“Perhaps it’s not all I seek,” Cyrus said, smiling, then urged Windrider forward, “but it’s all I have time for at the moment.” He looked back to see her looking at him cautiously but with slight wonderment.
The path straightened as they reached the gate, guiding their horses under the portcullis to follow Odau Genner. Once through it, Cyrus found himself in a massive courtyard, twice the size of the entire castle at Green Hill. He could smell the stables to one side, saw the activity bustling ahead in the entrance to the keep, where a procession was already making its way down the steps to greet them.
Guards stood at attention in columns down either side of the steps, arranged to face the stairway. The procession came down, and at the head stood a man with the same build as Longwell-muscular, tall, dark haired, though grey was present, frosted in a patch on the top of his head. Cyrus saw no crown, though the cloak he wore was of finest velvet. He was flanked by ten men, all in armor like Longwell’s, every one of them wearing the surcoat with the black lion on the front.
Cyrus followed Odau Genner across the courtyard, and he felt the Baroness brush against his side. He glanced at her and saw her look back, a nervous smile flitting across her face. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “You’re here as part of my army.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I have no ability with sword or shield or bow, nor any of the magical powers that many in your army possess.” She looked down at herself and then back at him. “I look nothing like the women of your army.”
“And yet you are, nonetheless,” he said cheerfully. “So worry not.”
“Why have you asked me to come along with you to the castle, rather than being lodged in town with the rest of your people?” Her voice betrayed the worry that her face concealed, along with something else, something more hopeful.
“You know the people of Luukessia,” Cyrus said, whispering to her as they followed Genner toward the steps. “You have been the enemy of Galbadien for all your years. I’d be a fool to have you along and not ask your opinion of these men.”
“Don’t you trust these total strangers?” she asked, almost mocking.
“As a rule, I trust no strangers.”
“But isn’t this King the father of your man Longwell?” She regarded him carefully. “You trust him, do you not?”
“I do,” Cyrus said. “Samwen Longwell is a man of honor. But he left this Kingdom for good reason, and he has yet to tell me what it is … so I keep my suspicions, and I keep watch.”
“A sound plan,” she whispered back. “But if I may be so bold as to make an observation …” she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, waiting for him to give her a subtle nod before she continued. “I am nearly a stranger to you. Do you trust me?”
“Mmmm,” Cyrus let out a deep, guttural sound that reminded him of a purr. In his head, it was a simple stalling tactic, as he tried to find a way to phrase his reply so as not to offend her. “Not entirely,” he said at last, drawing a small smile of response from her. “But neither do I distrust you.”
The smile was cool, but her green eyes danced and gave life to it. “When it comes to the confidences of ‘Cyrus the Unbroken,’ I suppose I shall take what I can get, when I can get it.” They arrived at the King before Cyrus could make his reply. “If you introduce me, remember to call me Cattrine,” the Baroness said in a last whisper, drawing a smile. “Better not to tell them from whence I come.”
“Your accent is rather distinctive,” Cyrus mumbled as Odau Genner filled the air with a formal and lengthy announcement of the arrival of the Sanctuary officers.
“I can fix that,” the Baroness said, sotto voce, her words now carrying the smooth, flat cadences of a Reikonosian born.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “How did you do that?”
She kept her eyes forward, on the King. “I’ve been listening to you.”
“May I introduce Cyrus Davidon,” Odau Genner said, “General of the army of Sanctuary.”
Cyrus bowed low to the King, who, upon closer inspection, was thinner and more gaunt than Longwell. His eyes were slightly sunken and his flesh had settled oddly upon his bones, as though his build had once been powerful and was now diminished, the excess skin loose and ill at ease on his frame. The only exception was his belly, which was distended and paunchy, hanging over his belt.
“My cherished son,” the King said, opening his arms wide to Longwell, who followed a pace behind Cyrus. The King’s gaunt features lifted in a smile. “You have returned to us in Galbadien’s darkest hour, and at the head of your own army from the west. This is more than I could have imagined was possible when last we parted.”
