Crusader

Chapter 26

The journey to Enrant Monge took over three weeks, during which time Cyrus was once again as he had been during the first leg of their trip from Sanctuary. He took his meals alone, gave orders only when he had to, and ignored the few accolades directed his way from soldiers in his army until the word had circulated that the general had sunken once more into a black mood at which point the army went silent whenever he would ride by.

The officers also left him to his own devices, supping without him when they made camp for the day. Cyrus was frequently invited to dine with the King in his own tent. He declined every occasion, often sending one of the other officers in his stead, wordlessly handing off the parchment invitations that seemed to be delivered to him every day in the morning, at the noon hour and when evening came.

The only people who didn’t give him a wide berth were J’anda (who attempted a conversation composed of sheer surface-level pleasantries with him at least once per day), Curatio (who only disturbed him to discuss disciplinary matters or things of other import to the army approximately once a week), and Terian (who wandered by for conversation whenever he felt like it; Cyrus could discern no pattern to the dark knight’s attempts).

The two people whom Cyrus actually wanted, in some deep place within him, to talk to said nothing to him. Both avoided him, going so far as to remain out of his sight whenever possible. Cattrine continued to ride with Nyad and Ryin, though he saw her speaking with almost all the officers at various points in time. She seemed to be trying to give him space, staying as far away from him as possible.

The other person he wanted to talk to had said nothing to him in a month; Aisling had taken to guarding Partus, who was forced to walk while tied to the back of a horse that cantered along. The dwarf looked somewhat ragged after the long journey. Though he was getting no more exercise than any of the other members of the Sanctuary army, he seemed worse the wear for it. He was ungagged only while the cessation spell was cast around him, he was never left unguarded, and his hands remained shackled at all times. The dwarf wore a perpetual scowl until such time as he became exhausted, which was almost always an hour or two into the walk for the day. Aisling seemed to be near him at all times, watching him through slitted eyes, a silent guardian. On the occasions when Cyrus had seen her, she had avoided any sort of eye contact, defying his prediction that when she heard about his falling out with the Baroness, that she would come directly to him. He tried not to read too much into it. Once burned, twice shy. When burned many times … well … I can identify with that.

Their path led them on a long, circuitous route, at first following the road that had led them to Vernadam. When they passed a massive lake, they turned north on a wide road; at the signpost Cyrus found he still couldn’t read the Luukessian language, and worse, he found he did not care. North, south, east or west, they all seemed much the same to him. We’ll settle this war, and then … he thought of Vara, and it still stung, like a dagger picking at an old wound. He thought of Cattrine, and the pain was fresh, like a sword biting at his innards. He pictured the wall of ice again, building it within him block by block and it seemed to soothe the ache, although it did not go away. I don’t know what we’ll do then.

Cyrus’s black misery did not seem to lessen as the days went by; if anything, time and isolation made it worse, like a festering wound. He went to sleep thinking of Vara and Cattrine, Cattrine and Vara, and he felt them trouble his dreams, the two of them, like predatory lionesses, circling him while wounded on a battlefield, each one striking in turn, taking a piece of him away until there was scarcely anything left.

Enrant Monge was on a plateau in the center of Luukessia. As they approached, the ground became hilly, the slope rising and falling as they navigated the hills. After a few days of this, it began to level, and Cyrus found himself looking upon the castle one evening as they were close to their end for the night.

“The King told me when I supped with him earlier that we’ll leave the army nearby,” J’anda said, stirring Cyrus from his silent reverie. “When we stop for the night, they’ll encamp there for the time that the moot takes place. He’s asked you and no more than five other officers to come along when he and the rest of the court goes to the moot.”

“Fine,” Cyrus said, his voice scratchy from disuse. “You, Longwell, Terian, and Curatio. We’ll bring the Baroness as well, give her an opportunity to see her brother.”

“I can’t decide whether that will be a very good idea or a very bad one,” J’anda said. “But I suspect it will be one of the two.”

“Either Tiernan will be happy to see her or he won’t,” Cyrus said. “It doesn’t much matter to me which it is.”

“It would not much matter to you if you were being slowly picked apart by vultures on a battlefield, I suspect, “ J’anda said, prompting Cyrus to send him a look of indifference. “Thank you for proving my point, I think.”

“Impressive,” Cyrus said without feeling. “You sussed that out without even having to reach into my mind.” He laughed, a low, grim laugh that caused the enchanter to edge away almost nervously. “I wonder what you’d see if you cast a mesmerization spell on me now. What do you think my heart’s desire is at this moment?”

