Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (70 page)

Inside Cyrus found a dim room, the faint light of an oil lamp shining in a wooden single-room house, dark curtains drawn over the windows. It smelled of cedar and oil, and as his eyes adjusted he cast the Eagle Eye spell, which shed the light of day into the entire place from corner to corner. He could see the bed, thin mattress crowning it, and Imina lying upon it in a new dress.

She sat up as he entered, but he could tell in the way she held herself that she was not particularly thrilled to see him. “It’s you,” she said quietly.

“It is,” he said, his voice low in reply. He cleared his throat. “How … how are you?”

“Well enough for now,” she said, dragging the trailing edge of her dress free of a snag on the wooden edge of the bed. “You seem … tired.”

“I am indeed,” Cyrus said, eliding neatly past the full truth.

“But you did beat him?” She sounded faintly hopeful.

“He’s gone,” Cyrus said. “He won’t trouble you any longer.”

“He was a strange character,” Imina said with a dazed look. “So gentlemanly and polite but devoid of … everything.” She shuddered. “I have never met anyone like him.”

“And hopefully, you never will again,” Cyrus said, looking uncomfortably around the room. “So … are you going back to Reikonos?”

Imina’s hands ran up and down her skirt, reminding him of the time when he’d first met her and she’d seemed to paw at herself nervously. He hadn’t recognized it as nerves at the time, but looking back, it now seemed plain. “I don’t know. My stall in the markets of Reikonos will be gone, as will my home. Nothing stays bare there for long,” she said with a note of regret. She brightened slightly. “They have no flower sellers here, did you know that?”

“I don’t expect there’s been much demand until now,” Cyrus said, nodding. “But Emerald Fields is rising in prosperity quickly. Seems they could use some flowers. But how will you get your supply?”

“I always bought from the elves before,” she said with a shrug. “I hear they do a lot of business with Pharesia here. I reckon I won’t have much trouble getting deliveries.”

“You have a plan,” he said with a smile. “That’s a good sign.” He looked once more around the room and found he had nothing more to say. “I’ll leave you to it, I suppose. I just wanted to check and make sure that you were doing … well, as best you could be expected to be doing, and here I find you’re doing even better than that.” He started to turn to leave.

“Cyrus,” she spoke into the silence after him and he froze. “I …”

“What is it?” he asked gently, not daring to look back at her, wanting to do nothing more than get out, to return to Sanctuary.
I belong there, and this is an uncomfortable reminder of the way things used to be … the way I didn’t care for.

“Once I told you …” she said, bowing her head, “that you cling to your friends because you have nowhere else to go and nothing to do with your life.”

Cyrus half-turned to look back at her, finding he was smiling in amusement.
Once, those words stung harder than any sword I’d ever been hit with. Now, after everything I’ve been through, they’re rather … prosaic.
“Yes?”

“I was wrong,” she said, darting a glance at him. “You have … done impressive things with your life, and your friends are … most commendable people. I can tell they care deeply for you, and you have made quite the home at Sanctuary. I could see that even in the short time I was there.”

A sense of anti-climax came over Cyrus.
Once upon a time, hearing these words from her … they would have meant everything to me. Even after we parted, for years I would have given more than I had to hear her say this. But now
… He stared into Imina’s eyes and saw the sincerity there before she looked away from his earnest gaze.
Now it doesn’t matter, because I’ve got my home, and my … my guild. My family.

“Thank you, Imina,” he said quietly. With a short bow to his former wife, he cast the return spell and went back to his home on the plains.

Cyrus strolled lazily through the foyer, making his way from the staircase toward the Great Hall, the sun shining through the stained-glass window above the great entry doors, which were both pulled wide open, inviting him out into the warm day. Tempted, Cyrus strayed from his path, scenting the smell of fresh grass and upturned earth where the well-trod ground between the door and the wall seemed to be springing into new life.

“Great day,” Zarnn said, thumping past with his entourage of remaining trolls. They all stopped, executing bows at the waist to Cyrus, who paused, momentarily thunderstruck, before bowing in return.

“What are you up to this fine day, Zarnn?” Cyrus asked.

