This book and parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

Ridan and its logo are copyrighted and trademarked by Ridan Publishing. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

A Ridan Publication
www.ridanpublishing.com
www.michaelsullivan-author.com
www.riyria.blogspot.com

Copyright © 2010 by Michael J. Sullivan
Cover Art and Map by Michael J. Sullivan
Story editing by Robin Sullivan and Annie Rush
Copy editing by Heather A. McBride, David Gould, Anne-Marie Reidy, and Christine Cartwright

ISBN: 978-0982514580
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
First Printing: October 2010

To Robin, for taking pity on Royce and sending him home and for fixing the entire first half of the novel, which she originally thought was perfect.

To Annie, for helping me to see I was being too subtle, for fixing the chess game, and teaching the nobles to dance.

And to the members of the Arlington Writer’s Group, for their generous support, assistance, and feedback.

BOOKS IN THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

The Crown Conspiracy
Avempartha
Nyphron Rising
The Emerald Storm
Wintertide
Percepliquis*

*Coming in April 2011

AWARDS FOR THE RIYRIA REVELATION BOOKS

THE CROWN CONSPIRACY

2009 Dark Wolf Award for Top 10 Fantasy Books
2009 National Indie Excellence Award Finalist
2008 ReaderViews Literary Award Finalist
2007 Foreword Magazine Book of the Year Finalist

AVEMPARTHA

2009 Winner Book Spot Central Tournament of Books
2009 Dark Wolf Award for Top 10 Fantasy Books
2010 Foreword Magazine Book of the Year Finalist

NYPHRON RISING

2010 Foreword Magazine Book of the Year Finalist
2009 Dark Wolf Award for Top 10 Fantasy Books

PRAISE FOR THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

“I can’t suggest these books enough. They are light-hearted yet deep. They are fast pace and involving. They remind me of old-school adventure fantasy and political spy thrillers. These are the quintessential fun summer-time reads that I find so enjoyable when the heat index rises and the days grow longer lending themselves to lots of reading by the pool. It’s a heady mix, and I sincerely hope you give yourself a few hours to give them a try.”— Jaime Chambers, Ruled By Books

“The Riyria Revelations is a much needed return to fantasy’s grassroots. For fans who miss the straightforward adventurous tales—the stories that got a lot of us 35+ year-olds hooked on fantasy to begin with—The Crown Conspiracy brings back that excitement.”— Greg Hersom, Fantasy Literature

“The Crown Conspiracy is a well-written and enjoyable novel. I was invested in the characters and their travails. Royce and Hadrian’s friendship was particularly fun to read.”— Tammy Moore, sfSite

“Every time I finish a book in this series it makes me want the next one instantly.”— Cindy Hannikman, Fantasy Book Critic

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Aquesta
Chapter 2: Into Darkness
Chapter 3: Sir Breckton
Chapter 4: Wedding Plans
Chapter 5: Footprints in the Snow
Chapter 6: The Palace
Chapter 7: Deeper into Darkness
Chapter 8: Sir Hadrian
Chapter 9: Winds Abbey
Chapter 10: The Feast of Nobles
Chapter 11: Knightly Virtue
Chapter 12: A Question of Succession
Chapter 13: The House on Heath Street
Chapter 14: Tournament Day
Chapter 15: The Hunt
Chapter 16: Trials by Combat
Chapter 17: The Final Darkness
Chapter 18: Wintertide
Chapter 19: New Beginnings
Chapter 20: The Queen’s Gambit Accepted
Chapter 21: Langdon Bridge

Chapter 1
Aquesta

Some people are skilled, and some are lucky, but at that moment Mince realized he was neither. Failing to cut the merchant’s purse strings, he froze with one hand still cupping the bag. He knew the pickpocket’s creed allowed for only a single touch and had dutifully slipped into the crowd after two earlier attempts. A third failure meant they would bar him from another meal—Mince was too hungry to let go.

With his hands still under the merchant’s cloak, he waited. The man remained oblivious.

Should I try again?

The thought was insane, but his empty stomach won the battle over reason. In a moment of desperation, Mince pushed caution aside. The leather seemed oddly thick. Sawing back and forth, he felt the purse come loose, but something was not right. It took only an instant for Mince to realize his mistake. Instead of purse strings, he had sliced through the merchant’s belt. Like a hissing snake, the leather strap slithered off the fat man’s belly, dragged to the cobblestones by the weight of his weapons.

Mince did not breathe or move as the entire span of his ten disappointing years flashed by.

Run! the voice inside his head screamed as he realized there was a heartbeat, perhaps two, before his victim—

The merchant turned.

He was a large, soft man with saddlebag cheeks reddened by the cold. His eyes widened when he noticed the purse in Mince’s hand. “Hey, you!” The man reached for his dagger, and surprise filled his face when he found it missing. Groping for his other weapon, he spotted them both lying in the street.

Mince heeded the voice of his smarter self and bolted. Common sense told him the best way to escape a rampaging giant was to head for the smallest crack. He plunged beneath an ale cart outside the Blue Swan Inn and slid to the far side. Scrambling to his feet, he raced for the alley, clutching the knife and purse to his chest. The recent snow hampered his flight, and his small feet lost traction rounding a corner.

“Thief! Stop!” The shouts were not nearly as close as expected.

Mince continued to run. Finally reaching the stable, he ducked between the rails of the fence framing the manure pile. He crouched with his back against the far wall, exhausted. The boy shoved the knife into his belt and stuffed the purse down his shirt, leaving a noticeable bulge. Panting amidst the steaming piles, he struggled to hear anything over the pounding in his ears.

“There you are!” Elbright shouted, skidding in the snow and catching himself on the fence. “What an idiot. You just stood there—waiting for the fat oaf to turn around. You’re a moron, Mince. That’s it—that’s all there is to it. I honestly don’t know why I bother trying to teach you.”

Mince and the other boys referred to thirteen-year-old Elbright as “the Old Man.” In their small band only he wore an actual cloak, which was dingy-gray and secured with a tarnished metal broach. Elbright was the smartest and most accomplished of their crew, and Mince hated to disappoint him.

Laughing, Brand arrived only moments later and joined Elbright at the fence.

“It’s not funny,” Elbright said.

“But—he—” Brand could not finish, as laughter consumed him.

Like the other two, Brand was dirty, thin, and dressed in mismatched clothing of varying sizes. His pants were too long and snow gathered in the folds of the rolled-up bottoms. Only his tunic fit properly. Made from green brocade and trimmed with fine supple leather, it fastened down the front with intricately carved wooden toggles. A year younger than the Old Man, he was a tad taller and a bit broader. In the unspoken hierarchy of their gang, Brand came second—the muscle to Elbright’s brains. Kine, the remaining member of their group, ranked third because he was the best pickpocket. This left Mince unquestionably at the bottom. His size matched his position as he stood barely four feet tall and weighed little more than a wet cat.

“Stop it, will ya?” the Old Man snapped. “I’m trying to teach the kid a thing or two. He could have gotten himself killed. It was stupid—plain and simple.”

“I thought it was brilliant.” Brand paused to wipe his eyes. “I mean sure it was dumb, but spectacular just the same. The way Mince just stood there blinking as the guy goes for his blades. But they ain’t there ’cuz the little imbecile done cut the git’s whole bloody belt off! Then…” Brand struggled against another bout of laughter. “The best part is that just after Mince runs, the fat bastard goes to chase him, and his breeches fall down. The guy toppled like a ruddy tree. Wham. Right into the gutter. By Mar, that was hilarious.”

Elbright tried to remain stern, but Brand’s recounting soon had them all laughing.

“Okay, okay, quit it.” Elbright regained control and went straight to business. “Let’s see the take.”

Mince fished out the purse and handed it over with a wide grin. “Feels heavy,” he proudly stated.

Elbright drew open the top and scowled after examining the contents. “Just coppers.”

Brand and Elbright exchanged disappointed frowns and Mince’s momentary elation melted. “It felt heavy,” he repeated, mainly to himself.

“What now?” Brand asked. “Do we give him another go?”

Elbright shook his head. “No, and all of us will have to avoid Church Square for a while. Too many people saw Mince. We’ll move closer to the gates. We can watch for new arrivals and hope to get lucky.”

“Do ya want—” Mince started.

“No. Give me back my knife. Brand is up next.”

The boys jogged toward the palace walls, following the trail that morning patrols had made in the fresh snow. They circled east and entered Imperial Square. People from all over Avryn were arriving for Wintertide, and the central plaza bustled with likely prospects.

“There,” Elbright said, pointing toward the city gate. “Those two. See ’em? One tall, the other shorter.”

“They’re a sorry-looking pair,” Mince said.

“Exhausted,” Brand agreed.

“Probably been riding all night in the storm,” Elbright said with a hungry smile. “Go on, Brand, do the old helpful stableboy routine. Now, Mince, watch how this is done. It might be your only hope, as you’ve got no talent for purse cutting.”

***

Royce and Hadrian entered Imperial Square on ice-laden horses. Defending against the cold, the two appeared as ghosts shrouded in snow-covered blankets. Despite wearing all they had, they were ill-equipped for the winter roads much less the mountain passes that lay between Ratibor and Aquesta. The all night snowstorm had only added to their hardship. As the two drew their horses to a stop, Royce noticed Hadrian breathing into his cupped hands. Neither of them had winter gloves. Hadrian had wrapped his fingers in torn strips from his blanket, while Royce opted for pulling his into the shelter of his sleeves. The sight of his own handless arms disturbed Royce as they reminded him of the old wizard. The two had learned the details of his murder while passing through Ratibor. Assassinated late one night, Esrahaddon had been silenced forever.

They meant to get gloves, but as soon as they had arrived in Ratibor they saw announcements proclaiming the Nationalist leader’s upcoming execution. The Empire planned to publically burn Degan Gaunt in the imperial capital of Aquesta as part of the Wintertide celebrations. Having spent months traversing high seas and dark jungles seeking Gaunt, to have found his whereabouts tacked up to every tavern door in the city was as much a blow as a blessing. Fearing some new calamity could arise to stop them from finally reaching him, they left early the next morning, long before the trade shops opened.

Unwrapping his scarf, Royce drew back his hood and looked around. The snow-covered palace took up the entire southern side of the square while shops and vendors dominated the rest. Furriers displayed trimmed capes and hats. Shoemakers cajoled passers-by, offering to oil their boots. Bakers tempted travelers with snowflake-shaped cookies and white-powdered pastries. And colorful banners were everywhere announcing the upcoming festival.

Royce had just dismounted when a boy ran up. “Take your horses, sirs? One night in a stable for just a silver each. I’ll brush them down myself and see they get good oats, too.”

Dismounting and pulling back his own hood, Hadrian smiled at the boy. “Will you sing them a lullaby at night?”

“Certainly, sir,” the boy replied without losing a beat. “It will cost you two coppers more, but I do have a very fine voice, I does.”

“Any stable in the city will quarter a horse for five coppers,” Royce challenged.

“Not this month, sir. Wintertide pricing started three days back. Stables and rooms fill up fast. Especially this year. You’re lucky you got here early. In another two weeks, they’ll be stocking horses in the fields behind hunters’ blinds. The only lodgings will be on dirt floors, where people will be stacked like cordwood for five silvers each. I know the best places and the lowest costs in the city. A silver is a good price right now. In a few days it’ll cost you twice that.”

Royce eyed him closely. “What’s your name?”

“Brand the Bold they call me.” He straightened up, adjusting the collar of his tunic.

Hadrian chuckled and asked, “Why is that?”

“’Cuz I don’t never back down from a fight, sir.”

“Is that where you got your tunic?” Royce asked.

The boy looked down as if noticing the garment for the first time. “This old thing? I got five better ones at home. I’m just wearing this rag so I don’t get the good ones wet in the snow.”

“Well, Brand, do you think you can take these horses to the Bailey Inn at Hall and Coswell and stable them there?”

“I could indeed, sir. And a fine choice, I might add. It’s run by a reputable owner charging fair prices. I was just going to suggest that very place.”

Royce gave him a smirk. He turned his attention to two boys who stood at a distance, pretending not to know Brand. Royce waved for them to come over. The boys appeared hesitant, but when he repeated the gesture, they reluctantly obliged.

“What are your names?” he asked.

“Elbright, sir,” the taller of the two replied. This boy was older than Brand and had a knife concealed beneath his cloak. Royce guessed he was the real leader of their group and had sent Brand over to make the play.

“Mince, sir,” said the other, who looked to be the youngest and whose hair showed recent evidence of being cut with a dull knife. The boy wore little more than rags of stained, worn wool. His shirt and pants exposed the bright pink skin of his wrists and shins. Of all his clothing, the item that fit best was a torn woven bag draped over his shoulders. The same material wrapped his feet, secured around his ankles by twine.

Hadrian checked through the gear on his horse, removed his spadone blade, and slid it into the sheath, which he wore on his back beneath his cloak.

Royce handed two silver tenents to the first boy, then addressing all three said, “Brand here is going to have our horses stabled at the Bailey and reserve us a room. While he’s gone, you two will stay here and answer some questions.”

“But ah, sir, we can’t—” Elbright started but Royce ignored him.

“When Brand returns with a receipt from the Bailey, I will pay each of you a silver. If he doesn’t return, if instead he runs off and sells the horses, I shall slit both of your throats and hang you on the palace gate by your feet. I’ll let your blood drip into a pail then paint a sign with it to notify the city that Brand the Bold is a horse thief. Then I’ll track him down, with the help of the imperial guard and other connections I have in this city, and see he gets the same treatment.” Royce glared at the boy. “Do we understand each other, Brand?”

The three boys stared at him with mouths agape.

“By Mar! Not a very trusting fellow are ya, sir?” Mince said.

Royce grinned ominously. “Make the reservation under the names of Grim and Baldwin. Run along now, Brand, but do hurry back. You don’t want your friends to worry.”

Brand led the horses away while the other two boys watched him go. Elbright gave a little shake of his head when Brand looked back.

“Now boys, why don’t you tell us what is planned for this year’s festivities.”

“Well…” Elbright started, “I suspect this will be the most memorable Wintertide in a hundred years on account of the empress’s marriage and all.”

“Marriage?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes, sir. I thought everyone knew about that. Invitations went out months ago, and all the rich folk, even kings and queens, have been coming from all over.”

“Who’s she marrying?” Royce asked.

“Lard Ethelred,” Mince said.

Elbright lowered his voice. “Shut it, Mince.”

“He’s a snake.”

Elbright growled and cuffed him on the ear. “Talk like that will get you dead.” Turning back to Royce and Hadrian, he said, “Mince has a bit of a crush on the empress. He’s not too pleased with the old king on account of him marrying her and all.”

“She’s like a goddess, she is,” Mince declared, misty-eyed. “I seen her once. I climbed to that roof for a better view when she gave a speech last summer. She shimmered like a star, she did. By Mar, she’s beautiful. Ya can tell she’s the daughter of Novron. I’ve never seen anyone so pretty.”

“See what I mean? Mince is a bit crazy when it comes to the empress,” Elbright apologized. “He’s got to get used to Regent Ethelred running things again. Not that he ever really stopped on account of the empress being sick and all.”

“She was hurt by the beast she killed up north,” Mince explained. “The Empress Modina was dying from the poison, and healers came from all over, but no one could help. Then Regent Saldur prayed for seven days and nights without food or water. Maribor showed him that the pure heart of a servant girl named Amilia from Tarin Vale had the power to heal the empress. And she did. Lady Amilia has been nursing the empress back to health and doing a fine job.” He took a breath, his eyes brightened, and a smile grew across his face.

“Mince, enough,” Elbright said.

“What’s all this about?” Royce asked, pointing at bleachers that were being built in the center of the square. “They aren’t holding the wedding out here, are they?”

“No, the wedding will be at the cathedral. Those are for folks to watch the execution. They’re gonna kill the rebel leader.”

“Yeah, that piece of news we heard about,” Hadrian said softly.

“Oh, so you came for the execution?”

“More or less.”

“I’ve got our spots all picked out,” Elbright said. “I’m gonna have Mince go up the night before and save us a good seat.”

“Hey, why do I have to go?” Mince asked.

“Brand and I have to carry all the stuff. You’re too small to help and Kine’s still sick, so you need to—”

“But you have the cloak and it’s gonna be cold just sitting up there.”

The two boys went on arguing, but Royce could tell Hadrian was no longer listening. His friend’s eyes scanned the palace gates, walls, and front entrance. Hadrian was counting guards.

***

Rooms at the Bailey were the same as at every inn—small and drab, with worn wooden floors and musty odors. A small pile of firewood was stacked next to the hearth in each room but never enough for the whole night. Patrons were forced to buy more at exorbitant prices if they wanted to stay warm. Royce made his usual rounds, circling the block, watching for faces that appeared too many times. He returned to their room confident that no one had noticed their arrival—at least no one that mattered.

“Room eight. Been here almost a week,” Royce said.

“A week? Why so early?” Hadrian asked.

“If you were living in a monastery for ten months a year, wouldn’t you show up early for Wintertide?”

Hadrian grabbed his swords and the two moved down the hall. Royce picked the lock of a weathered door and slid it open. On the far side of the room, two candles burned on a small table set with plates, glasses, and a bottle of wine. A man, dressed in velvet and silk, stood before a wall mirror, checking the tie that held back his blond hair and adjusting the high collar of his coat.

“Looks like he was expecting us,” Hadrian said.

“Looks like he was expecting someone,” Royce clarified.

“What the—” Startled, Albert Winslow spun around. “Would it hurt to knock?”

“What can I say?” Royce flopped on the bed. “We’re scoundrels and thieves.”

“Scoundrels certainly,” Albert said, “but thieves? When was the last time you two stole anything?”

“Do I detect dissatisfaction?”

“I’m a viscount. I have a reputation to uphold, which takes a certain amount of income—money that I don’t receive when you two are idle.”

Hadrian took a seat at the table. “He’s not dissatisfied. He’s outright scolding us.”

“Is that why you’re here so early?” Royce asked. “Scouting for work?”

“Partially. I also needed to get away from the Winds Abbey. I’m becoming a laughing stock. When I contacted Lord Daref, he couldn’t lay off the Viscount Monk jokes. On the other hand, Lady Mae does find my pious reclusion appealing.”

“And is she the one who…” Hadrian swirled a finger at the neatly arranged table.

“Yes. I was about to fetch her. I’m going to have to cancel, aren’t I?” He looked from one to the other and sighed.

“Sorry.”

“I hope this job pays well. This is a new doublet and I still owe the tailor.” Blowing out the candles, he took a seat across from Hadrian.

“How are things up north?” Royce asked.

Albert pursed his lips, thinking. “I’m guessing you know about Medford being taken? Imperial troops hold it and most of the provincial castles except for Drondil Fields.”

Royce sat up. “No, we didn’t know. How’s Gwen?”

“I have no idea. I was here when I heard.”

“So, Alric and Arista are at Drondil Fields?” Hadrian asked.

“King Alric is but I don’t think the princess was in Medford. I believe she’s running Ratibor. They appointed her mayor, or so I’ve heard.”

“No,” Hadrian said. “We just came through there. She was governing after the battle but left months ago in the middle of the night. No one knows why. I just assumed she went home.”

Albert shrugged. “Maybe, but I never heard anything about her going back. Probably better for her if she didn’t. The Imps have Drondil Fields surrounded. Nothing is going in or out. It’s only a matter of time before Alric will have to surrender.”

“What about the abbey? Has the Empire come knocking?” Royce asked.

Albert shook his head. “Not that I know of. But like I said, I was already here when the Imperialists crossed the Galewyr.”

Royce got up and began to pace.

“Anything else?” Hadrian asked.

“Rumor has it that Tur Del Fur was invaded by goblins. But that’s only a rumor, as far as I can tell.”

“Not a rumor,” Hadrian said.

“Oh?”

“We were there. Actually, we were responsible.”

“Sounds…interesting,” Albert said.

Royce stopped his pacing. “Don’t get him started.”

“Okay, so what brings you to Aquesta?” Albert asked. “I’m guessing it’s not to celebrate Wintertide.”

“We’re going to break Degan Gaunt out of the palace dungeon, and we’ll need you for the usual inside work,” Royce said.

“Really? You do know he’s going to be executed on Wintertide, don’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s why we need to get moving. It would be bad if we were late,” Hadrian added.

“Are you crazy? The palace? At Wintertide? You’ve heard about this little wedding that’s going on? Security might be a tad tighter than usual. Every day I see a line of men in the courtyard, signing up to join the guard.”

“Your point?” Hadrian asked.

“We should be able to use the wedding to our advantage,” Royce said. “Anyone we know in town yet?”

“Genny and Leo arrived recently, I think.”

“Really? That’s perfect. Get in touch. They’ll have rooms in the palace for sure. See if they can get you in. Then find out all you can, especially about where they’re keeping Gaunt.”

“I’m going to need money. I was only planning to attend a few local balls and maybe one of the feasts. If you want me inside the palace, I’ll have to get better clothes. By Mar, look at my shoes. Just look at them! I can’t meet the empress in these.”

“Borrow from Genny and Leo for now,” Royce said. “I’m going to leave for Medford tonight and return with funds to cover our expenses.”

“You’re going back? Tonight?” Albert asked. “You just got here, didn’t you?”

The thief nodded.

“She’s okay,” Hadrian assured Royce. “I’m sure she got out.”

“We’ve got nearly a month to Wintertide,” Royce said. “I should be back in a week or so. In the meantime, learn what you can, and we’ll formulate a plan when I return.”

“Well,” Albert grumbled, “at least Wintertide won’t be boring.”

Chapter 2
Into Darkness

Someone was whimpering.

It was a man’s voice this time, one that Arista had heard before. Everyone cried eventually. Some people even broke down into fits of hysterics. There used to be a woman who was prone to screaming, but she had been removed some time ago. Arista held no illusions about the woman being set free. She had heard them drag the body away. The whimpering man used to cry out but had grown quieter over the last few days. He never wailed anymore. Although not long ago, she heard him praying. Arista was surprised that he did not ask for rescue or even a quick death. All he prayed for was her. He asked Maribor to keep her safe, but in all his ramblings, the princess never caught the name of the man’s lover.

There was no way to track the passage of time in the dark. Arista tried counting meals, but her hunger suggested they came less than once per day. Still, weeks must have passed since her capture. In all that time, she never heard Gaunt despite having called out to him. The only time she had actually heard his voice was the night she and Hilfred failed to rescue him.

Since then, she had been confined to her cell, which contained only a pail for waste and a few handfuls of straw. The room was so small that she could touch all four walls at once, making it feel like a cage or a grave. Arista knew that Modina, the girl once known as Thrace, had also been kept somewhere just like this. Perhaps even in that very cell. After losing everyone and everything that mattered to her, it would have been a nightmare to wake alone in the dark without explanation, cause, or reason. Not knowing where she was or how she got there had driven the girl mad.

Arista had her own share of loss but knew she was not alone in the world. Once the news of her disappearance reached him, her brother Alric would move the world to save her. The two had grown closer in the years since their father’s death. He was no longer the privileged boy and she no longer the jealous, reclusive sister. They still had their arguments, but nothing would stop him from finding her. Alric would enlist the help of the Pickerings—her extended family. He might even call on Royce and Hadrian, whom Alric affectionately referred to as the Royal Protectors. It would not be long now.

Arista pictured Hadrian’s lopsided smile. The image stung, but her mind refused to let it go. Memories of the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, and that tiny scar on his chin pulled at her heart. There were moments of warmth but only kindness on his part, only sympathy—compassion for a person in pain or need. To him, Arista was just the princess, his employer, his job, just one more desperate noble.

How empty an existence I’ve led that those few I count among my best friends are two people I paid to work for me.

She wanted to believe Hadrian saw her as something special, that the time they had spent on the road together endeared her to him—that it meant as much to Hadrian as it did to her. Arista hoped he considered her smarter or more capable than most. But even if he did, men did not want smart or capable. They wanted pretty. Arista was not pretty like Alenda Lanaklin or Lenare Pickering. If only Hadrian saw her the way Emery and Hilfred had.

Then he would be dead, too.

The deep rumble of stone against stone echoed through the corridors. Footsteps sounded in the hall. Someone was coming.

Now was not the time for food. While Arista could not judge the passage of time in the darkness, food never came until she feared it might never arrive. They fed her so little that she welcomed the thin, putrid soup, which smelled of rotten eggs.

The approaching footfalls came from two sets of shoes. The first she recognized as a guard who wore metal and made a pronounced tink-tink. The other wore hard heels and soles that created a distinct click-clack. That was not a guard nor was it a servant. Servants wore soft shoes that made a swish-swish sound or no shoes at all—slap-slap. Only someone wealthy could afford shoes that clacked on stone. The steps were slow but not hesitant. There was confidence in the long, measured strides.

A key rattled against the assembly of her lock and then clicked.

A visitor?

The door to her cell opened, and a bright light made Arista wince.

A guard entered, jerked her roughly to one side, and attached a pair of iron bracelets chaining her wrists to the wall. Leaving her sitting with her arms above her head, the guard exited but left the door open.

A moment later, Regent Saldur entered holding a lantern. “How are you this evening, Princess?” The old man shook his head sadly making tsking noises. “Look at you, my dear. You are so thin and filthy, and where in Maribor’s name did you get that dress? Not that there’s much of it left, is there? Those look like new bruises, too. Have the guards been raping you? No, I suppose not.” Saldur lowered his voice to a whisper. “They had extremely strict orders not to touch Modina when she was here. I accused an innocent jailor of improperly touching her and then had him pulled apart by oxen as an example. There were no problems after that. It might seem extreme, but I couldn’t have a pregnant empress, now could I? Of course, in your case I really don’t care, but the guards don’t know that.”

“Why are you here?” she asked. Her low raspy voice sounded strange, even to herself.

“I thought I would bring you some news, my dear. Kilnar and Vernes have fallen. Rhenydd is now a happy member of the Empire. The farmlands of Maranon on the Delgos peninsula had a nice harvest, so we’ll have plenty of supplies to feed our troops all winter. We’ve retaken Ratibor but had to execute quite a few traitors as examples. The peasants must learn the consequences of rebellion. They were cursing your name before we had finished.”

Arista knew he was telling the truth. Not because she could read his face, which she barely saw through her matted hair, but because Saldur had no reason to lie. “What do you want?”

“Two things, really. I want you to realize that the New Empire has risen and nothing can stand in its way. Your life, Arista, is over. You will be executed in a matter of weeks. And your dreams are already dead. You need to bury them alongside the sad little graves of Hilfred and Emery.”

Arista stiffened.

“Surprised? We learned all about Emery when we retook Ratibor. You really do have such a way with men. First you got him killed and then Hilfred as well. You must make black widows jealous.”

“And the second?” She noticed his momentary confusion. “The other reason we’re having this little chat?”

“Oh, yes. I want to know who you were working with.”

“Hilfred—you killed him for it, remember?”

Saldur smiled and then struck her hard across the face. The chains binding Arista’s wrists snapped taut as she tried to protect herself. He listened to her crying softly for a moment and then said, “You’re a smart girl—too smart for your own good—but you’re not that smart. Hilfred may have helped you escape arrest. Perhaps he even hid you during those weeks we searched. But he couldn’t have gotten you into the palace or found this prison. Hilfred died wearing the uniform of a fourth floor guard. You must have had help from someone on the staff to get that, and I want to know who it was.”

“There was no one. It was just me and Hilfred.”

Saldur slapped her again. Arista cried out, her body shaking, jangling the chains.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said while raising his hand again.

Arista spoke quickly to stay the blow. “I told you. It was just me. I got a job working in the palace as a chambermaid. I stole the uniform.”

“I know all about you posing as Ella the scrub girl. But you couldn’t have gotten the uniform without help. It had to be someone in a position of authority. I must know who the traitor is. Now tell me. Who was helping you?”

When she said nothing, he struck her twice more.

Arista cringed. “Stop it!”

“Tell me,” Saldur growled.

“No, you’ll hurt her!” she blurted.

“Her?”

Realizing her mistake, Arista bit her lip.

“So, it was a woman. That limits the possibilities considerably, now doesn’t it?” Saldur played with a key that dangled from a small chain, spinning it around his index finger. After several minutes, the regent crouched down and placed the lantern on the floor.

“I need a name and you will tell me. I know you think you can carry her identity to your grave, but whether you hold your tongue out of loyalty to her or to spite me, you should reconsider. You might believe that a few weeks is not long to hold your tongue, but once we start you’ll wish for a quick death.”

