“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?”
“Why don’t you test me and find out?” Cyrus answered him in a calm voice. Grand Duke. I gutted him and he got a new title. Imagine what his King will reward him with when I kill him for real next time.
“What now?” Terian asked. “We kill him, right?”
“Not here,” Cyrus said. He glanced back and saw Cattrine frozen, staring across the distance at the Grand Duke. “Hey,” he said, snapping her attention back to him. “Whatever our differences, you will not be going back with him, understand?”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You are …” She swallowed heavily, “… a man of the finest quality. A woman would be lucky to possess you, even for so short a while as I did.”
“Your mush is making me nauseous,” Terian said as J’anda seated himself next to them. “And I’m already homicidal thanks to Hoygraf’s sudden appearance, so let’s not push it, all right?”
“Your sword is usually far better aimed than this, my friend,” J’anda said to Cyrus without a hint of admonition.
“I’m sorry,” Cyrus snapped, “I can’t recall ever stabbing someone in the stomach with the intention to make the wound painful yet mortal. I’ll try harder next time to maximize his suffering while minimizing his chances of survival.” Cyrus’s expression hardened. “Or maybe I’ll just get back to what I do best, which is killing on the spot and leaving no chance of survival.”
“That’s the spirit, play to your strengths,” J’anda said without enthusiasm. “We still may have to deal with this bastard.”
“Not here,” Curatio said as he seated himself with them. “If you truly mean to revenge yourself upon this man, it at least needs to wait until we’re clear of Enrant Monge. Assuming our general doesn’t disagree,” he said with a nod to Cyrus, “I don’t think we should be causing any more hell for our hosts to deal with. We did come here to help them, after all.”
“To the blazes with our hosts,” Terian said, his eyes afire, “in case you haven’t noticed, King Longwell is using us as the spear to keep his enemies at bay while he tries to decide how best to pluck their Kingdoms. He’ll have us sacking their castles ’ere long, sending us all around this land making us keep his damned peace.”
“You ready to leave?” Cyrus asked Terian, challenge infusing every word. “I’d say Alaric’s about due for a messenger, and you could go right along with them-”
“I’m no coward,” Terian said, sullen. “I’ll stay until the end of the fight. But I don’t like being used, especially not to build someone’s empire. We came here to save Longwell’s father’s Kingdom, and we did that. Now he’s just using us to prop up his army.”
“No doubt,” Samwen Longwell slid onto the bench in front of Cyrus, alongside Curatio, and leaned back. “He will keep us here as long as possible and use whatever pretense he can to extend our stay. The timing of this trip and Actaluere’s declaration was so fortuitous I don’t wonder if there weren’t missives exchanged before the declaration arrived.”