“I don’t suppose any of you could find it in yourselves to wear the more elaborate dress clothing they left for us?” Cyrus asked, sotto voce, as they came around a corner and two servants jumped back against the wall, flattening themselves against it so the Sanctuary procession could pass.
“I wore the scarf they left with my ensemble,” J’anda said, his fingers tracing down a purple silk piece of finery that Cyrus had to concede went well with his robes. “Is this not dressy enough for you?”
“The hospitality of my father’s dining room called for a certain sort of fashion,” Longwell said in a muted tone, his armor clinking. “I dressed appropriately.”
“Perhaps you should have worn a scarf as well,” J’anda said.
They were led into the room off the foyer, the long space looking the same as last time, with its plaster walls hiding the stone that Cyrus knew was back there. The fires were burning and there were fewer chairs around the table this time; there were however, Cyrus noted, just as many servants hovering around the table.
After being seated, Cyrus waited, his nose already flooded with the smells of the kitchen, a symphony of delights to the olfactory sense. The King’s seat to his right remained empty when the servants came through with the first course, a soup that was thinner yet more satisfactory than the last he had been served in this very room. It was heavy on the broth, and when he sniffed it, the spices reminded him of Arkaria.
Odau Genner made his way into the room with another man, taking their seats without fanfare or announcement. Count Ewen Ranson made his way across from Cyrus and seated himself without any assistance from the servants, who fawned and fussed over him. He spread his own napkin in his lap as Cyrus watched the older warrior brush them off.
“It is of course a pleasure to see you again, Count Ranson,” Cyrus said, halting his spoon halfway to his mouth.
Ranson looked up at him, hesitant at first, looking to the empty chair to Cyrus’s right as if for approval. “And you as well, Lord Davidon of Perdamun, Warden of the Southern Plains.” He gave Cyrus a half-hearted smile as he said the full title. “I trust all goes in the north as we have heard?”
Cyrus looked back down to the soup. “I suspect so. Have you heard that these enemies will be the end of your entire land?”
Ranson’s face shifted not at all, but his eyes fell to his own bowl. “That would be the gist of what I have heard, yes.”
“Yet your army remains idle here,” Cyrus said then took a sip from his spoon. It was hot but not too hot, and the scent of the tomato that flavored it was perfect, no hint of acidity to be found.
“My army remains as my King commands,” Ranson said stiffly, and then lapsed into a silence with the rest of the table.
It was not until the main course of duck was brought out that the King finally made his appearance, looking even more drawn than when Cyrus had last seen him. Cyrus noted for the first time that Samwen Longwell was seated considerably down the table from him, where before he had been seated at the right hand of his father. Cyrus wondered at his place directly left of the King, and Ranson across from him. Aisling was to his left, but she seemed to be keeping quiet, and he could not hear even the faintest slurp as she daintily attacked her soup. He began to make comment to her about this then decided the better of it, finding no tactful way to tell her that she could suck more quietly than any woman he’d ever known.
The duck was soft, slightly greasy but succulent, as Cyrus chewed the meat. The King had entered to little enough fanfare, but he had said nothing since seating himself. He was far from jovial normally, and now he seemed even more downtrodden and quieter than ever he had been before. His paunch was still obvious, but the rest of his body was skeletal, shriveled, as though all the life had gone out all of him but his belly. His skin was badly settled on his bones and he carried an ill humor about him.
“King Longwell,” Cyrus said, halfway through his duck breast, “might I speak with you about the situation in the north, sir?”
“Speak all you would care to,” the King said, “and I can even guarantee that I will listen-until such time as I want to hear no more.”
Cyrus chose his words carefully. “Surely you know, as wise and informed as you are, that we have come from the battlefield up north where Syloreas and Actaluere have faced this new threat to Luukessia. You have heard that our armies were beaten back by this enemy, nearly broken, and survive only through sheer force of will.” Cyrus leaned heavily on the table with his elbow, trying to get the King to give him his attention. The King was plucking at the duck breast with his fingers, tearing strips of meat from it. “These beasts are coming south, even now, and will surely reach the gates of Vernadamn by this time next year, at the latest.”
“What of it?” King Longwell said, looking up as he took a bite of duck. Flecks of half-chewed food fell upon the table, landing just short of where Cyrus’s gauntlet rested. “Let them come, I say. Let them chew up the Tiernans, those whores, and the Ungers, those brutish fools. Let them eat Syloreas and Actaluere whole.” Utter distaste dripped from his words. “I welcome them. Let them come, this … scourge. Let it scour the land, cleanse it, and when it is done, we will march forth from Vernadam and destroy them, unifying all of Luukkesia under the banners of Galbadien. He cracked an odd, loathing smile. “Don’t you see? These things, they are the vessel of our ancestors, a sacred cleansing for a land torn asunder. This is our destiny. This is that which will deliver us from the fools that have run us aground with their dishonor and lies. Let them come. Galbadien has stood for ten thousand years. We shall rule the land of Luukessia for the next ten thousand.”
There was a quiet that settled over the dining room, one that lasted for almost a minute unbroken, until J’anda spoke. “Oh.”
“Oh?” King Longwell said, looking up from his duck breast, another strip of meat clutched in his greasy fingers. “That is what you bring me? ‘Oh?’ Such a measured reaction, such a clever deduction, really.”
“I think it was probably just shock,” Cyrus said, “considering I just heard the most wholly unbelievable idiocy I have ever heard breathed, and it came out of the mouth of a King.”
There was quiet again, and J’anda’s voice was heard once more. “Oh. My.”
King Longwell’s putrid loathing turned toward Cyrus. “You come into my hall and insult me. You have done nothing but insult me since the day you arrived-”
“And save your Kingdom from your own incompetence,” Cyrus said, interrupting the King, who did not stop speaking. “Don’t forget that.”
“-the day you arrived with your arrogance,” King Longwell said, his speech now heated, “and bringing with you these westerners, these- these- magicians,” he imparted a sort of vitriol to the word that made it sound like the lowest form of insult, “and in the company of the great whore of Actaluere-”
Cyrus stood at that, his chair falling over behind him, the sound of wood cracking and splintering upon landing on the marble floor. He kept his hand well clear of his sword but glared down at the King. “Just because you’re a King, it doesn’t give you license to speak that way of her.”
Aron Longwell looked up at Cyrus with a malignant glee buried under sheerest loathing. “Doesn’t it? Didn’t you as much as say so yourself to her? Did you not cast her back to her husband’s loving embrace? Did she not fill your ears with lies and poisons even as she lured you to her bed and kept you entranced with her feminine wiles? Is she not the whollest example of a harlot run amok, doing the bidding of her husband and brother, stirring chaos, whoring herself to a man with power, drawing him in while she worked her way into your confidence-”