Another was called from Syloreas, a mountainous man whom Cyrus took note of as he strode down the aisle and took his seat with the rest. All of the men of Syloreas seemed larger to Cyrus’s eyes than the Actaluere or Galbadien delegations, closer to his own height. He spoke to the Baroness, but did not turn to look at her as he did so. “I’d be a bit careful of how hard you provoke your brother looking for a reaction. You might find one you’re not liable to enjoy.”
“He pledged me to a man who beat and tortured me for a year,” she said, her voice like iron. “I’d worry if you hadn’t killed my husband because then I might have something to fear. But even if you send me back to Actaluere with my brother, what is the worst that can happen?”
“You never ask that,” Cyrus said. “It’s just bad form.”
Cattrine almost seemed to chuckle, and for just a moment the distance between them faded until Cyrus remembered that they were not at Vernadam any longer. “Why is that?” Cattrine asked when her reserve had returned. “Do you subscribe to the western superstition of believing that your gods will inflict such things upon you as some sort of punishment?”
“I don’t subscribe to much,” Cyrus said, “but I’ve seen gods, and they’re not why I fear to say something like that. It’s almost as though you’re tempting it to come true, as though you’re seeking pain.” He shook his head. “I’ve got enough pain already, I don’t need to seek any more.”
The herald’s call was jarring, dragging Cyrus’s attention away from Cattrine and back to the matter at hand. “Oh gods,” she whispered behind him.
“The victor of the clash at the Dun Crossroad, the Blade of Actaluere, Baron of Green Hill, and now Grand Duke of all Forrestshire-Tematy Hoygraf!”
He walked with the aid of a stick, leaning heavily with every step, fighting the pull of gravity with his upper body, and warring against legs that almost didn’t seem to want to carry him. His hair was still black, his beard still unkempt and patchy, but long where it grew, and his pale blue eyes were filled with just as much spite as when last Cyrus had seen them, glaring at him from the floor of the man’s own living quarters. Baron-now Grand Duke-Hoygraf worked his way down the aisle and seated himself with great effort, glaring all the while at Cyrus and Cattrine.
“That,” Cyrus said, a little chill running down him, “is why you never ask what the worst that can happen is.”
Chapter 27
“What the hells, Cyrus?” Terian hissed at him a few minutes later, after he was announced and had taken his seat. “You getting so weak and soft in your old age that you don’t remember how to properly kill a man anymore?”
“Why don’t you test me and find out?” Cyrus answered him in a calm voice. Grand Duke. I gutted him and he got a new title. Imagine what his King will reward him with when I kill him for real next time.
“What now?” Terian asked. “We kill him, right?”
“Not here,” Cyrus said. He glanced back and saw Cattrine frozen, staring across the distance at the Grand Duke. “Hey,” he said, snapping her attention back to him. “Whatever our differences, you will not be going back with him, understand?”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You are …” She swallowed heavily, “… a man of the finest quality. A woman would be lucky to possess you, even for so short a while as I did.”
“Your mush is making me nauseous,” Terian said as J’anda seated himself next to them. “And I’m already homicidal thanks to Hoygraf’s sudden appearance, so let’s not push it, all right?”
“Your sword is usually far better aimed than this, my friend,” J’anda said to Cyrus without a hint of admonition.
“I’m sorry,” Cyrus snapped, “I can’t recall ever stabbing someone in the stomach with the intention to make the wound painful yet mortal. I’ll try harder next time to maximize his suffering while minimizing his chances of survival.” Cyrus’s expression hardened. “Or maybe I’ll just get back to what I do best, which is killing on the spot and leaving no chance of survival.”
“That’s the spirit, play to your strengths,” J’anda said without enthusiasm. “We still may have to deal with this bastard.”
“Not here,” Curatio said as he seated himself with them. “If you truly mean to revenge yourself upon this man, it at least needs to wait until we’re clear of Enrant Monge. Assuming our general doesn’t disagree,” he said with a nod to Cyrus, “I don’t think we should be causing any more hell for our hosts to deal with. We did come here to help them, after all.”
