Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (22 page)

They wore the illusions of elven travelers. A lone elven woman waiting for them scanned them carefully before nodding once and beckoning them follow. She was ahorse, as were they, and they all rode together south in her wake.

They followed the road for almost an hour in silence, Cyrus afraid to make conversation with his companions. He felt reassured because Windrider was beneath him and they were under the influence of J’anda’s strong, persistent illusion rather than his own somewhat limited versions of the spell. He was getting better, but the duration of his spellcraft was considerably less than the more practiced master enchanter, and he was quite content to leave this particular deception to the expert.

The wind blew intermittently out of the west, the nip of the air causing Cyrus’s flesh to pucker beneath his armor. He watched the trees carefully as they rode, fearing ambush from all sides, from any side. His small party were all dressed as highborns, and the lowborn laborers they passed along the way did not dare gaze their way for long.

Finally the woman guiding them left the road at a small path, her horse at a canter. Ahead, Cyrus could see a mighty plantation house, a sprawling estate behind low walls that would not have stopped a goblin from scaling them. They were ornate and beautiful and entirely for show, he decided, like much of the rest of the Kingdom.

The horses whickered and whinnied as they came to a halt just before a massive field. Workers were out there in it, plowing and breaking the ground with horses and hoes. Most of the workers were using animals, but one was breaking the stubborn clumps of earth with just a tool. He was shirtless and standing in the middle of the field, far from any others, and he worked the earth as though he were expert at it, moving swiftly in a row.

Their guide pointed at the man. He was bronzed, and his long dark hair flowed over his shoulders, untamed. He looked young from what Cyrus could see, even by the standards of the long-lived and barely-aging elves. His muscles bulged, straining from his labor.

Cyrus glanced at the guide, who nodded, and started to make his way across the plowed field, his boots sinking into the loose earth with every step. It looked as though they’d turned up frost within the ground and were breaking it up. He frowned at the labor, thinking,
Won’t it just melt on its own?

Vara followed a pace behind Cyrus, and he could hear Vaste and J’anda after her, the troll grunting with particular effort as his weight sank him into the dirt with each heavy step.

“Hail,” the young, shirtless man said as he paused in his labors. He was sweating and dirty, traces of black earth dusted along his chest and caught in the runnels of perspiration that gleamed on his chest. Cyrus caught Vara looking for a moment too long and frowned more deeply.

“Lord Merrish?” Vara asked tentatively, slowing her advance.

“’Tis I, Shelas’akur,” Merrish said, leaning against his hoe and flashing a ready grin at them. “Though you would not know it to look at me, any more than I would know it simply by looking at you.”

“You’ve got a sight spell on you, then?” Cyrus asked, staring at the young man.

“I’m a wizard, yes,” he said, and the gleam of magic lit his hand as a skin of water was conjured out of thin air. Lord Merrish pressed it to his lips and drank deeply, then poured it out over his muscled chest, washing off the perspiration and dirt.

“Thank you for inviting us out here,” Cyrus said, looking around the plantation fields. The other elves laboring were stopping for a break of their own, wandering away in all directions, far from the conversation going on at the center of the field. He glanced back; J’anda and Vaste were keeping their distance, apparently content to let Cyrus and Vara do the talking.

“Do you always work your own fields?” Vara asked with undisguised curiosity.

“Frequently, yes,” Merrish said, still grinning. “I’m quite the abnormality, I’m aware.”

“May I ask why?” Vara stared at him, at least now keeping her eyes on his face. Cyrus still felt a rush of annoyance that he could not quite pin down.

“You were born and raised in our Kingdom,” Merrish said, still cradling the conjured skin of water. “Still, perhaps you didn’t see it, given your birth …” He frowned, mouth turning down. “Our Kingdom … is at a ripe moment, one waiting to be plucked by the appropriate hand.”

Cyrus felt a blanket of cynicism fall over him, an old suspicion that had long served him well. “Your hand, I suppose?”

Merrish grinned. “Doubtful.” He worked the hoe left and right in the dirt, nervously, to little effect. “I spoke to Oliaryn Iraid a few days past when I was visiting Termina. You’ve been there, of course.” He looked at Cyrus. “Marvelous city, isn’t it?”