“Off to train with the Grand Knight of Sanctuary,” Zarnn said with a smile, earrings rattling in his ears as he nodded, his entourage bobbing their heads in time behind him. “The Brotherhood of the Savanna Cat must be ever vigilant, ever prepared for the next threat.”

Cyrus smiled. “Hopefully we’re done with threats for a while.”

“Hope for peace, prepare for war,” Zarnn said, leading his troll brethren away toward the entrance, crossing the great seal as they thumped their way out of the foyer and disappeared out into the day.

Cyrus stood in place, not watching them go, his eyes instead fixed on the great seal of Sanctuary. “Hm,” he said, more to himself than anything and took a few steps toward it. He’d never paid it much mind, thinking of it only as the place where spellcasters emerged from the portal mounted beneath the floor. He stared down at it now, at the swirling lines, the spiral of strange writing that spun toward the center of the circle, and his hand came automatically to his breastplate, thumping against it. The necklace of the Guildmaster that he wore beneath it was its exact twin, he was certain. Frowning thoughtfully at the symmetry between them, he turned and headed back toward the Great Hall.

The tables were empty, the hall silent as he made his way inside. He could hear movement in the back toward the kitchen, and he followed his ears toward the source of the noise. He looked over the empty tables with a trace of regret; a little over a year ago, this place would have been dotted with people.

But that was twenty thousand members ago
, Cyrus thought.
Practically a different lifetime at this point.

“You have that look on your face,” his mother said, leaning against the kitchen door. She was clean and clad in robes of silken purple, something she would never have worn as Larana. She still looked young, though perhaps a shade older than she had only yesterday. “The one that your father used to get when he was thinking.”

“Father was a warrior,” Cyrus said with a somber smile. “They’re not supposed to think.”

“That joke is older than you are,” she said. “It might even predate me.” She was a little more cautious in her posture, a little more nervous, he thought, as she stepped out of the kitchen door and started walking slowly forward, drawing near to a table. She stopped, standing with one hand crossing her body, touching her elbow beneath the violet robes. “What brings you to the kitchens at this hour? Would you like me to fix you someth—”

“There are … things … I want to know,” Cyrus said, finding the courage to meet her eyes again, making his way toward her slowly, pausing on the other side of the table from her. They were warm, green—and fearful, though they softened slightly when she heard his question.

“I’ll tell you anything I can,” she said, uncrossing her arms, stepping up to the table, faintly hopeful. Her face seemed to glow as though she were holding back a smile, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Cyrus smiled and she let loose a smile of her own. He took a breath of the warm summer air, and for once, felt it seem to seep all the way through him. “Good,” he said, and they sat down in the emptiness of the Great Hall, the sunlight shining in from the windows behind them, and talked for hours.

Cyrus found Vara in the Council Chambers, with the balcony doors swaying open in the glorious day, the sun bright outside them. She was huddled over something at the new table, a quill and ink in her hands, writing feverishly when he came in. Her eyes darted up to greet him, and she stopped, finishing a stroke upon the page and then leaning back her padded chair. “You look as though you should be the Elder of Sanctuary, not I,” she said lightly as he came in.

“Everyone’s been expressing similar sentiments,” Cyrus said, “as though it wasn’t bad enough that I was already destined to age so much faster than you.” He pointed a finger at her as he made his way to his seat. “Just remember, you’re still a year older than me.”

“I expect you’ll remind me every chance you get,” Vara said, capping the inkwell and blowing on the page of the leather-bound book laid out on the table before her.

Cyrus sagged into his chair, feeling as though his armor weighed as much as eight trolls. “What is that?” He pointed at the book.

She blew across the pages once more to dry them and then picked it up, shut the current page, and opened it to the front. “It’s this.” She held it out for him to read.

“
The Journal of Vara
,” he read aloud, eyes rolling across the yellowed page, “
An Account of My Days With Sanctuary
…?” He looked up at her. “You keep a diary?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I keep a diary. As did Alaric, I might add.”

“No judgment here,” Cyrus said, sinking back into his chair. “I’ve often longed for a place to express my jangling and discordant emotions—you know, before I shared my every thought with you, love.”

“I can think of a few I wish you’d kept to yourself,” Vara said under her breath.

“What’s that?”