“To the blazes with our hosts,” Terian said, his eyes afire, “in case you haven’t noticed, King Longwell is using us as the spear to keep his enemies at bay while he tries to decide how best to pluck their Kingdoms. He’ll have us sacking their castles ’ere long, sending us all around this land making us keep his damned peace.”
“You ready to leave?” Cyrus asked Terian, challenge infusing every word. “I’d say Alaric’s about due for a messenger, and you could go right along with them-”
“I’m no coward,” Terian said, sullen. “I’ll stay until the end of the fight. But I don’t like being used, especially not to build someone’s empire. We came here to save Longwell’s father’s Kingdom, and we did that. Now he’s just using us to prop up his army.”
“No doubt,” Samwen Longwell slid onto the bench in front of Cyrus, alongside Curatio, and leaned back. “He will keep us here as long as possible and use whatever pretense he can to extend our stay. The timing of this trip and Actaluere’s declaration was so fortuitous I don’t wonder if there weren’t missives exchanged before the declaration arrived.”
“Usually not a fantastic sign when a man’s own son accuses him of sinister motives,” J’anda said with a shake of the head. “What do we do, then?”
“We wait,” Cyrus said as Actaluere’s King was announced. “We sit here and we watch the whole summit, and we decide where we go from there.”
At that moment, the King of Actaluere was announced with great pomp and circumstance, and a title that took almost two minutes for the herald to fully read. When he came out, Cyrus watched along with the others. Milos Tiernan was a younger man than Aron Longwell, or Briyce Unger, for that matter. His hair was long and black, but straight, and his high cheekbones and cold eyes surveyed everything carefully as he entered from the tunnel, a slow, steady gait to his walk, no crown upon his head. He had no crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes, no obvious wrinkles. His eyes moved slickly, smoothly, and they were smaller than most, Cyrus judged, as though they were always watching everything around him.
When Tiernan reached the amphitheater, he seated himself in the front row, his gaze focused on a mountain of a man in the front row of the Sylorean delegation. Cyrus had noted the Sylorean when he entered; the man appeared to be nearly as tall as Cyrus himself or possibly taller, and he shifted uncomfortably in his robe, as though he chafed under it as some sort of weight upon him. Long, jet-black hair belied a face that bore a couple of choice scars-one under the man’s right eye that stitched several inches down to his jaw. Another ran the length of his forehead, as though it were just another furrow in his brow. If that’s not Briyce Unger, Cyrus thought, I’m a gnome. The entire Sylorean delegation seemed ill at ease, and Cyrus could see, almost instinctively, that every last one of them was watching Unger for a cue, trying to decide how to act, and shifting aimlessly in their seats as though eager to leave.
“And finally,” the last herald announced, launching into a two minute recital of titles before concluding with, “King of Galbadien, Aron Longwell!”
“As a point of literal correctness,” J’anda said with a sigh, “he should have saved the, ‘and finally’ for after the recitation of titles.” The enchanter looked pointedly at Cyrus. “And I thought you were overly impressed with your accolades. You are a rank amateur compared to these shameless self-gratifying professionals.”
“What are you talking about?” Terian said with a malicious grin. “He’s very much in the realm of profess
ional when it comes to self-gratification.” The dark elf cast his wicked smile at Cattrine. “Especially of late.”
Cyrus did not volley back at Terian, instead shifting to watch King Longwell make his way slowly down to the front bench in their segment of the amphitheater. For the first time, Cyrus noted that a few of the grey-robed stewards were lurking behind each set of benches, as though they were waiting for something, standing still, arms crossed behind their backs.
One of the heralds spoke, not echoed by the other two. “Now I introduce to you Brother Grenwald Ivess, the patron of our order, the Brotherhood of the Broken Blade.” A portly, balding man with the last vestiges of grey hair ringing the sides and back of his head made his way down to the empty set of benches on the fourth side of the circle, the unoccupied set to Cyrus’s right.