He brushed her hair aside. “Look at that face. You don’t believe me, do you? Still so naive. Still such an optimistic child. As a princess, you’ve led such a pampered life. Do you think that living among the commoners of Ratibor and scrubbing floors here at the palace has made you strong? Do you think you have nothing else to lose and you’ve finally hit bottom?”

When he stroked her cheek, Arista recoiled.

“I can see by your expression that you still have some pride and a sense of nobility. You don’t yet realize just how far you have to fall. Trust me, Arista, I can strip you of that courage and break your spirit. You don’t want to find out just how low I can bring you.”

He stroked her hair gently for a moment then grabbed a handful. Saldur pulled hard, jerking her head back and forcing Arista to look at him. His gaze lingered on her face. “You’re still pure, aren’t you? Still untouched and locked in your tower in more ways than one. I suspect neither Emery nor Hilfred dared to bed a princess. Perhaps we should begin with that. I will let the guards know that they can—no—I will specifically order them to violate you. It will make both of us very popular. The men will be requesting extra duty so they can desecrate you night and day.”

Saldur let go of her hair, allowing her head to drop.

“Once you are thoroughly used and your pride has evaporated, I’ll send for the Master Inquisitor. I’m sure he will relish the opportunity to purge the evil from the infamous Witch of Melengar.” Saldur moved closer and spoke softly, intimately. “The inquisitor is very imaginative, and what he can do with chains, a bucket of water, and a searing hot brand is sheer artistry. You’ll scream until you lose your voice. You’ll black out and wake where the nightmare left off.”

Arista tried to turn away, but his wrinkled hands forced her to look at him once again. His expression was not pleased or maniacal. Saldur appeared grim—almost sad.

“You’ll experience anguish that you never thought possible. Your remaining courage will evaporate into myth and memory. Your mind will abandon you, leaving behind a drooling lump of scarred flesh. Even the guards won’t want you then.”

Saldur leaned forward until she could feel his breath and feared he might kiss her. “If after all that, you’ve still not given me what I want, I will turn my attention to that pleasant little family who took you in—the Barkers, wasn’t it? I will have them arrested and brought here. The father will watch as his wife takes your place with the guards. Then she will witness her husband and sons drawn and quartered one by one. Imagine what it will do to the woman when she sees her youngest, the one you supposedly saved, die. She will blame you, Arista. That poor woman will curse your name, and rightly so, for it will be your silence that destroyed her life.”

He gently patted Arista’s burning cheek. “Don’t force me to do it. Tell me the traitor’s name. She is guilty of treason, but the poor Barkers are innocent. They have done nothing. Simply tell me the name of this woman and you can prevent all these horrors.”

Arista found it difficult to think and fought for breath as she started losing control. Her face throbbed from his blows, and she was sickened by the salty-metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Guilt conjured images of Emery and Hilfred, both of whom had died because of her. She could not bear to add the Barkers’ blood to her hands. To have them suffer for her mistakes.

“I’ll tell you,” Arista finally said. “But in return I want your assurance nothing will happen to the Barkers.”

Saldur looked sympathetic, and she could almost see the grandfatherly face from her youth. How he could make such despicable threats and then return to such a kindly expression was beyond her understanding.

“Of course, my dear, after all, I’m not a monster. Just give me what I want and none of those things will come to pass. Now, tell me…What is her name?”

Arista hesitated. Saldur lost his smile once again—her time was up. She swallowed and said, “There was someone who hid me, gave me food, and even helped to find Gaunt. She’s been a true friend, so kind and selfless. I can’t believe I am betraying her to you now.”

“Her name?” Saldur pressed.

Tears ran from Arista’s eyes as she looked up. “Her name is…is…Edith Mon.”

Chapter 3
Sir Breckton

Archibald Ballentyne, the Earl of Chadwick, stared out the windows of the imperial throne room. Behind him, Saldur shuffled parchments at a table while Ethelred warmed a throne not yet his own. A handful of servants occasionally drifted in and out, as did the Imperial Chancellor who briefly spoke with one regent or the other. No one ever spoke to Archibald or asked for his counsel.

In just a few short years, Regent Saldur had risen from Bishop of Medford to the architect of the New Empire. Ethelred was about to trade his king’s crown of Warric for the imperial scepter of all Avryn. Even the commoner Merrick Marius managed to secure a noble fief, wealth, and a title.

What do I have to show for all my contributions? Where is my crown? My wife? My glory?

The answers Archibald knew all too well. He would wear no crown. Ethelred would wed his wife. And as for his glory, the man who had stolen that was just entering the hall. Archibald heard the boots pounding against the polished marble floor. The sound of the man’s stride was unmistakable—uncompromising, straightforward, brash.

Turning around, Archibald saw Sir Breckton Belstrad’s floor-length blue cape sweeping behind the knight. Holding his helm in the crook of one arm and wearing a metal breastplate, he looked as if he were just returning from battle. Sir Breckton was tall, his shoulders broad, his chin chiseled. He was a leader of men, victorious in battle, and Archibald hated him.

“Sir Breckton, welcome to Aquesta,” Ethelred called as the knight crossed the room.

Breckton ignored him, and Saldur as well, walking directly to Archibald’s side where he stomped dramatically and dropped to one knee. “Your Lordship,” he said.

“Yes, yes, get up.” The Earl of Chadwick waved a hand at him.

“As always, I am at your service, My Lord.”

“Sir Breckton?” Ethelred addressed the knight again.

Breckton showed no sign of acknowledgement and continued to speak with his liege. “You called, My Lord? What is it you wish of me?”

“Actually, I summoned you on behalf of Regent Ethelred. He wishes to speak with you.”

The knight stood. “As you wish, My Lord.”

Breckton turned and crossed the distance to the throne. His sword slapped against his side and his boots pounded against the stone. He stopped at the base of the steps and offered only a shallow bow.

Ethelred scowled but only briefly. “Sir Breckton, at long last. I’ve sent summons for you six times over the past several weeks. Have the messages not reached you?”

“They have, Your Lordship.”

“But you did not respond,” Ethelred said.

“No, Your Lordship.”

“Why?”

“My Lord, the Earl of Chadwick commanded me to take Melengar. I was following his orders,” Breckton replied.

“So the crucial demands of battle prevented you from breaking away until now.” Ethelred nodded.

“No, Your Lordship. Only the fall of Drondil Fields remains and the siege is well tended. Victory is assured and does not require my attention.”

“Then I don’t understand. Why didn’t you come when I ordered you to appear before me?”

“I do not serve you, Your Lordship. I serve the Earl of Chadwick.”

Archibald’s disdain for Breckton did not diminish his delight at seeing Ethelred verbally slapped.

“May I remind you, sir knight, that I will be emperor in just a few weeks?”

“You may, Your Lordship.”

Ethelred looked confused. This brought a smile to Archibald’s face. He enjoyed seeing someone else trying to deal with Breckton and knew exactly how the regent felt. Was Breckton granting Ethelred permission to remind the knight, or had he just insinuated the regent might not be emperor? Either way, the comment was rude yet spoken so plainly and respectfully that it appeared innocent of any ill intent. Breckton was like that—politely confounding and pointedly confusing. He had a way of making Archibald feel stupid, and that was just one of the many reasons he despised the arrogant man.

“I see this is going to continue to be an issue,” Ethelred said. “It demonstrates the point of this meeting. As emperor, I will require good men to help me reign. You have proven yourself a capable leader, and as such, I want you to serve me directly. I am prepared to offer you the office and title of Grand Marshall of all Imperial Forces. In addition, I’ll grant you the province of Melengar.”

Archibald staggered. “Melengar is mine! Or will be when it is taken. It was promised to me.”

“Yes, Archie, but times change. I need a strong man in the north, defending my border.” Ethelred looked at Breckton. “I will appoint you the Marquis of Melengar. All too fitting, given that you were responsible for taking it.”

“This is outrageous!” Archibald shouted, stomping his foot. “We had a deal. You have the imperial crown and Saldur has the imperial miter. What do I get? What is the reward for all my sweat and sacrifice? Without me, you wouldn’t have Melengar to bestow to anyone!”

“Don’t make a fool of yourself, Archie,” Saldur said gently. “You must have known we could never entrust such an important realm to you. You are too young, too inexperienced, too…weak.”

There was silence as Archibald fumed.

“Well?” Ethelred turned his attention back to Breckton. “Marquis of Melengar? Grand Marshall of the Imperial Host? What say you?”

Sir Breckton showed no emotion. “I serve the Earl of Chadwick, just as my father and grandfather before me. It does not appear he wishes this. If there is nothing else, I must return to my charge in Melengar.” Sir Breckton pivoted sharply and strode back to Archibald, where he knelt once more.

Ethelred stared after him in shock.

“Don’t leave Aquesta just yet,” Archibald told the knight. “I may have need of you here.”

“As you wish, My Lord.” Breckton stood and briskly departed.

The hall was silent as they listened to the knight’s footfalls echo and fade. Ethelred’s face turned scarlet and he clenched his fists. Saldur stared after Breckton with his usual irritated glare.

“It seems you didn’t take into account the man’s unwavering sense of loyalty when you made your plans,” Archibald railed. “But then how could you, seeing as how you obviously don’t understand the meaning of the word yourself. You should have consulted me first. I would have told you what the result would be. But you couldn’t do that, could you? No, because it was me you were plotting to stab in the back!”

“Calm down, Archie,” Saldur said.

“Stop calling me that. My name is Archibald!” Spit flew from his lips. “You’re both so smug and arrogant, but I’m no pawn. One word from me and Breckton will turn his army and march on Aquesta.” The earl pointed toward the still open door. “They’re loyal to him you know—every last one of the miserable cretins. They will do whatever he says, and as you can see, he worships me.”

He clenched his fists and advanced, maddened that his soft heels did not have the same audible impact as Breckton’s.

“I could get King Alric to throw his support behind me as well. I could return his precious Melengar in exchange for the rest of Avryn. I could beat you at your own little game. I’d have the Northern Imperial Army in my right hand and what remains of the Royalists in my left. I could crush both of you in less than a month. So don’t tell me to calm down, Sauly! I’ve had it with your condescending tone and your holier-than-thou attitude. You’re as much a worm as Ethelred. You’re both in this together, weaving your webs and plotting against me. You just may have caught your own selves in your sticky trap this time!”

He headed for the door.

“Archi—I mean Archibald!” Ethelred called after him.

The earl did not pause as he swept past Chancellor Biddings, who was just outside the throne room and gave the earl a concerned look. Servants scattered before Archibald as he marched in a fury through the doorway to the inner ward. Bursting into the brilliant sunshine reflected by the courtyard’s snow, he discovered he was unsure where to go from there. After a few moments, Archibald decided that it did not matter. It felt good to just move, to burn off energy, to get away. He considered calling for his horse. A long ride over hard ground seemed like just the thing he needed, but it was cold out. Archibald did not want to end up miles from shelter freezing, tired, and hungry. Instead, he settled for pacing back and forth, creating a shallow trench in the new snow.

Frustration turned to pleasure as he recalled his little speech. He liked the look it put on both of their faces. They had not expected such a bold response from him. The delight ate up most of the burning anger and the pacing dissipated the rest. Taking a seat on an upturned bucket, he stomped the snow from his boots.

Would Breckton turn his forces against Aquesta? Could I become the new emperor and have Modina for my own with just a single order?

The answer formed almost as quickly as the question. The thought was an appealing dream but nothing more. Breckton would never agree and would refuse the order. For all the knight’s loyal bravado, everything that man did was subservient to some inscrutable code.

The entire House of Belstrad had been that way. Archibald recalled his father complaining about their ethics. The Ballentynes believed that knights should take orders without question in exchange for wealth and power. The Belstrads believed differently. They clung to an outdated ideal that the ruler—appointed by Maribor—must act within His will to earn a knight’s loyalty. Archibald was certain Breckton would not consider civil war to be Maribor’s will. Apparently, nothing Archibald ever really wanted fit that category.

Still, he had rocked the regents on their heels, and they would treat him better. He would finally have respect now that they realized just how important he was. The regents would have no clue that he could not deliver his threats, so they would try to placate him with a larger prize. In the end, Archibald would have Melengar and perhaps more.

Chapter 4
Wedding Plans

The Duchess of Rochelle was a large woman in more than just girth. Her husband matched her, as they were both rotund people with thick necks, short pudgy fingers, and cheeks that jiggled when they laughed, which in the case of the lady was often and loud. They were like bookends to each other. A male and female version, cut from the same cloth in every way except temperament. While the duke was quiet, Lady Genevieve was anything but.

Amilia always knew when the duchess was coming, as the lady heralded her own arrival with a trumpet-like voice that echoed through the palace halls. She greeted everyone, regardless of class, with a hearty, “Hullo! How are you?” in her brassy voice that boomed off the dull stone. She would hug servants, guards, and even the huntsman’s hound if he crossed her path.

Amilia had met the duke and duchess when they first arrived. Saldur was there and had made the mistake of trying to explain why an audience with the empress was not possible. Amilia had been able to excuse herself, but she was certain Saldur had not been so lucky and probably was delayed for hours. Since then, Amilia had been avoiding the duchess, as the woman was not one to take no for an answer, and she did not want to repeat Saldur’s mistake. After three days Amilia’s luck finally ran out, when she was leaving the chapel.

“Amilia, darling!” the Duchess shouted, rushing forward with her elegant gown billowing behind her. When she reached Amilia, two huge arms surrounded the Imperial Secretary in a crushing embrace. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Every time I inquire, I’m told you are busy. They must work you to death!”

The duchess released her grip. “You poor thing. Let me look at you.” She took Amilia’s hands and spread her arms wide. “Oh my, how lovely you are. But, darling, please tell me this is a washday and your servants are behind. No, don’t bother. I am certain that is the case. Still, I hope you won’t mind if I have Lois, my seamstress, whip you up something. I do so love giving gifts and it’s Wintertide, after all. By the look of you, it will hardly take any material or time. Lois will be thrilled.”

Lady Genevieve took Amilia’s arm and walked her down the hall. “You really are a treasure, you know, but I can tell they treat you poorly. What can you expect with men like Ethelred and Saldur running the show? Everything will be fine, though, now that I’m here.”

They rounded a corner and Amilia was amazed by the woman’s ability to talk so quickly without seeming to take a breath.

“Oh! I just loved the invitation you sent me, and yes, I know it was all your doing. It’s all been your doing, hasn’t it? They have you planning the whole wedding, don’t they? No wonder you are so busy. How insensitive. How cruel! But don’t worry, as I said, I’m here to help you. I’ve fashioned many weddings in my day and they’ve all been wonderful. What you need is an experienced planner—a wizard of wonder. We aristocrats expect panache and dazzle at these events and we hate to be disappointed. Being that this is the wedding of the empress, it must be larger, grander, and more amazing than anything that has come before. Nothing less will suffice.”

She stopped suddenly and peered at Amilia. “Do you have doves to release? You must have them. You simply must!”

Amilia thought to reply, but the concern fled the duchess’s face before she had a chance. Lady Genevieve was walking once more, pulling Amilia along. “Oh, I don’t want to frighten you, darling. There is still plenty of time given the proper help, of course. I am here now, and Modina will be thrilled at what we will achieve together. It will simply astound her.”

“I—”

“How many white horses have you arranged for? Not nearly enough, I’m sure. Never mind, it will all come together. You’ll see. Speaking of horses, I insist you accompany me on the hawking. I won’t stand for you riding with anyone else. You’ll love Leopold—he’s quiet, just like you are, but a real pumpkin. Do you know what I mean? It doesn’t look like you do—but no matter. You two will get on marvelously. Do you have a bird?”

“A bird?” Amilia managed to squeeze in.

“I’ll let you use Murderess. She is one of my own goshawks.”

“But—”

“No worries, my dear. There’s nothing to it. The bird does all the work. All you need to do is just sit on your horse and look pretty—which you will in the new dress Lois will make. Blue would be a good color and will go wonderfully with your eyes. I suppose I will have to arrange a horse as well. We can’t have you trudging through the snow and ruining the gown, now can we? I just know Saldur never thinks of such things. He appointed you Secretary to the Empress, but does he realize the need for clothing? A horse? Jewelry?”

The duchess paused again still gripping her arm like a cider press. “Oh, my darling, I just realized you aren’t wearing any—jewelry that is. Don’t be embarrassed. I understand perfectly. Otto is a fabulous jeweler. He can set a sapphire pendent in the blink of an eye. Won’t that look stunning with your new blue gown? Thank Maribor I brought my full retinue. Lord knows the local artisans could never keep up with me. When you think about it, who can?” She laughed, and Amilia wondered just how much longer she could go on.

With another pull, they were off again. “I tend to be a bit much, don’t I? It’s the way I am. I can’t help it. My husband stopped trying to turn me into a proper wife years ago. Of course, now he knows that my exuberance is what he loves most about me. ‘Never a dull moment or a moment’s peace,’ he always says. Speaking of men, have you chosen a champion to carry your favor in the joust?”

“N—no.”

“You haven’t? But, darling, knights just adore fighting for pretty, young things like you. I’ll bet you’ve driven them mad by waiting so long.”

There was a pause that startled Amilia into speech. “Ah, I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“Ha hah!” Lady Genevieve laughed delightedly. “You are a marvel, darling. Simply fabulous! Ethelred tells me you’re new to the gentry—elevated by Maribor himself. Isn’t that delightful. Maribor’s Chosen One watching over Maribor’s Heir. How amazing!”

They turned the corner into the west wing where a handful of chambermaids scattered like pigeons before a carriage. “You’re a living legend, dear Amilia. Why, every knight in the kingdom will clamor for your favor. There will be none more sought after except the empress herself, but of course, no one would dare insult Ethelred by asking for her favor just weeks before his wedding! No one wants to make an enemy of a new emperor. That makes you the darling of the festival. You can have your pick of any eligible bachelor. Dukes, princes, earls, counts, and barons are all hoping for the chance to capture your attention or win the honor of sitting next to you at the feast with a victory on the field of Highcourt.”

“I wasn’t planning on going to either,” Amilia stated.

The mere idea of noblemen chasing her was beyond frightening. While courtly love might be honorable and romantic for princesses and countesses, no noble ever practiced gentleness with a common woman. Serving girls who caught the eye of any noble—whether a knight or king—could be taken against their will. Amilia had never been attacked, but she had wiped tears and bound wounds for more friends than she cared to count. Although she now possessed the title of Lady before her name, everyone knew her background, and Amilia feared her flimsy title would be a poor shield against a lust-driven noble.

“Nonsense, you must attend the feasts. Besides, it’s your duty. Your absence could very well start a riot! You don’t want to be the cause of an insurrection in the weeks leading to your empress’s wedding, do you?”

“Ah, no, of course—”

“Good, so it’s all settled. Now you just need to pick someone. Do you have a favorite?”

“I don’t know any of them.”

“None? Good gracious, darling! Do they keep you a prisoner? What about Sir Elgar or Sir Murthas? Prince Rudolph is competing, and he is a fine choice with an excellent future. Of course, there is also Sir Breckton. You couldn’t find a better choice than that. I know he does have the reputation of being a bit stuffy. It is true, of course. But after his victory in Melengar, he’s the hero of the hour—and quite dashing.” The duchess wiggled her eyebrows. “Yes, Breckton would be a perfect choice. Why, the ladies of several courts have been fawning over him for years.”

A look of concern crossed Lady Genevieve’s face. “Hmm…that does bring up a good point. You’ll probably need to be careful. While you are certainly the object of every knight’s affections, that means you’re also the target of every lady’s jealousy.”

The duchess threw a meaty arm around Amilia’s neck and pulled her close, as if she was going to whisper in her ear, but her voice did not drop a bit in volume. “Trust me, these women are dangerous. Courtly love isn’t a game to them. You’re new to politics, so I am telling you this for your own good. These are daughters of kings, dukes, and earls, and they are used to getting what they want. When they don’t, they can be vengeful. They know all about your background. I am certain that many have sent spies to visit your family, trying to dig up what dirt they can. If they can’t find any, trust me, they will invent some.”

Lady Genevieve tugged her around another corner, this time toward the northern postern and up the steps to the third floor.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“It’s quite simple, my dear. On the one hand, they think belittling you should be easy because of your common roots. But, on the other, you’ve never made any pretense of being otherwise, which negates their effort. It’s difficult to demean someone for something they’re not embarrassed of, now isn’t it? Still, you must turn a deaf ear to any jibes told at your expense. You may hear name calling like swine herder and such. Which, of course, you’re not. You must remember you’re the daughter of a carriage maker and a fine one at that. Why, absolutely everyone who is anyone is beating a path to your father’s door. They all want to ride in a coach crafted by the father of the Chosen One of Maribor.”

“You know about my father? My family? Are they all right?” Amilia stopped so suddenly that the duchess walked four steps before realizing she had lost her.

Amilia had long feared her family was dead from starvation or illness. They had had so little. She left home two years ago to remove an extra mouth from the table with the intent of sending money home, but she had not counted on Edith Mon.

The head maid had declared Amilia’s old clothes unfit and demanded she pay for new ones. This forced Amilia to borrow against her salary. Broken or chipped plates also added to her bill, and in the first few months, there were many. With Edith, there was always something to keep Amilia penniless. Eventually the head maid even began fining her for disobedience or misbehavior, keeping Amilia in constant debt.

How she had hated Edith. The old ogre had been so cruel that there had been nights when Amilia had gone to sleep wishing the woman would die. She fantasized that a carriage would hit her or that she would choke on a bone. Now that Edith was gone, she almost regretted those thoughts. Charged with treason, Edith had been executed less than a week ago, with all of the palace staff required to watch.

In more than two years, Amilia had been unable to save even a single copper to send home and had heard nothing from her family. While the empress was trapped in her catatonic daze, the regents sequestered the palace staff to prevent others from learning about her condition. During that time, Amilia had been as much a prisoner as Modina. Writing letters home had been useless. The palace rumor mill maintained that all letters were burned by order of the regents. After Modina recovered, Amilia continued to write, but she never received a single reply. There had been reports of an epidemic near her home, and she feared her family was dead. Amilia had given up all hope of ever seeing them again—until now.

“Of course they’re all right, darling. They are more than all right. Your family is the toast of Tarin Vale. From the moment the empress spoke your name during her speech on the balcony, people have flocked to the hamlet to kiss the hand of the woman who bore you and to beg words of wisdom from the man who raised you.”

As they reached the third floor guest chambers, Amilia’s eyes began to water. “Tell me about them. Please. I must know.”

“Well, let’s see. Your father expanded his workshop, and it now takes up an entire block. He’s received hundreds of orders from all over Avryn. Artisans from as far away as Ghent beg for the chance to work as his apprentices, and he’s hired dozens. The townsfolk have elected him to city council. There is even talk of making him mayor come spring.”

“And my mother?” Amilia asked with a quivering lip. “How is she?”

“She’s just marvelous, darling. Your father bought the grandest house in town and filled it with servants, leaving her plenty of time for leisure. She started a modest salon for the local artisan women. They mostly eat cake and gossip. Even your brothers are prospering. They supervise your father’s workers and have their pick of the women for wives. So you see, my dear, I think it is safe to say your family is doing very well indeed.”

Tears ran down Amilia’s face.

“Oh, darling! What is wrong? Wentworth!” she called out as they reached her quarters. A dozen servants paused in their tasks to look up. “Give me your handkerchief, and get a glass of water immediately!”

The duchess directed Amilia to sit on a settee, and Genevieve dabbed the girl’s tears away with surprising delicacy.

“I’m sorry,” Amilia said softly. “I just—”

“Nonsense! I’m the one who should apologize. I had no idea such news would upset you,” she spoke in a soft motherly voice. Then, turning in the direction the servant had gone, the duchess roared, “Where’s that water!”

“I’m all right—really,” Amilia assured her. “I just haven’t seen my family in so long and I was afraid…”

Lady Genevieve smiled and embraced Amilia. The duchess whispered in her ear, “Dear, I’ve heard it said that people come from far and wide to ask your family how you saved the empress. Their reported response is that they know nothing about that, but what they can say with complete certainty is that you saved them.”

Amilia shook with emotion at the words.

Lady Genevieve picked up the handkerchief. “Where’s that water!” she bellowed once more. When it arrived, the duchess thrust the cool glass into Amilia’s hands. She drank while the big woman brushed back her hair.

“There now, that’s better,” Lady Genevieve purred.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, darling. Do you feel up to finding out why I brought you here?”

“Yes, I think so.”

They were in the duchess’s formal reception area, part of the four-room suite that Lady Genevieve had redecorated, transforming the dull stone shell into a warm, rich parlor. Thick woolen drapes of red and gold covered every inch of wall. Facades made the arrow slits appear large and opulent. An intricately carved cherry mantle fronted the previously bare stone fireplace. Layers of carpets covered the entire room, making the floor soft and cozy. Not a stick of the original furniture remained. Everything was new and lovelier than anything Amilia had ever seen.

A dozen servants, all dressed in reds and golds, returned to work. One individual, however, stood out. He was a tall, well-tailored man in a delightful outfit of silver and gold brocade. On his head he wore a whimsical, yet elegant, hat that displayed a long, billowing plume.

“Viscount,” the duchess called, waving the man over. “Amilia, darling, I want you to meet Viscount Albert Winslow.”

“Enchanted indeed.” He removed his hat and swept it elaborately in a reverent bow.

“Albert is perhaps the foremost expert on organizing grand events. I hired him to mastermind my Summersrule Festival, and it was utterly amazing. I tell you, the man is a genius.”

“You are far too kind, My Lady,” Winslow said softly with a warm smile.

“How you managed to fill the moat with leaping dolphins is beyond me. And the streamers that filled the sky—why I’ve never seen such a thing. It was pure magic!”

“I’m pleased to have pleased you, My Lady.”

“Amilia, you simply must use Albert. Don’t worry about the cost. I insist on paying for his services.”

“Nonsense, good ladies. I couldn’t conceive of taking payment for such a noble and worthwhile endeavor. My time is yours, and I’ll do whatever I can out of devotion to you both and, of course, for Her Eminence.”

“There now!” Lady Genevieve exclaimed. “The man is as chivalrous as a paladin. You must take him up on his offer, darling!”

They both stared at Amilia until she found herself nodding.

“I am delighted to be of service, My Lady. When can I meet with your staff?”

“Ah…” Amilia hesitated. “There’s only me and Nimbus. Oh, Nimbus! I’m sorry but I was on my way to meet with him when you—I mean—when we met. I’m supposed to be selecting entertainment for the feasts and I’m terribly late.”

“Well, you should hurry off, then,” Lady Genevieve said. “Take Albert with you. He can begin there. Now run along. There is no need to thank me, my dear. Your success will be my reward.”

***

Amilia noticed that Viscount Winslow was less formal when away from the duchess. He greeted each performer warmly, and those not selected were dismissed with respect and good humor. He knew exactly what was required, and the auditions proceeded quickly under his guidance. All told, they selected twenty acts: one for each of the pre-wedding feasts, three for the Eve’s Eve banquet, and five for the wedding reception. The viscount even picked four more, just in case of illness or injury.

Amilia was grateful for the viscount’s help. As much as she had grown to rely on Nimbus, he had no experience with event planning. Originally, the courtier had been hired as the empress’s tutor, but it had been quite some time since he educated Modina on poise or protocol. Such skills were not required, as Modina never left her room. Instead, Nimbus became the secretary to the secretary, Amilia’s right hand. He knew how to get things done in a royal court whereas Amilia had no clue.

From his years of service for the nobles in Rhenydd, Nimbus mastered the subtle language of manipulation. He tried to explain the nuances of this skill to Amilia, but she was a poor student. From time to time he corrected her for doing foolish things, such as bowing to the chamberlain, thanking a steward, or standing in the presence of others, which forced them to remain on their feet. Almost every success she had in the palace was because of Nimbus’s coaching. A more ambitious man would resent her taking the credit, but Nimbus always offered his counsel in a kind and helpful manner.

Sometimes, when Amilia caught herself doing something particularly stupid, or when she blushed from embarrassment, she noticed Nimbus would invariably spill something on himself or trip on a carpet. Once he even fell halfway down a flight of stairs. For a long while, Amilia thought he was extremely clumsy, but recently she had begun to suspect Nimbus might be the most agile person she had ever met.

The hour was late and Amilia hurried toward the empress’s chamber. Gone were the days when she spent nearly every minute in Modina’s company. Her responsibilities kept her busy, but she never retired without checking in on the empress, who was still her closest friend.