“I said I think you should absolutely keep a journal,” she said, smiling brightly.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he said coyly, eyeing the book in front of her. “Maybe I should read yours … you know, for ideas on how to do the thing properly.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? You need to read mine in order to learn how to write one yourself?” She stood, taking the book in hand, and making her way over to the door to the archives. She paused and opened it, seemingly waiting for him to follow.

“Well, I’m sure it has some fascinating insights in it,” he said, rising out of his chair with great difficulty. He followed her into the archives as she returned to the door. “What … where did you put it?”

“Somewhere in here,” she said vaguely, leaning in and giving him a quick kiss.

When they broke, he peered down at her. She was utterly relaxed, none of the horror of the temple still upon her. “You know when Mendicant says ‘the library,’ he means he and my mother were reading the books in here, right?” Cyrus asked.

Vara froze, her brow furrowing in obvious horror, her mouth falling open. “Oh … oh … oh Goddess,” she said so very faintly.

A hard knock came at the door of the Council Chambers and Cyrus leaned back through with great effort, feeling as though he might topple over at any moment. “What?”

Calene slipped in, blinking furiously. “Sorry to interrupt you—”

“It’s the Council Chambers,” Cyrus said, moving out of the way so that Vara could get out of the archive. She shut the door behind her as Cyrus looked at Calene expectantly. “I don’t expect much in the way of privacy in here.”

“Well, I know your, uh, quarters in the tower are currently, uh, exposed to the four seasons,” Calene said, flushing. “Anyway … that little girl from the Leagues, the messenger?”

Cyrus ran through his own head for the memory, but came up blank.

“Agora Friedlander?” Vara asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Cyrus muttered. “Her.”

“Well, she’s back,” Calene said. “Brought another League representative with her. Says she’s here to make peace.”

Cyrus took a long, hearty breath. “Well, that’s not unwanted, at least. Have her come up and assemble the Council.”

“Some are here, some are gone,” Calene said. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll just send her up for now, then.” And she left, the door cracked behind her, her soft footfalls fading down the stairs.

“The Leagues are suing for peace with us,” Vara said, putting a hand on Cyrus’s pauldron. He turned to look at her, blue eyes shining. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Well, we kind of destroyed everyone who was willing to fight us in their name,” Cyrus said. “Plus, we stomped down pretty hard on old Malpravus, which had to be a heck of a warning if it made it to the ears of the League bosses in the …” he frowned, “… the …”

“Pantheon,” came a booming voice from the door, and Cyrus turned to see Agora Friedlander, petite as a child, flanked by the speaker, a man in a cloak. His eyes searched their way through the room. “I think ‘Pantheon’ is the term you’re looking for,” he said.

“It is,” Cyrus said coolly as their guests stepped inside. Agora Friedlander stepped back, pressing herself against the wall, a tiny figure against the stone, hands steepled in front of her, her eyes fixed straight ahead. The man with her, on the other hand, meandered ahead, looking at the hearth to the right, running his fingers over the stones of the wall, pacing slowly around the long, rectangular table. “And you are …?”

“With the Leagues,” he said, not turning to look at Cyrus. He came around the last few seats now and stopped at Cyrus’s chair, running his bare fingers over the smooth wood. “Didn’t you hear? We’re here to end this conflict of yours. No more worries about … heresy.” He smiled, but he did not meet Cyrus’s eyes, the daylight flooding in from beyond the balcony as he turned to look out.

“I wasn’t overly worried about it, to be honest,” Cyrus said, frowning as he watched the man step forward, taking in the view.

“I’d heard that,” the man said, looking out over the balcony from just inside the door. “You know, it’s an impressive guildhall you have here.”

“Thank you,” Cyrus said. “You haven’t told me your name yet.”

The man turned around and strode forward a few steps toward them, then looked right at Cyrus as he continued to walk, and any feeling of warm summer vanished in that moment. “Do I need to?” he asked, his eyes glowing brightest red.

It was as if he had seized Cyrus by the neck and hauled him to the Jungle of Vidara and back a whole year. In those eyes he saw the sights of battle, the struggle against Talikartin the Guardian, the possessed Avatar of the God of War, the screams and grunts and cries of the fight—