“The Brotherhood of the Broken Blade has cared for Enrant Monge for thousands of years,” Cattrine said quietly, drawing the attention of all the Sanctuary delegation save for Samwen Longwell, who was leaning over, face resting in his hands, watching the proceedings below unfold as Grenwald Ivess took his seat. “They keep and maintain it as a place of regard for our ancestors who were united in ruling Luukessia. Their mission is to keep it ready for the day when Luukessia will unite again under the banner of old and we will become as great as our fathers before us, equal and worthy to carry on their proud tradition of unity.” She pointed to a fourth tunnel, the one that Grenwald Ivess had come into the garden through. “Out that tunnel is the fourth gate of Enrant Monge, the south gate-also called the Unity Gate. If the day comes that the Kings forge the final peace, those who have attended here will walk out of that gate; it has not been used since Enrant Monge was the seat of all the land.”
“What happened here?” J’anda asked. “What caused the Kingdoms to fragment?”
“I do not know,” Cattrine said. “We have no real records from those days. Our writings have all been lost to the ravages of age, and no one lives who has more than a tale passed down through the millennia, weakened and twisted by the passage of time.” She shrugged. “I doubt you could get an accurate accounting from anyone who wasn’t there themselves to see it-ten thousand years ago.”
Cyrus’s head swiveled slowly along with Longwell’s, Terian’s and J’anda’s, and all four sets of their eyes came to rest on Curatio, who looked back at them impassively, almost disinterested. “Curatio?” J’anda asked.
“Yes, J’anda?” Curatio wore an almost patronizing smile plastered on his face.
“Do tell.”
“Tell what?” Curatio said, maintaining his overly friendly smile as below them Grenwald Ivess stood and launched into a florid greeting that Cyrus didn’t catch a word of. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the healer said, voice slightly above a whisper. “Are you under the impression that I know something about what happened here ten thousand years ago?”
“Ten thousand years ago?” Cyrus asked. “Kind of a funny number. Been coming up a lot lately.”
“A few times in the space of months could be considered hardly more than a coincidence,” Curatio said.
“But it’s not, is it?” J’anda asked. “The War of the Gods, ten thousand years ago? It spilled over here, didn’t it?”
“Not really,” Curatio said. “There were certainly expeditions, but when the war began, I firmly believe it constrained itself to Arkaria. What happened here, I believe, happened shortly before the war. I haven’t heard much more than rumors, secondhand, keep in mind-but to understand even those, you must realize that humans do not originate on Arkaria.
“I’m sorry, what is he talking about?” Cattrine asked.
“He’s over twenty thousand years old,” Cyrus said. “He lived through your land’s schism.” Cyrus watched Cattrine’s jaw drop then watched her eyes flick to Curatio, appraising him, looking for some sign of the age he didn’t show.
“That sounds ridiculous, Curatio,” J’anda said. “Humans are likely the most populous race in Arkaria. They certainly have more in numbers than the dwarves, the gnomes, the elves or the trolls.”
“Very true, but it was not always so. The rise of the Confederation and their power is very recent, remember. In fact, I recall the days when there were no humans.” He sighed. “Not fondly, exactly, but … uh … well.” He paused, slightly pained. “It was simpler back then, you understand.”
“So if humans don’t come from Arkaria …?” Cyrus let his words trail off.
“They are from Luukessia,” Curatio said, “and from inauspicious beginnings did they come to Arkaria-the ancients sent expeditions to Luukessia for purposes of slaving, bringing back tens of thousands of humans to their capital-where Reikonos sits today-as labor for their empire. The expeditions stopped after the ancients were destroyed, obviously, but humanity on Arkaria sprung from the ashes of the empire and took root in their lands.”
“A fascinating history lesson,” Longwell said, skeptical. “But I have a hard time believing that, if you’ll forgive me.”
Curatio shrugged. “I saw enough of it myself to be sure it’s true, humans marched into the coliseum to fight for the entertainment of the ancients. I saw them tending the houses, working in the fields. I’ve never been to Luukessia myself until now, so all I’d heard is what those on the expeditions told me.”
“You knew the ancients?” Cyrus asked.
“Some of them,” Curatio said. “I was in their capital for a time.”