Rounding a corner, she bumped headlong into a man.

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, feeling more than a little foolish for walking with her head down.

“Oh no, My Lady,” the man replied. “It is I who must apologize for standing as a roadblock. Please, forgive me.”

Amilia did not recognize him, but there were so many new faces at the palace these days. He was tall and stood straight with his shoulders squared. His face was closely shaved and his hair neatly trimmed. Based on his bearing and clothing, he was undoubtedly a noble. He was dressed well, but unlike many of the Wintertide guests, his outfit was subdued.

“It’s just that I am a bit confused,” he said, looking around.

“Are you lost?” she asked.

He nodded. “I know my way in forests and fields. I can pinpoint my whereabouts by the use of moon and stars, but for the life of me, I am a total imbecile when trapped within walls of stone.”

“That’s okay; I used to get lost in here all the time. Where are you going?”

“I’ve been staying in the knights’ wing at my lord’s request, but I stepped outside for a walk and can’t find my way back to my quarters.”

“You’re a soldier then?”

“Yes, forgive me. My stupidity is without end.” He stepped back and bowed formally. “Sir Breckton of Chadwick, son of Lord Belstrad, at your service, My Lady.”

“Oh! You’re Sir Breckton?”

Appearances never impressed Amilia, but Breckton was perfect. He was exactly what she expected a knight should be: handsome, refined, strong, and just as Lady Genevieve had described—dashing. For the first time since coming to the palace, she wished she were pretty.

“Indeed, I am. You’ve heard of me then…For good or ill?”

“Good, most certainly. Why just—” She stopped herself and felt her face blush.

Concern furrowed his brow. “Have I done something to make you uncomfortable? I am terribly sorry if I—”

“No, no, not at all. I’m just being silly. To be honest, I never heard of you until today, and then…”

“Then?”

“It’s embarrassing,” she admitted, feeling even more flustered by his attention.

The knight’s expression turned serious. “My Lady, if someone has dishonored me, or harmed you through the use of my name—”

“Oh, no! Nothing as terrible as all that. It was the Duchess of Rochelle, and she said…”

“Yes?”

Amilia cringed. “She said I should ask you to carry my favor in the joust.”

“Oh, I see.” He looked relieved. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I am not—”

“I know. I know,” she interrupted, preferring not to hear the words. “I would have told her so myself if she ever stopped talking—the woman is a whirlwind. The idea of a knight—any knight—carrying my favor is absurd.”

Sir Breckton appeared puzzled. “Why is that?”

“Look at me!” She took a step back, so he could get a full view. “I’m not pretty, and as we both now know, I’m the opposite of graceful. I’m not of noble blood, having been born a poor carriage-maker’s daughter. I don’t think I could hope for the huntsman’s dog to sit beside me at the feast, much less have a renowned knight such as you riding on my behalf.”

Breckton’s eyebrows rose abruptly. “Carriage-maker’s daughter? You are her? The Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale?”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry.” She placed her hand to her forehead and rolled her eyes. “See, I have all the etiquette of a mule. Yes, I am Amilia.”

Breckton studied her for a long moment. At last he spoke, “You’re the maid who saved the empress?”

“Disappointing, I know.” She waited for him to laugh and insist she could not possibly be the Chosen of Maribor. While Modina’s public declaration helped protect Amilia, it also made her uncomfortable. For a girl who had spent her whole life trying to hide from attention, being famous was difficult. Worse yet, she was a fraud. The story about a divine intervention selecting her to save the empress was a lie, a political fabrication—Saldur’s way of manipulating the situation to his advantage.

To her surprise, the knight did not laugh. He merely asked, “And you think no knight will carry your favor because you are of common blood?”

“Well, that and about a dozen other reasons. I hear the whispers sometimes.”

Sir Breckton dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Please, Lady Amilia, I beseech you. Give me the honor of carrying your token in the joust.”

She just stood there.

The knight looked up. “I’ve offended you, haven’t I? I am too bold! Forgive my impudence. I had no intention to participate, as I deem such contests the unnecessary endangerment of good men’s lives for vanity and foolish entertainment. Now, however, after meeting you, I realize I must compete, for more is at stake. The honor of any lady should be defended and you are no ordinary lady, but rather the Chosen of Maribor. For you, I would slay a thousand men to bring justice to those blackguards who would soil your good name! My sword and lance are yours, dear lady, if you will but grant me your favor.”

Dumbstruck, Amilia did not realize she had agreed until after walking away. She was numb and could not stop smiling for the rest of her trip up the stairs.

***

Reaching Modina’s room, Amilia’s spirits were still soaring. It had been a good day, perhaps the best of her life. She had discovered her family was alive and thriving. The wedding was proceeding under the command of an experienced and gracious man. And a handsome knight had knelt before her and asked for her token. Amilia grasped the latch, excited to share the good news with Modina, but all was forgotten the moment the door swung open.

As usual, Modina sat before the window, dressed in her thin, white nightgown, staring out at the brilliance of the snow in the moonlight. Next to her was a full-length, intricately-carved oval mirror mounted with brass fittings on a beautiful wooden swivel.

“Where did that come from?” Amilia asked, shocked.

The empress did not answer.

“How did it get here?”

Modina glanced at the mirror. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? A pity they brought such a nice one. I suppose they wanted to please me.”

Amilia approached the mirror and ran her fingers along the polished edge. “How long have you had it?”

“They brought it in this morning.”

“I’m surprised it survived the day.” Amilia turned her back on the mirror to face the empress.

“I’m in no hurry, Amilia. I still have some weeks yet.”

“So you’ve decided to wait for your wedding?”

“Yes. At first I didn’t think it would matter, but then I realized it could reflect badly on you. If I wait, it will appear to be Ethelred’s fault. Everyone will assume I couldn’t stand the thought of him touching me.”

“Is that the reason?”

“No, I have no feelings about him or anything. Well, except for you. But you’ll be all right.” Modina turned to look at Amilia. “I can’t even cry any more. I never even wept when they captured Arista…not a single tear. I watched the whole thing from this window. I saw Saldur and the seret go in and knew what that meant. They came back out, but she never has. She’s down there right now in that horrible dark place. Just like I once was. When she was here, I had a purpose, but now there is nothing left. It’s time for this ghost to fade away. I have served the regents’ purpose by helping them build the Empire. I’ve given you a better life, and not even Saldur will harm you now. I tried to help Arista, but I failed. Now it’s time for me to leave.”

Amilia knelt down next to Modina, gently drew back the hair from her face, and kissed her cheek. “Don’t speak that way. You were happy once, weren’t you? You can be again.”

Modina shook her head. “A girl named Thrace was happy. She lived with the family she loved in a small village near a river. Surrounded by friends, she played in the woods and fields. That girl believed in a better tomorrow. She looked forward to gifts Maribor would bring. Only instead of gifts, He sent darkness and horror.”

“Modina, there is always room for hope. Please, you must believe.”

“There was one day, when you were getting the clerk to order some cloth, that I saw a man from my past. He was hope. He saved Thrace once. For a moment, one very brief moment, I thought he had come to save me, too, only he didn’t. When he walked away, I knew he was just a memory from a time when I was alive.”

Amilia’s hands found Modina’s and cradled them as she might hold a dying bird. Amilia was having trouble breathing. As her lower lip began to tremble, she looked back at the mirror. “You’re right. It is a shame they brought such a pretty one.” She put her arms around Modina and began to cry.

Chapter 5
Footprints in the Snow

Several miles from Medford, Royce saw the smoke and prepared himself for the worst. Crossing the Galewyr used to mean entering the bustling streets of the capital, but on that day, as he raced across the bridge, he found only a charred expanse of blackened posts and scorched stone. The city he had known was gone.

Royce never called anywhere home. To him the word meant a mythical place like paradise or fairyland, but Wayward Street had been the closest thing he ever found. A recent snowfall covered the city like a sheet that nature had drawn over a corpse. Not a building remained undamaged, and many were nothing but charcoal and ash. The castle’s gates were shattered, portions of the walls collapsed. Even the trees in Gentry Square were gone.

Medford House, in the Lower Quarter, was a pile of smoldering beams. Nothing remained across the street except a gutted foundation and a burned sign displaying the hint of a rose in blistered paint.

He dismounted and moved to the rubble of the House. Where Gwen’s office used to be, he caught a glimpse of pale fingers beneath a collapsed wall. His legs turned weak and his feet foolish as he stumbled over the wreckage. Smoke caught in his throat, and he drew up the scarf to cover his nose and mouth. Reaching the edge of the wall, he bent and tried to lift it. The edge broke away, but it was enough to reveal what was underneath.

A cream-colored glove.

Royce stepped back from the smoke. Sitting on the blackened porch, he noticed he was shaking. He was unaccustomed to being scared. Over the years, he had given up caring if he lived or died, figuring that a quick demise spared him the pain of living in a world so miserly that it begrudged an orphan boy a life. He had always been ready for death, gambling with it, waging bets against it. Royce had been satisfied in the knowledge that his risks were sound because he had nothing of value to lose—nothing to fear.

Gwen changed everything.

He was an idiot and never should have left her alone.

Why did I wait?

They could have been safe in Avempartha, where only he held the key. The New Empire could beat themselves senseless against its walls and never reach him or his family.

A block away, a noisy flock of crows took flight. Royce stood and listened, hearing voices on the wind. Noticing his horse wandering down the street, he cursed himself for not tying her up. By the time he caught the reins, he spotted a patrol of imperial soldiers passing the charred ruins of Mason Grumon’s place.

“Halt!” the leader shouted.

Royce leapt on his mare and kicked her just as he heard a dull thwack. His horse lurched then collapsed with a bolt lodged deep in her flank. Royce jumped free before being crushed. He tumbled in the snow and came up on his feet, his dagger, Alverstone, drawn. Six soldiers hurried toward him. Only one had a crossbow, and he was busy ratcheting the string for his next shot.

Royce turned and ran.

He slipped into an alley filled with debris and vaulted over the shattered remains of the Rose and Thorn. Crossing the sewer near the inn’s stable, he was surprised to find the plank bridge still there. Shouts rose behind him, but they were distant and muffled by the snow. The old feed store was still standing, and with a leap, he caught the lower windowsill on the second story. If they tracked him through the alley, the soldiers would be briefly baffled at his disappearance. That was all the head start Royce needed. Pulling himself to the roof, he crossed it and climbed down the far side. He took one last moment to obscure his tracks before heading west.

***

Royce stood at the edge of the forest trying to decide between the road and the more direct route through the trees. Snow started to fall again, and the wind swept the flakes at an angle. The white curtain muted colors, turning the world a hazy gray. The thief flexed his hands. He had lost feeling in his fingers again. In his haste to find Gwen, he had once more neglected to purchase winter gloves. He pulled his hood tight and wrapped the scarf around his face. The northwest gale tore at his cloak, cracking the edges like a whip. He hooked it in his belt several times but eventually gave up—the wind insisted.

The distance to the Winds Abbey was a long day’s ride in summer, a day and a half in winter, but Royce had no idea how long it would take him on foot through snow. Without proper gear, it was likely he would not make it at all. Almost everything he had was lost with his horse including his blanket, food, and water. He did not even have the means to start a fire. The prudent choice would be the road. The walking would be easier, and he would at least have the chance of encountering other travelers. Still, it was the longer route. He chose the shortcut through the forest. He hoped Gwen had kept her promise and gone to the monastery, but there was only one way to be certain, and his need to see her had grown desperate.

As night fell, the stars shone brightly above a glistening world of white. Struggling to navigate around logs and rocks hidden beneath the snow, Royce halted when he came upon a fresh line of tracks—footprints. He listened but heard only the wind blowing through the snow-burdened trees.

With an agile jump he leapt on a partially fallen tree and nimbly sprinted up its length until he was several feet off the ground. Royce scanned the tracks in the snow below him. They were only as deep as his own, too shallow for a man weighed down by even light armor.

Who can possibly be traveling on foot here tonight besides me?

Given that the footprints were headed the direction he was going, and Royce wanted to keep the owner in front of him, he followed. The going was less difficult and Royce was thankful for the ease in his route.

When he reached the top of a ridge, the tracks veered right, apparently circling back the way he had come.

“Sorry to see you go,” Royce muttered. His breath puffed out in a moonlit fog.

As he climbed down the slope, he recalled this ravine from the trip he had taken three years earlier with Hadrian and Prince Alric. Then, as now, he had difficulty finding a decent route and struggled to work his way to the valley below. The snow made travel a challenge, and once he reached level ground he found it deep with drifts. He had not made more than a hundred feet of headway before encountering the footprints once more. Again he followed them, and found the way easier.

Reaching the far side of the valley, he faced the steep slope back up. The footprints turned to the right. This time Royce paused. Slightly to the left he could see an easy route. A V-shaped ravine, cleared and leveled by runoff, was inviting. He considered going that way but noticed that directly in front of him, carved in the bark of a spruce tree, was an arrow-shaped marker pointing to the right. The trailblazer’s footprints were sprinkled with woodchips.

“So you want me to keep following you,” Royce whispered to himself. “That’s only marginally more disturbing than you knowing I’m following you at all.”

He glanced around. There was no one he could see. The only movement was the falling snow. The stillness felt both eerie and peaceful, as if the wood waited for him to decide.

His legs were weak, his feet and hands numb. Royce never liked invitations, but he guessed following the prints would once again be the easier route. He looked up at the slope and sighed. After following the tracks only a few hundred feet more, he spotted a pair of fur mittens dangling from the branch of a tree. Royce slipped them on and found they were still warm.

“Okay, that’s creepy,” Royce said aloud. He raised his voice and added, “I’d love a skin of water, a hot steak with onions, and perhaps some fresh baked bread with butter.”

All around him was the tranquil silence of a dark wood in falling snow. Royce shrugged and continued onward. The trail eventually hooked left, but by then the steep bluff was little more than a mild incline. Royce half expected to find a dinner waiting for him when he reached the crest, but the hilltop was bare. In the distance was a light, and the footprints headed straight toward it.

Royce ticked through the possibilities and concluded nothing. There was no chance imperial soldiers were leading him through the forest, and he was too far from Windermere for it to be monks. Dozens of legends spoke of fairies and ghosts inhabiting the woods of western Melengar, but none mentioned denizens that left footprints and warm mittens.

No matter how he ran the scenarios, he could find no way to justify an impending trap. Still, Royce gripped the handle of Alverstone and trudged forward. As he closed the distance, he saw that the light came from a small house built high in the limbs of a large oak tree. Below the tree house a livestock pen was surrounded by a ring of thick evergreens, where a dark horse pawed the snow beside a wooden lean-to.

“Hello?” Royce called.

“Climb up,” a voice yelled down. “If you’re not too tired.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a friend. An old friend—or rather, you’re mine.”

“What’s your name…friend?” Royce stared up at the opening on the underside of the tree house.

“Ryn.”

“Now see, that’s a bit odd as I have few friends, and none of them is called Ryn.”

“I never told you my name. Now, are you going to come up and have some food or simply steal my horse and ride off? Personally, I suggest a bite to eat first.”

Royce looked at the horse for a long moment before grabbing the knotted rope dangling along the side of the tree trunk and pulled himself up. Reaching the floor of the house, he peeked inside. The space was larger than he expected, oven warm, and smelled of meat stew. Branches reached out in all directions, each one rubbed smooth as a banister. Pots and scarves hung from the limbs, and several layers of mats and blankets hid the wooden floor.

In a chair crafted from branches, a slim figure smoked a pipe. “Welcome, Mr. Royce,” Ryn said with a smile.

He wore crudely stitched clothes made from rough, treated hides. On his head was a hat that looked like an old, flopped sack. Even with his ears hidden, his slanted eyes and high cheekbones betrayed his elven heritage.

On the other side of the room, a woman and small boy chopped mushrooms and placed them in a battered pot suspended in a small fireplace made of what looked to be river stones. They, too, were mir—a half-breed mix of human and elf—like Royce himself. Neither said a word, but they glanced over at him from time to time while adding vegetables to the pot.

“You know my name?” Royce asked.

“Of course. It isn’t a name I could easily forget. Please, come in. My home is yours.”

“How do you know me?” Royce pulled up his legs and closed the door.

“Three autumns ago, just after Amrath’s murder, you were at the Silver Pitcher.”

Royce thought back. The hat!

“They were sick.” Ryn tilted his head toward his family. “Fever—the both of them. We were out of food and I spent my last coin on some old bread and a turnip from Mr. Hall. I knew it wouldn’t be enough, but there was nothing else I could do.”

“You were the elf that they accused of thieving. They pulled your hat off.”

Ryn nodded. He puffed on his pipe and said, “You and your friend were organizing a group of men to save the Prince of Melengar. You asked me to join. You promised a reward—a fair share.”

Royce shrugged. “We needed anyone willing to help.”

“I didn’t believe you. Who of my kind would? No one ever gave fair shares of anything to an elf, but I was desperate. When it was over, Drake refused to pay me just as I expected. But you kept your word and forced him to give me an equal share—and a horse. You threatened to kill the whole lot of them if they didn’t.” He allowed himself a little smile. “Drake handed over the gelding with full tack and never even checked it. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. I left before they could change their minds. I was miles away before I finally got a chance to look in the saddlebags. Fruits, nuts, meat, cheese, a pint of whiskey, a skin of cider, those would’ve been treasure enough. But I also found warm blankets, fine clothes, a hand axe, flint and steel, a knife—and the purse. There were gold tenants in that bag—twenty-two of them.”

“Gold tenants? You got Baron Trumbul’s horse?”

Ryn nodded. “There was more than enough gold to buy medicine, and with the horse I got back in time. I prayed I would be able to thank you before I died, and today I got my chance. I saw you in the city but could do nothing there. I am so glad I persuaded you to visit.”

“The mittens were a nice touch.”

“Please sit and be my guest for dinner.”

Royce hung his scarf alongside his cloak on one of the branches and set his boots to warm near the fire. The four ate together with little conversation.

After she had taken his empty bowl, Ryn’s wife spoke for the first time. “You look tired, Mr. Royce. Can we make you a bed for the night?”

“No. Sorry. I can’t stay.” Royce said while getting up, pleased to feel his feet again.

“You’re in a hurry?” Ryn asked.

“You could say that.”

“In that case, you will take my horse, Hivenlyn,” Ryn said.

An hour earlier, Royce would have stolen a horse from anyone he happened upon, so he was surprised to hear himself say, “No. I mean, thanks, but no.”

“I insist. I named him Hivenlyn because of you. It means unexpected gift in Elvish. So you see, you must take him. He knows every path in this wood and will get you safely wherever you need to go.” Ryn nodded toward the boy, who nimbly slipped out the trap door.

“You need that horse,” Royce said.

“I’m not the one trudging through the forest in the middle of the night without a pack. I lived without a horse for many years. Right now, you need him more than I do. Or can you honestly say you have no use for a mount?”

“Okay, I’ll borrow him. I am riding to the Winds Abbey. I’ll let them know he is your animal. You can claim him there.” Royce bundled up and descended the rope. At the bottom, Ryn’s son stood with the readied horse.

Ryn climbed down as well. “Hivenlyn is yours now. If you have no further need, give him to someone who does.”

“You’re crazy,” Royce said, shaking his head in disbelief. “But I don’t have time to argue.” He mounted and looked back at Ryn standing in the snow beneath his little home. “Listen…I’m not…I’m just not used to people…you know…”

“Ride safe and be well, my friend.”

Royce nodded and turned Hivenlyn toward the road.

***

He traveled all night, following the road and fighting a fresh storm that rose against him. The wind blew bitter, pulling his cloak away and causing him to shiver. He pushed the horse hard, but Hivenlyn was a fine animal and did not falter.

At sunrise they took a short rest in the shelter of fir trees. Royce ate the hard round of mushroom-stuffed bread Ryn’s wife had provided and gave Hivenlyn a bit of one end. “Sorry about the pace,” he told the horse. “But I’ll make sure you get a warm stall and plenty to eat when we arrive.” Royce failed to mention that the deal depended on finding Gwen safe. Anything less, and he would not care about the needs of the horse. He would not care about anything.

The storm continued to rage all through that day. Gale-swept snow blew across the road, forming patterns that resembled ghostly snakes. During the entire trip, Royce did not come across a single traveler, and the day passed by in a blinding haze of white.

As darkness fell, the two finally reached the summit of Monastery Hill. The abbey appeared from behind a veil of falling snow, silent and still. The quiet of the compound was disturbing, too similar to that visit he had made three years ago after the Imperialists had burned the church to the ground with dozens of monks locked inside. Panic threatened to overtake Royce as he raced up the stone steps and pulled on the expansive doors. He entered, moving quickly down the length of the east range. He just needed a face, any face, someone he could ask about Gwen. Not a single monk in the abbey could have missed the arrival of a band of prostitutes.

The corridor was dark, as was the hall leading to the cloister. He opened the door to the refectory and found it vacant. The empty dining tables were matched by empty benches. Listening to the hollow echo of his own footsteps, the sense of doom that drove Royce through the snow caused him to sprint to the church. Reaching the two-story double doors, he feared that, just as once before, he would find them chained shut. Taking hold of the latches he pulled hard.

The soft sound of singing washed over him as Royce gazed down a long nave filled with monks. The massive doors boomed as they slammed against the walls. The singing halted and dozens of heads turned.

“Royce?” a voice said. A woman’s voice—her voice.

The forest of brown-clad monks shifted, and he spotted Gwen among them, dressed in an emerald gown. By the time she reached the aisle, he was throwing his arms around her and squeezing until she gasped.

“Master Melborn, please,” the abbot said. “We are in the middle of vespers.”

Chapter 6
The Palace

Hadrian drew the drapes and lit a candle on the small table before asking Albert, “What have you discovered?” In the past Royce had always run the meetings, and Hadrian found himself trying to remember all the little things his partner would do to ensure secrecy.

They were in Hadrian’s room at the Bailey, and this was their first meeting since Royce left. Albert was staying at the palace now, and Hadrian wanted to keep Albert’s visits infrequent. A guest of the empress might patronize a seedy inn for entertainment, but too many visits could appear suspicious.

“Genny introduced me to the empress’s secretary,” Albert said. He was dressed in a heavy cloak, which hid his lavish attire beneath simple wool. “The girl cried tears of joy when Genny told her the news about her family. I think it’s safe to say that Lady Amilia loves the duchess and at least trusts me. You should have seen Genny. She was marvelous. And her chambers are exquisite!”

“What about Leo?” Hadrian asked.

“He’s quiet as always but playing along. If Genny is all right with it, so is he. Besides, he’s always hated Ethelred.”

The two sat at the table. The dim, flickering light revealed not much more than their faces. For over a week Hadrian had tried to find out what he could in town, but he was not getting very far. He did not have the head for planning that Royce did.

“And you know how Genny loves intrigue,” Albert added. “Anyway, she got me appointed as the official wedding planner.”

“That’s perfect. Have you learned anything useful?”

“I asked Lady Amilia about places that could be used to temporarily house performers. I told her it’s common practice to utilize empty cells since tavern space is hard to come by.”

“Nice.”

“Thanks, but it didn’t help. According to her, the palace doesn’t have a dungeon, just a prison tower.”

“Prison tower sounds good.”

“It’s empty.”

“Empty? Are you sure? Have you checked?”

Albert shook his head. “Off limits.”

“Why would it be off limits if it’s empty?”

The viscount shrugged. “No idea, but Lady Amilia assures me it is. Said she was up there herself. Besides, I’ve watched it the last few nights, and I’m pretty sure she’s right. I’ve never seen a light. Although, I did see a seret knight go in once.”

“Any other ideas?”

Albert drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking for a moment. “The only other restricted area is the fifth floor, which I’ve determined is where the empress resides.”

“Have you seen her?” Hadrian leaned forward. “Have you managed to speak with her?”

“No. As far as I can tell, Modina never leaves her room. She has all her meals brought to her. Amilia insists the empress is busy administrating the Empire and is still weak. Apparently, the combination leaves her unable to receive guests. This has been a source of irritation recently. All the visiting dignitaries want an audience with the empress—but all are denied.”

“Someone has to see her.”

“Lady Amilia certainly does. There is also a chambermaid…” Albert fished inside his tunic pulling out a wadded bundle of parchments, which he unfolded on the table. “Yes, here it is. The chambermaid is named Anne, and the door guard is…” He shuffled through his notes. “Gerald. Anne is the daughter of a mercer from Colnora. As for Gerald, his full name is Gerald Baniff. He’s from Chadwick. Family friend of the Belstrads.” Albert took a moment to flip through a few more pages. “Was once personal aide to Sir Breckton. A commendation for bravery won him the position of honor guard to the empress.”

“What about the regents?”

“I assume they could see her, but as far as I can tell, they don’t. At least no one I’ve talked to reports ever having seen them on the fifth floor.”

“How can she govern if she never takes a meeting with Ethelred or Saldur?” Hadrian asked.

“I think it’s obvious. The regents are running the Empire.”

Hadrian slumped back in his seat with a scowl. “So she’s a puppet.”

Albert shrugged. “Maybe. Is this significant?”

“Royce and I knew her—before she became the empress. I thought maybe she might help us.”

“Doesn’t look like she has any real power.”

“Does anyone know this?”

“Some of the nobles may suspect, although most appear colossally unaware.”

“They can’t all be that gullible.”

“You have to keep in mind that many of these people are extremely religious and dedicated Imperialists. They accept the story of her being the heir descended from Maribor. From what I’ve determined, the vast majority of the peasant class feels the same way. The servants and even palace guards view her with a kind of awe. The rarity of her appearances has only reinforced this notion. It’s a politician’s dream. Since she’s hardly seen, no one attaches any mistake to her and instead blame the regents.”

“So no one other than Amilia, the guard, and the chambermaid see her?”

“Looks that way. Oh, wait.” Albert paused. “Nimbus also apparently has access.”

“Nimbus?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes, he is a courtier from Vernes. I met him several years ago at some gala or ball. No one of account as I remember but generally a decent fellow. He’s actually the one that introduced Lord Daref and me to Ballentyne, which led to that pair of stolen letter jobs you did for the Earl of Chadwick and Alenda Lanaklin. Nimbus is a thin, funny guy, prone to wearing loud clothes and a powdered wig. Always carries a little leather satchel over his shoulder—rumor is he carries make-up in it. Smarter than he appears certainly. Very alert—he listens to everything. He was hired by Lady Amilia and works as her assistant.”

“So, what is the likelihood you could see the empress?”

“Slim, I suspect. Why? I just told you there’s not much chance she can help, or do you think they’re keeping Gaunt in Modina’s room?”

“No.” Hadrian rubbed a hand over the surface of the table amidst the flickering shadows. “I’d just like to—I don’t know—to see if she’s all right, I guess. I sort of promised her father I’d watch out for her—make sure she was okay, you know?”

“She’s the empress,” Albert stated. “Or hasn’t he heard?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh.” Albert paused.

“I just would feel better if I could talk to her.”

“Are we after Gaunt or the empress?”

Hadrian scowled. “Well, it doesn’t look like we’re very close to finding where Gaunt is being held.”

“I think I’ve pushed things about as far as I can. I’m a wedding planner, not a guard, and people get suspicious if I start asking about prisoners.”

“I really didn’t think it would be this hard to find him.”

Albert sighed. “I’ll try again,” he said, standing and pulling the drawstrings on his cloak.

“Hold on a second. When we first arrived, didn’t you mention that the palace was recruiting new guards?”

“Yeah, they’re expecting huge crowds. Why?”

Hadrian didn’t reply right away, staring into the single candle and massaging his calloused palms. “I thought I might try my hand at being a man-at-arms again.”

Albert smiled. “I think you’re a tad overqualified.”

“Then I ought to get the job.”

***

Hadrian waited in line among the weak-shouldered, bent-backed, would-be soldiers. They shifted their weight from foot to foot and blew into cupped hands to warm their fingers. The line of men stretched from the main gate to the barrack’s office within the palace courtyard. Being the only man with his own weapons and a decent cloak, Hadrian felt out of place and forced himself to stoop and shuffle when he walked.

Heaps of snow packed the inner walls of the well-shoveled courtyard. A fire burned in a pit outside the barracks, where the yard guards would occasionally pause to warm their hands or get a cup of something steaming hot. Servant boys made routine trips back and forth to the well or the woodpile, hauling buckets of water or slings of split logs.