“I …” J’anda swallowed deeply, and Cyrus could hear the reluctance in his answer. “I don’t think I would care to know, whatever it is. Your thoughts are not your own, they’re the blackest sort of darkness. You look at a bright summer’s sky like we’ve had for the last three weeks and it looks bleak and grey to your eyes. You are covered in it; it swallows you whole, infects you in a way I have only seen happen to you once before-and this time, it may actually be worse. And since last time involved a death of someone dear to you, I would have thought that that would be impossible.”

“Well, doesn’t that just make you all kinds of wrong,” Cyrus said. “Before I just mourned the loss of a friend. Now I get to watch my faith in others gradually disappear.”

“I don’t think it’s others you’re losing faith in,” J’anda said. “I don’t think it’s that at all. I think you’re starting to lose belief in yourself, that that is what is really eating at you-your confidence is shaken because you feel betrayed. After all, how could this happen to you, twice in a row? You trusted them, you opened your heart to them, and they hurt you. You are wounded. You are licking those wounds. You may think it’s your belief in others that is waning, but this is a problem of you, my friend. You are taking it too personally; these sort of things happen.”

“What do you know?” Cyrus snapped. “I haven’t seen you with a woman in three years.”

“I wasn’t talking about women,” J’anda said coolly. “I was talking about you. Have you not seen me with you in the last three years? Because then I might be speaking of something I know not.”

“Listen-”

“I’m going to ride off now,” J’anda said. “I am not upset with you, though I expect you are with me; I just imagine that you’re running a bit low on people to talk to and I don’t want to make it easy for you to drive another away. We’ll speak again later.” With that, the enchanter rode off, leaving Cyrus staring at him in openmouthed irritation.

Within the hour, the army was beginning to set up camp in the shade of a forest in the hills. From atop one of them, Cyrus could see Enrant Monge in the distance and other armies, smaller ones, encamped to the north and the west, like the three points of a triangle.

Enrant Monge was a castle but not like Vernadam at all. The blocks that it was made of were smaller, yet the design was less ornate and more functional. A simple curtain wall with parapets extended in a perfect square around a courtyard with three towers in the keep. The towers looked to be of different construction than the outer wall, as though they had been added later; cracks in the wall also looked to have been patched with some sort of grout that was visible in the orange light of sunset as the towers cast shade over the whole scene and a cool breeze blew across them. The castle was only a mile or so away, he estimated.

The journey went all too quickly for Cyrus; a few minutes and it seemed to be over. He and the others-Curatio, J’anda, Longwell, Terian, and the Baroness, the latter two trading uneasy looks-rode along with the small delegation from Galbadien to the gates of Enrant Monge. Cyrus had noted that the castle’s four walls each had a gate, one at each compass point. They entered through the eastern gate, and Cyrus looked back to make sure his delegation was still with him as he followed the King’s over the drawbridge. He saw each of them in turn; Longwell, whose gaze was moving around, examining their surroundings with a little awe, Cattrine, who met Cyrus’s look with indifference and turned away after staring him in the eyes for a few seconds. Curatio and J’anda seemed somewhat wary, and Terian was watching Cyrus when he caught the dark knight’s stare. Terian did not look away, however, but continued to watch, Cyrus could feel, even after he had turned back to the path ahead.

The drawbridge was long, a hundred or more feet, and Cyrus pondered the age of the wood with every step Windrider took. It creaked and he looked down into the water. The dark moat rippled as the last vestiges of daylight sparkled across the surface, the orange sky reflected above the ramparts of the castle’s mirror image in the water. As they crossed under the gate, Cyrus saw a few guards standing at attention on either side of them. They carried poleaxes and did not move, their livery something very different than what Cyrus had seen before, a kind of red and yellow surcoat with a coat of arms that had red diagonally at top right and bottom left and yellow at top left and bottom right, with Luukessian writing in the banner across the top. Their surcoats were flawless, their helms a shining metal that gave him a stabbing reminder of Vara. He cast another look back at Cattrine, but she was looking elsewhere, her gaze sliding off the guards at attention.

They passed through a bailey and into a smaller keep, between the guards standing at attention outside it. Once through the gate, there were no guards, only stewards, unarmed, waiting for them, bowing (Again with the bowing, thought Cyrus, it’s a wonder these people have spines left at all after so much of it) as King Longwell brought his delegation to a halt and Cyrus stopped his just behind him.

