trolls right out of their bodies across the field of battle.” Silence fell over the room.

“Well, isn’t that a lovely bit of history,” Vaste said, brushing the crumbs from his hands uncomfortably.

“It’s not just history,” Quinneria said, straightening up in her seat, “that’s—it’s essentially what Yartraak did in Aloakna.” She looked at Cyrus again, and this time he could not help but look back. “It’s the power Malpravus is seeking.”

“And it’s the reason why you haven’t aged since you did it,” Terian said, staring at her, “it’s because you stole those souls, those lives—their vitality.”

“Yes,” Quinneria said with a nod, “and it’s clearly what Malpravus is aiming to do. What he will do, if left alone long enough. By what he showed us in the tower … he’s close. He’s where I was just before I broke through, and if he’s in an old city of the ancients … they were experimenting with these spells, drawing energy. It’s how they powered their empire. If he’s down there in Zanbellish, it’s entirely possible he has access to a book or an archive of the sort that I found, that taught me how to become …” she put her hands out before her, “… what I am now.”

Terian gritted his teeth and turned to Cyrus. “What do we do? Carrack told us that the portal in Zanbellish was guarded, that anyone who steps through is going to die.”

“Not anyone,” Vara said quietly, looking sideways at Cyrus, who looked back at her. “He seemed to be quite willing to welcome you.”

“This is the thing that puzzles me,” J’anda said, shaking his head. “Why does he endeavor so hard to curry your favor, Cyrus?”

“Because when Cyrus came to Sanctuary,” Vaste said quietly, “he wasn’t looking for bonds of fellowship.” The troll stared straight at Cyrus, a sad smile on his face, “he was looking for better armor, better weapons, to move up in the world. He had the same motives as Malpravus, and Malpravus thinks …” He shrugged.

“That I can be swayed back to that same view again, given the right opportunity,” Cyrus said. “That I would forsake all the bonds of fellowship I’ve found here and give it all up … to be stronger.”

“Is he right?” Ryin asked into the silence that followed. J’anda casually tipped his staff back and bopped Ryin lightly in the forehead, drawing an “Owww!” from the druid. He pulled his hand away, still frowning. “Fine. Forget that I asked.”

“No,” Cyrus said, standing and put his hand on his helm, clunking it against the table, “he’s not right. Because Malpravus’s very concept of what a guild is, is utterly irreconcilable with my vision of the same. He wants power, and he built Goliath around that idea; everyone there is bound by their common ambition. He even views leadership differently than we do, which is probably why he turned our table to ash on his way up to the tower.” Cyrus pulled his hand from the helm and started to pace to the left around the long table. “Sanctuary was never like that. I may have come here with that in mind, but Alaric deprived me of any illusion that this was the reason for Sanctuary to be relatively quickly.” He landed a hand on the back of Terian’s seat. “Our reason for being here isn’t common ambition.”

“Damned right,” Terian said under his breath, forcing a weak smile.

“Our reason for being here isn’t because we’re desperately seeking to live forever, to put the stopper in the sands of time,” Cyrus went on, striding past Calene.

“But … but we wouldn’t mind doing that if we could, would we?” Calene asked in a small voice. “I mean, if it’s not too far out of the way …”

Cyrus continued his slow walk, pacing past a nodding Scuddar. “It’s not petty ambition, it’s not armor, it’s not—”

“PIE!” Vaste shouted as Cyrus passed him. He shrugged with only a little contrition. “What? Pie is at least as important as armor and ambition.”

“We fight for home,” Cyrus said, nodding at Longwell, who nodded back as Cyrus passed behind him, the dragoon thumping the haft of his lance into the floor in approval. We fight for … family,” Cyrus said, passing Quinneria with a look that traced its way over the features of a mother he only barely recalled. He went around the empty far end and stopped behind Aisling’s seat. “We fight for redemption, for the things we’ve done wrong in the past.” She looked back at him, just a glance, and then looked away. “We fight for our people,” he said as he passed Cattrine. “For the right to be our best selves, to be known for us rather than those who we spring from,” he passed Mendicant, “to be—”

“Immense, contrary pains in the arse,” Ryin said with a smirk as Cyrus went by him.

“—to speak our minds freely,” Cyrus said with a smile, “to not be cowed into silence because our opinions do not jibe with our fellows.” He paused behind J’anda’s chair. “We fight to not be afraid.” He walked slowly behind Vara, trailing a hand over the back of her chair as he went by, “and we fight for those we care most about.” She looked into his eyes, her blue ones shining in the summer sun filtering in from the balcony windows as she nodded.

“You should have said that when you were walking behind me,” Vaste said.

“Malpravus will never truly understand any of those things,” Cyrus said, coming back to his own seat, “for Malpravus only cares about Malpravus, and to hell with anyone who gets in the way of that.” He thumped down heavily into his chair. “No, I won’t ever go back to how I was.” He lowered his voice. “Since the day I entered these halls, I’ve paid a price for these things I believe. I’ve lost …” He thought of Narstron, of Niamh, of Andren, of Alaric and the countless others, and his throat felt too small to let his voice out. “… too much to go back. But that doesn’t mean I can’t go to Malpravus in Zanbellish …” a nervous grumble ran through the room, but Cyrus only smiled, “… and pretend I see it his way.”

“This is a mad, terrible idea,” Vara said only a few minutes later as they all stood around the Council Chamber in a nervous circle that mirrored the shape of the old table that was now replaced behind them, the long shafts of light coming through the balcony windows illuminating the deeper grain of the new table’s wood. The fires crackled low in the hearths, and everyone stood silent.