“Interesting story. Will you play Alaric and refuse to tell us any more of it if we ask later?” J’anda watched the healer with a coy smile.
“I’d rather not remember some of those days,” Curatio said darkly. “But I’m willing to discuss parts of it. Back to the point, though-the last time the ancients came here, Luukessia was already in chaos and the land was dividing into what I presume became the Kingdoms you have today.” He shrugged. “That is all I recall of it.”
“Fascinating,” J’anda said as the volume rose down on the floor, drowning out any further whispering.
King Longwell was standing now as was Milos Tiernan and a few of their aides as well. “I have done nothing to you,” King Longwell said, his voice comically raised. “Did I ransack one of your castles? Did my army? No.”
“It was your vassals,” Milos Tiernan said, his voice calm, much calmer than Longwell’s. “I see them, even now, sitting with my sister, as though to taunt me with her as an affront to my honor.” Cyrus looked at the man carefully, watching his facial movements, and decided that if there was any sign of effrontery there, it was well hidden. “Your mercenaries came through my lands and caused great harm to my people.”
“Your Baron kidnapped my people and brought great harm to your own lands,” Cyrus said, standing, and drawing a gasp from the crowds on Actaluere’s and Galbadien’s benches. “Had he simply let us pass, none of what you’re upset over would have happened, and he’d still be a baron,” Cyrus pointed to Hoygraf, who glared at him, hunched over on his seat, “with all his equipment still functioning, and not a Grand Duke who lacks any grandiosity.”
“You have no standing to speak here, sir,” Milos Tiernan said, still unexpressive.
“And yet I’m standing and I’m speaking,” Cyrus said. “How ’bout that.”
Cyrus felt the tug of Odau Genner pulling on his sleeve, so he sat and Genner whispered to him, “Interrupting the debate of Kings is not considered to be appropriate.”
Cyrus stared at the clearly disturbed Genner, whose face seemed to be twitching from thought of the infraction of the rules. “I’ll do it sparingly in the future,” Cyrus said, causing Genner to twitch anew.
They returned their attention to the floor, where King Longwell was reading a list of grievances to Briyce Unger of Syloreas, who stared at his feet in utter boredom. When Aron Longwell finished, he asked, “What say you, Unger?”
Briyce Unger stirred, slowly, as though awakening from a sleep. He got to his feet, unfolding his massive frame. He was muscled like Cyrus, though he was
older, and his physique bulged even through the sleeves of the robe. “It’s all true,” Unger said. “I won’t deny a bit of it, though some of those injuries don’t sound like things my men did, especially a few of those villages you claim were damaged. Seems they’re a mite further south than my armies got, at least to my understanding, but I’ll not quibble with your accounting.”
A buzz ran through the garden, one of amused joy in the Galbadien ranks, slight shock in Actaluere’s, and mutinous rumblings from Syloreas. “What’s that about?” Cyrus asked Genner, who watched agape.
“Briyce Unger has just accepted the King’s reportage of grievances,” Genner said, his mouth flapping in shock. “That means he’ll agree to pay reparations for the damages. Such things are never agreed upon this quickly in the moot, and certainly not wholly-I mean, we included villages in the listing that suffered no damage, so we would be able to cede some out from the final figures. That’s how it works, you see, you profess a list of damages, they deny it totally, then you give them a smaller list, they acknowledge one, maybe two, and it goes on-no one accepts a list of grievances wholly, not ever!”
“Why would he do that?” Cyrus asked.
“How much will he be paying?” Terian asked, a glimmer in his eyes.
“I don’t know on either count,” Genner said. “It’s all to be decided later, in smaller sessions. This first session is for the points of major contention, when all the grievances are reported; the mediations come later and are handled by underlings, not the Kings.”
“Briyce Unger,” Grenwald Ivess spoke, as King Longwell took his seat. “Now has come the time for your first grievance to be brought.”
Unger took his feet once more, and motioned up the steps behind him. “I have a grievance mightier than anyone else, one that concerns everyone in this room, eventually, one which will destroy us all if left unchecked.”
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