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 could 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