“Name?” A gruff soldier asked as Hadrian entered the dim barracks and stood before a rickety desk.

Three men in thick leather sat behind it. Beside them was a small clerk, whom Hadrian had seen once before in the palace. A disagreeable sort with a balding head and ink-stained fingers, he sat with a roll of parchment, pen, and ink.

“You have a name?” the man in the center asked.

“Baldwin,” Hadrian said. The clerk scratched the parchment. The end of his feathered quill whipping about like the tail of an irritated squirrel.

“Baldwin, eh? Where have you fought?”

“All over, really.”

“Why aren’t you in the Imperial Army? Ya a deserter?”

Hadrian allowed himself a smile, which the soldier did not return. “You could say that. I left the Nationalists.”

This caught the ear of everyone at the table and a few men standing in line. The clerk stopped scribbling and looked up.

“For some reason they stopped paying me,” Hadrian added with a shrug.

A slight smile pulled at the edges of the soldier’s lips. “Not terribly loyal are you?”

“I’m as loyal as they come…as long as you pay me.”

This brought a chuckle from the soldier, and he looked to the others. The older man to his right nodded. “Put him on the line. It doesn’t require much loyalty to work a crowd.”

The clerk began writing again and Hadrian was handed a wooden token.

“Take that back outside and give it to Sergeant Millet near the fire. He’ll get you set up. Name?” he called to the next in line as Hadrian headed back out into the blinding white.

Unable to see clearly for a moment, Hadrian blinked. As his eyes adjusted he saw Sentinel Luis Guy ride through the front gate leading five seret knights. The two men spotted each other at the same instant. Hadrian had not seen Guy since the death of Fanen Pickering in Dahlgren. While he hoped to one day repay Guy for Fanen’s death, this was a terrible time to cross paths.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Guy slowly leaned and spoke to the man beside him, his eyes never straying from Hadrian.

“Now!” Guy growled when the knight hesitated.

Hadrian could not think of a worse place to be caught. He had no easy exit—no window to leap through or door to close. Between him and the gate were twenty-six men still in line, who would jump at the chance to prove their mettle by helping the palace guard. Despite their numbers, Hadrian was the least concerned with the guard-hopefuls as none of them were armed. The bigger problem was the ten palace guards dressed for battle. At the sound of the first clash of swords, the barracks would empty, adding more men. Hadrian conservatively estimated he would need to kill or cripple at least eighteen people just to reach the exit. Guy and his five seret would be at the top of that list. The serets’ horses would also need to be dispatched in order for him to have any chance of escaping through the city streets. The final obstacle would be the crossbowmen on the wall. Among the eight, he guessed at least two would be skilled enough to hit him in the back as he ran out through the gate.

“Just—don’t—move,” Guy said with his hands spread out in front of him. He looked as if he was trying to catch a wild horse and did not advance, dismount, or draw his sword.

Just then the portcullis dropped.

“There’s no escape,” Guy assured him.

From a nearby door, a handful of guards trotted toward Hadrian with their swords drawn.

“Stop!” Guy ordered, raising his hand abruptly. “Don’t go near him. Just fan out.”

The men waiting in line looked from the soldiers to Hadrian and then backed away.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Blackwater,” Guy said in an almost-friendly tone. “But we truly have you outnumbered this time.”

***

Hadrian stood in an elegantly furnished office on the fourth floor of the palace. Regent Saldur sat behind his desk fidgeting with a small, bejeweled letter opener shaped like a dagger. The ex-bishop looked slightly older and a bit heavier than the last time Hadrian had seen him. Luis Guy stood off to the right, his eyes locked on Hadrian. He was dressed in the traditional black armor and scarlet cape of his position, his sword hanging in its sheath. Guy’s stance was straight and attentive, and he kept his hands gripped behind his back. Hadrian did not recognize the last man in the room. The stranger, dressed in an elegant garnache, sat near a chessboard, casually rolling one of the pieces back and forth between his fingers.

“Mr. Blackwater,” Saldur addressed Hadrian, “I’ve heard some pretty incredible things about you. Please, won’t you sit?”

“Will I really be staying that long?”

“Yes, I am afraid so. No matter how this turns out, you’ll be staying.”

Hadrian looked at the chair but chose to remain standing.

The old man leaned back in his seat and placed the tips of his fingers together. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here instead of locked in the north tower or at least why we haven’t shackled your wrists and ankles. You can thank Sentinel Guy for that. He has told us an incredible story about you. Aside from murdering seret knights—”

“The only murder that day was Fanen Pickering,” Hadrian said. “The seret attacked us.”

“Well, who’s to say who did what when? Still, the death of a seret demands a severe penalty. I’m afraid it’s customarily an executable offense. However, Sentinel Guy insists that you are a Teshlor—the only Teshlor—and that is an unusual extenuating circumstance.

“Now, if I recall my history lessons correctly, there was only one Teshlor to escape the destruction of the Old Empire—Jerish Grelad, who had taken the Heir of Novron into hiding. Legend claims that the Teshlor skills were passed down from generation to generation to protect the bloodline of the emperor.

“The Pickerings and the Killdares are each said to have discovered just a single one of the Teshlor disciplines. These jealously guarded secrets have made those families renowned for their fighting skills. A fully trained Teshlor would be…well…invincible in any one-on-one competition of arms. Am I correct?”

Hadrian said nothing.

“In any case, let’s assume for the moment that Guy is not mistaken. If this is so, your presence presents us with an interesting opportunity, which can provide a uniquely mutual benefit. Given this, we felt it might encourage you to listen if we treated you with a degree of respect. By leaving you free—”

The door burst open and Regent Ethelred entered. The stocky, barrel-chested man was dressed in elaborate regal vestments of velvet and silk. He, too, looked older, and the former king’s once-trim physique sported a bulge around the middle. Gray invaded his mustache and beard in patches, leaving white lines in his black hair. After pulling his cape inside, he slammed the door shut.

“So, this is the fellow, I take it?” he said in a booming voice as he appraised Hadrian. “Don’t I know you?”

Seeing no reason to lie, Hadrian replied, “I once served in your army.”

“That’s right!” Ethelred said, throwing up his hands in a large animated gesture. “You were a good fighter, too. You held the line at, at…” He snapped his fingers repeatedly.

“At the Gravin River Ford.”

“Of course!” He slapped his thigh. “Damn nice piece of work that was. I promoted you, didn’t I? Made you a captain or something. What happened?”

“I left.”

“Pity. You’re a fine soldier.” Ethelred clapped Hadrian on the shoulder.

“Of course he is, Lanis. That’s the whole point,” Saldur reminded him.

Ethelred chuckled then said, “Too true, too true. So, has he accepted?”

“We haven’t asked him yet.”

“Asked me what?”

“Hadrian, we have a little problem,” Ethelred began. As he spoke, he paced back and forth between Saldur’s desk and the door. He kept the fingers of his left hand tucked in his belt behind his back while using his right to assist him in speaking like a conductor uses a baton. “His name is Archibald Ballentyne. He’s a sniveling little weasel. All of the Ballentynes have been worthless, pitiful excuses for men, but he’s also the Earl of Chadwick. So, by virtue of his birth, he rules over a province that is worthless in all ways except one. Chadwick is the home to Lord Belstrad whose eldest son, Sir Breckton, is very likely the best knight in Avryn. When I say best, I mean that in every sense of the word. His skill at arms is unmatched as are his talent for tactics and his aptitude for leadership. Unfortunately, he’s also loyal to a fault. He serves Archie Ballentyne and only Archie.”

Ethelred crossed the room and took a seat by hopping on Saldur’s desk, causing the old man to flinch.

“I wanted Breckton as my general, but he refuses to obey the chain of command and won’t listen to anyone except Archie. I can’t waste time filtering all my orders through that pissant. So we offered Breckton a prime bit of land and a title, to abandon Ballentyne, but the fool wasn’t interested.”

“The war is over, or soon will be,” Hadrian pointed out. “You don’t need Breckton anymore.”

“That is exactly correct,” Saldur said.

There was something in the detached way he spoke that chilled Hadrian.

“Even without a war we still need strong men to enforce order,” Ethelred explained. Picking up a glass figurine from Saldur’s desk, he began passing it from hand to hand.

Saldur’s jaw clenched as his eyes tracked each toss.

“When Breckton turned us down, Archie threatened to use his knight and the Royalists against us. Can you believe that? He said he would march on Aquesta! He thinks he can challenge me! The little sod—” Ethelred slammed the figurine down on the desk, shattering it. “Oh—sorry, Sauly.”

Saldur sighed but said nothing.

“Anyway,” Ethelred went on, dusting off his hands so that bits of glass rained on the desk. “Who could have guessed a knight would turn down an offer to rise to the rank of marquis and command a whole kingdom as his fief? The piss-proud pillock! And what’s he doing it for? Loyalty to Archie Ballentyne. Who hates him. Always has. It’s ridiculous.”

“Which brings us to why you’re here, Mr. Blackwater,” Saldur said. He used a lace handkerchief to gingerly sweep the broken glass off his desk into a wastebasket. “As much as I would like to take credit for it, this is all Guy’s idea.” Saldur nodded toward the sentinel.

Guy never changed his wooden stance, remaining at attention as if it was his natural state.

“Finding you in our courtyard, Guy realized that you can solve our little problem with Sir Breckton.”

“I’m not following,” Hadrian said.

Saldur rolled his eyes. “We can’t allow Breckton to reach his army at Drondil Fields. We would be forever at the mercy of Archie. He could dictate any terms so long as Breckton controlled the loyalty of the army.”

Hadrian’s confusion continued. “And…?”

Ethelred chuckled. “Poor Sauly, you deal too much in subtlety. This man is a fighter, not a strategist. He needs it spelled out.” Turning to Hadrian, he said, “Breckton is a capable warrior and we had no hope of finding anyone who could defeat him until Guy pointed out that you are the perfect man for the job. To be blunt, we want you to kill Sir Breckton.”

“The Wintertide tournament will start in just a few days,” Saldur continued. “Breckton is competing in the joust and we want you to battle him and win. His lance will be blunted while yours will have a war point hidden beneath a porcelain shell. When he dies, our problem will be solved.”

“And exactly why would I agree?”

“Like the good regent explained,” Guy said, “killing seret is an executable offense.”

“Plus,” Ethelred put in, “as a token of our appreciation, we will sweeten the deal by paying you one hundred solid gold tenents. What do you say?”

Hadrian knew he could never murder Breckton. While he had never met the man, he was familiar with Breckton’s younger brother Wesley, who had served with Royce and Hadrian on the Emerald Storm. The young man died in battle, fighting beside them at the Palace of the Four Winds. His sacrificial charge had saved their lives. No man had ever proven himself more worthy of loyalty, and if Breckton was half the man his younger brother was, Hadrian owed him at least one life.

“What can he say?” Saldur answered for him. “He has no choice.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hadrian replied. “You’re right. I am a trained Teshlor, and while you’ve been talking, I’ve calculated eight different ways to kill everyone in this room. Three using nothing more than that little letter opener Regent Saldur has been playing with.” He let his arms fall loose and shifted his stance. This immediately set Ethelred and Guy, the two fighters, on the defensive.

“Hold on now,” Saldur’s voice waivered and his face showed strain. “Before you make any rash decisions, consider that the window is too small to fit through, and the men in the corridor will not let you leave. If you really are as good as you say, you might take a great many of them with you, but even you cannot defeat them all.”

“You might be right. We’ll soon find out.”

“Are you insane? You’re choosing death?” Saldur erupted in frustration. “We are offering you gold and a pardon. What benefit is there in refusing?”

“Well, he does plan on killing all of you.” The man with the chess piece spoke for the first time. “A good trade really—forfeiting one knight to eliminate a knight, a bishop, and a king. But you offered the man the wrong incentive. Give him the princess.”

“Give—what?” Saldur looked puzzled. “Who? Arista?”

“You have another princess I’m not aware of?”

“Arista?” Hadrian asked. “The Princess of Melengar is here?”

“Yes, and they plan to execute her on Wintertide,” the man answered.

Saldur looked confused. “Why would he care—”

“Because Hadrian Blackwater and his partner Royce Melborn, better known as Riyria, have been working as the Royal Protectors of Melengar. They’ve been instrumental in nearly every success either Alric or his sister has had over the last few years. I suspect they might even be friends with the royal family now. Well—as much as nobles will permit friendship with commoners.”

Hadrian tried to keep his face neutral and his breathing balanced.

They have Arista? How did they capture her? Was she hurt? How long have they been holding her? Who was this man?

“You see, Your Grace, Mr. Blackwater is a romantic at heart. He likes his honor upheld and his quests worthy. Killing an innocent knight, particularly one as distinguished as Breckton, would be…well…wrong. Saving a damsel in distress, on the other hand, is an entirely different proposition.”

“Would that be a problem?” Ethelred asked Saldur.

The regent thought a moment. “The girl has proven herself to be resourceful and given us more than a fair share of trouble but…Medford is destroyed, the Nationalists are disbanded, and Drondil Fields won’t last much longer. I can’t see any way she could pose a serious threat to the Empire.”

“Well,” Ethelred addressed Hadrian, “do we have a deal?”

Hadrian scrutinized the man at the chessboard. While he had never seen his face before, he felt as though he should recognize him.

“No,” Hadrian said at length. “I want Degan Gaunt, too.”

“You see, he is the Guardian!” Guy proclaimed. “Or he wishes to be. Obviously Esrahaddon told him Gaunt is the heir.”

Ethelred looked concerned. “That’s out of the question. We’ve been after the Heir of Novron for years. We can’t let him go.”

“Not just years, centuries,” Saldur corrected. He stared at Hadrian, his mouth slightly open, the tip of his tongue playing with his front teeth. “Esrahaddon is dead. You confirmed that, Guy?”

The sentinel nodded. “I had his body dug up and then burned.”

“And how much does Gaunt know? I’ve heard you’ve had several little chats with him.”

Guy shook his head. “Not much, from what I’ve been able to determine. It doesn’t look like Esrahaddon has even told Gaunt he’s the heir.”

“But Hadrian will tell him,” Ethelred protested.

“So?” Saldur replied. “What does that matter? The two of them can travel the countryside, proclaiming Gaunt’s heritage from the mountaintops. Who will listen? Modina serves us well. The people love and accept her as the unquestionable true Heir of Novron. She slew the Gilarabrywn, after all. If they try to convince people that Gaunt is the heir, they’ll find no supporters from peasants or nobles. The concern was never Degan, per se, but rather what Esrahaddon could do by using him as a puppet. Right? With the wizard gone, Gaunt is no real threat.”

“I’m not certain the Patriarch will approve,” Guy said.

“The Patriarch isn’t here having a standoff with a Teshlor, is he?”

“And what about Gaunt’s children, or grandchildren? Decades from now, they may attempt to regain their birthright. We have to concern ourselves with that.”

“Why worry about problems that may never occur? We’re at a bit of an impasse, gentlemen. Why don’t we deal with our present issues and let the future take care of itself? What do you say, Lanis?”

Ethelred nodded.

Saldur turned to Hadrian. “If you succeed in killing Sir Breckton in the joust, we will release Degan Gaunt and Princess Arista into your custody on the condition that you leave Avryn and promise not to return. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.”

“So I’m free to go?”

“Actually, no,” Saldur said. “You must understand our desire to keep this little arrangement between us. I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist that you stay in the palace until after your joust with Breckton. While you’re here, you will be under constant observation. If you attempt to escape or pass information, we will interpret that as a refusal on your part, and Princess Arista and Degan Gaunt will be burned at the stake.

“Breckton’s death has to be seen as a Wintertide accident at best or the actions of an overambitious knight at worst. There can be no suspicions of a conspiracy. Commoners aren’t permitted to participate in the tournament, so we’ll need to transform you into a knight. You will stay in the knights’ quarters, participate in the games, attend feasts, and mingle with the aristocracy as all knights do this time of year. We will assign a tutor to help you convince everyone that you’re noble, so there will be no suspicions of wrongdoing. As of this moment, your only way out of this palace is to kill Sir Breckton.”

Chapter 7
Deeper into Darkness

Drip, drip, drip.

Arista scratched her wrists, feeling the marks raised by the heavy iron during the regent’s interrogation. The itching had only recently started. With what little they fed her, she was surprised her body could heal itself at all. Lying about Edith Mon had been a gamble, and she had worried Saldur would return to her cell with the inquisitor, but three bowls of gruel had arrived since his visit, which led her to conclude he had believed her story.

Whirl…splash!

There it was again.

The sound was faint and distant, echoing as if heard through a long, hollow tube.

Creak, click, creak, click, creak, click.

The noise certainly came from a machine, a torture device of some kind. Perhaps it was a mechanical winch used to tear people to pieces or a turning wheel that submerged victims in putrid waters. Saldur had been wrong about her courage. Arista never had any doubt she would break if subjected to torture.

The stone door to the prison rumbled as it opened. Footsteps echoed through the corridors. Once more, someone was coming when it was not time for food.

Clip-clap, clip-clap.

The shoes were different and not as rich as Saldur’s, but they were not poor either. The gait was decidedly military, but these feet were not shod in metal. They did not come for her. Instead, the footfalls stopped just past her cell. Keys jangled and a cell door opened.

“Morning, Gaunt,” said a voice she found distantly familiar and vaguely unpleasant, like the memory of a bad dream.

“What do you want, Guy?” Gaunt said.

It’s him!

“You and I need to have another talk,” Guy said.

“I barely survived our last one.”

“What did Esrahaddon tell you about the Horn of Gylindora?”

Arista lifted her head and inched nearer the door.

“I don’t know how many ways I can say it. He told me nothing.”

“See, this is why you suffer in our little meetings. You need to be more cooperative. I can’t help you if you won’t help us. We need to find that horn and we need it now!”

“Why don’t you just ask Esrahaddon?”

“He’s dead.”

There was a long pause.

“Think. Surely, he mentioned it to you. Time is running out. We had a team, but they are long overdue, and I doubt they’re coming back. We need that horn. In all your time together, do you really expect me to believe he never mentioned it?”

“No, he never said anything about a damn horn!”

“Either you’re becoming better at lying, or you’ve been telling the truth all along. I just can’t imagine he wouldn’t tell you anything unless…Everyone is so certain, but I’ve had a nagging suspicion for some time now.”

“What’s that for?” Gaunt asked. His voice nervous—frightened.

“Let’s call it a hunch. Now hold still.”

Gaunt grunted then cried out. “What are you doing?”

“You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”

There was another pause.

“I knew it!” Guy exclaimed. “This explains so much. While it doesn’t help either of us, at least it makes sense. The regents were fools to kill Esrahaddon.”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, Gaunt. I believe you. He didn’t tell you anything. Why would he? The Patriarch will not be pleased. You won’t be questioned anymore. You can await your execution in peace.”

The door closed again and the footsteps left the dungeon.

Esrahaddon’s dying words came back to Arista.

“Find the Horn of Gylindora—Need the heir to find it—buried with Novron in Percepliquis. Hurry—at Wintertide the Uli Vermar ends. They will come—without the horn everyone dies.”

These words had brought Arista to Aquesta in the first place and were the reason she risked hers and Hilfred’s lives trying to save Gaunt. Now she once more tried to understand just what Esrahaddon had meant by them.

***

Drip, drip, drip.

The protruding bones of Arista’s hips, knees, and shoulders ached from bearing her weight on the stone. Her fingernails had become brittle and broken. Too exhausted to stand or sit upright, Arista struggled to even turn over. Despite her weakness, she found it difficult to sleep and lay awake for hours, glaring into the dark. The stone Arista lay on sucked the warmth from her body. Shivering in a ball, she pushed herself up in the dark and struggled to gather the scattered bits of straw. Running her fingers over the rough-hewn granite, she swept together the old, brittle thatch and mounded it as best she could into a lumpy bed.

Arista lay there imagining food. Not simply eating or touching it, but immersing herself. In her daydreams, she bathed in cream and swam in apple juice. All of her senses contributed and she longed for even the smell of bread or the feel of butter on her tongue. Arista was tortured with thoughts of roasted pig dripping with fruit glaze, beef served in a thick, dark gravy, and mountains of chicken, quail, and duck. Envisioning feasts stretching across long tables made her mouth water. Arista ate several meals a day in her mind. Even the vegetables, the common diet of peasants, were welcomed. Carrots, onions, and parsnips hovered in her mind like unappreciated treasures—and what she would give for a turnip.

Drip, drip, drip.

In the dark there was so much to regret and so much time to do so.

What a mess she had made of a life that started out filled with so much happiness. She recalled the days when her mother had been Queen of Melengar and music filled the halls. There had been the beautiful dress stitched from expensive Calian silk that she had received on her twelfth birthday. How the light had shimmered across its surface as she twirled before her mother’s swan mirror. That same year, her father had given her a Maranon-bred pony. Lenare had been so jealous as she had watched Arista chase Alric and Mauvin over the Galilin hills on horseback. She loved riding and feeling the wind in her hair. Those were such good days. In her memory, they were always sunny and warm.

Her world changed forever the night the castle caught on fire. Her father had just appointed her Uncle Braga as the Lord Chancellor of Melengar and celebrations ran late. Her mother tucked her into bed that night. Arista did not sleep in the tower then. She had a room across the hall from her parents, but she would never sleep in the royal wing again.

In the middle of that night, she had awoken to a boy pulling her from bed. Frightened and confused, she jerked away, kicking and scratching as he tried to grab hold.

“Please, Your Highness, you must come with me,” the boy begged.

Outside her window, the elm tree burned like a torch and her room flickered with its light. From somewhere deep in the castle, she heard a muffled roar, and Arista found herself coughing from smoke.

Fire!

Screaming in terror, she cowered back to the imagined safety of her bed. The boy gripped her hard and dragged her toward him.

“The castle is burning. We have to get out of here,” he said.

Where is my mother? Where are Father and Alric? And who is this boy?

While she fought against him, the boy lifted her in his arms and rushed from the room. The corridor was a tunnel of flames formed by the burning tapestries. Carrying her down the stairs and through several doors, he stumbled and finally collapsed in the courtyard. The cool evening air filled Arista’s lungs as she gasped for breath.

Her father was not in the castle that night. After settling a dispute between two drunken friends, he had escorted them home. By sheer luck, Alric was also not there. He and Mauvin Pickering had secretly slipped out to go night hunting, what they used to call frog catching. Arista’s mother was the only royal who failed to escape.

Hilfred, the boy who had saved Arista, had tried to rescue the queen as well. After seeing the princess to safety, he went back into the flames and nearly died in the attempt. For months following the fire, Hilfred suffered the effects of burns, was beset by nightmares, and had coughing fits so intense that he spat blood. Despite all the agony he endured on her behalf, Arista never thanked him. All she knew was that her mother was dead, and from that day on everything had changed.

In the wake of the fire, Arista moved to the tower, as it was the only part of the castle that did not smell of smoke. Her father ordered her mother’s furniture—those few items that survived the fire—to be moved there. Arista would often cry while sitting before the swan mirror remembering how her mother used to brush her hair. One day her father saw her and asked what was wrong. She blurted out, “All the brushes are gone.” From that day forward, her father brought her a new brush after each trip he took. No two were ever alike. They were all gone now, the brushes, her father, even the dressing table with the swan mirror.

Drip, drip, drip.

Arista wondered if Maribor decreed she should be alone. Why else did she, a princess nearly twenty-eight years old, never have a proper suitor. Even poor, ugly daughters of fishmongers fared better. Perhaps her loneliness was her own fault, the result of her deplorable nature. In the dark, the answer was clearly visible—no one wanted her.

Emery had thought he loved Arista, but he never really knew her. Impressed by her wild ideas of taking Ratibor from the Imperialists, he had been swayed by the romantic notion of a noble fighting alongside a band of commoners. What Emery fell in love with was a myth. As for Hilfred, he had worshiped Arista as his princess. She was not a person but an icon on a pedestal. That they died before learning the truth was a mercy to both men.

Only Hadrian escaped being deceived. Arista was certain he saw her merely as a source of income. He likely hated her for being a privileged aristocrat living in a castle while he scraped by. All commoners were nice to nobility—when in their presence—but when in private their true feelings showed. Hadrian probably snickered, proclaiming her too repulsive for even her own kind to love. With or without magic, she was still a witch. She deserved being alone. She deserved to die. She deserved to burn.

Drip, drip, drip.

A pain in her side caused her to slowly turn over. Sometimes she lost feeling in her feet for hours, and her fingers often tingled. After settling onto her back, she heard a skittering sound.

The rat had returned. Arista did not know where it came from or where it went to in the darkness, but she always knew when it was near. She could not understand why it came around as she ate all the food delivered. After consuming every drop of soup, she licked and even chewed on the bowl. Still, the rat visited frequently. Sometimes his nose touched her feet and kicking would send it scurrying away. In the past, she had tried to catch it, but it was smart and fast. Now she was too weak to even make an attempt.

Arista heard the rat moving along the wall of the cell. Its nose and whiskers lightly touched her exposed foot. She no longer had the energy to kick, so she let it smell her. After sniffing a few more times, the rat bit her toe.

Arista screamed in pain. She kicked but missed. Still, the rat scurried off. Lying in the darkness, she shivered and cried in fear and misery.

“A—ris—ta?” Degan asked sounding horse. “What is it?”

“A rat bit me,” she said, once again shocked by her own rasping voice.

“Jasper does that if—” Gaunt coughed and hacked. After a moment, he spoke again, “If he thinks you’re dead or too weak to fight.”

“Jasper?”

“I call him that, but I’ve also named the stones in my cell.”

“I only counted mine,” Arista said.

“Two hundred and thirty-four,” Degan replied instantly.

“I have two hundred and twenty-eight.”

“Did you count the cracked ones as two?”

“No.”

The princess lay there, listening to her own breathing, and felt the weight of her hands on her chest as it rose and fell. She started to drift in and out of sleep when Degan spoke again.

“Arista? Are you really a witch? Can you do magic?”

“Yes,” she said. “But not in here.”

Arista did not expect him to believe her and had doubted her own powers after being cut off from them for so long. Runes lined the walls of the prison. They were the same markings that had prevented Esrahaddon from casting spells while incarcerated in Gutaria, but her stay would not last a thousand years as his had. Gutaria’s runes halted the passage of time as well as preventing the practice of magic, and the ache in her stomach reminded Arista all too often that time was not suspended here.

Only since the Battle of Ratibor had Arista begun to understand the true nature of magic, or The Art as Esrahaddon had called it. When touching the strings of reality, she felt no sense of boundaries—only complexity. With time and understanding, anything might be possible and everything achievable. Were it not for the runes disconnecting her from the natural world, she was certain she could break open the ground and rip the palace apart.

“Were you born a witch?”

“I learned magic from Esrahaddon.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“He was murdered by an assassin.”

“Oh. Did he ever talk about me? Did he tell you why he was helping me?” he asked anxiously.

“He never told you?”

“No. I didn’t—” he broke into another fit of coughs. “I didn’t have much of an army when we met, but then everything changed. He got men to join and follow me. I never had to do much of anything. Esrahaddon did all the planning and told me what to say. It was nice while it lasted. I had plenty to eat, and folks saluted and called me sir. I even had a horse and a tent the size of a house. I should have known all that was too good to last. I should have realized he was setting me up. I’m just curious why. What did I ever do to him?” His voice was weak, coming in gasps by the end of his speech.

“Degan, do you have a necklace? A small silver medallion?”

“Yeah—well, I did.” He paused a long while, and when he spoke again his voice was better. “My mother gave it to me before I left home—my good luck charm. They took it when they put me in here. Why do you ask?”

“Because you are the Heir of Novron. That necklace was created by Esrahaddon nearly nine hundred years ago. There were two of them, one for the heir and one for the guardian trained to defend him. For generations they protected the wearers from magic and hid their identities. Esrahaddon taught me a spell that could find who wore them. I was the one who helped him find you. He’s been trying to restore you to the throne.”

Degan was quiet for some time. “If I have a guardian, where is he? I could use one right now.”

The waves of self-loathing washed over her again. “His name is Hadrian. Oh, Degan, it’s all my fault. He doesn’t know where you are. Esrahaddon and I were going to find you and tell him, but I messed it all up. After Esrahaddon’s death, I thought I could get you out on my own. I failed.”

“Yeah, well, it’s only my life—nothing important.” There was a pause then, “Arista?”

“Yes?”

“What about that thing Guy mentioned? That horn? Did Esrahaddon ever mention it to you? If we can tell them something about it, maybe they won’t kill us.”