Cyrus looked back to Longwell, who stood stock still, a pained smile pasted on his features. “Father,” he said before making his way forward to embrace the man.
Cyrus watched, noting the dragoon’s slow movement, the uncomfortable shuffle as he went to hug his father, as they fumbled to place hands, and a thought ran across the warrior’s mind-Do they even know each other? After a moment, father and son parted, and as they withdrew, Cyrus noted the awkward space between them that lingered, even as the King put his hand upon his son’s shoulder and tried to draw him close. Samwen went along with it, but the dragoon remained tensed.
“Greetings to all of you,” the King said with the same, wide smile. “I welcome you as friends of my son and thank you for coming to the service of our Kingdom in this hour of need.” His arms were spread in welcome, but his right hand remained on his son’s shoulder, resting there, drawing Cyrus’s attention from the King’s words to his face. “If my son trusts you as allies and compatriots, you must surely be of the finest quality, and I look forward to getting to know you as we break bread together.” He extended the hand that wasn’t on Longwell’s shoulder and gestured to the stairs and the open doors above them. “Come, my friends, and let us welcome you to the halls of Vernadam.”
The King turned and began to make his way up the stairs, adjusting his hands so that he could wrap an arm around his son’s shoulder and pull him close. Cyrus watched the King whisper to Samwen, unmistakable pride and emotion on the elder man’s face.
“Does something seem a little odd there?” Cattrine asked him quietly.
“I didn’t want to be the first to say it, but yes,” Cyrus said, keeping his voice to a whisper. “We should probably wait to talk about it until later.”
Cyrus followed, leading his party up the stairs. The door to the keep was an arched portal fifteen feet tall with wide, solid wooden doors, which were opened by the guards. They swung inward in a wide arc, and as Cyrus passed through them with the Baroness at his side, he caught a glimpse of others behind them, helping to pull them open. A grand hall lay ahead, with another staircase that led to a large landing that split in twain; the steps then veered left and right, to a balcony that wrapped around the entry foyer.
Cyrus paused on the marble tiles. They were checkered in black and white squares, with a craftsmanship that he hadn’t seen outside of the Elven Kingdom. He looked at the Baroness but she remained cool; the palatial appearance of the keep was deeply at odds with Green Hill or any of the other keeps he had seen in all his days.
The King continued onward to a room to their left. Double doors, smaller than the entry, swung open at the hands of a servant and Cyrus found himself in a formal dining room. The checkered marble floor gave way entirely to white tiles, and a long dining table stretched the length of the room, culminating in a chair that was taller and more ornate than any of the others. “I’ll bet you a gold coin that’s where the King sits,” he whispered to the Baroness.
“Not only is that a poor bet, but since someone sacked my home, I find I have no coins with which to gamble.”
“Did I hear a note of complaint?” Cyrus asked as his eyes roamed the room.
“About losing my husband? Never,” she said. “I do, however, wish I had been allowed to keep his fortune.” She sighed. “It was hardly worth the trade, but if I coul
d have had his money and been rid of him, I believe I might have been able to find some measure of happiness.” She frowned. “Damn this land and their thorough dislike of women with any strength at all.”
“I agree,” Cyrus said. “You should find somewhere that they can appreciate you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me?”
“In this case, no.” His eyes tracked around the room. “I might later, though, so be on your guard.”
The balcony from the foyer extended into the dining hall, and a hearth sat behind the King’s chair, though it was not in use. Paintings of knights, ladies, scenes from nature, and of castles dominated the decor. The walls were comprised of a faint white plaster, apparently spackled over the natural stone walls of the keep. The whole thing gave the room a more comfortable look to Cyrus’s eyes, reminding him of the houses in Reikonos, wood structures, rather than the rock and stone that made some keeps feel like dim caves.