“Welcome to Enrant Monge,” the lead steward, a short man in flowing grey robes with long hair that matched them, said, “the heart of unity in Luukessia.”

Cyrus heard Terian snort loud enough to attract the attention of everyone around him. “Sorry,” the dark knight said, “I guess I must have failed to notice the unity in all the battles I’ve fought since I got here.” Cyrus sent him a dirty look, which was matched by Curatio and J’anda. Terian shrugged, unfazed.

The steward ignored him and continued his clearly pre-practiced speech, hands in the air above him. “The delegations from Syloreas and Actaluere have already arrived, and we will begin with the traditional welcome ceremony of peace in the garden in half an hour.” The steward nodded. “I would remind you that no weapons or armor are allowed in the garden of serenity, and that no violence is permitted within the walls of Enrant Monge under penalty of death.”

“That’s usually how my acts of violence turn out anyway,” Terian said, prompting Curatio to shush him.

“Your tower quarters are prepared,” the steward said. He bowed again, causing Cyrus to unwittingly roll his eyes. “Go forth in peace, brothers.”

“But not sisters, eh?” Cyrus heard J’anda mutter to Cattrine, causing her to laugh airily.

“This way to the tower,” Odau Genner said from his place next to Count Ranson, who looked back at the Sanctuary members in amusement. If the King thought anything that had been said was funny, he hid it well, riding atop his horse with only the thinnest hint of expression.

Cyrus dismounted in the courtyard and let a stableboy lead Windrider off with the other horses, back toward the first bailey that they had crossed. Cyrus looked around the inner keep-the three towers he had seen from the ridge above Enrant Monge were visible now, and ahead of him was another walled structure-not quite high enough to be a keep, but through a tunnel he could see trees.

“The Garden of Serenity,” Cattrine said, brushing against him as she walked past. His eyes followed her, sinking lower, to her backside, her riding pants clinging to the lines of her figure after the last long hours on horseback. He blinked and looked up as she turned and caught him, her eyes flashing … something. Before, Cyrus would have assumed lust coupled with amusement, but now it was mixed with coolness. “The center of the castle and the place where the old keep sat in ancient times, the seat of old Luukessia before the schism. Our entire land was ruled from here.”

“I’m sure it was very impressive,” Cyrus said with some tightness. “Did I hear him say we’re not allowed weapons or armor within the walls?”

“Of the Garden of Serenity, yes,” Cattrine said. “You’ll be expected to leave them behind in your room in the tower.”

He started toward the tower and leaned close to her as he passed, felt the brush of her hair against his, sensed her close and fought off the momentary, mad desire to take her in his arms and- He stopped and whispered in her ear, “and will you be leaving your dagger in your room in the tower?”

He leaned back to see her eyes, and when he did he saw ice, pure and cool, her green irises frosted over. “If I didn’t,” she said, “I’d be in violation of the laws of Luukessia and subject to death.”

“That wasn’t really an answer,” Cyrus said, and followed the King and his party toward the tower built into the outer wall of the garden-one of three, but the only one on this side of the keep. Within, he found a dim entry chamber and thick stone walls. The place was lit with small windows, arched but only six inches or so across. Candles hung from the walls and the overhead chandeliers, giving the rooms and the stone within an orange glow, something flickering and dimmer by far than the bright, open-paned windows of Vernadam or even Green Hill. Sanctuary, by contrast, made the tower look even dimmer.

Cyrus waited as King Longwell and his party were escorted to chambers on the lower floors. Cyrus and his party were paired with another steward, a younger one, who led them up several spirals of the staircase, which ran up the center of the castle. Cyrus estimated they were on the fifth or sixth floor when the steward came to a stop and began assigning them rooms. Cyrus deferred to Cattrine, allowing her first choice. The steward opened a door and offered a smallish chamber, not even as large as the bedroom in the suite he and Cattrine had shared at Vernadam.

She nodded in acknowledgment, and the steward blushed. “There is no bath for the ladies in this tower, madam. If you’d like, we can bring up a wooden laundry tub and fill it any time you’d care for a bath.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That will be fine.”

“Where’s the garderobe?” Terian asked, peering into Cattrine’s chambers, drawing a look of annoyance from the Baroness, whose passage through the door was blocked by the dark elf. “Or do you have a communal chamber for that?”