Arista felt the hair on her arms stand up.

Is this a trick? Is he working for them?

Weak and exhausted, she could not think clearly. In the darkness she felt vulnerable and disoriented—exactly what they wanted.

Is it even Gaunt at all? Or did they discover I was coming and plant someone from the start? Or did they switch the real Gaunt while I slept? Is it the same voice?

She tried to remember.

“Arista?” he called out again.

She opened her mouth to reply but paused and thought of something else to say. “It’s hard to recall. My head’s fuzzy, and I’m trying to piece the conversation together. He talked about the horn the same day I met your sister. I remember he introduced her…and then…oh, how did it go again? He said, ‘Arista this is…this is…oh, it’s just beyond my memory. Help me out, Degan. I feel like a fool. Can you remind me what your sister’s name is?”

Silence.

Arista waited. She listened and thought she heard movement somewhere beyond her cell, but she was not sure.

“Degan?” she ventured after several minutes passed. “Don’t you know your own sister’s name?”

“Why do you want to know her name?” Degan asked. His tone was lower, colder.

“I just forgot it is all. I thought you could help me remember the conversation.”

He was quiet for so long that she thought he might not speak again. Finally he said, “What did they offer you to find out about her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you’re Arista Essendon, or maybe you’re an Imperialist trying to get secrets from me.”

“How do I know any different about you?” she asked.

“You supposedly came to free me, and now you doubt who I am?”

“I came to free Degan Gaunt, but who are you?”

“I won’t tell you the name of my sister.”

“In that case, I think I will sleep.” She meant it as a bluff, but as the silence continued, she dozed off.

Chapter 8
Sir Hadrian

Hadrian sat on the edge of his bunk, perplexed by the tabard. A single red, diagonal strip decorated each side. Depending on how he wore it, the stripe either started from his right or left shoulder, and he could not figure out which was correct.

As he finally made a decision and placed it over his head, there was a quiet knock followed by the timid opening of his door. A man’s face, accentuated by a beaklike nose and topped by a foppish powdered wig, peered inside. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Sir Hadrian.”

“Congratulations, you found him,” Hadrian replied.

The man entered, followed closely by a boy who remained near the door. Thin and brittle-looking, the man was dressed in bright satin knee breeches and an elaborate, ruffled tunic. Even without the outlandish clothing, he would still be comical. Encased in buckled shoes, his feet seemed disproportionally large, and all his limbs were gangly. The teenage lad behind him wore the more conventional attire of a simple brown tunic and hose.

“My name is Nimbus of Vernes, and I am Imperial Tutor to the Empress. Regent Saldur thought you might need some guidance on court protocol and instruction in knightly virtues, so he asked me to assist you.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Hadrian said. He stood and offered his hand. At first Nimbus appeared confused, but then he reached out and shook.

Motioning toward the tabard Hadrian wore, he nodded. “I can see why I was called upon.”

Hadrian glanced down and shrugged. “Well, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance.” Removing the garment, he turned the tunic around. “Is that better?”

Nimbus struggled to suppress a laugh, holding a lace handkerchief to his lips. The boy was not so restrained and snorted, then laughed out loud. This made Nimbus lose his own battle, and finally Hadrian found himself laughing as well.

“I’m sorry. That was most inappropriate of me,” Nimbus apologized, getting a hold of himself. “I beg your forgiveness.”

“It’s no problem. Just tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

“Well, to start with, that particular garment is used only for sparring, and no self-respecting knight would wear such a thing at court.”

Hadrian shrugged. “Oh, okay, good to know. It was the only thing I saw. Any ideas?”

Nimbus walked to a drape behind the bunk, and flung it aside, revealing an open wardrobe filled with tunics, jackets, coats, capes, jerkins, gambesons, vests, doublets, baldrics, belts, breeches, shirts, hose, boots, and shoes.

Hadrian looked at the wardrobe and frowned. “So how was I supposed to know all that was there?”

“Why don’t we begin by getting you properly dressed?” Nimbus suggested and motioned for Hadrian to pick something.

He reached toward a pair of wool pants, but a cough from Nimbus stopped him.

“No?” Hadrian asked.

Nimbus shook his head.

“Okay, what do you think I should be wearing?”

Nimbus considered the wardrobe for several minutes, picking out various pieces, comparing them, putting one back, and then choosing another. He finally selected a white shirt, gold doublet, purple hose, and shiny black shoes with brass buckles. He laid them out on the bunk.

“You’re joking,” Hadrian said, staring at the array. “That’s your best choice? I’m not sure gold and purple are for me. Besides, what’s wrong with the wool pants?”

“Those are for hunting and, like the tabard, not appropriate for dress at court. Gold and purple complement each other. They announce you are a man that makes no excuses.”

Hadrian held up the clothes with a grimace. “They’re loud. Disturbingly loud.”

“They exude refinement and grace,” Nimbus corrected. “Qualities, if you don’t mind me saying, from which you could benefit. I know knights in the field dress in order to bully rabble-rousers and brigands, and under such circumstances, it’s appropriate to select garments based on certain utilitarian qualities.” He took an appraising look at Hadrian’s attire. “But you are at the palace now, competing with a higher class of…thug. A strong arm and loud voice will not be enough. You need to sell yourself to the knights you wish to intimidate, to the ladies you wish to bed, to the lords you wish to impress, and to the commoners who will chant your name during the competitions. This last group is particularly important, as it will raise your stature with the others.

“A knight skilled in combat may stay alive, but it is the one skilled in persuasion that wins the king’s daughter for his wife and retires to a vast estate. Truly successful knights can obtain multiple fiefs and enter their twilight years as wealthy as any count or earl.”

Nimbus lowered his voice. “Regent Saldur mentioned that you might be a bit rough around the edges.” He paused briefly. “I think we can both agree I’ve not been misled. It may take some doing to refine your mannerisms. So, in the meantime, I plan to overcompensate with clothing. We’ll blind everyone with dazzle, so they won’t see the dirt on your face.”

Hadrian reached for his cheek.

“That was a metaphor,” Nimbus informed him. “Although now that I look at you, a bath is certainly in order.”

“Bath? It’s freezing outside. You’re supposed to groom me, not kill me.”

“You may be surprised to discover that in civilized society we bathe indoors with heated water. You might even find it enjoyable.” Turning to the boy, Nimbus ordered, “Renwick, run and fetch the tub and get some others to help carry buckets. We’ll also need a bristle brush, soap, oils, and—oh yes—scissors.”

The lad ran off and quickly returned with a small army of boys carrying a wooden tub. They left and returned with buckets of hot water. After preparing the bath, all the boys left except Renwick. He dutifully stood beside the door, ready for further requests.

Hadrian undressed and tested the water with a hesitant foot.

“Are you versed in the basic concept of bathing? Or do you need me to instruct you?” Nimbus asked.

Hadrian scowled at him. “I think I can handle it,” he said, settling into the water. The tub overflowed and created a soapy mess. He grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

Nimbus said nothing and turned away to give Hadrian a modicum of privacy.

The hot bath was wonderful. Hadrian had been assigned an interior chamber selected, no doubt, for its lack of windows. There was a simple bed, two wooden stools, a modest table, but no fireplace, which left the chamber chilly. If desperate, there was a large hearth in the common room at the end of the hall that also sported carpets and a chess set, but despite the cold Hadrian preferred to remain in the isolation of his private room. Having not felt comfortably warm in days, Hadrian sank lower to submerge as much of himself as possible.

“Are these yours?” Nimbus asked, noticing Hadrian’s weapons resting in the corner of the room.

“Yes, and I know they’re worn and dirty just like me.”

Nimbus lifted the spadone still encased in the leather baldric with a noticeable degree of reverence. Turning it over gingerly, he ran his fingertips along the hilt, grip, and pommel. “This is very old,” he said almost to himself. “Wrong sheath though.” He laid the sword across the foot of the bed.

“I thought you were a courtier. What do you know about swords?”

“You’ll learn that there are many weapons at court. Survival in the maelstrom of the body politic requires being able to size up another by what little they reveal to you.”

Hadrian shrugged. “It’s the same in combat.”

“Court is combat,” Nimbus said. “Only the skills and setting differ.”

“So, how would you size me up?”

“Regent Saldur told me your background is completely confidential and that divulging anything would result in my—not too painless—demise. The only information he provided was that you were recently knighted. He refrained from any detail about your station or ancestry. The regent merely mentioned you were lacking refinement and instructed me to ensure you fit seamlessly into the Wintertide festivities.”

Hadrian kept an unwavering stare on the tutor. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Nimbus smiled at him. “You really want to know, don’t you? You aren’t toying with me?”

Hadrian nodded.

The tutor turned to the page. “Renwick?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Fetch Sir Hadrian a cup of wine from the steward in the kitchen.”

“There’s wine in the common room, sir, and it’s closer.”

Nimbus gave him a stern look. “I want some privacy, Renwick.”

“Oh, I see. Of course, sir.”

“Very well then,” Nimbus said after the boy left. He pursed his lips and tapped them several times with his index finger before continuing. “The truth of the matter is that you are not a knight. You haven’t even served as a squire, groom, or page. I doubt you’ve ever set foot in a proper castle for more than a few minutes at a time. However, and this is the important point—you are indeed noble.”

Hadrian paused in his scrubbing. “And what makes you think that?”

“You didn’t know where the wardrobe was, you’ve never taken a bath in winter, you shook my hand when we met, and apologized for spilling your bath water. These are most certainly not the actions of a knight raised from birth to feel and act superior to others.”

Hadrian sniffed the scented soap and discarded it.

“Most telling, however, was the handshake itself. You offered it as a simple gesture of greeting. There was no agenda, no flattery, no insincerity. There also was no insecurity or sense that, by virtue of my clothes and mannerisms, I was your better. How odd, considering, as I now know, you were not raised a noble.” Nimbus looked back at the sword resting on the bed. “It’s an heirloom, isn’t it?”

Picking up a bottle of oil, Hadrian pulled the cork and deemed it acceptable. He added a bit to the bristles of the brush. “I got it from my father.”

The tutor ran his hand along the sheathed blade. “This is a remarkable weapon—a knight’s sword—tarnished with time and travel. You don’t use it as often as the others. The bastard and short sword are tools to you, but this—ah—this is something else—something revered. It lies concealed in a paltry sheath, covered in clothes not its own. It doesn’t belong there. This sword belongs to another time and place. It is part of a grand and glorious world where knights were different, loftier—virtuous. It rests in this false scabbard because the proper one has been lost, or perhaps, it waits for a quest yet to be finished. It longs for that single moment when it can shine forth in all its brilliance. When dream and destiny meet on a clear field, then and only then will it find its purpose. When it faces that honorable cause—that one worthy and desperate challenge for which it was forged and on which so much depends—it will find peace in the crucible of struggle. For good or ill, it will ring true or break. But the wandering, the waiting, the hiding will at last be over. This sword waits for the day when it can save the kingdom and win the lady.”

Hadrian sat staring, not realizing that he had dropped his brush.

Nimbus appeared to take no notice of Hadrian’s reaction and took a seat on the bunk with a satisfied smile across his face. “Now, while I have your attention, shall we address the task to which I was assigned?”

Hadrian nodded.

“To help me judge where to start, can you tell me what you already know about chivalry?” Nimbus asked.

“It’s a code of conduct for knights,” Hadrian replied, searching the bottom of the tub for the lost brush.

“Yes—well you are essentially correct. What do you know of its principles?”

“Be honorable, be brave, that sort of thing.”

“That sort of thing? Oh, I’m afraid we’ll have to start with the basics. Very well, please pay attention, and don’t forget to scrub the bottoms of your feet.”

Hadrian frowned but lifted a foot.

“The knightly virtues derive themselves from a standard of ethics passed down from the original Empire. There are eight such virtues. The first is proficiency. It is the easiest to achieve as it merely means skill at arms and can be obtained through practice and observation. Judging from the wear on your weapons, I trust you have a solid understanding of this virtue?”

“I’m able to hold my own.”

Nimbus nodded. “Excellent. Next is courage, one of the most important virtues. Courage, however, is not so cheaply bought as by charging against overwhelming odds. It can take many forms. For instance, the bravery to choose life over death, especially if that means living with loss. Or the will to risk all for a cause too noble to let perish. Courage can even be found in surrender—if doing so will mean the survival of something too valuable to lose.

“The third virtue of a knight is honesty. To possess honor, a man must first strive to be honest to men, to women, to children, to great and to small, to the good and to the villainous but mostly to himself. A knight does not make excuses.”

Hadrian made an extra effort to keep his eyes focused on scrubbing his feet.

“Integrity is a virtue that comprises both loyalty and honor. Possessing integrity often means adhering to a pledge or principle. Loyalty to a sovereign is the mark of a goodly knight. However, integrity can also mean defending those in need who cannot help themselves. A knight should always work for the good of the king third, the betterment of the kingdom second, but always place what is right first.”

“How does a knight know what is right?” Hadrian interrupted. He put down the brush, letting his foot slip back to the bottom of the tub. “I mean…What if I’m forced to choose between two evils. Someone could get hurt no matter what I do. How do I decide?”

“True nobility lies in the heart. You must do what you know to be right.”

“How do I know I’m not being selfish?”

“Ah, that brings us to the next virtue—faith. Faith is not simply a belief in the tenets of the church but a belief in virtue itself. A knight does not find fault. As mentioned, a knight believes in the good of all men, including himself. He trusts in this belief. A knight is confident in the word of others, in the merits of his lord, the worth of his commands, and in his own worth.”

Hadrian nodded, though the words did not help ease his conscience.

“Generosity is the sixth virtue. A knight should show bounteousness to all, noble and commoner alike. More important than generosity of wares is a generosity of spirit. A knight believes the best of others and always extends the benefit of doubt. A knight does not accuse. He does not assume wrongdoing. Still, a knight grants no benefit to himself and always questions if he is at fault.

“Respect is the virtue concerning the good treatment of others. A knight is not thoughtless. He does not harm through recklessness. He seeks not to injure by lazy words or foolishness. A knight does not mimic the bad behavior of others. Instead, he sees it as an opportunity to demonstrate virtue by contrast.”

Nimbus paused. “I don’t think you need worry too much about this one either.” He offered a smile before continuing.

“The final virtue is sincerity, which is elusive at best. Nobility by birthright is clear, but what is in question here is noblesse of heart and cannot be taught or learned. It must be accepted and allowed to grow. This virtue is demonstrated through bearing not swagger, confidence not arrogance, kindness not pity, belief not patronage, authenticity not pretension.

“Thus are the virtues that comprise the Code of Chivalry,” Nimbus concluded. “The path of goodness and truth to which men of high honor aspire. The reality, however, is often quite different.”

As if on cue, the door burst open and three men tumbled inside. They were large, stocky brutes dressed in fine doublets with silk trim. The lead man sported a goatee and stood near the door, pointing at Hadrian.

“There he is!” he announced.

“Well, he certainly isn’t this little sod,” roared a second man, who pushed Nimbus hard in the chest and knocked the tutor back against the bunk. This man was the largest of the three and wore several days of beard growth. The insult, as well as the terrified expression on the courtier’s face, brought the new arrivals to laughter.

“What’s your name, Twig?” the man with the goatee asked.

“I am Nimbus of Vernes,” he said while attempting to stand and regain some level of dignity. “I am Imperial Tutor to—”

“Tutor? He’s got a tutor!”

They howled in laughter again.

“Tell us, Twig, what are you teaching Sir Bumpkin here? How to wash his arse? Is that your job? Have you taught him to use the chamber pot yet?”

Nimbus did not answer. He clenched his teeth and fixed his eyes on the unkempt man before him.

“I think you’re getting under that ruffled collar of his,” the last of them observed. He was clean-shaven and sipped wine from a goblet. “Careful, Elgar, he’s made fists.”

“Is that true?” Elgar looked at the tutor’s hands, which were indeed tightly clenched. “Oh dear! Am I impinging on your sacred pedagogical honor? Would you like to throw a punch at me, little Twig? Put me in my proper place, as it were?”

“If he takes a big enough swing, it’s possible you might actually feel it,” the shaved one said.

“I asked you a question, Twig,” Elgar pressed.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll continue this another time,” Nimbus said to Hadrian. “It would seem you have guests.”

Elgar blocked the tutor’s path as he tried to leave and shoved him again. Staggering backward, Nimbus fell onto the bed.

“Leave him alone,” Hadrian ordered as he stood and grabbed a towel.

“Ah, Sir Bumpkin, in all his regal glory!” proclaimed the man with the goatee, pointing. “Well, not that regal and certainly not that glorious!”

“Who are you?” Hadrian demanded, stepping out of the tub and wrapping a towel around himself.

“I am Sir Murthas and the gent with the handsome face beside me here is Sir Gilbert. Over there, that dashing fellow holding the pleasant conversation with the twig is none other than Sir Elgar. We are the three finest knights of the realm, as you will soon discover. We wanted to welcome you to the palace, deliver you a fond tiding, and wish you luck on the field—as luck is all you’ll have.”

Nimbus snorted. “They’re here because they heard a bath was ordered and wanted to see your scars. Knowing nothing about you, they came to see if you have any fresh bruises or recent wounds they might take advantage of on the field. Also, they are trying to intimidate you, as a man in a tub is at a disadvantage. Intimidation can frequently win a contest before it starts.”

Sir Elgar grabbed hold of Nimbus, pulling him up by his tunic. “Talkative little bastard, aren’t you?” He raised a fist just as a sopping towel slammed into his face.

“Sorry. Elgar, is it?” Hadrian asked. “Just got done drying my ass and noticed a smudge on your cheek.”

Elgar threw off the towel and drew his sword. In just two steps, the knight cut the distance to Hadrian who stood naked and unflinching even as Elgar raised the blade’s tip toward his throat.

“Brave bugger, I’ll give you that much,” Elgar said. “But that just means you’ll be an easier target along the fence. You might want to save that water. You’ll need it after I put you in the mud.” Sheathing his sword, he led his friends from the room, nearly colliding with Renwick, who stood outside the door holding a goblet of wine.

“You all right?” Hadrian asked, grabbing a fresh towel.

“Yes, of course,” Nimbus replied in an unsteady voice. He smoothed the material of his tunic.

“Your wine, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian.

Without pause, Nimbus took the cup and drained it. “As I was saying, the reality can be quite different.”

Chapter 9
Winds Abbey

Royce stood before the window of the bedroom, watching Gwen sleep and thinking about their future. He pushed the thought away and suppressed the urge to smile. Just imagining it would bring disaster. The gods—if they existed—detested happiness. Instead, he turned and looked out over the cloistered courtyard.

The previous night’s storm left everything covered in a new dress of unblemished white. The only exception was a single line of footprints that led from the dormitory to a stone bench where a familiar figure sat wrapped in a monk’s habit. He was alone, yet the movement of his hands and the bob of his head revealed he was speaking with great earnest. Across from the monk was a small tree. Planting it was one of the first things Myron did when he returned to the abbey after the fire. It now stood a proud eight feet tall but was so slender it drooped under the snow’s weight. Royce knew there was great resiliency in a tree accustomed to bending in the wind, but he wondered if the strain could be endured. There was a breaking point for everything, after all. As if reading his thoughts, Myron rose and gave the tree a light shake. He had to stand close to do so, and much of the snow fell on his head. The tree sprang back, and without the burden of snow, it appeared more like its former self. Myron returned to his seat and his conversation. Royce knew he was not speaking to the tree but to his boyhood friend who was buried there.

“You’re up early,” Gwen said from where she lay with her head on a clutched pillow. He could make out the elegant slope of her waist and rise of her hip beneath the covers. “After last night I would have thought you’d be sleeping late.”

“We went to bed early.”

“But we didn’t sleep,” she teased.

“It was better than sleep. Besides, around here, after first light is sleeping in. Myron is already outside.”

“He does that so he can talk privately.” She smiled and drew back the covers invitingly. “Isn’t it cold next to that window?”

“You’re a bad influence,” he said, lying down and wrapping his arms around her. He marveled at the softness of her skin. She drew the quilt over both of them and laid her head on his chest.

Their room was one of the bigger guest chambers, which was three times larger than any of the monks’ cells. Gwen, who left Medford a week before Breckton’s invasion, had arranged to bring everything with her, even her canopied bed, carpets, and wall hangings. Looking around the room, Royce could easily imagine he was back on Wayward Street. He felt at home but not because of the decorations. All he needed was Gwen.

“Am I corrupting you?” she asked playfully.

“Yes.”

His fingers caressed her bare shoulder and ran along the swirled tattoo. “This last trip Hadrian and I went on, we went to Calis…into the jungles. We stayed in a Tenkin village where I met an unusual woman.”

“Did you? Was she beautiful?”

“Yes, very.”

“Tenkin women can be exceptionally attractive.”

“Yes, they can. And this one had a tattoo that—”

“Did Hadrian find the heir?”

“No—well, yes, but not how we expected. We stumbled on the news the Empire is holding him in Aquesta. They’re going to execute him on Wintertide. But this tattoo—”

“Execute him?” Gwen pushed herself up on one elbow, looking surprised—too surprised to just be avoiding questions. “Shouldn’t you be helping Hadrian?”

“I will, although I’m not sure why. I was hardly any help on the last trip, and I didn’t need to save him. So your little prophesy was wrong.”

He thought it would put Gwen at ease to know her prediction of disaster had not come to pass. Instead, she pushed him away—the familiar sadness returned.

“You need to go help him,” she said firmly. “I might be wrong about the timing, but I’m not wrong about Hadrian dying unless you are there to save him.”

“Hadrian will be fine until I get back.”

She hesitated, took a deep breath, and laid her head back down. Hiding her face against his chest, she became quiet.

“What’s the matter?” Royce asked.

“I am a corrupting influence.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he told her. “Personally, I’ve always rather liked corruption.”

There was a long pause, and he watched her head riding on the swells of his breath. Running his fingers through her hair, he marveled at it—at her. He touched the tattoo again.

“Royce, can we just lie here a little while?” She squeezed him, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “Can we just be still and listen to the wind and make-believe it is blowing past us?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” she said, “but I want to pretend.”

***

“There wasn’t much of a fight,” Magnus said.

Royce always thought the dwarf’s voice sounded louder and deeper than it should for someone his size. They sat at a long table in the refectory. Now that he knew Gwen was safe, Royce’s appetite returned. The monks prepared an excellent meal accompanied by the first good wine he had tasted in ages.

“Alric just ran,” Magnus said while mopping up the last of an egg. For someone so small, he ate a lot and never passed up an opportunity for food. “So Breckton’s army took over everything except Drondil Fields, but they’ll have that soon.”

“Who burned Medford?” Royce asked.

“Medford was burned?”

“When I came through there a couple days ago, it was.”

The dwarf shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say church-led fanatics out of Chadwick or maybe Dunmore. They’ve been pillaging homes and hunting elves since the invasion.”

Magnus finished eating and leaned back with his feet on an empty stool. Gwen sat beside Royce, clutching his arm as if she owned him. The very idea of belonging to her was so strange that he found it distracting but, he was surprised to discover he enjoyed the sensation.

“So how long are you back for?” the dwarf asked. “Got time to let me see Alver—”

“I’m leaving as soon as Myron gets done.” Royce noticed a look from Gwen. “I’m sure it won’t take him more than a few days.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Drawing a map. Myron saw a floor plan of the palace once, so he’s off reproducing it. He said it’s old…real old…dates back to Glenmorgan apparently.”

“When you leave,” Gwen said, “take Mouse. Give Ryn’s horse to Myron.”

“What does Myron need with a horse?” he asked. Gwen just smiled, and Royce knew better than to question further. “Okay, but I’m warning you now. He’ll spoil it rotten.”

***

Myron sat at his desk in the scriptorium carrell, arguably his favorite place in the world. The peaked desk and small stool took up most of the cramped space between the stone columns. To his left, a half-moon window overlooked the courtyard.

Outside, the world appeared frightfully cold. The wind howled past the window, leaving traces of snow in the corners of the leading. The hilltop scrub shook with winter’s fury. Peering out, Myron appreciated the coziness of his tiny study. The niche in the room enveloped him like a rodent’s burrow. Ofttimes Myron considered how he might like to be a mole or shrew, not a Dusky or Greater White-tooth, or even a Lesser White-tooth Shrew, but just a common shrew, or perhaps a mole. How pleasant an existence it would be to live underground safe and warm in small, hidden chambers. He could look out at the vast world with a sense of awe and delight in knowing there was no reason to venture forth.

He put the finishing touches on the drawing for Royce and returned to working on the final pages of Elquin. This was the masterwork of the fifth dynastic poet Orintine Fallon, a massive tome of personal reflections on how the patterns of nature related to the patterns in life. When completed, it would be the twentieth book in Myron’s quest to restore the Winds Abbey library, with a mere three hundred and fifty-two remaining—not including the five hundred and twenty-four scrolls and one thousand two hundred and thirteen individual parchments. For more than two years’ work, that accomplishment might not seem impressive, but Myron only scribed full-time in the winter, as the warmer months were devoted to helping put the finishing touches on the monastery.

The new Winds Abbey was nearly completed. To most, it would appear exactly as it once was, but Myron knew better. It had the same type of windows, doors, desks, and beds, but they were not the same ones. The roof was exactly as he remembered, yet it was different—just like the people. He missed Brothers Ginlin, Heslon, and the rest. Not that Myron was unhappy with his new family. He liked the new abbot, Harkon. Brother Bendlton was a very fine cook, and Brother Zephyr was marvelous at drawing and helped Myron with many of his illuminations. They were all wonderful, but like the windows, doors, and beds, they were not the same.

“No, for the last time, no!” Royce shouted as he entered the small scriptorium, pursued by Magnus.

“Just for a day or two,” Magnus pleaded. “You can spare the dagger for that long. I only want to look at it—study it. I won’t damage it.”

“Leave me alone.”

The two made their way toward Myron, weaving between the other desks. There were two dozen in the room, but only Myron’s was used with any regularity.

“Oh, Royce, I’ve just finished. But you might want to wait for the ink to dry.”

Royce held the map to the light, scanning it critically for several minutes.

Myron became concerned. “Something wrong?”

“I can’t believe how things like this are just sitting in your head. It’s incredible. And you say this is a map of the palace?”

“The notation reads: ‘Warric Castle,’” Myron pointed out.

“That’s no map,” Magnus said with a scowl, looking at the parchment Royce held out of his reach.

“How would you know?” Royce asked.

“Because what you have there are construction plans. You can see the builder’s marks.”

Royce lowered the scroll and Magnus pointed. “See here, the builder jotted down the amount of stone needed.”

Royce looked at the dwarf and then at Myron. “Is that right?”

Myron shrugged. “Could be. I only know what I saw. I have no idea what it means.”

Royce turned back to Magnus. “So you understand these markings, these symbols.”

“Sure, it’s just basic engineering.”

“Can you tell me where the dungeon is by looking at this?”

The dwarf took the plans and laid them on the floor, as the desks were too high to reach. He motioned for a candle and Royce brought it over. Magnus studied the map for several minutes before declaring, “Nope. No dungeon.”

Royce frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. I’ve never heard of a palace or castle that didn’t have some kind of dungeon.”

“Well, that’s not the only strange thing about this place,” Magnus said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s nothing, and I mean nothing at all, below ground level. Not so much as a root cellar.”

“So?”

“So you can’t stack tons of stone on just dirt. It will sink. Rain will erode it. The walls will shift and collapse.”

“But it hasn’t,” Myron said. “The records I reproduced date back hundreds of years.”

“Which makes no sense. These plans show no supporting structure. No piles driven down to bedrock, no columns. There’s nothing holding this place up. At least nothing drawn here.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Not sure, but if I were to guess, it’s ’cuz it’s built on top of something else. They must have used an existing foundation.”

“Knowing that and looking at this…Could you give me an idea of where a dungeon is, if you were there?”

“Sure. Just need to see what it’s sitting on and give a good listen to the ground around it. I found you that tunnel to Avempartha, after all.”

“All right, get packed. You’re coming with me to Aquesta.”

“What about the dagger?”

“I promise to bequeath it to you when I die.”

“I can’t wait until then.”

“Don’t worry. At this rate, it won’t be too long.” Royce turned back to Myron. “Thanks for the help.”

“Royce?” Myron stopped the thief as they started to leave.

“Yeah?”

Myron waited until Magnus left. “Can I ask you something about Miss DeLancy?”

