Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) by Robert J. Crane Page B

parties.”
    “This is low, even for you, Terian,” Cyrus said.
    “This is not the way of the white knight,” Vara said.
    “I wasn’t always a white knight,” Terian said grimly, “and I’m not just a white knight now—I’m the Sovereign of Saekaj and Sovar—”
    “I suppose that absolves you of any need for honor or decency,” Vara said, but her voice held little of her usual dagger-point anger. She was more resigned, as though this were somehow expected. “In spite of your new armor and class, you have retained a surprising amount of your old self.”
    “And you’ll be very thankful for that soon, I predict,” Terian said, glancing sidelong at Cattrine. “Because I hate to break this to you sensitive souls, but a paladin isn’t going to walk out of this ambush you’ve stumbled into. You’re going to need more.”
    “Which is why you’re here to talk?” Cyrus asked.
    “Exactly,” Cattrine said. “This is why we’re having a discussion out of sight. So we can address the things that cannot be talked about where anyone might hear them. So we might talk about how to win this battle.”
    “Well, you’ve gone to all the trouble of sneaking up here,” Cyrus said, now feeling even wearier than before. “We might as well hear you out.”
    “I hoped you’d say that,” Terian said, smiling tightly. “And I hope you don’t mind that we’ve brought a third, someone uniquely positioned to help us in this matter.”
    “Your druid? Bowe?” Cyrus asked, starting to move back to the couch to seat himself. “If you trust him, I suppose I do.”
    “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Terian said, and a thin smile spread across his lips. “But it’s not Bowe. He’s back at the wall.”
    Cyrus froze, about to take a seat. Vara, next to him, had cocked her head in curiosity.
    “Come out,” Terian said to someone hiding behind the balcony door, and Cyrus felt a shudder run through him, as though he knew what was coming before it did.
    She stepped out into the moonlight, her hair washed out even paler than when last he’d seen it, the ghostly aura surrounding her somehow even more faded than that of an invisibility spell. She shimmered in the darkness as she came around Terian, a little tentatively, her hand clutched on the blade of a dagger at her belt.
    Cyrus’s eyes narrowed as she halted between the Sovereign of Saekaj and the Administrator of the Emerald Fields. She looked straight at him with those purple eyes, faded to a faint violet under the power of her weapon’s ability to cloak its user, and felt his jaw lock as his teeth clenched.
    “Oh, you,” Vara said with utter disdain. She cast a look at Cyrus, her eyes afire. “Give me that bloody axe, I’m going to—”
    “Please don’t,” Aisling Nightwind said, and she pulled her dagger out of its scabbard and tossed it lightly at Vara, who caught it and stared at her, fury still contorting the elven paladin’s features. Aisling stood with hands raised, now solid under the moonlight, washed out, her navy skin paler than he remembered it being under this same light.
    “And why should I not?” Vara asked, clutching the dagger, her own skin rippling as she disappeared under the blade’s power, fading into a shadowy version of his wife, her golden hair turned white under its spell.
    “Because I’m at your mercy,” Aisling said, casting a glance to Terian, who nodded in a reassuring way. “Because I mean you no harm … and,” she said, licking her lips, a faint trace of fear crackling her voice, making it unsteady, “… because I’m here to help you.”

11.
    “The problems are simple,” Terian said, pacing back and forth, Alaric’s old armor squeaking faintly with each step as he made his way across the Tower of the Guildmaster, “we have foes we cannot easily best in a direct fight—”
    “And so you bring the Duchess of Treachery to advise us,” Vara said, still clutching Aisling’s dagger in her hand. Her knuckles