Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (38 page)

“What about Syloreas?” Cyrus asked.

“Master of Scylax Hall, the Grand Duke of the Erres Fjords, conqueror of Viras Tellus, victor at the battle of Argoss Swamp and master of the north, the King of Syloreas, Briyce Unger!” The shout carried down the tunnel and drew a sharp sigh of reprobation from Genner.

“The northmen always do things differently,” Genner complained. “Uncivilized blighters, aren’t they? Focused on war and destruction, conquest and battle. Bloody savages if you ask me.” Another name was called, this one from Actaluere’s rolls. “Don’t get me wrong, we’ve been known to engage in a war or two ourselves. But the business of Galbadien is not in war, it’s in the good, green land. We’ll fight, when necessary, but the Syloreans … they’ll fight simply because they want to fight.”

“It’s of great interest to me,” Cyrus began, folding his arms over his green robes, “how many times I’ve been to lands when people are at war. You know what’s funny about that? It’s always the other party that seems to have started it. No one ever wants to admit that they might be at fault for a war beginning, but everyone damned sure wants to win once it’s begun.”

“Yes, I see,” Genner said. “How peculiar.”

A succession of names went on as servants of King Longwell passed him in the line, going forth into the garden. Count Ranson was called shortly thereafter, with a litany of titles. By now, Cyrus was near the front, and when one of them in particular was called—“Victor of the Battle of Harrow’s Crossing!”—he saw Ranson stiffen and turn, appalled, his mouth agape, until his eyes locked onto Cyrus’s and he shook his head in apology. Cyrus watched and shrugged, feeling a strange mix of despondence and indifference that he couldn’t quite attribute to any one thing.

When Cyrus drew near to the front of the line, the herald stopped him, asking him quickly for a title and listing, finding nothing about him on the parchment he held in front of him. Cyrus obliged, quickly, between the herald’s repeated shouts of the titles and names given by his opposite numbers on Actaluere and Syloreas’s sides of the courtyard.

“General Cyrus Davidon of Sanctuary,” the herald began after completing the call for the Baron who had just entered from Actaluere. “Warden of the Southern Plains, Lord of Perdamun, conqueror of Green Hill, victor of the battle of the Mountains of Nartanis, defender of the Grand Span in Termina, and vanquisher of the Goblin Imperium!”

Cyrus took the cue from the herald and walked forward, out of the tunnel and into the garden. Though slightly smaller than the foyer at Sanctuary, it was filled near to brimming with trees and plants of all kinds, as well as flowers in planters. Four paths led down into the center of the garden, which was a sort of small-scale amphitheater. Three of the four sections had already begun to fill, with green robes seated to his left, nearest him, and opposite them, blue robes that he suspected represented Actaluere’s delegation. Across the center of the amphitheater and to his right was the Sylorean delegation, clad in white robes. To his right was an empty section, bereft of any occupants. Tempted though he was, Cyrus avoided sitting within those seats, veering instead into the Galbadiens’.

He found a clear segment of benches not far from Odau Genner and listened to the next two names called, waiting to hear Samwen Longwell announced to follow him. Instead, he heard something quite unexpected.

“The Baroness Cattrine Tiernan Hoygraf, late of castle Green Hill, free woman and advisor to the guild of Sanctuary.” A buzz of conversation and muted outrage came from the Actaluere delegation, men in blue robes muttering and casting glares toward the Galbadiens, a few choice epithets making their way across the aisle. For their part, the men of Galbadien seemed muted in their response; Odau Genner’s eyes would not meet Cyrus’s and were centered entirely on his leather footwear.

He turned to see Cattrine come down the aisle, seating herself on the empty bench behind him.

Cyrus stared at her. “I thought Longwell was next.”

She didn’t emote when she answered, keeping neutral. “He was behind you, but his father asked that he be announced just before the King, and Samwen acceded to his wishes.” She made a face, a very slight one, of triumph. “The King also asked that I step forward, I think hoping that it might prompt a reaction from the Actaluere delegation.” She wore a bitter smile. “I believe it has.”

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.”

“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 professional 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.”