Royce raised an eyebrow. “Is something wrong? Is the abbot upset with her and the girls being here?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. They have been wonderful. It’s nice having sisters as well as brothers. And Miss DeLancy has a very nice voice.”

“Nice voice?”

“The abbot keeps us segregated from the women, so we don’t see them much. They eat at different times and sleep in separate dormitories, but the abbot invites the ladies to join in vespers. A few come, including Miss DeLancy. She always arrives with her head covered and face veiled. She’s quiet, but from time to time, I notice her whispering a prayer. Each service begins with a hymn and Miss DeLancy joins in. She sings softly but I can hear her. She has a wonderful voice, haunting, beautiful but also sad like the song of a nightingale.”

“Oh.” Royce nodded. “Well, good. I’m glad there isn’t a problem.”

“I wouldn’t call it a problem, but…”

“But?”

“I often see her in the mornings when I go to the Squirrel Tree to talk with Renian. Miss DeLancy sometimes takes walks in the cloister, and she always stops by to pay her respects to us when she does.” Myron paused.

“And?” Royce prompted.

“Well, it’s just that one morning she took my hand and looked at my palm for several minutes.”

“Uh-oh,” Royce muttered.

“Yes,” Myron said with wide eyes.

“What did she say?”

“She told me I would be taking two trips—both sudden and unexpected. She said I would not feel up to it, but I should not be afraid.”

“Of what?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Typical.”

“Then she told me something else and was sad like when she sings.”

“What was it?” Royce asked.

“She said she wanted to thank me in advance and tell me it wasn’t my fault.”

“She didn’t explain that either, did she?”

Myron shook his head. “But it was very disturbing—the way she said it—so serious and all. Do you know what I mean?”

“All too well.”

Myron sat up on his stool and took a breath. “You know her. Should I be concerned?”

“I always am.”

***

Royce walked the courtyard in the early-morning light. He had a habit of getting up before dawn. To avoid waking Gwen, he slipped out to wander the abbey’s grounds. Scaffolding remained here and there, but the majority of the monastery was finished. Alric had financed the reconstruction as a payment to Riyria for saving Arista when their Uncle Braga tried to kill her. Magnus oversaw its construction and seemed genuinely happy to be restoring the buildings to their former splendor, even though working with Myron frustrated the dwarf. Myron provided detailed, although unorthodox, specifications describing dimensions in the height of several butter churns, the width of a specific book, or the length of a spoon. Despite this, the buildings went up and Royce had to admit the monk and the dwarf had done an excellent job.

That day, the ground was covered in a thick frost and the sky lightened to a bright, clear blue as Royce made his morning rounds. Myron had finished the map, and he knew he should be leaving soon, but Royce was stalling. He enjoyed lingering in bed with Gwen and taking walks with her in the courtyard. Noticing the sun rising above the buildings, he headed back inside. Gwen would be up and having breakfast together was always the best part of their day. When he reached their room, Gwen was still in bed, her back to the door.

“Gwen? Are you feeling all right?”

She rolled over to face him and he saw the tears in her eyes.

Royce rushed to her side. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

She reached out and hugged him. “Royce, I’m sorry. I wish there was more time. I wish…”

“Gwen? What—”

Someone knocked at the door and the force pushed it open. The portly abbot and a stranger stood awkwardly on the other side.

“What is it?” Royce snapped as he studied the stranger.

He was young and dressed in filthy clothes. His face showed signs of windburn and the tip of his nose looked frostbitten.

“Begging you pardon, Master Melborn,” the abbot said. “This man rode in great haste from Aquesta to deliver a message to you.”

Royce glanced at Gwen and stood up even as her fingers struggled to hold him. “What’s the message?”

“Albert Winslow told me you would pay an extra gold tenent if I arrived quickly. I rode straight through.”

“What’s the message?” Royce’s voice took on a cold chill.

“Hadrian Blackwater has been captured and is imprisoned in the Imperial Palace.”

Royce ran a hand through his hair, barely hearing Gwen thank the man as she paid him.

***

Brilliant sunlight illuminated the interior of the stable as Royce entered. The planks comprising the stalls were still pale yellow, not yet having aged to gray. The smell of sawdust mingled pleasantly with the scents of manure, straw, and hay.

“I should have guessed you’d be here,” Royce said, startling Myron who stood inside the stall between the two horses.

“Good morning. I was blessing your horse. Not knowing which you would take, I blessed them both. Besides, someone has to do the petting. Brother Hinkle cleans the stalls very well, but he never takes time to scratch their necks or rub their noses. In the Song of Beringer, Sir Adwhite wrote: Everyone deserves a little happiness. It’s true don’t you think?” Myron stroked the dark horse’s nose. “I know Mouse, but who is this?”

“His name is Hivenlyn.”

Myron tilted his head, working something out while moving his lips. “And was he?” the monk asked.

“Was he what?”

“An unexpected gift.”

Royce smiled. “Yes—yes he was. Oh, and he’s yours now.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, compliments of Gwen.”

Royce saddled Mouse and attached the bags of food the abbot had prepared while Royce was saying his goodbyes to Gwen. There had been too many partings over the years, each harder than the one before.

“So you are off to help Hadrian?”

“And when I get back, I’m taking Gwen and we’re leaving, going away from everyone and everything. Like you said, ‘Everyone deserves a little happiness,’ right?”

Myron smiled. “Absolutely. Only…”

“Only what?”

The monk paused before speaking again, rubbing Mouse’s neck one last time. “Happiness comes from moving toward something. When you run away, ofttimes you bring your misery with you.”

“Who are you quoting now?”

“No one,” Myron said. “I learned that one firsthand.”

Chapter 10
Feast of Nobles

The fourteen-day-long Wintertide festival officially began with the Feast of Nobles in the palace’s Great Hall. Twenty-seven colorful banners hung from the ceiling, each with the emblem of a noble house of Avryn. Five were noticeably absent, leaving gaps in the procession, including the blue tower on the white field of House Lanaklin of Glouston, the red diamond on the black field of House Hestle of Bernum, the white lily on the green field of House Exeter of Hanlin, the gold sword on the green field of House Pickering of Galilin, and the gold-crowned falcon on the red field of House Essendon of Melengar. In times of peace, the hall welcomed all thirty-two families in celebration. The gaps in the line of banners were a reminder of the costs of war.

The palace shimmered with the decorations of the holiday season. Wreaths and strings of garland festooned the walls and framed the windows. Elaborate chandeliers, draped in red and gold streamers, spilled light across polished marble floors. Four large stone hearths filled the Great Hall with a warm orange glow. And rows of tall arched windows gowned in snowflake-embroidered curtains let in the last light of the setting sun.

On a dais at the far end of the room, the head table ran along the interior wall. Like rays from the sun, three longer tables extended out from it, trimmed with fanciful centerpieces woven from holly branches and accentuated with pinecones.

As many as fifty nobles already filled the hall, each dressed in his or her finest garments. Some stood in groups speaking in lordly voices, others gathered in shadowed corners whispering in hushed tones, but the majority sat conversing at the tables.

“They look pretty, don’t they?” Nimbus whispered to Hadrian. “So do snakes in the right light. Treat them the same way. Keep your distance, watch their eyes, and back away if you rattle them. Do that, and you might survive.”

Nimbus looked him over one last time and brushed something off Hadrian’s shoulder. He wore the gold and purple outfit—and felt ridiculous.

“I wish I had my swords. Not only do I look silly, but I feel naked.”

“You have your pretty jeweled dagger,” Nimbus said, smiling. “This is a feast, not a tavern. A knight does not go armed before his liege. It’s not only considered rude, it also suggests treason. We don’t want that now, do we? Just keep your wits about you and try not to say much. The more you talk, the more ammunition you provide. And remember what I told you about table manners.”

“You’re not coming?” Hadrian asked, suddenly concerned.

“I will be seated with Lady Amilia at the head table. If you get in trouble, look for me. I’ll do what I can. Now remember, you’re at the third table, left side, fourth chair from the end. Good luck.”

Nimbus slipped away and Hadrian stepped into the hall. The instant he did he regretted it, realizing he was not certain which side was left, what table was third, or which end he should count from. Heads turned at his entrance, and the looks on their faces brought back memories of the aftermath of the Battle of Ramar. On that day, carrion birds had feasted on the bodies as Hadrian walked through the battlefield. Hoping to drive the vultures off, he had shot and killed one of them with an arrow. To his revulsion, the other birds descended on the fresher remains of their fallen comrade. The birds had cocked their heads and looked at him as if to say he had no business being there. Hadrian saw the same look in the eyes of the nobles around him now.

“And who might you be, good sir?” a lady said from somewhere off to Hadrian’s right.

In his single-minded effort to find his seat, and with all the chatter in the room, he paid no attention.

“It is rude to ignore a lady when she speaks to you,” a man said. His voice was sharp and impossible to ignore.

Hadrian turned to see a young man and woman glaring at him. They looked to be twins, as each had blond hair and dazzling blue eyes.

“It is also dangerous,” the man went on, “when she is a princess of the honorable Kingdom of Alburn.”

“Um…ah…forgiv—” Hadrian started to say when the man cut him off.

“There you have it. The cause for the slight is that the knight has no tongue! You are a knight, are you not? Please tell me you are. Please tell me you were some bucolic farmer that a drunken lord jokingly dubbed after you chased a squirrel from his manor. I couldn’t stand it if you were another illegitimate son of an earl or duke, who crawled from an alehouse attempting to claim true nobility.”

“Let the man try to speak,” the lady said. “Surely he suffers from a malady that prevents his mind from forming words properly. It’s nothing to make light of, dear brother. It is a true sickness. Perhaps he contracted it from suffering on the battlefield. I am told that placing pebbles in the mouth often helps. Would you care for some, good sir?”

“I don’t need any pebbles, thank you,” Hadrian replied coolly.

“Well, you certainly need something. I mean you are afflicted, aren’t you? Why else would you completely ignore me like that? Or do you delight in insulting a lady, whose only offense is to ask your name?”

“I didn’t—I mean I wasn’t—”

“Oh dear, there he goes again,” she said with a pitiful look. “Please send a servant to fetch some pebbles at once.”

“I dare say,” her brother began, “I don’t think we have time for the pebbles. Perhaps he can simply suck on one or two of these pinecones. Would that help, do you think?”

“He doesn’t have a speech problem,” Sir Murthas said as he approached, thumbs hooked in his belt and a wide grin on his face.

“No?” the prince and princess asked together.

“No, indeed, he’s merely ignorant. He has his own tutor, you know. When I first met Sir Hadrian—that is the lout’s name, by the way—he was in the middle of a bathing lesson. Can you imagine? The poor clod doesn’t even know how to wash.”

“Oh, now that is troubling.” The princess began cooling herself with a collapsible fan.

“Indeed. So at a loss was he at the complexities of bathing that he threw his washcloth at Sir Elgar!”

“Such rude behavior is inherent in him, then?” she asked.

“Listen I—” Hadrian started, only to be cut off again.

“Careful, Beatrice,” Murthas said. “You’re agitating him. He might spit or drool on you. If he’s that uncouth, who knows what degradations he’s capable of. I’ll lay money that he’ll wet himself next.”

Hadrian was taking a step toward Murthas when he saw Nimbus rushing toward them.

“Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas, a wonderful Wintertide to you all!”

They turned to see the tutor, his arms were spread wide, a joyous smile beamed across his face. “I see you’ve met our distinguished guest, Sir Hadrian. I am certain he is far too modest to tell the tale of his recent knighting on the field of battle. A shame, as it is a wonderful and exciting story. Prince Rudolf, I know you’d enjoy hearing it, and in return you can tell of your own heroic battles. Oh, I am sorry, I forgot—you’ve never actually seen a real battle, have you?”

The prince stiffened.

“And you, Sir Murthas, I can’t recall—please tell us—where you were while the empress’s armies fought for their lives? Surely, you can relate your exploits of the last year and how you fared while other goodly knights died for the cause of Her Eminence’s honor?”

Murthas opened his mouth, but Nimbus was quicker. Turning to the woman he went on, “And, My Lady, I want to assure you that you needn’t take offense at Sir Hadrian’s slight. It is little wonder that he ignored you. For he knows, as we all do, that no honorable lady would ever be so bold as to speak first to a strange man in the same manner as a common whore selling her wares on the street.”

All three of them stared speechless at the tutor.

“If you’re still looking for your seat, Sir Hadrian, it’s this way,” Nimbus said, hauling him along. “Once again, a glorious Wintertide to you all!”

Nimbus directed him to a chair at the end of a table, which so far remained empty.

“Whoa,” Hadrian said in awe. “You just called those men cowards and the princess a whore.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I did so very politely.” He winked. “Now, please do try to stay out of trouble. Sit here and smile. I have to go.” Nimbus slipped back through the crowd, waving to people as he went.

Once more, Hadrian felt adrift amidst a sea of eggshells. He looked back and saw the princess and Murthas pointing in his direction and laughing. Not far away he noted two men watching him. Arms folded, they leaned against a pillar wrapped in red ribbons. The men were conspicuous in that they were the only guests wearing swords. Hadrian recognized the pair, as he had seen them often. They were always standing in the dark, across a room, or just outside a doorway—his own personal shadows.

Hadrian turned away and carefully took his seat. Tugging at his clothes, he tried to remember everything Nimbus had taught him: sit up straight, do not fidget, always smile, never start a conversation, do not try anything you are unfamiliar with, and avoid eye contact unless cornered into a conversation. If forced into an introduction, he was supposed to bow rather than shake hands with men. If a lady held out her hand, he should take it and gently kiss its back. Nimbus had advised him to keep several excuses at the ready to escape conversations and to avoid groups of three or more. The most important thing was to appear relaxed and never draw attention to himself.

Minstrels played lutes somewhere near the front of the room, but he could not see them through the sea of people who moved and shifted as if caught in an unseen current. Every so often, insincere laughter burst out. Snide conversations drifted to and fro. The ladies were much better at it than the men. “Oh, my dear, I simply love that dress!” A woman’s high lilting voice floated from somewhere in the crowd. “I imagine it is insanely comfortable, given that it is so simple. Mine, on the other hand, with all this elaborate embroidery is nearly impossible to sit in.”

“I’m sure you are correct,” another lady replied. “But discomfort is such a small sacrifice for a dress that so masterfully masks a lady’s physical flaws and imperfections by the sheer complexity of its spacious design.”

Trying to follow the feints and parries in the conversations around him gave Hadrian a headache. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the clash of steel. He was pleased to see that Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas took seats at another table. Across from Hadrian, a man wearing a simple monk’s robe took a seat. He looked even more out of place than Hadrian. They nodded silently to one another. Still, the chairs flanking him remained vacant.

At the head table, Ethelred sat beside a massive, empty throne. Kings and their queens filled out the rest of the table, and at one end Nimbus was seated next to Lady Amilia. She sat quietly in a stunning blue dress, her head slightly bowed.

The music stopped.

“Your attention, please!” shouted a fat man in a bright-yellow robe. He held a brass-tipped staff, which he hammered on the stone floor. The sound penetrated the crowd like cracks of thunder and stifled the drone of conversations. “Please take your seats, the feast is about to begin.”

The room filled with the sounds of dragging chairs as the nobility of Avryn settled at their tables. A large man with a gray beard was to the monk’s left. To his right, dressed in a pale blue doublet, sat none other than Sir Breckton. The resemblance to Wesley was unmistakable. The knight stood and bowed as a large woman with a massive smile sat down on Hadrian’s left. The sight of Genevieve Hargrave of Rochelle was a welcome one.

“Forgive me, good sir,” she implored as she struggled into her chair. “Clearly they were expecting a dainty princess to sit here rather than a full-grown duchess! No doubt you were hoping for the same.” She winked at him.

Hadrian knew a response was expected and decided to take a safe approach.

“I was hoping not to spill anything on myself. I didn’t think beyond that.”

“Oh dear, now that is a first.” She looked across the table at the knight. “I dare say, Sir Breckton, you may have competition this evening.”

“How is that, My Lady?” he asked.

“This fellow beside me shows all the signs of matching your humble virtue.”

“Then I am honored to sit at the same table as he and even more pleased to have you as my view.”

“I pity all princesses this evening, for surely I am the luckiest of ladies to be seated with the two of you. What is your name, goodly sir?” she asked Hadrian.

Still seated, Hadrian realized his error. Like Breckton, he should have stood at Genny’s approach. Rising awkwardly, he fumbled a bow. “I am—Sir Hadrian,” he said, watching for a raised hand. When she lifted it, he felt foolish but placed a light kiss on its back before sitting down. He expected laughter from the others but no one seemed to notice.

“I am Genevieve, the Duchess of Rochelle.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Hadrian replied.

“Surely you know Sir Breckton?” the duchess asked.

“Not personally.”

“He is the General of the Northern Imperial Army and favored champion of this week’s tournament.”

“Favored by whom, My Lady?” Sir Elgar asked, dragging out the seat next to Breckton and sitting with all the elegance of an elephant. “I believe Maribor favors my talents in this year’s competition.”

“You might like to think that, Sir Elgar, but I suspect your boasting skills are more honed than your riding prowess after so many years of endless practice,” the duchess returned, causing the monk to chuckle.

“No disrespect to her ladyship,” Breckton said in cold seriousness, “but Sir Elgar is correct in that only Maribor will judge the victor of this tournament, and no one yet knows the favor of His choice.”

“Do not speak on my behalf,” Elgar growled. “I don’t need your charity, nor will I be the foundation for your tower of virtue. Spare us your monk’s tongue.”

“Don’t be too quick to shun charity or silence a monk,” the robed man across from Hadrian said softly. “Or how else will you know the will of God?”

“Pardon me, good monk, I was not speaking against you but rather rebuking the preaching of this secular would-be priest.”

“Wherever the word of Maribor is spoken, I pray thee listen.”

A squat, teardrop-shaped man claimed the chair beside the duchess. He kissed her cheek and called her dearest. Hadrian had never met Leopold before, but from all Albert had told him, his identity was obvious. Sir Gilbert took the empty chair next to Elgar.

No one sat to Hadrian’s right, and he hoped it would remain that way. With the duchess protecting one flank, if no one took the seat at the other, he only had to worry about a frontal assault. While Hadrian pondered this, another friendly face appeared.

“Good Wintertide, all!” Albert Winslow greeted those at the table with an elegant flourish that made Hadrian envious. He was certain Albert saw him, but the viscount displayed no indication of recognition.

“Albert!” The duchess beamed. “How wonderful to have you at our table.”

“Ah, Lady Genevieve and Duke Leopold. I had no idea I ranked so highly on Her Eminence’s list that I should be given the honor of dining with such esteemed personages.”

Albert immediately stepped to Genny, bowed, and kissed her hand with effortless grace and style.

“Allow me to introduce Sir Hadrian,” the lady said. “He appears to be a wonderful fellow.”

“Is he?” Albert mused. “And a knight, you say?”

“That is yet to be determined,” Sir Elgar challenged. “He claims a Sir before his name, but I’ve never heard of him before. Has anyone?”

“Generosity of spirit precludes judging a man ill before cause is given,” Sir Breckton said. “As a knight of virtue, I am certain you know this, Sir Elgar.”

“Once more, I need no instruction from you. I, for one, would like to know from whence Sir Hadrian hails and how he won his spurs.”

All eyes turned to Hadrian.

He tried to remember the details drilled into him without looking like he was struggling. “I come from…Barmore. I was knighted by Lord Dermont for my service in the Battle of Ratibor.”

“Really?” Sir Gilbert said in a syrupy voice. “I wasn’t aware of that victory. I was under the impression the battle was lost and Lord Dermont killed. For what were you knighted, and how, pray tell, did his lordship do this? Did his spirit fly overhead dubbing you with an ethereal sword saying, ‘Rise up good knight. Go forth and lose more battles in the name of the Empire, the empress, and the Lord God Maribor’?”

Hadrian felt his stomach churn. Albert looked at him with tense eyes, clearly unable to help. Even the duchess remained silent.

“Good evening, gentlemen and lady.” From behind him, the voice of Regent Saldur broke the tension and Hadrian felt the regent’s hand on his shoulder.

Accompanying him was Archibald Ballentyne, the Earl of Chadwick, who took the seat to Hadrian’s right. Everyone at the table nodded reverently to the regent.

“I was just showing the earl to his seat, but I couldn’t help overhearing your discussion concerning Sir Hadrian of Barmore here. You see, it was the empress herself who insisted he attend this festival. I ask him to grant me the guilty pleasure of responding to this honorable inquiry by Sir Gilbert. What do you say, Sir Hadrian”

“Sure,” he replied stiffly.

“Thank you,” Saldur said, and clearing his throat continued, “Sir Gilbert is correct in that Lord Dermont was lost that day, but reports from his closest aides brought back the tale. Three days of rain made a mounted charge impossible, and the sheer number of the unstoppable Nationalist horde convinced Lord Dermont of the futility of engagement. Overcome with grief, he retreated to his tent in resignation.

“Without Lord Dermont to lead them, the Imperial Army floundered when the attack came. It was Sir Hadrian—then Captain Hadrian of the Fifth Imperial Mounted Guard—who roused the men and set them to ranks. He raised the banner and led them forth. At first, only a handful of soldiers responded. Indeed, only those who served with him answered his call, for they alone knew firsthand his mettle. Ignoring his meager numbers, he trusted in Maribor and called the charge.”

Hadrian looked down and fidgeted with an uncooperative toggle on his tunic as the others sat enthralled.

“Although it was suicide, Captain Hadrian rode at the head of the troop into the fen field. His horse threw mud and slop, and a magnificent rainbow burst forth from the spray as he galloped across a stretch of standing water. He drove at the heart of the enemy with no thought of his own safety.”

Saldur’s voice grew in volume and intensity. His tone and cadence assumed the melodramatic delivery of a church sermon. A few nobles at the other tables turned to listen as he continued.

“His courageous charge unnerved the Nationalist foot soldiers, who fell back in fear. Onward he plunged, splitting their ranks until at last his mount became overwhelmed by the soft earth and fell. Wielding sword and shield, he got to his feet and continued to drive forward. Clashing against steel, he cried out the name of the empress, ‘For Modina! Modina! Modina Novronian!’”

Saldur paused and Hadrian looked up to see every eye at the table shifting back and forth between the regent and himself.

“Finally, shamed by the bravery of this one lone captain, the rest of the Imperial Army rallied. They cried to Maribor for forgiveness even as they drew sword and spear and rushed to follow. Before reinforcements could reach him, Hadrian was wounded and driven into the mud. Some of his men bore him from the field and took him to the tent of Lord Dermont. There they told the tale of his bravery and Lord Dermont swore by Maribor to honor Hadrian’s sacrifice. He proclaimed his intent to knight the valiant captain.

“‘Nay, Lord!’ cried Captain Hadrian even as he lay wounded and bleeding. ‘Knight me not for I am unworthy. I have failed.’ Lord Dermont clutched his blade and was heard to say, ‘You are more worthy of the noble title of knight-valiant than I am of the title of man!’ And with that, Lord Dermont dubbed him Sir Hadrian.”

“Oh my!” the duchess gasped.

With everyone staring at him, Hadrian felt hot, awkward, and more naked than when Elgar had interrupted his bath.

“Lord Dermont called for his own horse and thanked Sir Hadrian for the chance to redeem his honor before Maribor. He led his personal retinue into the fight, where he and all but a few of his men perished on the pikes of the Nationalists.

“Sir Hadrian tried to return to the battle despite his wounds, but fell unconscious before reaching the field. After the Nationalists’ victory, they left him for dead and only providence spared his life. He awoke covered in mud. Desperate for food and water, he crawled into the forest where he came upon a small hovel. There he was fed and tended to by a mysterious man. Sir Hadrian rested there for six days, and on the seventh, the man brought forth a horse and told Sir Hadrian to take it, ride to Aquesta, and present himself to the court. After he handed over the reins, thunder cracked and a single white feather fell from a clear blue sky. The man caught the feather before it reached the ground, a broad smile across his face. And with that, the man disappeared.

“Now, gentlemen and ladies.” Saldur paused to look each of them in the eye. “I tell you truthfully that two days before Sir Hadrian arrived, the empress came to me and said, ‘A knight riding a white horse will come to the palace. Admit him and honor him, for he shall be the greatest knight of the New Empire.’ Sir Hadrian has been here, recuperating from his wounds, ever since. Today he is fully recovered and sits before you all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take my seat, as the feast is about to begin.” Saldur bowed and left them.

No one said a word for some time. Everyone stared at Hadrian in wonder, including Albert, whose mouth hung agape.

It was the duchess who finally found words to sum up their collective thoughts. “Well, aren’t you just an astonishment topped with surprises?”

***

Dinner was served in a fashion that Hadrian had never seen before. Fifty servants moving in concert delivered steaming plates of exotic victuals in elaborate presentations. Two peacocks were posed on large platters. One peered up as if surprised while the other’s head curled under its wings as if sleeping. Each was surrounded by an array of succulent, carved meat. Ducks, geese, quail, turtledoves, and partridges were displayed in similar fashion, and one pure-white trumpeter swan reared up with its wings outstretched as if about to take flight. Rings of nuts, berries, and herbs surrounded glazed slabs of lean venison, dark boar, and marbled beef. Breads of various shades, from snow-white to nearly black, lay in heaping piles. Massive wedges of cheese, cakes of butter, seven different types of fish, oysters steamed in almond milk, meat pies, custard tarts, and pastries drizzled with honey covered every inch of the table. Stewards and their many assistants served endless streams of wine, beer, ale, and mead.

Anxiety welled up, as he struggled to remember Nimbus’s multiple instructions on table etiquette. The list had been massive, but at that moment he could remember just two things: he was not to use the tablecloth to blow his nose, and should not pick his teeth with the knife. Following Saldur’s prayer to Maribor, Hadrian’s fears vanished when all the guests ripped into the bountiful food with abandon. They tore legs off pigs and heads from birds. Bits of meat and grease sprayed the table as nobles groped and pawed to taste a bite of every dish, lest they miss something that might be the talk of the feast.

Hadrian had lived most of his life on black bread, brown ale, hard cheese, salted fish, and vegetable stews. What lay before him was a new experience. He tried the peacock, which despite its beauty, was dry and not nearly as good as he expected. The venison had a wonderful hickory-smoked taste. But the best thing by far was the dish of cinnamon baked apples. All conversation stopped when the eating began. The only sounds in the hall were those of a single lute, a lone singer, and scores of chewing mouths.

“…long is the day in the summertime, long is the song which I play,
I will keep your memory in my heart, till you come to me…”

The music was beautiful and strangely haunting. Its melody filled the Great Hall with a radiance that blended well with the glow of the fireplace and candles. After the setting of the sun, the windows turned to black mirrors and the mood became more intimate. Consoled with food, drink, and music, Hadrian forgot his circumstance and began to enjoy himself—until the Earl of Chadwick nudged him back to reality.

“Are you entered in the joust?” he asked. From his tone and glassy eyes, Hadrian could tell Archibald Ballentyne had started drinking long before the feast.

“Ah, yes—yes I am, sir—I mean, Your Lordship.”

“Then you might be riding against my champion Sir Breckton over there.” He waved a limp hand across the table. “He’s also competing in the joust.”

“Then I don’t stand much of a chance.”

“No, you don’t,” the earl said. “But you must do your best. There will be a crowd to please.” The earl leaned over in a confidential manner. “Now tell me, was what Saldur told us true?”

“I would never dispute the word of a regent,” Hadrian replied.

Archibald guffawed. “I think the phrase you were actually looking for is, never trust the word of a regent. Did you know they promised me Melengar and then just like that…” The earl attempted to snap his fingers. “…like that…” He attempted again. “…like…” He failed yet a third time. “Well, you know what I mean. They took away what they promised me. So you can see why I’m skeptical. That bit about the empress expecting you, was that true?”

“I have no idea, My Lord. How could I know?”

“So, you haven’t met her? The empress, I mean?”

Hadrian paused, remembering a young girl named Thrace. “No, I haven’t actually met the empress. Shouldn’t she be seated up there?”

The earl scowled. “They leave the throne vacant in her honor. She never dines in public. To be honest, I’ve lived in this palace for half a year and have only seen her on three occasions: once in the throne room, once when she addressed the public, and once when I...well what matters is she never seems to leave her room. I often wonder whether the regents are keeping her prisoner up there. I should have her kidnapped—free the poor girl.”