“Less so than it used to be,” Cyrus said, drawing a sharp look of rebuke from Vara.

“It’s the jewel of our Kingdom,” Merrish said, and if he was insulted by Cyrus’s remark, he did not show it. “A place where one can go and be unworried with the constant demands of caste. Lowborn, highborn, those between … it matters not in Termina. Some in my station see that city as infection, a pustule of the spreading contagion of the humans.” His eyes gazed into the distance; Cyrus thought he was being exceedingly dramatic. “I have been to the Confederation many times. Reikonos, Santir, Asaliere, Isselhelm, Montis, Taymor, Wardemos—I have traveled those lands and found them … very admirable, in their way. The distinction of caste, of birth, swept away? The ability for someone born in a stable to poverty-stricken parents to rise, to ascend to heights in the capital, as did Pretnam Urides?” Merrish’s eyes gleamed. “I can hardly imagine the same tale being told anywhere in the Kingdom.”

“And not just because you people aren’t having babies anymore,” Cyrus said, feeling a little like he was channeling Vaste. This caused Vara to roll her eyes once more then glare at him subtly.

“It’s true,” Merrish said with a nod. “No point disguising it or flowering over it—we aren’t. But even if we were, they would be born into a system where they would never rise on their own merit or fall because of their own failures. They would be locked firmly into the path of their ancestors.” He glanced at Vara and smiled. “You are the only one to ascend beyond her class of birth anywhere outside of Termina, in this Kingdom—”

“Well, she is
from
Termina,” Cyrus muttered, drawing another ireful look from Vara.

Merrish favored Cyrus with a patronizing smile. “You don’t see it, because you have grown up within the bounds of the Confederation with all its wondrous opportunity for ascent. Why, you, most disfavored of them all, son of a heretic, have now become one of the most powerful men in Arkaria, and still you reach forth the hand.” He leaned on the hoe, crooking his elbow around it, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You, Cyrus Davidon, could be the kingmaker in this land, if you should use your opportunities right.”

“And would I be making you the king, should I follow that course?” Cyrus asked, trying to take some of the sting out of his question now that they’d come around at last to what he wanted to know.

“I don’t want to be king,” Merrish said with a fervent shake of his head. “I’d rather no one was king, that we chose not to bend the knee to one person, for fear that they might end up a singularly vain and insecure, petty person caught up in their own self.”

“So you’re one of the ones that longs for the fragmented days of old,” Vara said, drawing wearily to her conclusion, “before the union of the Kingdom. Admittedly, I wasn’t there, but all the tales I have heard of those days indicated that there were still hierarchies of birth, but there were also internecine battles between the various lords who considered themselves kings of their own lands.”

“I’m not opposed to a king or queen,” Merrish said, seeming to reverse himself. “I would prefer not to have one, but I am hardly the lone decider of these matters. But at the very least, I would like the distinctions between class destroyed.”

“No more nobility?” Cyrus asked with undisguised amusement. “I don’t think your fellow lords are going to like that much.”

“There can still be lords,” Merrish said, “since trying to wrest their hereditary lands out of their corpulent hands would prompt a war in the kingdom unlike anything seen since before the union.” He sighed impatiently. “I only wish to see the distinctions of caste washed away. It is a prison, more odious than some idiot who four generations ago swore service to Danay and received land and title for it. Lords can parcel off their land and sell it to a highborn, if so possessed. But a lowborn cannot rise above their station in life regardless and can never hope to own a parcel of land outside of Termina. This needs to change.”

Vara’s skepticism was well buried. “This is the price for your help in our … endeavor, then? Promises of reform?”

“Yes,” Merrish said with a hard nod. “A promise of reform, and also a guarantee.”

“What’s the difference?” Cyrus asked, watching the elven lord with a smoldering level of irritation.

