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.”
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?”