Archibald sat up and said, more to himself than to Hadrian, “That’s what I should do, and there’s just the man I need to talk to.” Plucking a walnut from the centerpiece, he threw it down the table at Albert.

“Viscount Winslow,” he shouted with more volume than necessary. “I haven’t seen you in quite some time.”

“No, indeed, Your Lordship. It has been far too long.”

“Are you still in contact with those two…phantoms of the night? You know, the magicians that can make letters disappear and who are equally adept at saving doomed princesses from tower prisons?”

“I’m sorry, Your Lordship, but after what they did to you, I terminated my connection with them.”

“Yes…what they did…” the earl slurred while looking into his cup, “What they did was put Braga’s head in my lap! While I was sleeping no less! Did you know that? It was a most disagreeable awakening, I tell you.” He trailed off, mumbling to himself.

Hadrian bit his lip.

“I had no idea. You have my sincere apology,” Albert said with genuine surprise, which was lost on the earl, who had tilted his head back to take another swallow of wine.

New musicians entered and began playing a formal tune as gentlemen, including Gilbert and Elgar, took the hands of ladies and led them to the dance floor. Hadrian had no idea how to dance. Nimbus had not even tried to instruct him. The Duke and Duchess of Rochelle also left to join in. A clear line of sight opened between Hadrian and Albert.

“So, Sir Hadrian, is it?” the viscount asked, shifting down to take Lady Genevieve’s vacated chair. “Is this your first time in the banquet hall?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“The palace is large and has an impressive history. I’m sure that during your recent recovery you’ve not had an opportunity to visit much of it. If you aren’t planning to dance, I’d be happy to give you a tour. There are some fine paintings and frescos on the second floor that are exquisite.”

Hadrian glanced at the men still watching him.

“I’m sure they are, Viscount, but I think it might be rude to leave the feast so early. Our hosts might look poorly on me for doing so.” He motioned toward the head table where Saldur and Ethelred sat. “I wouldn’t want to incur their disfavor so early in the celebrations.”

“I understand completely. Have you found your accommodations at the palace to your liking?”

“Yes, indeed. I have my own room in the knights’ wing. Regent Saldur has been most generous, and I have nothing to complain about as far as my quarters are concerned.”

“So you have reason to complain otherwise?” Albert inquired.

Carefully choosing his words, Hadrian replied, “Not a complaint really, I am merely concerned about my performance in the coming tournament. I am going to be competing against many renowned knights such as Sir Breckton here. It is extremely important that I do well in the joust. Some very distinguished people will be watching the outcome quite closely.”

“You should not be so concerned,” Breckton mentioned. “If you are true to the knight’s code, Maribor will guide you. What others may think has no weight on the field. The truth is the truth, and you know whether you live in accord with it or not. From this you will draw your strength or weakness.”

“Thank you for your kind words, but I am not merely riding for myself. A success in this tournament will change the fortunes of those I care about as well…my, ah, retinue.”

Albert nodded.

Sir Breckton leaned forward. “You are that concerned about the reputation of your squires and grooms?”

“They are as dear to me as family,” Hadrian responded.

“That is most admirable. I can’t say I have ever met a knight so concerned with the well-being of those who serve him.”

“To be honest, sir, it is mainly for their welfare that I ride. I only hope they do nothing to dishonor me, as some of them are prone to poor judgment—rash and risky behavior—usually on my behalf, of course. Still, in this instance, I prefer they would merely enjoy the holiday.”

Albert gave another nod and drained the last of his wine.

Ballentyne took another drink as well. He swallowed, burped loudly, and then slouched with his elbow on the table, resting a palm against his cheek. Hadrian surmised that it would not be long before the earl passed out completely.

The monk and the gray-bearded fellow bid the table good night. The two wandered off while debating the Legend of Kile, the significance of Saldur’s story, and the true nature of the man Hadrian allegedly met in the forest.

“Well, it has been a delight to dine with you all,” Albert said, rising. “I am not used to such rich living, and this wine has gone to my head. I fear I will make a fool of myself should I remain, so I will retire.”

The two knights bid him farewell, and Hadrian watched as Albert left the hall without looking back.

Having no one else left to converse with, Hadrian turned to Breckton. “Did your father not attend, or is he seated somewhere else?”

Breckton, whose attention was focused toward the front of the hall, took a moment to respond. “My father chose not to come. If not for the request of my lord here—” He gestured at the earl, who did not react. “I would not have attended either. Neither of us is in a mood for celebrations. We only recently learned that my younger brother Wesley died in the empress’s service.”

Hadrian replied in a somber voice, “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sure he died with honor.”

“Thank you, but death in service is not unexpected. It would be a comfort to know the circumstances. He died far from home serving aboard the Emerald Storm, which was lost at sea.” Breckton got to his feet. “Please excuse me. I think I’ll also take my leave.”

“Of course, good evening to you.”

He watched Breckton go. The knight had the same stride as his brother, and Hadrian had to remind himself that the two choices he faced were equally unpleasant. Even without his emotional ties, two lives were more valuable than one. Breckton was a soldier, and as he himself stated, death in service was not unexpected. Hadrian had no choice, but that fact did little to ease his conscience.

Ballentyne’s head slipped off his hand, making a solid thud as it hit the table.

Hadrian sighed. Like knighthood, noble feasts were not as illustrious as he had expected.

Chapter 11
Knightly Virtue

Albert Winslow walked quickly through Aquesta, holding his heavy cloak tightly around himself, its hood raised. He regretted not switching to boots, as his buckled shoes were treacherous on the icy cobblestones. He could have taken a carriage. The palace had a few available for hire, but walking made it easier to determine if he was being followed. Glancing back, Albert found the street empty.

By the time he entered the Bailey Inn, the fire in the common room was burning low. An elderly man slept near the hearth, a cup of brandy nearly spilling in his lap. Albert walked quickly to the stairs and up to his room. He would write out a note, leave it on the table, and then head back to the palace. Formulating the wording in his head, he took out a key and unlocked the door.

How do I begin to explain what I just saw?

Instead of entering a cold, dark room, he found a fire burning, lighted candles on the table, and lying on his bed with boots still on—a dwarf.

“Magnus?”

The door closed abruptly, and Albert spun to see Royce behind him. “You should remember to lock your door,” the thief said.

Albert smirked. “I won’t even dignify that with a comment. When did you get back?”

“Not long enough to get any rest,” Magnus grumbled. “He drove us like dogs to get here.”

“Hey, watch the boots,” Albert said, slapping them with the back of his hand.

“What’s happened with Hadrian?” Royce spoke sharply, his hood still up.

When Albert first met Royce, the viscount had been a drunk living in a farmer’s barn outside Colnora. Reduced to selling his clothes piecemeal to buy rum, he was down to little more than his nightshirt and old rags. Wailing about the misfortune of being the noble son of a spendthrift father, he offered Royce and Hadrian his silk nightshirt for five copper tenents. Royce had made him a better offer. Riyria needed a nobleman to work as a liaison to the wealthy and privileged—a respectable face to sell disreputable services. They cleaned him up, paid for new clothes, and provided all the trappings of success that a viscount required. They gave him back his dignity, and Albert was noble once more. From then on the viscount saw Royce as a friend, but at times like this—when Royce’s hood was raised and his voice harsh—even Albert was scared of him.

“Well?” Royce pressed, stepping closer and causing Albert to back up. “Is he in prison? They didn’t…”

“What? No!” Albert shook his head. “You’re actually not going to believe this. I just came from the Feast of the Nobles, the big opening party for the Wintertide celebration. Everyone was there, kings, bishops, knights, you name it.”

“Get to the point, Albert.”

“I am. Hadrian was there, too.”

Albert saw Royce’s hands form fists. “What were they doing to him?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that—they were feeding him. He was—they made him a knight, Royce—a knight of the Empire. You should have seen the outfit he was wearing.”

At this, even the dwarf sat up.

“What? Speak sense, you crazy—”

“I swear. It’s the truth! Regent Saldur even came over and told the whole table this nutty story about how Hadrian fought for the Imperialists at the Battle of Ratibor and was knighted because of it. Can you believe that?”

“No, I don’t. Have you been drinking again?”

“Just a bit of wine. I’m sober. I swear,” Albert said.

“But why would they do such a thing? Were you able to get near him? What did he say?”

“He wasn’t able to speak freely and hinted that he was being watched, but I think he’s competing in the tournament. It sounded like the regents made him some kind of deal.”

“The tournament at Highcourt?”

“Yes. He made it pretty clear that we shouldn’t interfere or try to help.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us.”

***

“I feel ridiculous,” Amilia whispered to Nimbus as she pushed her plate away.

One hundred and twenty-three pairs of eyes stared at her. She knew the exact number. She knew which rulers brought wives and which sat with courtesans. She knew who was sensitive to drafts and who was uncomfortable near the heat of the hearth. She knew which princess refused to sit beside which countess. She knew who held power and which ones were just puppets. She knew every quirk and foible, every bias and fear, every name and title—but not a single face.

They were manageable as slips of parchment, but now they were all here—staring. No, not staring. Their expressions were too malicious and filled with contempt for something as benign as staring. In their eyes she could see the exasperation and knew what they were thinking, “How is it that she—the poor daughter of a carriage maker—sits at the empress’s table?” She felt as though one hundred and twenty-three wolves snarled at her with exposed teeth.

“You look beautiful,” Nimbus said. His fingers kept tempo with the pavane. The tutor was apparently oblivious to the waves of hatred crashing over them.

She sighed. There was nothing to do now but struggle through the night as best she could. Sitting up straight, Amilia reminded herself to breathe, which was no easy feat in the tight bodice.

Amilia wore the gown the duchess had presented to her that morning. Far from just an ordinary dress—it was a work of art in blue silk. Ribbons woven into elaborate designs resembling swans adorned the front. The fitted bodice pressed her stomach flat and led to a full, billowing skirt that shimmered like rippling water when she moved. A deep neckline left the tops of her breasts exposed. To Lady Genevieve’s dismay, Amilia wore a scarf, covering them and the exquisite jeweled necklace the duchess had lent. Perhaps to avoid a similar concealment with the diamond earrings, the duchess sent three stylists to put Amilia’s hair up. They spent the better part of two hours on the coif and were followed by a pair of cosmetic artists, who painted her lips, eyelids, cheeks, and even her fingernails. Amilia never wore makeup of any kind. She never styled her hair, and she certainly never exposed her breasts. Out of respect for the duchess, she complied, but she felt like a clown—a buffoonish entertainment on display for those hundred and twenty-three sets of eyes.

One hundred and twenty-four, she corrected herself. There had been a last-minute addition.

“Which one is he?” she asked Nimbus.

“Who? Sir Hadrian? I squeezed him in over there. He’s the one in purple and gold. Saldur is passing him off as a knight, but I’ve never met a man so unknightly.”

“He’s cruel?”

“Not at all. He’s considerate and respectful, even to servants. He complains less than a monk, and while I am certain he knows the use of a blade, he seems as violent as a mouse. He drinks only moderately, considers a bowl of porridge a feast, and rises at dawn. He is no knight but rather what a knight should be.”

“He looks familiar,” she said but could not place him. “How is he coming along?”

“Slowly,” Nimbus told her. “I just hope he doesn’t attempt to dance. I haven’t found time to teach him, and I am certain he hasn’t a clue.”

“You know how to dance?” Amilia asked.

“I am exceedingly talented, milady. Would you like me to teach you as well?”

She rolled her eyes. “I hardly think I will need to know that.”

“Are you sure? Didn’t Sir Breckton seek your favor for the joust?”

“Out of pity.”

“Pity? Are you certain? Perhaps you…oh dear, what have we here?” Nimbus stopped as Sir Murthas navigated the tables, walking straight for them. Wearing a ribbed burgundy doublet that was tight in the waist and sported broad, padded shoulders, he looked quite impressive. An elegant gold chain with a ruby hung around his neck. His dark eyes matched his coal-black hair, and his goatee appeared freshly trimmed.

“Lady Amilia, I am Sir Murthas of Alburn.” He held out his hand covered in thick rings.

Confused, she stared at it until the man awkwardly let it fall. Amilia noticed Nimbus cringing beside her. She had done something inappropriate but did not know what.

“I was hoping, dear lady,” Sir Murthas pushed on, “that you would honor me with a dance.”

Amilia was horrified. She sat rigid and stared at him without saying a word.

Nimbus came to her rescue. “I believe her ladyship is not interested in dancing at the moment, Sir Murthas. Another time, perhaps?”

Murthas gave the tutor a loathsome look, and then his face softened as he returned his attention to Amilia. “May I ask why? If you are not feeling well, perhaps I could escort you to a balcony for some fresh air? If you don’t care for the music, I will have them play a different tune. If it is the color of my doublet, I will gladly change.”

Amilia remained unable to speak.

Murthas glanced at Nimbus. “Has he been speaking ill of me?”

“I have never mentioned you,” the tutor replied, but his words had no effect on the knight.

“Perhaps she’s put off by that bit of rat hair on your chin, Murthas,” Sir Elgar bellowed as he, too, approached the table. “Or perhaps she is waiting for a real man to ask her to the floor. What do you say, My Lady? Will you do me the honor?” Elgar dwarfed Murthas and brushed the smaller knight to one side as he held out his hand.

“I’m—I’m sorry.” Amilia found her tongue. “I choose not to dance.”

Elgar’s expression darkened to a storm, but he said nothing.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, ’tis I she is waiting for,” Sir Gilbert said, striding forward. “Forgive me, My Lady, for taking so long to arrive and leaving you in such company.”

Amilia shook her head, stood, and hurried away from the table. She neither knew nor cared where she was going. Frightened and embarrassed, her only thought was to get away. Afraid of catching the eye of another knight, she focused on the floor, and it was in this way that she stumbled once more into Sir Breckton.

“Oh my,” she gasped, looking up at him. “I…I…”

“We seem to be making a habit of this,” Breckton said with a smile.

Amilia was mortified and felt so foolish that tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks.

Seeing this, Breckton’s smile vanished; he fell to one knee, and bowed his head. “Forgive me, dear lady. I am a fool. I spoke without thought.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” she told him, feeling worse than ever. “Please, I am only trying to get to my chambers. I—I’ve had my fill of feasting.”

“As you wish. Please, take my arm and I will see you safely there.”

Amilia was beyond resisting and took hold of the knight as they continued down the hall. Away from the noise and the crowd, Amilia felt more like herself. She wiped her cheeks and let go of his arm.

“Thank you, Sir Breckton, but I do not need you to escort me to my room. I have lived in this palace for a long time and know the way quite well. I can assure you there are no dragons or ogres along my path.”

“Of course, forgive me again for my presumption. I only thought because—”

Amilia nodded. “I know. I was just a little overwhelmed. I’m not used to so much attention. Despite the title, I am still a simple girl, and knights…They still frighten me.”

Breckton looked wounded and took a step backward. “I would never harm you, My Lady!”

“Oh, there I go again. I feel like such a fool.” Amilia threw up her hands. “I—I don’t know how to be noble. Everything I say is wrong. Everything I do or don’t do is a mistake.”

“I am certain it is not you, but I who am at fault,” Breckton assured her. “I am not accustomed to the courts. I am a soldier—plain and blunt. I will once more ask your forgiveness and leave you alone as, clearly, I am a terror to you.”

“No, no, you are not. You are most kind. It’s the others I—you are the only one—” She sighed. “Please, I would be honored if you would escort me.”

Breckton snapped smartly to attention, bowed, and offered his arm once more. They walked silently to the stairs and up to the fifth floor. Passing by a set of guards, they proceeded to a chamber door. Breckton nodded and smiled at Gerald, who responded with a salute—something Amilia had never seen the guard do before.

“You are well protected,” Breckton remarked.

“Not me, this is the empress’s chambers. I always check on her before retiring. To be honest, you shouldn’t even be on this floor.”

“Then I will take my leave.”

He started to turn.

“Wait,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm. “Here.” She pulled off her scarf and handed it to him.

Breckton smiled broadly. “I will wear it at the tournament proudly and represent you with honor.”

Taking her hand, he gently kissed the back of it. Then the knight bowed and left. Amilia’s gaze followed him until he reached the stairs and disappeared from sight. When she turned back, she found Gerald grinning. She raised an eyebrow and the guard wiped the expression from his face.

Amilia entered the imperial bedchamber. As always, Modina was at the window. Lying on the stone in her thin, white nightgown, the empress looked dead. Amilia found her this way most nights. The mirror was still intact and Modina was merely asleep. Still, Amilia could not help but think that one day…She pushed the thought away.

“Modina?” She spoke softly as she rocked the empress’s shoulder. “Come, it’s too cold to lie there.”

The girl looked up sadly then nodded. Amilia put her in bed, covered her with a blanket, and gave her a kiss on the forehead before leaving Modina to sleep.

***

Hadrian was squeezing melted candle wax between his fingers and listening to the rhythmic snores of the earl. Even his shadows looked tired, although they were different men since the shift change. He wondered how long he was expected to remain in the hall.

He saw Sir Breckton return to the feast, but rather than resuming his seat, the knight struck up a conversation with Nimbus. He watched them for a moment, and then noticed movement at the head table. To Hadrian’s dismay, Regent Saldur picked up his wine goblet and walked directly toward him.

“You’ve done well,” the regent said while taking the seat across from Hadrian. “Or at least it appeared so from over there. Sentinel Guy and Lord Marius speak highly of you.”

“Lord Marius? You don’t mean Merrick Marius?”

“Yes, you remember him, don’t you? He was at our little meeting. Oh, how foolish. Perhaps we forgot to introduce him. Marius said he was extremely impressed with a recent assignment that you and your partner performed on his behalf. By the sound of things, it was quite difficult. He even told me that he thought only you two could have accomplished such a feat.”

Hadrian clenched his teeth.

“I’ve been thinking…Perhaps when this business with Breckton is over, you might find working for the Empire preferable to exile with Gaunt. I am a pragmatist, Hadrian, and I can see the benefit of having someone like you aiding in what we are trying to accomplish. I’m sure you’ve heard any number of terrible things about me or what I may have done. But you need to realize I’m trying to rid our world of problems that plague all of us, commoner and noble alike. Roads have gone to ruin. You can hardly travel in spring due to mud. Banditry is rampant, which hampers trade and stifles prosperity. Every city is a cesspool of filth and few have adequate fresh water. There are not enough jobs in the north, not enough workers in the south, and not enough food anywhere.”

Hadrian glanced across the hall and saw Breckton and Nimbus leaving the feast together. A little while later, Murthas, Elgar, and Gilbert downed their drinks and left in the same direction.

“The world of men has many enemies,” Saldur droned on. “When petty kings war with each other, they weaken the nations with their childish feuds. I have long believed these squabbles leave the doors open for invasion and invite destruction. You might not know this, but the Ghazel and Dacca have been raiding from the south. We don’t publicize this information, of course, so few know just how severe it has become, but they have even invaded Tur Del Fur.”

Hadrian glared. “If you didn’t want the Ghazel as neighbors, you probably shouldn’t have invited them.”

Saldur looked at him curiously for a moment and then said, “I did what was necessary. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Not everyone can keep what they have if things are to change. There must be sacrifices. I have tried to be reasonable, but if a leg is infected and cannot be saved, it must be removed for the good of the body. I hope you can see past these small costs and recognize the larger implications. I am not an evil man, Hadrian. It is the world that forces me to be cruel but no more so than a father forcing his child to swallow an unpleasant medicine. You can see that, can’t you?”

Saldur looked at him expectantly.

“Am I allowed to leave?” Hadrian asked. “The feast, I mean.”

Saldur sighed and sat back in his chair. “Yes, you can go. You need to get plenty of sleep. The tournament begins in two days.”

***

Pinecones and holly garland, the remnants of wayward revelers, littered the hallways along Hadrian’s path to the knights’ wing. Rounding a corner, he found Nimbus slumped against the corridor wall. The courtier’s tunic was torn and his nose bleeding. Sir Gilbert stood above him, grinning. Through the doorway of the common room, Hadrian spotted Sir Breckton. Armed with only his dress dagger, the knight defended himself against Murthas and Elgar, each of whom wielded a sword as well as a dagger.

“Look who’s joined the party,” Gilbert said as Hadrian approached.

“Given this situation,” Hadrian asked Nimbus while keeping his eyes on Gilbert, “how much generosity am I required to extend to these fellow knights?”

In the common room, Murthas swiped at Breckton, who caught the sword with his little blade and cast the stroke aside.

“Given the situation,” Nimbus said quickly, “I think the virtue of generosity is not applicable.”

“Indeed!” Breckton shouted. “They have forfeited their right to honorable treatment.”

Hadrian smiled. “That makes this a lot easier.” Drawing his own dagger, he threw it into Gilbert’s thigh. The knight cried out and fell to his knees, looking up in astonishment. Hadrian punched him in the face, and his opponent collapsed. Taking both his and Gilbert’s daggers, Hadrian advanced.

Elgar sneered as he turned to face Hadrian, leaving Breckton to Murthas.

“I hope you joust better than you wield a sword,” Hadrian said, approaching.

“We haven’t even fought yet, you fool,” Elgar bellowed.

“That’s hardly necessary. You hold your sword like a woman. No, that’s not true. I’ve actually known women who can swordfight. The truth is, you’re just terrible.”

“What I lack in style, I make up for in strength.” Elgar charged Hadrian, raising his blade over his head and leaving his entire chest exposed. Hadrian’s training made him instinctively want to aim a single thrust at the man’s heart, which would kill Elgar instantly. He fought the urge and lowered his weapon. Saldur and Ethelred would not approve. Besides, Elgar was drunk. Instead, he dodged to one side and left a foot behind to trip the knight. Elgar fell, hitting his head on the stone.

“Is he dead?” Nimbus asked, watching Hadrian roll the big man over on his back.

“No, but I think he might have chipped the slate. Now that’s a hard head.”

Hadrian sat down next to Nimbus and inspected the tutor’s wounds.

“Shouldn’t you help Sir Breckton?”

Hadrian glanced up as Murthas made another lunge.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, nor would it be proper to step into another man’s fight. However…” Picking up Elgar’s sword, Hadrian yelled, “Breckton!” before throwing it across the common room. Breckton caught the weapon and Murthas stepped back, looking less confident.

“Damn you!” Murthas shouted, taking one last swing before fleeing.

Hadrian could not suppress the temptation to stick out his foot once more, tripping Murthas as he ran by. Murthas fell, got back to his feet, and ran off.

“Thank you,” Breckton said, offering Hadrian a slight nod.

“It’s Murthas who should be thanking me,” Hadrian replied.

Breckton smiled. “Indeed.”

“I don’t understand,” Nimbus said. “Murthas lost, why would he thank you?”

“He’s still alive,” Hadrian explained.

“Oh,” was all Nimbus said.

***

Hadrian managed to stop Nimbus’s bleeding. The tutor’s nose did not appear broken. Even so, none of them was interested in returning to the banquet hall. Hadrian and Breckton escorted Nimbus to his room, where the slim man thanked the two knights for their assistance.

“You fight well,” Breckton said as he and Hadrian walked the palace corridors back toward the knights’ wing.

“Why did they attack you?”

“They were drunk.”

“Where I come from, drunks sing badly and sleep with ugly women. They don’t attack rival knights and courtly gentlemen.”

Breckton was quiet for a moment then asked, “Where do you come from, Sir Hadrian?”

“Saldur explained—”

“Some of the men that fought with Lord Dermont and survived the Battle of Ratibor joined my army in the north. Captain Lowell was one of them. His accounting of that day in no way resembles the tale Regent Saldur described. I would not embarrass the regent or yourself by mentioning it in public, but now that we are alone…”

Hadrian said nothing.

“What Lowell did tell me was the entire Imperial Army was caught sleeping on that rainy morning. Most never managed to strap on a sword, much less mount a horse.”

Hadrian simply replied, “It was a very confusing day.”

“So you say, but perhaps you were never there at all. A knight taking credit for another’s valor is most dishonorable.”

“I can assure you, I was there,” Hadrian said sincerely. “And that I rode across the muddy field leading men into battle that morning.”

Breckton stopped at the entrance of his own room and studied Hadrian’s face. “You must forgive me for my rudeness. You have aided me this evening, and I have responded with accusations. It is unseemly for one knight to accuse another without proper evidence. I will not let it happen again. Good night.”

He offered Hadrian a curt nod and left him alone in the corridor.

Chapter 12
A Question of Succession

The sun reached its midday peak and Arcadius Vintarus Latimer, the Headmaster of Lore at Sheridan University, still waited in the Grand Foyer of the imperial palace. He had been there before, but that was back when it had been called Warric Castle and was the home of the most powerful king in Avryn. Now it was the seat of the New Empire. The imperial seal etched in the white marble floor was a constant and unavoidable reminder. Arcadius read the inscription that ringed the design, shaking his head in disgust. “They misspelled honor,” he said aloud, even though he waited alone.

Finally, a steward approached and motioned for him to follow. “The Regent Saldur will see you now, sir.”

One step closer, Arcadius thought as he headed toward the stairs. The steward was nearly to the fourth floor when he realized Arcadius had only reached the second landing.

“My apologies,” the lore master called up to him, leaning on the banister and removing his glasses to wipe his brow. “Are you certain the meeting is all the way up there?”

“The regent asked for you to come to his office.”

The old professor nodded. “Very well, I’ll be right along.”

Another positive development.

While it was unlikely that Saldur would agree to his proposal, Arcadius judged his odds of success tripled with each flight he climbed. He did not want to speak in a reception hall filled with gossipy courtiers. Not that he held much hope, no matter where the subject was broached. Still, if this meeting went well, he would be free of his guilt and the burden of responsibility. A private meeting with the regent would be perfect. Saldur was an intellectual, and Arcadius could appeal to the regent’s respect for education. However, when he reached the office, Saldur was not alone.

“Well, of course we need a southern defense,” Ethelred was saying when the steward opened the door. “We have a nation of goblins down there now. You haven’t seen them, Sauly. You don’t know…er…yes? What is it?”

“May I present Professor Arcadius, Headmaster of Lore at Sheridan University,” the steward announced.

“Oh yes, the teacher,” Ethelred said.

“He’s a bit more than that, Lanis,” Saldur corrected.

“Not at all, not at all,” Arcadius said with a cheerful smile. “Instructing young minds is the noblest act I perform. I am honored.”

The lore master bowed to the four people in the room. In addition to the regents, there were two men he did not recognize. One, however, was dressed in the distinct vestments of a church sentinel.

“You are a long way from Sheridan, Professor.” Saldur addressed him from behind a large desk. “Did you come for the holiday?”

“Why no, Your Grace. At my age it takes a bit more than the allure of jingling bells and sweetmeats to rouse one such as I from warm chambers in the depth of winter. I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a great deal of snow outside.”

Arcadius took a moment to examine his surroundings. Hundreds of books sat on shelves, locked behind glass cabinets with little key holes. A pretty carpet, somewhat muddled in its colors and partially hidden by the regent’s desk, portrayed what appeared to be a scene of Novron conquering the world while Maribor guided his sword.

“Your office is so…clean,” the professor remarked.

Saldur raised an eyebrow and then chuckled. “Oh yes, I seem to recall visiting you once. I don’t believe I made it through your door.”

“I have a unique filing system.”

“Lore master, I don’t mean to be short, but we are quite busy,” Ethelred said. “Exactly what has brought you so far in the cold?”

“Well,” he began, smiling at Saldur, “Your Grace, I was hoping to speak to you—in private.” He glanced pointedly at the two men he did not recognize. “I have a sensitive matter to discuss concerning the future of the Empire.”

“This is Sentinel Luis Guy and over there is Lord Merrick Marius. I assume you already know our soon-to-be emperor, Ethelred. If you wish to discuss the empire’s future, these are the men you need to speak with.”

Arcadius paused deliberately, took off his spectacles, and cleaned them slowly with his sleeve. “Very well then.” The lore master replaced his glasses and crossed the room to one of the soft chairs. “Do you mind? Standing for too long makes my feet hurt.”

“By all means,” Ethelred said sarcastically. “Make yourself at home.”

Arcadius sat down with a sigh, took a deep breath, and began. “I have been thinking about the New Empire you are establishing, and I must say that I approve.”

Ethelred snorted. “Well, Sauly, we can sleep better now that the scholars have weighed in.”

Arcadius glared at him across the top of his glasses. “What I mean is that the idea of a central authority is a sound one and will stop the monarchial squabbles, bringing harmony from chaos.”

“But?” Saldur invited.

“But what?”