“One can be empty words,” Merrish said with a glint in his eyes, “the other carries with it some level of enforcement.” He lifted off the long wooden handle of his implement. “Say I help you put together this … this
conspiracy
, call it, for I can give you the key to unlock the door to Lady Voryn, whom I know you seek.” He smiled. “Let us assume we bring her together with Oliaryn Iraid, and perhaps a few more, for I’m sure you have others aiding you. You could promise in front of all of them that you would try very hard to garner what I’ve asked for when it is all done and whatever—hmm, change, let’s call it—has been made to the Kingdom in your favor. But when it is all said and my part is done, what assurance do I have that the others, whose faces I can imagine at my mere suggestion of this to them, will not simply speak with you quietly and convince you that a try is all that is required? ‘Oh, we have tried, but no one wishes to make this change.’” Merrish’s voice went high, and his eyes settled into a knowing look. “Of course no one wishes to make the change. It is not in their favor and will surely cause them to lose support among their highborn friends as their stations are swept away.”

“What assurance could we possibly give you that would mean a damn?” Vara asked, frowning.

“The only one that matters,” Merrish said, eyes agleam once more. “One bound by the authority that no one would deny.”

Vara’s face became a stiff mask. “That is not an assurance I can make at present.”

“I recognize that,” Merrish said, still smiling pleasantly. Little droplets of sweat were falling off him now as he shivered, his time spent resting apparently causing him to grow chilly. “But when you have the means, I expect it. I will not move without it, and should you try to bypass me, you will find me a swift enemy of yours.”

“Lovely,” Cyrus said, his blood chilling. “We didn’t have enough of those before, obviously …” Cyrus gave a long sigh. “Why not one more impossible task? Amidst so many already, this one won’t be much more of a burden.”

Merrish grinned. “I’m certain that for the man who freed the slaves of Arkaria, upending a simple caste system can be done with greatest ease. But in lieu of a reciprocal promise of my own, I offer this.” Merrish nodded his head in seeming concession. “Two things I will do for you in order to show my sincerity in this matter. The first—Lady Voryn. She has received your missives but sent them back, yes?”

“Yes,” Vara said cautiously. “She is absent, according to her retainers.”

“Lady Voryn is the most faithful woman you will ever meet,” Merrish said, eyes still gleaming. “She is devoted to her beliefs, to the Goddess of Life, beyond anything else. That is her key.”

“I see,” Vara said quietly.

“I expect you do,” Merrish said, smirking. “The second thing I will do for you is arrange an introduction to another friend of mine. His name is Allyn Frost, and I was told you that you might need to make his acquaintance.”

The Governor of the Northlands,
Cyrus thought, suddenly frozen at the Lord’s admission.
Did he hear that from Iraid?
If not …
Cyrus’s blood ran cold.
Well, there’s nothing for it, now. If what we’re planning is widespread knowledge outside of our little shadow council … we’re going to be absolutely burned.

“Power speaks to power, you see,” Merrish said, looking straight at Vara. “I’ve known Governor Frost for many years and have had more than a few dealings with him. When you leave, you’ll be given an envelope with the time and date of your meeting. It will have to take place at his keep in Isselhelm, for he will not journey to you and you would not want him to in any case.”

“Of course,” Cyrus whispered, suddenly ashen with worry at the thought of more of his secrets exposed.
This is a pox of a thing, trying to hide your intentions and worrying when anyone roots them out. I miss open battle, open war, charging enemies fearlessly knowing strength will decide the contest.

I hate being weak. It’s like hiding at night at the Society again in fear that someone is going to prey on me when I’m sleeping. I thought I’d left those days behind me, but it’s like they’re back, only now my enemies are more fearsome than ever before.

“Thank you most graciously for meeting with us,” Vara said, nodding politely to Lord Merrish, who bowed, his bronzed chest dipping with the rest of him and raising Cyrus’s ire as he did so.

“It was hardly an imposition on me,” Merrish said with a smile gentler than he’d yet shown. “I wish you all the best in these endeavors, and I hope to hear from you very soon in regards to that guarantee.”

“I shall work on it with the utmost effort,” Vara said, though the words seemed to stick in her throat. She bowed her head once more. “Lord Merrish.”

“Shelas’akur,” Merrish returned.

Vara turned on her heel and started back across the field, each step hindered slightly by the upturned soil. She took an envelope extended by Merrish’s dark-haired servant and then she gestured to Vaste and J’anda, each of whom nodded and began to cast the return spell. Larana, in the distance, did the same, shimmering into the light before any of the rest.