After so many days of numbing, wearying travel, one arrived where he found himself staring into the distance and staring back at him at the top of a crest was the familiar shape of Enrant Monge. He heard a few whoops from behind him as the men of the Galbadien army let out their pent-up emotion at seeing their destination after a long journey.
“I will not be sorry to be done riding,” J’anda said, his hand rubbing the outside of his robes just below his back. “This is quite enough for a while.”
“I never get tired of riding,” Aisling said with a lascivious smile toward Cyrus.
He glanced back at her. “You haven’t done that in a long time.”
She shrugged, and he thought he caught a hint of disappointment. “Before I was trying to work to entice you. Now, I scarcely have to entice you at all.”
They left the army behind on the flat grounds before the woods, left them to set camp in an open space as Cyrus rode with Longwell and the others into the big, wide gate on the western facing of Enrant Monge. There were Sylorean refugees along every bit of the ride, as there had been for the last few hundred miles of the journey, sunken-eyed beggar folk with weary looks.
“Do you suppose we’ll finally ride through the Unity gate now?” Longwell asked, and Cyrus watched the new King, who maintained an air of guarded skepticism.
“This would be the closest we’ve ever gotten, my King,” Count Ranson answered after a second’s reflection. “Perhaps not as anticipated, in a new Kingdom of Union for all Luukessia, but united in common purpose.”
“Seems more genuine than with a monarch at your head,” Cyrus said, “ruling through fear.”
“The last Kings of all Luukessia were hardly tyrants,” Ranson said, as though delivering a history lesson to an interested student. “The Kings of Old Enrant Monge were good men, fair men, who ruled with strength and honor, and who delegated most of their power to the three Grand Dukes. When the last King died and his only son, Lord Garrick, went missing after an expedition, the three Grand Dukes broke with formality, argued among themselves, and each declared himself the new King in turn. They made their protestations, but none would see the other for the true ruler of Luukessia, and so each left Enrant Monge in turn, so furious with the others that they went out through their own gate, to consolidate and hold their own seats of power, and then each raged at the others in turn, in wars, for the next ten thousand years, returning to Enrant Monge and the old guardians of the King of Luukessia-the Brothers of the Broken Blade, who remained there to mediate disputes, and to hold the castle against the predations of the the three Kingdoms.”
“So it was your forerunners who were the tyrants,” Cyrus said with a half-smile.
Ranson seemed to take the jest in the spirit it was intended. “Not my forerunners, no.”
They galloped through the inner gate. The refugees watched the column and the King of Galbadien with awe as he passed into the courtyard, which had masses of the careworn gathered around its walls, their hungry eyes quieted by the food that members of the Brotherhood of the Broken Blade were dispensing to them from a station in the corner. There were dark clouds overhead, putting the whole of the world in a dim glow. The stones of the castle that had been a shining orange when Cyrus saw them in sunlight were greyed now, the overcast light tingeing them. The smell of sodden hay was even sharper in the crisp air, the smell of the horses potent as they approached the small stables. There were a few boys milling about, caring for the animals, and Cyrus could hear one of the horses whicker as they approached. He gave a reassuring pat as he dismounted, to which Windrider responded with a whinny.
“It’s you, m’lord,” said the boy who rushed out to take the reins of the horse from Cyrus. He was familiar, and it took only a second for Cyrus to realize that it was the same lad who had spoken to him when last he’d left Enrant Monge. “You’ve come back to us again.”
“I have,” Cyrus said, feeling the stress in him as he recalled the lad’s words when last they’d spoke.
“You’re going to save us,” the boy said, in awe. “You’re going to save Luukessia from them … from those things.”
Cyrus didn’t answer at first, looking back to see if anyone had heard. The others of his party were met by additional lads from the stable, boys collecting the reins to more than one horse, leading the animals away. Ranson and Longwell stood apart, off to the side, as though trying to make a decision. J’anda was the only one watching him, listening; J’anda and perhaps Aisling, though her back was turned and he knew not what she was doing.
“I’m going to try,” Cyrus said at last, handing the reins to the boy.
“You’ll do it,” the boy said with utmost faith, surprisingly cheerful to Cyrus’s ears. The boy favored him with a smile. “You’re him. You’ll do it.”
Cyrus tried to smile back but failed; a little bitter grimace of half-effort was all he managed. He followed the others as they went, the chill seeping into him. There was a trace of snow here and there as they walked, gathered into near-insubstantial piles on the ground; Cyrus wondered how deep the snow would get here, if it would turn bad at all. He looked north\ toward the wall of the courtyard, where he knew a gate led to Syloreas’s courtyard. How far away are they now?
There was a quiet in the castle as they entered the tower; none of the Brothers were in sight, and Cyrus wondered where the keepers of the castle were. They made their way forward toward the center of the structure, toward the Garden of Serenity. Still, there were no Brethren so they entered the long tunnel to the garden. There were voices within, echoing from the hallway, distorted. Cyrus recalled the listing of names, of accolades shouted by heralds in this very place. Now there was only talk on the other end, low, discontented, and just as bitter to his ears as the wind when it picked up and raced through.
When Cyrus emerged behind Ranson and Longwell, the voices died down, and he could see men huddled around the amphitheater at the center of the Garden of Serenity. He recognized Milos Tiernan immediately then saw Briyce Unger standing in his usual place, his face puckered with a new scar. Brother Grenwald Ivess stood at the west facing of seats, where he had been when last they had met. Eyes swiveled toward the entourage from Galbadien, and Cyrus saw the frown from Unger and the soft dissolve to impartiality on Tiernan’s face as they came down.
There were other figures, too, Cyrus realized as they descended into the amphitheater; Curatio and Terian waited in the place where the Galbadien delegation was usually seated. Curatio gave him a half-hearted smile when they began to descend the steps. Cyrus kept his gaze on Terian, though, and the dark knight kept his on Cyrus, their eyes locked as the meeting came to a halt while the new arrivals took their seats.
“We are well pleased to see you,” Grenwald Ivess said as Cyrus shuffled past Terian. Ranson and Longwell remained standing at the front row, and Curatio stayed forward with them, though he gave a short bow and stepped aside so they could take the center of the bench. Longwell stood there, still in his blued armor, his helm being carried by Odau Genner, who hovered in the second row, his red face glowing in the grey day.
“May I present the King of Galbadien,” Count Ranson said, drawing a look of surprise from Briyce Unger and Grenwald Ivess. Tiernan, for his part, remained nearly inscrutable, only a small smile making its way from behind his facade.
“Your Majesty,” Grenwald Ivess said with a nod and the slightest bow. “You have, I fear, run into the middle of our discussion at an inopportune moment, but your arrival will perhaps make it more opportune than it was. You have brought some forces, I take it?”
“I have brought everything that Galbadien holds,” Longwell said. “Every man who can ride with a spear or lance, every man who can stand and fight with sword or shield, and every boy and grey-haired fellow to boot. Whatever Galbadien holds, I have committed to this defense-to Luukessia.”