“So it’s like all of my ideas, then,” Cyrus said with a smile, trying to reassure her.

She looked worried. “Let me come with you,” Vara said.

“No.” Cyrus shook his head. “This is not a fight, it’s an ambush. We’ll be going in at Malpravus’s mercy, and I’ve heard from too many people that he has none for you. I can’t take the chance.”

She held herself out, away from him, standing at her place in the circle while he remained in the middle, and he could feel the gulf between them like a distance of thousands of miles. “But you can take the chance with him?” She pointed at Cyrus’s companion in the circle.

Ryin Ayend stood next to him, frowning. “That’s an excellent point. Why are you bringing me along, out of all the possible options available to you?”

Cyrus did not look at the druid as he answered. “Because you’re the least threatening choice.”

Ryin bristled. “I’ll have you know I cut a very imposing figure in battle.”

“Oh, I know,” Cyrus said, “I saw what you did to Mathyas Tarreau.”

Ryin settled slightly, looking a bit mollified. “Well, the bastard deserved it. Who knows how many good people he cost us?”

“So,” Vaste said, staring intently at Quinneria, “you’ve been conjuring all of our meals, all this time?”

“Well, I did have to cook some when people brought me food,” Quinneria said, “from hunting game and from Emerald Fields’ harvests and such, but I used magic to do the preparation and just hid behind an illusion all the while.”

Vaste was frowning. “So … what were you doing with all that free time when it appeared you were cooking?”

“Well, I learned blacksmithing,” she said, “and carpentry, and continued my research into arcane spellcraft with Curatio’s assistance, some of the practices of natural, medicinal healing …”

“Oh, good, then you can take over the Halls of Healing,” Vaste said. “Also … this explains why the cuisine didn’t suffer the year of the siege …”

Cyrus looked up at Vara and saw the fear in her eyes. “I'll be back, I swear it.”

“Your return does not concern me half as much as your leaving in the first place,” she said.

“Remember,” he said with a smile, “I told you everyone leaves.”

She gave him a look that dripped with familiar annoyance. “Your mother came back, dunce, and I am still here. Your point no longer stands.”

“Cyrus,” Terian said, stepping up to him in the circle, “say the word and I’ll come with you, ten thousand troops at my back.”

“Absolutely not,” Cyrus said.

“Hmph,” Terian said. “You’re turning down the aid of the foremost paladin in Saekaj Sovar.”

Vara made a face. “You’re the only paladin in Saekaj Sovar.”

“And thus the best,” Terian said with a smirk. “Come on, Vara. Usually you’re smarter than this. What’s wrong? Is a steady diet of warrior seed killing your intelligence?”

Cyrus tossed an ice spell against Terian’s helm, frosting it lightly across the eye slits. “I’m not just a warrior anymore.” He stared at the paladin as Terian brushed the ice out of the way, and suddenly he knew what he had to say. “And you can’t drag your nation, your people, into war to save me and my three hundred anymore, Terian.”

“I can,” Terian said, pulling Alaric’s old helm off his head and wiping clean the face. “I will. Because as you just pointed out, that spirit, those bonds—that’s what Sanctuary is.” He looked around the circle. “And while I may not be here as a member with you anymore, I wear this armor for a reason. Saekaj Sovar is governed by the principles you elucidated.” He put the cleaned helm back on his head. “And I still stand with you—brother.”

“Feeling a little weepy,” Vaste sniffed. “Dangerously weepy.”

“Would you like another pie to soothe your nerves?” Quinneria asked.

“Oh, gods, I’m going to cry,” Vaste said.

“At the risk of interrupting Vaste’s tearful moment,” Cattrine said, “I would like to add to what Terian said—we of Emerald Fields stand with you as well, in the same way you have stood by us through all that came. If you need us, we will send every single soldier wherever you require it, at a moment’s notice.” She smiled warmly. “Together we stand.”

“And there’s not even a demonic porcupine or squirrel to blame this time,” Vaste murmured, his big eyes glistening.

“Take utmost care, Cyrus,” Aisling said, eyeing him with an appraising look. “I’d offer you my dagger, but it seems you have more weapons than you know what to do with.” She nodded at Rodanthar, which was presently thrust inside his belt, no scabbard to call its own.

“I can—I can give you the scabbard for that,” Quinneria said, voice hushed like she had assumed the persona of Larana again for a moment. “There are …” She looked in Cyrus’s eyes as he met hers, “many things I could—that I would love to tell you. The history of our family, of … what I’ve learned … or about your childhood … anything you want to know …”

Cyrus stared back at her, his throat tight once more. “I … I do want to hear them.”

Vaste sniffed. “This is too much.” Quinneria flicked her fingers and a pie appeared in his hands. “No, wait.
Now
it’s too much.” He lowered his face and a falling tear sizzled against its warm, flaky top. “Why does this feel like—like the end?”

“Because our Guildmaster is about to hand himself over to the most evil necromancer who has ever lived,” J’anda said.

“Nobody mentions me, of course,” Ryin muttered.

“Let’s get this over with, he-who-was-not-mentioned,” Cyrus said, clapping Ryin on the shoulder. “When we get there, if you can, teleport out immediately. Don’t wait.”

“You want me to leave you there,” Ryin said quietly.

“If you can,” Cyrus said, “yes.”