“Ah, no,” said the steward with a hint of embarrassment. “Enrant Monge is an ancient keep, sir.” The steward blushed further at Terian when the dark elf turned his full attention on the dumbstruck lad, who likely had never seen a dark elf before. “We do not have garderobes.”

“Oh gods,” Terian said in disgust. “Chamber pots? We’re to use chamber pots? Why not just stay with the army? At least I could walk away from the latrine.”

“We clean your quarters every morning, sir,” the steward asserted, seeming to make a slight recovery. “I assure you, we take the utmost pride in-”

“Cleaning my shite?” Terian asked, darkly amused. “I’m sure you do.” He took note of Cattrine, standing behind him and bowed in an exaggerated manner as he moved aside to allow her to pass. “A thousand pardons, my lady.”

“You’ll need a thousand and one, since you presumed to call me ‘your’ lady.” Cattrine stepped past him as though he were no longer there.

“I apologize,” Terian said, fake contrition oozing over his voice. “A thousand and one pardons to Lord Davidon’s bedchamber wench, I apologize for-”

She slapped him hard; whether it was because he did not see her attack coming or because he chose to let her hit him, Cyrus could not say.

Terian rubbed his jaw where her hand had landed, a slight smile on his face, the skin already deepening to a darker shade of blue. “Is that not considered to be violence in this place of peace?” Terian asked the steward.

“I saw no violence, sir,” the steward replied without emotion. “Even were it to happen again, I suspect I still would not see it as such. Enrant Monge is a place of peace, not a place of veiled insults or unkindness toward women.”

“Well, isn’t this a fine place to stay,” Terian said acidly. “Perhaps you’ll show me to my own room now, so that I may express my sentiments to my chamber pot.”

The steward led them on, and Cyrus saw Cattrine disappear behind the door of her room, giving one last look at him before she shuttered herself within.

Cyrus was the last to get his room, a floor above the Baroness’s, and not next to anyone but Terian, who had entered his own without comment. Cyrus found his accommodations small but did not complain nor say anything but a brief thanks to the steward, who closed the door and left Cyrus in his room.

Cyrus stared at the walls, the small, rectangular space reminding him of the dungeon room he had taken for a brief time at Sanctuary over a year ago. With a sigh and some reluctance, he began by unstrapping his belt, grasping the scabbard of Praelior, holding it in his hands while he studied it. Avenger’s Rest, he thought, remembering the name of the scabbard. I just came from a month of rest, and already I am weary again.

He placed the sword with care upon the bed then eased himself down on the frame, careful to not land too heavily upon it for fear of breaking it. I find myself again rampant with desire. He removed his helm and laid it upon a nearby table. I had a month of free expression of that as well; after such a long time of lacking, it now feels strange to go without the touch of a woman. He grimaced, feeling his desire blossom inadvertantly once more. This needs to stop if I’m to be attired in cloth during my stay here, lest my embarrassment become a constant.

He tugged at his boot, felt the first of them give, sliding around his heel and off, as he set it upon the stone floor with a quiet clang. I could have been back at Sanctuary now. Back among the others … Vaste, Andren … Alaric. The Guildmaster’s name brought a slight tremor of unease; he remembered Alaric’s anger, his rage at Cyrus, the night before they had left. How is it that I can take wrath and anger from creatures as tall as a building that want to kill me-from a god, enraged, ready to smite me-but that of a man smaller than I, a simple paladin and Guildmaster, terrifies me? He felt a burning heat under his collar and slid the gloves from his hands, one by one, placing them upon the dresser. All he did was raise his voice, and I cowered before him, as though I were a child again, listening to the thundercrack of my father’s voice. Cyrus paused. I don’t even remember my father’s voice.

He worked loose the pauldrons from his shoulders, and laid them at the foot of the bed. We killed a god. I had saved Vara. It was a moment of triumph, and he … merely yelled at me. Cyrus slid off his vambraces, one at a time, working them free to expose the sleeves of his undershirt. He tossed them upon the bed next to the pauldrons. I had scarcely thought of that, since five minutes later I was neatly gutted and tossed aside by Vara but … that might prove tense, if Alaric is still upset with me when I return.

His eyes ran across the room, searching for something familiar but finding only his own armor and darkened surroundings, the single portal window shedding light. It’s been months now, doubtless he’ll have forgotten whatever irritation he held for me by the time I return. He was fine, after all, when we spoke a few minutes later. He even rallied the army for me to take along. Cyrus’s greaves came off and slid down, and he laid them at the foot of the bed on the stone floor, careful not to let them drop for fear of the awful clangor they would make when they hit.