The smell of fresh-baked dough filled the room, along with other scents that he couldn’t quite place. He thought he caught a hint of fish cooking, but it mingled with the smell of other meats and perhaps some vegetables as well. He heard a clatter in the next room and realized that it must be the kitchens. A door swung open and then closed again, confirming his suspicion as a line of servants walked into the room in perfect step, snaking their way around the table, each standing behind a chair. Cyrus lingered in the doorway as he watched the King make his way to the head seat and point his son to the chair to his right. The King stopped before sitting down and beckoned to Cyrus to come sit on his left. Cyrus exchanged a short look with the Baroness and came forward, placing himself in the seat that the King had indicated.
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, General Davidon,” the King said as Cyrus took his place and stood in front of his chair. He waited as his other officers filtered in, each guided to their place at the table by one of the members of the King’s armored procession.
“And I am pleased to be here and able to help, your Grace.” He followed the King’s example and sat after noting the other members of the King’s procession beginning to do the same. Cyrus felt the servant standing behind his chair scoot it closer to the table as he did so and he nodded in thanks to the silent steward behind him, who did not so much as look at him. “May I ask some questions so that we can begin to formulate a strategy for the coming battle?”
The King waved his hand. “The battle is not until the day after tomorrow, and I feel confident that with your help, we can easily vanquish Briyce Unger’s army and his mercenaries.” The King’s gaunt face tightened as he plucked a grape from his plate and put it into his mouth. He continued to speak, even as he chewed, causing the Baroness to cough lightly next to Cyrus. “Only a handful of these western mercenaries, that’s all Unger has, but the demon one, the half-man, he carries power that is truly fearsome, to hear my generals tell of it.”
“Half-man?” Cyrus asked.
“Yes,” the King said, taking a bite from a plum and letting the juice run uninterrupted down his face. “He stands not more than half the height of a man, stout of build and bearded like a mountain man of Syloreas-”
“A dwarf,” Cyrus said, locking eyes with Longwell, who nodded. “You say this dwarf casts spells?”
“He possesses western magic of a sort,” the King said, his mouth turning down as his eyes grew narrower still. “The power to knock an entire legion to the ground, to send men from their feet without warning or ability to stop it. His prowess with a hammer has become the stuff of nightmares, the tales young recruits are told in the barracks to scare them at night when they learn the trade of war and battle.”
“A paladin?” Cyrus asked. “That sounds like a paladin.”
“I trust that won’t present a problem for you?” The Baroness murmured in his ear as servants set a bowl of soup in front of him, a heavy one with rice and mushooms.
The smell of cream in the soup was heavy in Cyrus’s nose. “For me alone, perhaps,” Cyrus said, trying to decide which spoon to use out of the dozen implements arranged around his place setting. “For our army, no.”
“This half-man has been a dagger in our side during the whole campaign,” The King said, his voice high in complaint. “His mercenaries get stabbed through the chest, fall to the ground, and minutes later they’re whole again, back up and fighting.”
“Sounds like they have a healer, too,” Cyrus said. “We can fix that.”
The King waved his hand in frustration. “Enough of this talk. Count Ranson can tell you more about this drudgery later.” He brightened. “Let us move on to more gladsome topics.” He turned to Longwell. “How was your journey, my son?”
“Long,” the dragoon replied. “I had forgotten the distance between here and the bridge since last I trod the path.”
“I see,” the King said, slurping his soup, the broth dripping down his weathered and bony chin. “Did you have problems with those bandits from Actaluere?”
The Baroness was seized by a sudden fit of coughing, causing Cyrus to look at her in alarm. She stopped after a moment, hand in front of her mouth. “Terribly sorry,” she croaked as the King and the others at their end of the table stared at her.
