“Usually not a fantastic sign when a man’s own son accuses him of sinister motives,” J’anda said with a shake of the head. “What do we do, then?”
“We wait,” Cyrus said as Actaluere’s King was announced. “We sit here and we watch the whole summit, and we decide where we go from there.”
At that moment, the King of Actaluere was announced with great pomp and circumstance, and a title that took almost two minutes for the herald to fully read. When he came out, Cyrus watched along with the others. Milos Tiernan was a younger man than Aron Longwell, or Briyce Unger, for that matter. His hair was long and black, but straight, and his high cheekbones and cold eyes surveyed everything carefully as he entered from the tunnel, a slow, steady gait to his walk, no crown upon his head. He had no crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes, no obvious wrinkles. His eyes moved slickly, smoothly, and they were smaller than most, Cyrus judged, as though they were always watching everything around him.
When Tiernan reached the amphitheater, he seated himself in the front row, his gaze focused on a mountain of a man in the front row of the Sylorean delegation. Cyrus had noted the Sylorean when he entered; the man appeared to be nearly as tall as Cyrus himself or possibly taller, and he shifted uncomfortably in his robe, as though he chafed under it as some sort of weight upon him. Long, jet-black hair belied a face that bore a couple of choice scars-one under the man’s right eye that stitched several inches down to his jaw. Another ran the length of his forehead, as though it were just another furrow in his brow. If that’s not Briyce Unger, Cyrus thought, I’m a gnome. The entire Sylorean delegation seemed ill at ease, and Cyrus could see, almost instinctively, that every last one of them was watching Unger for a cue, trying to decide how to act, and shifting aimlessly in their seats as though eager to leave.
“And finally,” the last herald announced, launching into a two minute recital of titles before concluding with, “King of Galbadien, Aron Longwell!”
“As a point of literal correctness,” J’anda said with a sigh, “he should have saved the, ‘and finally’ for after the recitation of titles.” The enchanter looked pointedly at Cyrus. “And I thought you were overly impressed with your accolades. You are a rank amateur compared to these shameless self-gratifying professionals.”
“What are you talking about?” Terian said with a malicious grin. “He’s very much in the realm of professional when it comes to self-gratification.” The dark elf cast his wicked smile at Cattrine. “Especially of late.”
Cyrus did not volley back at Terian, instead shifting to watch King Longwell make his way slowly down to the front bench in their segment of the amphitheater. For the first time, Cyrus noted that a few of the grey-robed stewards were lurking behind each set of benches, as though they were waiting for something, standing still, arms crossed behind their backs.
One of the heralds spoke, not echoed by the other two. “Now I introduce to you Brother Grenwald Ivess, the patron of our order, the Brotherhood of the Broken Blade.” A portly, balding man with the last vestiges of grey hair ringing the sides and back of his head made his way down to the empty set of benches on the fourth side of the circle, the unoccupied set to Cyrus’s right.
“The Brotherhood of the Broken Blade has cared for Enrant Monge for thousands of years,” Cattrine said quietly, drawing the attention of all the Sanctuary delegation save for Samwen Longwell, who was leaning over, face resting in his hands, watching the proceedings below unfold as Grenwald Ivess took his seat. “They keep and maintain it as a place of regard for our ancestors who were united in ruling Luukessia. Their mission is to keep it ready for the day when Luukessia will unite again under the banner of old and we will become as great as our fathers before us, equal and worthy to carry on their proud tradition of unity.” She pointed to a fourth tunnel, the one that Grenwald Ivess had come into the garden through. “Out that tunnel is the fourth gate of Enrant Monge, the south gate-also called the Unity Gate. If the day comes that the Kings forge the final peace, those who have attended here will walk out of that gate; it has not been used since Enrant Monge was the seat of all the land.”
“What happened here?” J’anda asked. “What caused the Kingdoms to fragment?”
“I do not know,” Cattrine said. “We have no real records from those days. Our writings have all been lost to the ravages of age, and no one lives who has more than a tale passed down through the millennia, weakened and twisted by the passage of time.” She shrugged. “I doubt you could get an accurate accounting from anyone who wasn’t there themselves to see it-ten thousand years ago.”
Cyrus’s head swiveled slowly along with Longwell’s, Terian’s and J’anda’s, and all four sets of their eyes came to rest on Curatio, who looked back at them impassively, almost disinterested. “Curatio?” J’anda asked.
“Yes, J’anda?” Curatio wore an almost patronizing smile plastered on his face.
“Do tell.”
“Tell what?” Curatio said, maintaining his overly friendly smile as below them Grenwald Ivess stood and launched into a florid greeting that Cyrus didn’t catch a word of. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the healer said, voice slightly above a whisper. “Are you under the impression that I know something about what happened here ten thousand years ago?”
“Ten thousand years ago?” Cyrus asked. “Kind of a funny number. Been coming up a lot lately.”
“A few times in the space of months could be considered hardly more than a coincidence,” Curatio said.
“But it’s not, is it?” J’anda asked. “The War of the Gods, ten thousand years ago? It spilled over here, didn’t it?”
“Not really,” Curatio said. “There were certainly expeditions, but when the war began, I firmly believe it constrained itself to Arkaria. What happened here, I believe, happened shortly before the war. I haven’t heard much more than rumors, secondhand, keep in mind-but to understand even those, you must realize that humans do not originate on Arkaria.
“I’m sorry, what is he talking about?” Cattrine asked.
“He’s over twenty thousand years old,” Cyrus said. “He lived through your land’s schism.” Cyrus watched Cattrine’s jaw drop then watched her eyes flick to Curatio, appraising him, looking for some sign of the age he didn’t show.
“That sounds ridiculous, Curatio,” J’anda said. “Humans are likely the most populous race in Arkaria. They certainly have more in numbers than the dwarves, the gnomes, the elves or the trolls.”
“Very true, but it was not always so. The rise of the Confederation and their power is very recent, remember. In fact, I recall the days when there were no humans.” He sighed. “Not fondly, exactly, but … uh … well.” He paused, slightly pained. “It was simpler back then, you understand.”
“So if humans don’t come from Arkaria …?” Cyrus let his words trail off.
“They are from Luukessia,” Curatio said, “and from inauspicious beginnings did they come to Arkaria-the ancients sent expeditions to Luukessia for purposes of slaving, bringing back tens of thousands of humans to their capital-where Reikonos sits today-as labor for their empire. The expeditions stopped after the ancients were destroyed, obviously, but humanity on Arkaria sprung from the ashes of the empire and took root in their lands.”
“A fascinating history lesson,” Longwell said, skeptical. “But I have a hard time believing that, if you’ll forgive me.”
Curatio shrugged. “I saw enough of it myself to be sure it’s true, humans marched into the coliseum to fight for the entertainment of the ancients. I saw them tending the houses, working in the fields. I’ve never been to Luukessia myself until now, so all I’d heard is what those on the expeditions told me.”