What awaits me at Sanctuary when I return? Possibly a still-angry Guildmaster. A woman who has rejected my advances, who has rejected me … He stopped and pictured her, Vara, as he had seen her once in the garden behind Sanctuary on a sunny day, her hair glowing in the light. He felt the stab again. She is unlikely to have changed her mind; she is more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met. He unfastened his breastplate and backplate, and took them off, lowering them to rest on top of his greaves. So I’ll have at least her to contend with. A light blanket of misery settled upon him. Which might not be so bad, save for the fact that … He rubbed his eyes, as though by blotting out the world he could change it to suit his liking. … I don’t know that I feel any differently about her than I did when I left.

Cyrus lifted his chainmail over his head in a single motion, slipping it off and depositing it with the other armor he had left on the bed. He paused, noting a few new holes in the links where blades had slipped through since he’d last had it mended, and shook his head. All this heavy armor and I’m still vulnerable to all manner of attacks. He smiled ruefully. Perhaps the secret is to not get hit. That might be a better solution than armor. But I suppose it’s rather like not falling in love-and he felt the searing pain of Vara and now Cattrine-if only it were possible to prevent.

He looked at the full-length mirror in the corner, at the stained and messy cloth undershirt and sighed. What the hell am I supposed to wear to this ceremony? His eyes fell upon the dresser, a tall armoire next to it. He opened the dresser first, finding cloth shirts within of varying sizes, even one large enough to fit him, and then pants as well, with laces for the front.

Upon opening the armoir he blinked. Long robes of green cloth occupied the interior, the same style and cut as had been worn by the stewards that had greeted them upon arrival, but the green was far deeper and more lively than the dull grey worn by the brethren who seemed to maintain the castle. Cyrus wondered at them, at their origin. Do they come from one of the Kingdoms? Or are they set apart and stay here? I should ask Cattrine- The thought cropped into his mind before he could quell it, a remnant of the month they had spent together at Vernadam. He felt the bitterness of the thought; it had occurred to him infrequently on the journey, creeping up on him when he least expected it, when he forgot the argument, forgot her betrayal.

A gonging in the hallway drew his attention as he finished slipping into the robe. It fit over his head, thick and heavy like burlap, and his new underclothes protected him from the roughness of the cloth. He glanced into the bottom of the armoire where several sizes of boots awaited, and he immediately knew that all of them were far too small for his needs. He sighed and tried on the largest of them, stopping once he had crammed his foot far enough in to know they would never fit. He replaced the footcovers he wore under his boots instead and made his way out of the room.

Cyrus found the others milling about in the hallway, down the spiral of the stairs, and the deep, resonant gonging continued, ringing forth once every thirty seconds as the tower continued to empty. Cyrus led the way, finding Curatio and J’anda still in their own robes. Longwell and Terian had similarly changed into garb resembling his. Longwell appeared to be at peace with his robes while Terian fussed at his, muttering mild curses in the dark elven language that Cyrus knew only because of how foul they were.

Cattrine waited on the landing below, still clad in her riding outfit. The others followed Cyrus, and when he paused to acknowledge her, looking her riding outfit up and down with a flick of his eyes, she spoke. “Women don’t wear the robes of the brethren.” She drew up and folded her arms. “Women are to be clad in dresses at all times and not to adopt the accouterments of men.” He raised an eyebrow at her, letting the unasked question hang between them. She smiled, but there was none of the sweetness or promise it carried a month earlier. “This ought to leave my brother with a certain sting.”

“Yes,” Cyrus agreed, “I know from experience you’re quite good at that.” He didn’t wait for her to respond, instead leading the way down the stairs to the bottom.

When they reached the bottom he followed the grey-clad stewards in a column out into the courtyard, where they joined a long line outside the gates to the Garden of Serenity. They stopped in the small tunnel, as each of the members entering was called forward, their full rank and titles being yelled out into the garden.

Cyrus heard an echoing voice as they waited in a line, moving forward as one person from each Kingdom was admitted at a time. There were heralds stationed at each entrance to the garden and they took up the call of their fellows whenever a name and title were called out, making certain that everyone in the garden and waiting in the tunnel heard it as well. The herald shouted in front of him and Cyrus found himself cupping one hand to his ear as he did so.

Odau Genner was in front of him and leaned back to speak. “Our King will have you go before him, so that he may enter last. I suspect Actaluere will do the same.”

“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.”