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.