Cyrus felt the presence of eyes upon him, like prey in the night, being watched by a beast. He looked up and found a man across the table, seated next to Longwell, staring at him. The man’s hair was light, his face ruddy and his eyes dark. His armor carried the same blue sheen in the steel as Longwell’s, though his surcoat was different, a tiger on a white background. His eyes met Cyrus’s and there was an instant jolt of hostility between the two men. The man was middle-aged, older than Cyrus by at least fifteen years, but with only a few signs of grey in his platinum hair to show it. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Cyrus said, feeling slightly annoyed by the man’s gaze, “but can I help you?”
The man stiffened in his seat, as though he had been insulted. “No,” he said, his voice low and scratchy. “You cannot help me.” His accent lilted in the same way as Longwell’s and the King’s, the end of his statement rising in pitch.
“Forgive me,” Longwell said, “for not making introductions. General Cyrus Davidon, this is Count Ewen Ranson, of the castle Ridgeland to the southeast. He is the marshal of my father’s armies.”
“Ah, so it’s you I’ll be coordinating with,” Cyrus said, letting the icy calm within take over his outward persona, frosting over the internal desire to scorch the man for his rudeness. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Ewen.”
“You’ll call me count or marshal,” Ranson snapped, his pinched face causing him to look especially snotty.
“Very well,” Cyrus said. “My full title is Lord Davidon of Perdamun, Warden of the Southern Plains and General of Sanctuary. You can go ahead and call me that. Every single time you address me, that is-and don’t leave out the ‘Warden’ bit as it’s very important.”
Ranson’s ruddy complexion went blood red. “What foolishness is this?”
“Why, Count Ranson,” Cyrus said, his icy reserve melting quickly, “it’s called custom and protocol, and it’s the very thing you just threw in my face, so you should recognize it.”
“What I recognize,” Ranson said, still flushed scarlet, “is that sitting before me is the same sort of scum that’s helping our enemies trounce us in battle after battle. The same cheeky bastards from a foreign land, come to lord it over us with your magics and fancy ways-well, I’ll have none of it. You don’t fool me-you’re all the same.”
Cyrus stared across the table at the count then looked to the King, who sipped another spoonful of soup with a slight smile, waiting to see what happened next. Cyrus turned his gaze back to the Count. “Do you really believe that?”
“I do,” Ranson said, unmoving.
“I see,” Cyrus said, feeling particularly wry. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from a treacherous Luukessian. After all, you’re an easterner, the same as Baron Hoygraf of
Actaluere, beaters and oppressors of women, rapists and-”
There was a crash of furniture as the chair that Count Ranson was sitting in fell back, splintering on the floor. The count’s sword was in his hand and a look of purest rage was on his face. “You take that back, you filthy bastard, I’ve never laid a hand in anger on a woman in my life, let alone beaten and whipped them like that scum-”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, mock-offended, “perhaps I shouldn’t have unfairly grouped all you easterners into the same lot.” He picked up one of the six spoons gathered around his plate and dipped it in the soup, bringing it up to his mouth slowly and taking a long sip with one hand while keeping the other rested on Praelior under the table and well out of sight.
“Well said, sir,” the King guffawed. “Count Ranson, surely you can tell that there are differences between our guests and these mercenaries. After all, I see no half-men here among our guests.”
“We left our dwarves back at the village,” Cyrus said. “But let’s be plain,” he looked to Count Ranson, who had resumed his seat with the aide of the servant lingering behind him, “there are several nations and powers in the west, just as there are here. To confuse the peoples of different nations and guilds with each other is as insulting to us, in some cases, as it would be for me to make the comparison here that I just did.”
“I had said before that we should move to more felicitous topics of conversation,” the King said with a sigh. “Perhaps we can do so now.” With that, he picked up the remainder of his bowl and brought it to his lips, slurping the rest of his soup.
Cyrus sent a furtive look to the Baroness next to him. She was cringing even though she was trying to keep her eyes on her own soup, which she took dainty spoonfuls of. Past her were Ryin and Nyad, seated side by side and conversing pleasantly with Odau Genner. The rest of the Sanctuary members were sprinkled around the table, talking with their counterparts from Galbadien’s army.
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