“I just sensed you were going to find fault,” Saldur said.

“I am, but please try not to get ahead of me—it ruins the drama. I’ve spent several days bouncing over frozen ground, preparing for this meeting, and you deserve to experience the full effect.”

Arcadius adjusted his sleeves, and waited for what he thought was the precise amount of time to draw their full attention. “I’m curious to know if you’ve thought about the line of succession?”

“Succession?” Ethelred blurted from where he sat on the edge of Saldur’s desk.

“Yes, you know, the concept of producing an heir to inherit the mantle of leadership. Most thrones are lost because of poor planning on this front.”

“I’m not even crowned, and you complain because I haven’t fathered an heir, yet?”

Arcadius sighed. “It is not your heir I am concerned about. This Empire is founded on a bedrock of faith—faith that the bloodline of Novron is back on the throne. If the bloodline is not maintained, the cohesion that holds the Empire together might dissolve.”

“What are you saying?” Ethelred asked.

“Only that should something tragic happen to Modina, and no child of her blood be available, you would lose your greatest asset. The line of Novron would end, and without this thin strand of legitimacy, the Empire could face dissolution. Glenmorgan’s Empire lasted only three generations. How long will this one endure with only a mere mortal at its head?”

“What makes you think anything will happen to the empress?”

Arcadius smiled. “Let’s just say I know the ways of the world, and sacrifices are often required to bring about change. I’m here because I fear you might mistakenly think Modina is expendable once Ethelred wears the crown. I want to urge you not to make a terrible, perhaps fatal, error.”

Saldur exchanged a look with Ethelred, confirming that the lore master had guessed correctly.

“But there is nothing to fear, gentlemen, for I’ve come to offer a solution.” Arcadius gave them his most disarming smile, which accentuated the laugh lines around his eyes and showed off his round cheeks, which he guessed were still rosy from his trip. “I am proposing that Modina already bore a child.”

“What?” Ethelred asked. He stood and his face showed a mixture of emotions. “Are you accusing my fiancée—the empress—of impropriety?”

“I am saying that if she had a child—a child born a few years ago and no longer dependant on the mother—it could make your lives a great deal easier. It would ensure the continued unification of the Empire under the bloodline of Novron.”

“Speak plainly man!” Ethelred erupted. “Are you suggesting such a child exists?”

“I am saying such a child—could—exist.” He looked at each of their faces before focusing back on Saldur. “Modina is no more the Heir of Novron than I am, but that is not relevant. The only thing that matters is what her subjects believe. If they accept she has a child, then the pretense of the heir can continue and the masses will be satisfied. After ensuring the line of succession, an unfortunate incident involving the empress would not be such a tragedy. Her people would certainly mourn her, but there would still be hope—hope in the form of a child who would one day take the throne.”

“You bring up an interesting point, Professor,” Ethelred said. “Modina has…been ill as of late, but I’m sure she could hang on long enough to bear a child, couldn’t she, Sauly?”

“I don’t see why not. Yes. We could arrange that.”

The lore master shook his head and displayed an expression he had used hundreds of times when hearing an incorrect response from one of his students. “But what if she were to die in childbirth? It happens far too often and is too great a risk for something as important as this. Do you really wish to gamble all you are trying to accomplish? A child conceived before the empress even knew Ethelred would not reflect poorly on him. There are ways to present the child that would bolster the new emperor’s standing. He can profess that his love for Modina is boundless and agree to raise the child as if it were his own. Such sentiments would endear him to the people.”

Arcadius waited a minute before continuing. “Take a healthy child and educate it in philosophy, theology, poetry, history, and mathematics. Fill the vessel with training in civics, economics, and culture. Make the child the most learned leader the world has ever known. Picture the possibilities. Imagine the potential of an empire ruled by an intellectual giant rather than the thug with the biggest stick.

“If you want a better Empire, you need to create a better ruler. I can provide this. I can bring you a child that I have already begun to educate and will continue to groom. I can raise the child at Sheridan, away from life at court. We don’t want a spoiled brat, pampered from birth, swinging little legs on the imperial throne. What we need is a strong, compassionate leader without ties to the nobility.”

“One you control,” Luis Guy accused.

Arcadius chuckled. “It is true that such a child might be fond of me, and while I know that I cut quite a dashing figure for someone my age, I’m a very old man. I will be dead soon. Most likely, I will pass on long before the child reaches coronation age, so you’ll not have to worry about my influence.

“I should point out that I don’t intend to be the child’s only tutor. Nor could I be in order to ensure success. A task of this magnitude would require historians, doctors, engineers, and even tradesmen. You can send as many of your own instructors as you wish. I would hope you, Regent Saldur, would be one of them. I suspect much of the vision of the New Empire comes from you, after all. Once the wedding is over and things are operating smoothly, you could join us at Sheridan. She will require training that you are uniquely qualified to teach.”

“She?” Ethelred said.

“Beg pardon?” Arcadius asked, peering over his glasses again.

“You said she. Are you speaking of a girl?”

“Well, yes. The child I am suggesting is a young orphan whom I have been taking care of for some time. She is extremely bright and at the age of five has already mastered letters. She is a delightful girl who shows great promise.”

“But—a girl?” Ethelred sneered. “What good is a girl?”

“I’m afraid my fellow regent is correct,” Saldur said. “The moment she married, her husband would rule, and all your education would be wasted. If it was a boy…”

“Well, there is no shortage of orphan boys,” Ethelred declared. “Find a handsome one and we can do the same with him.”

“My offer is for this girl only.”

“Why?” Guy asked.

Arcadius detected a tone in the question he did not like.

“Because I sense in her the makings of a magnificent ruler, the kind who could—”

“But she’s a girl,” Ethelred repeated.

“As is Empress Modina.”

“Are you saying you would refuse to tutor another child? One of our choosing?” Saldur asked.

“Yes.” Arcadius said the word with the stern conviction of an ultimatum. He hoped the value of knowledge that only he could bestow would be enough to win them over, but he could see the answer before it was actually spoken.

Saldur was respectful at least and politely thanked him for bringing the subject to their attention. They did not invite him to stay for Wintertide, and Arcadius was uncomfortable about the way Luis Guy watched him as he left.

He had failed.

***

Royce waited patiently.

He had been in Imperial Square that morning, speaking with vendors who regularly delivered supplies to the palace, when the old battered coach passed by and entered the imperial gates. Recognizing it immediately, Royce wondered what it was doing there.

The palace courtyard had insufficient space for all the visitors’ carriages during Wintertide and soon the coach returned and parked along the outer wall. The old buggy, with its paint-chipped wheels, weathered sides, and tattered drapes, looked out of place amidst the line of noble vehicles.

He waited for what must have been hours before he spotted the old man leaving the palace and approaching the carriage.

“What the—”Arcadius began. He was startled by Royce who sat inside.

The thief placed a finger to his lips.

“What are you doing here?” Arcadius whispered, pulling himself in and closing the door.

“Waiting to ask you that same question,” Royce said quietly.

“Where to, Professor?” the driver called as he climbed aboard. The coach bounced with his weight.

“Ah—just circle the city once will you, Justin?”

“The city, sir?”

“Yes. I’d like to see it before we leave.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Well?” Royce pressed as the carriage jerked forward.

“Chancellor Lambert took sick on the day he was to leave for the celebrations here. Because he could not attend, he thought a personal apology was required and asked me—of all people—to deliver his regrets. Now, what about you?”

“We located the heir.”

“Did you now?”

“Yeah, and you said finding him would be difficult.” Royce drew back his hood and tugged his gloves off one finger at a time. “After Hadrian discovered he was the Guardian of the Heir, he knew exactly what he wanted for a Wintertide present—his very own Heir of Novron.”

“And where is this mythical chimera?”

“Right underfoot as it turns out. We’re still pinpointing him, but best guess puts Gaunt in the palace dungeons. He is being held for execution on the Tide. We were planning to steal him before that.”

“The heir is Degan Gaunt?”

“Ironic, huh? The Nationalist leader trying to overthrow the Empire is actually the one man destined to rule it.”

“You said were…so, you’re not planning to rescue him anymore?”

“No. Hadrian cut some deal with the regents. They’ve made him a knight, of all things. If he wins the joust, I think they promised to set Gaunt free. I’m not sure I trust them, though.”

The carriage rolled through the streets and up a hill, causing the horse to slow its pace. One of Arcadius’s open travel bundles fell to the floor, joining the rest of his clothes, a pile of books, his shoes, and a mound of blankets.

“Have you ever put anything away in your life?” Royce asked.

“Never saw the point. I’d just have to take it back out again. So, Hadrian’s in the palace—but what are you doing here? I heard Medford was burned. Shouldn’t you be checking on Gwen?”

“Already have. She’s fine and staying at the Winds Abbey. That reminds me. You might want to stick around. If all goes well, you can come with us for the wedding.”

“Whose?”

“Mine. I finally asked Gwen and she agreed, believe it or not.”

“Did she?” Arcadius said, reaching out for one of the blankets to draw over his legs.

“Yeah, and here we both thought she had more sense than that. Can you picture me as a husband and a father?”

“Father? You’ve discussed children?”

“She wants them and even picked out names.”

“Has she now? And how does that sit with you? Whining children and stagnation might be harder for you than all the challenges you’ve faced before. And this is one you can’t walk out on if you decide it’s not for you.” The old man tilted his head to look over the tops of his glasses, his mouth slightly open. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“You’ve been after me to find a good woman for years, now you’re second guessing Gwen? I know I won’t find better.”

“Oh no, it’s not that. I just know your nature. I’m not sure you’ll be content with the role of a family man.”

“Are you trying to scare me off? I thought you wanted me to settle down. Besides, when you found me, I was a much different person.”

“I remember,” the wizard said thoughtfully. “You were like a rabid dog, snapping at everything and everyone. Clearly, my genius in matching you up with Hadrian worked wonders. I knew his noble heart would eventually soften yours.”

“Yeah, well, travel with a guy long enough and you start picking up his bad habits. You have no idea how many times I almost killed him when we first started. I never bothered because I expected the jobs would take care of that for me, but somehow he kept surviving.”

“Well, I’m glad to see things worked out for you both. Gwen is a fine woman, and you’re right, you couldn’t do better.”

“So you’ll wait?”

“I’m afraid not. I was ordered to return immediately.”

“But you’ll come out to the Winds Abbey afterward, right? If you were not there it would be like not having my fath—well an uncle, at least.”

Arcadius smiled, but it looked strained. After a moment of silence the smile disappeared.

“What’s wrong?” Royce asked.

“Hmm…oh, nothing.”

“No, I’ve seen that look before. What is it, you old coot?”

“Oh—well, probably nothing,” Arcadius said.

“Out with it.”

“I was just in with the regents. With them was a sentinel named Luis Guy and another very quiet fellow. I’ve never seen him before, but the name was familiar. You used to speak of him often.”

“Who?”

“They introduced him as Lord Merrick Marius.”

Chapter 13
The House on Heath Street

Mince was freezing.

The dawn’s wind ripped through the coarse woven bag around his shoulders as if it were a fishnet. His nose ran. His ears were frozen. His once-numb fingers—now stuffed in his armpits—burned. He managed to escape most of the heavy gusts by standing in the recessed doorway of a millinery shop, but his feet were lost in a deep snowdrift, protected only by double wraps of cloth stuffed with straw. It would be worth it if he learned who lived in the house across the street, and if that name matched the one the hooded stranger had asked about.

Mr. Grim, or was it Mr. Baldwin, had promised five silver to the boy who found the man he was looking for. Given the flood of strangers in town, it was a tall order to find a single man, but Mince knew his city well. Mr. Grim—it had to be Mr. Grim—explained the fellow would be a smart guy who visited the palace a lot. That right there told Mince to head to the Hill District. Elbright was checking out the inns, and Brand was watching the palace gate, but Mince was sure Heath Street was the place for someone with palace connections.

Mince looked at the house across the street. Only two stories and quite narrow, it was tucked tight between two others. Not as fancy as the big homes but still a fine place. Built entirely of stone, it had several glass windows, the kind you could actually see through. Most of the houses on Heath Street were that way. The only distinguishing mark on this one was the dagger and oak leaf embossment above the door and the noticeable lack of any Wintertide decoration. While the rest of the homes were bedecked in streamers and ropes of garland, the little house was bare. It used to belong to Lord Dermont, who died in the Battle of Ratibor that past summer. Mince asked the kids who begged on the street if they knew who owned it now. All they could tell him was that the master of the house rode in a fine carriage with an imperial-uniformed driver and had three servants. Both the master and the servants kept to themselves, and all were new to Aquesta.

“This has to be the right house,” Mince muttered, his words forming a little cloud. A lot was riding on him that morning. He had to be the one to win the money—for Kine’s sake.

Mince had been on his own since he was six. At that age, handouts were easy to come by, but with each year, things got tougher. There was a lot of competition in the city, especially now with all the refugees. Elbright, Brand, and Kine were the ones that kept him alive. Elbright had a knife and Brand had killed another kid in a fight over a tunic—it made others think twice before messing with them—but it was Kine, their master pickpocket, who was his best friend.

Kine had taken sick a few weeks ago. He began throwing up and sweating like it was summer. They each gave him some of their food, but he was not getting better. For the last three days, he could not even leave The Nest. Each time Mince saw him, Kine looked worse: whiter, thinner, blotchier, and shivering—always shivering. Elbright had seen the sickness before and said not to waste any more food on Kine, as he was as good as dead. Mince still shared a bit of his bread, but his friend rarely ate it. He hardly ate anything anymore.

Mince crossed the street to the front of the house and, to escape the bitter wind, he slipped to the right of the porch stairs. His foot sank deeper than expected and his arms windmilled as he fell down a short flight of steps leading to a root cellar. Mince landed on his back, sending up a cloud of powder that blinded him. He reached around and felt a hinge. His frozen hands continued to search and found a large lock holding the door fast.

He stood and dusted himself off. As he did, he noticed a gap under the stairs, a drain of some kind. His fall uncovered the opening. Hearing the approach of the butcher’s wagon, he quickly slithered inside.

“What will you have today, sir?”

“Goose.”

“No beef? No pork?”

“Tomorrow starts Blood Week, so I’ll wait.”

“I have some right tasty pigeons and a couple of quail.”

“I’ll take the quail. You can keep the pigeons.”

Mince had not eaten since yesterday morning, and all their talk about food reminded his stomach.

“Very good, Mister Jenkins. Are you sure you don’t require anything else?”

“Yes, I’m sure that will be all.”

Jenkins, Mince thought, that is probably the servant’s name, not the master of the house.

Footfalls came down the steps and Mince held his breath as the manservant brushed the snow away from the cellar door with a broom. He opened it to allow the butcher entry.

“It’s freezing out here,” Jenkins muttered and trotted out of sight.

“That it is, sir. That it is.”

The butcher’s boy carried the goose, already plucked and beheaded, down into the cellar and then returned to the wagon for the quails. The door was open. It might have been the cold, the hunger, or the thought of five silver—most likely it was all three—that sent Mince scurrying inside quick as a ferret without bothering to consider his decision. He scrambled behind a pile of sacks that smelled of potatoes and crouched low while trying to catch his breath. The butcher’s boy returned with the birds, hung by their feet, and stepped out again. The door slammed closed, and he heard the lock snap shut.

After the brilliant world of sun and snow, Mince was blind. He stayed still and listened. The footsteps of the manservant crossed overhead, but they soon faded and everything was quiet. The boy knew there was no way to escape the cellar undetected, but he chose not to worry about that. The next time there was a delivery, he would just make a run for it. He could get through the door on surprise, and no one could catch him once he was in the open.

When Mince looked around again, he noticed that he could see as his eyes adjusted to the light filtering down through gaps in the boards. The cellar was cool, although balmy when compared to the street, and filled with crates, sacks, and jugs. Sides of bacon hung from the ceiling. A small box lined with straw held more eggs than he could count. Mince cracked one of them over his mouth and swallowed. Finding a tin of milk, he took two big mouthfuls and got mostly cream. Thick and sweet, it left him grinning with delight. Looking at all the containers, Mince felt as if he had fallen into a treasure room. He could live there by hiding in the piles, sleeping in the sacks, and eating himself fat. Hunting through the shelves for more treats, Mince found a jar of molasses and was trying to get the lid off when he heard more steps overhead.

Muffled voices were coming closer. “…I will be at the palace the rest of the day.”

“I’ll have the carriage brought at once, My Lord.”

“I want you and Poe to take this medallion to the silversmith. Get him started making a duplicate. Don’t leave it, and don’t let it out of your sight. Stay with him and watch over it. It’s extremely valuable.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And bring it back at the end of the day. I expect you’ll need to take it over several times.”

“But your dinner, My Lord. Surely Mr. Poe can—”

“I’ll get my meals at the palace. I’m not trusting Poe with this. He is going along only as protection.”

“But, My Lord, he’s hardly more than a boy—”

“Never mind that, just do as instructed. Where is Dobbs?”

“Cleaning the bedrooms, I believe.”

“Take him, too. You’ll be gone all day, and I don’t want him left here alone.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

My Lord, My Lord! Mince was ready to scream in frustration. Why not just use the bugger’s name?

***

Mince listened for a long time before deciding the house was empty. He crossed the cellar, climbed the steps, and tried the door to the house. It opened. Careful and quiet as a mouse, he crept out. A board creaked when he put his weight on it, and he froze in terror but nothing happened.

He was alone in the kitchen. Food was everywhere: bread, pickles, eggs, cheese, smoked meats, and honey. Mince sampled each one as he passed. He had eaten bread before, but this was soft and creamy compared to the three-day-old biscuits he was used to. The pickles were spicy, the cheese a delight, and the meat, despite being tough from curing, was a delicacy he rarely knew. He also found a small barrel of beer that was the best he had ever had. Mince found himself light-headed and stuffed as he left the kitchen with a slice of pie in one hand, a wedge of cheese in the other, and a stringy strip of meat in his pocket.

The inside of the house was more impressive than the exterior. Sculptured plaster, carved wood, finely woven tapestries, and silk curtains lined the walls. A fire burned in the main room. Logs softly crackled, their warmth spreading throughout the lower floor. Crystal glasses sat inside cherry cabinets, fat candles and small statuettes rested on tables, and books filled the shelves. Mince had never held a book before. He finished the pie, stuffed the cheese in his other pocket, and then pulled one down. The book was thick and heavier than he expected. He tried to open it, but it slipped through his greasy fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that echoed through the house. He froze, held his breath, and waited for footsteps or a shout.

Silence.

Picking up the book, he felt the raised leather spine and marveled at the gold letters on the cover. He imagined the words revealed some powerful magic—a secret that could make men rich or grant eternal life. Setting the book back on the shelf with a bit of sadness, Mince moved toward the stairs.

He climbed to the second story, where there were several bedrooms. The largest had an adjoining study with a desk and more books. On the desk were parchments, more mysterious words—more secrets. He picked up one of the pages, turned it sideways, and then upside-down, as if a different orientation might force the letters to reveal their mysteries. He grew frustrated. Dropping the page back on the desk, he started to leave when a light caught his attention.

A strange glow came from within the wardrobe. He stared at it for a long time before venturing to open the door. Vests, tunics, and cloaks filled the cabinet. Pushed to the rear he found a robe—a robe that shimmered with its own light. Mesmerized, Mince risked a hesitant touch. The material was unlike anything he had felt before—smoother than a polished stone and softer than a down feather. The moment he touched the fabric, the garment instantly changed from dark, shimmering silver to an alluring purple and glowed the brightest where his fingers contacted it.

Mince glanced nervously around the room. He was still alone. On an impulse, he pulled the robe out. The hem brushed the floor and he immediately draped it over his arm. Letting the robe touch the ground did not seem right. He started to put it on and had one arm in the sleeve when he stopped. The robe felt cold, and the color turned a dark blue, almost black. Pulling his arm out, the beautiful purple glow returned.

Mince reminded himself he was not there to steal.

On principle, he was not against thieving. He stole all the time. He picked pockets, grabbed-and-ran from markets, and even looted drunks. But he never robbed a house—certainly not a Heath Street house. Thieving from nobles was dangerous, and the authorities were the least of his worries. If the thieves’ guild found out, their punishment would be worse than anything the magistrate would come up with. No one would raise a stink over a starving boy taking food, but the robe was a different matter. With all the books and writing in the house, it was obvious the owner was a wizard or warlock of some sort.

It was too risky.

What would I do with it anyway?

While it would put old Brand the Bold’s tunic to shame, he could never put it on. The robe was too big for him to wear and Mince would not dare cut it. Even if he managed it, the robe would draw every eye in the city. He reached out to put it back in the wardrobe, deciding he could not risk taking it. Once more the robe went dark. Still holding it, he pulled his arm out and it glowed again. Puzzled but still determined, Mince hung it back up. The moment he let go, the robe fell to the floor. He tried again and it fell once more.

“All right, go ahead and stay there,” he said and started to turn away.

The robe instantly flared to a brilliant white. All shadows in the room vanished and Mince staggered backward, squinting to see.

“Okay, okay. Stop it. Stop it!” he shouted and the light dimmed to blue again.

Mince did not move. He stood staring at the robe as it lay on the floor. The light was throbbing—growing bright and dim almost as if it were breathing. He watched it for several minutes trying to figure it out

Slowly, he stepped closer and picked it up. “Ya want me to take you?”

The robe glowed the pretty purple color.

“Can I wear you?”

Dark blue.

“So…ya just want me to steal you?”

Purple.

“Don’t ya belong here?”

Blue.

“You’re being held against yer will?”

The robe flashed purple so brightly that it made him blink.

“You’re not—ya know—cursed are you? Ya aren’t going to hurt me—are ya?”

Blue.

“Is it okay if I fold ya up and stuff ya inside my tunic?”

Purple.

As big as it was, the garment compressed easily. Mince stuffed it in the top of his shirt, making him look like a busty girl. Because he was already stealing the robe, he also picked up a handful of parchments and stuffed them in as well. He was not going to find out who lived there while the occupants were out, and Mince did not want to stick around for them to discover that the robe was missing. Mr. Grim looked to be the type to know letters, or know someone who did. Maybe he could tell enough from the parchments for Mince to win the silver.

***

Royce sat on the bleachers in Imperial Square, observing the patterns of the city. Wintertide was less than two weeks away and the city swelled with pilgrims. They filled the plaza, bustled by the street vendors and open shops, and shouted holiday greetings and obscenities in equal measure. Wealthy, blanket-wrapped merchants rode in carriages, pointing at the various sights. Visiting tradesmen carried tools over their shoulders, hoping to pick up work, while established vendors scowled at them. Threadbare farmers and peasants visiting Aquesta to see the holy empress huddled in groups, staring in awe at their surroundings.

Betrayal in Medford. Royce read the sign posted in front of a small theater that indicated nightly performances during the week leading up to Wintertide’s Eve. From the barkers on the street, he determined the play was the imperial variation of the popular Crown Conspiracy, which the Empire had outlawed. Apparently in this version, the plotting prince and his witch sister decide to murder their father, and only the good archduke stands in the way of their evil plans.

Four patrols of eight men circled the streets. At least one group checked in at each square every hour. They were swift and harsh in their peacekeeping. Dressed in mail and carrying heavy weapons, they brutally beat and dragged away anyone causing a nuisance or accused of a crime. They did not bother to hear the suspect’s side of the story. They did not care who trespassed on whom, or whether the accusation was truth or fiction. Their goal was order, not justice.

An interesting side effect of the crackdown, which would have been comical if the results were not so ugly, was that street vendors falsely accused their out-of-town competitors of offenses. Local vendors banded together forming an alliance to denounce the upstarts. Before long, people learned to gather at the squares just before an imperial patrol was expected to arrive or followed the men as they patrolled. The spectacle of violence was just one more holiday show.

Two good-sized pigs, attempting to escape their fates of Blood Week, ran through the square trailed by a parade of children and two mongrel dogs chasing after. A butcher wearing a bloodstained apron and exhausted from running paused to wipe his brow.

Royce spotted the boy deftly dodging his way through the crowd. Pausing briefly to avoid the train chasing the pig, Mince locked eyes with Royce then casually strolled over to the bleachers. Royce was pleased to see no one watched the boy’s progress too closely.

“Looking for me?” Royce asked.

“Yes, sir,” Mince replied.

“You found him?”

“Don’t know—maybe—never got a name or a look—got these though.” The boy pulled some parchment from his shirt. “I snatched them from a house on Heath Street. It has a new owner. Can ya read?”

Royce ignored the question as he scanned the parchments. The handwriting was unmistakable. He slipped them into his cloak.

“Where exactly is this house?”

Mince smiled. “I’m right, aren’t I? Do I get the coin?”

“Where’s the house?”

“Heath Street, south off the top, harbor side, little place right across from Buchan’s Hattery. Ya can’t miss it. There’s a crest of an oak leaf and dagger above the door. Now, what about the money?”

Royce did not respond, but focused on the boy’s overstuffed tunic, which glowed as if he had a star trapped inside.

Mince saw his look and promptly folded his arms. Tilting his head down, he whispered, “Quit it!”

“Did you take something else from the house?”

Mince shook his head. “It has nothing to do with ya.”

“If that’s from the same house, you’ll want to give it to me.”

Mince stuck his lip out defiantly. “It’s nothing and it’s mine. I’m a thief, see. I took it for myself in case I got the wrong house. I didn’t want to risk my neck and get nothing. So it’s my bonus. That’s how professional thieves work, see? Ya might not like it, but it’s how we do things. You and me had a deal and I’ve done my part. Don’t get all high-and-mighty or go on about bad morals cuz I get enough of that from the monks.”

The light grew brighter and began flashing on and off.

Royce was disturbed. “What is that?”

“Like I said, it’s none of yer business,” Mince snapped and pulled away. He looked down once more and whispered, “Stop it, will ya! People can see. I’ll get in trouble.”

“Listen, I don’t have a problem with a little theft,” Royce told him. “You can trust me on that. But if you took something of value from that house, you’d be wise to give it to me. This might sound like a trick, but I’m only trying to help. You don’t understand who you’re dealing with. The owner will find you. He’s very meticulous.”

“What’s that mean…meticulous?”

“Let’s just say he’s not a forgiving man. He will kill you, Elbright, and Brand. Not to mention anyone else you have regular contact with, just to be thorough.”

“I’m keeping it!” Mince hissed.

Royce rolled his eyes and sighed.

The boy struggled to cover up by doubling over and wrapping his arms around his chest. As he did, the light blinked faster and now alternated in different colors. “By Mar, just give me the money will ya? Before one of the guards sees.”

Royce handed him five silver coins and watched as the boy took off. He ran hunched over, emitting a rapidly blinking light that faded and eventually stopped.

***

Mince entered the loft by climbing to the roof of the warehouse, pulling back a loose board near the eaves, and scrambling through the hole. The Nest, as they dubbed their home, was the result of poor carpentry. A mistake made when the East Sundries Company built their warehouse against the common wall of the Bingham Carriage House & Blacksmith Shop. A mismeasurement left a gap that was sealed shut with sideboards. Over the years, the wood had warped.

While trying to break into the warehouse, Elbright noticed a gap between the boards that revealed the hidden space. He never found a way into the storehouse, but he did discover the perfect hideout. The little attic was three feet tall, five feet wide, and ran the length of the common wall. Thanks to the long hours of the blacksmiths, who usually kept a fire burning, it was also marginally heated.

A collection of treasures gathered from the city’s garbage littered The Nest, including moth-eaten garments, burned bits of lumber, fragments of hides tossed out by the tanner, cracked pots, and chipped cups.

Kine lay huddled in a ball against the chimney. Mince had made him a bed of straw and tucked their best blanket around him, but his friend still shivered. The little bit of his face not covered by the blanket was pale-white, and his bluish lips quivered miserably.

“How ya doing?” Mince asked.

“C-c-cold,” Kine replied weakly.

Mince put a hand to the brick chimney. “Bastards are trying to save coal again.”

“Is there any food?” Kine asked.

Mince pulled the wedge of cheese from his pocket. Kine took a bite and immediately started to vomit. Nothing came up, but he retched just the same. He continued to convulse for several minutes then collapsed, exhausted.

“I’m like Tibith, ain’t I?” Kine managed.

“No,” Mince lied, sitting down beside him. He hoped to keep Kine warm with his body. “You’ll be fine the moment the fire is lit. You’ll see.”

Mince fished the money out of his other pocket to show Kine. “Hey, look I got coin—five silver! I could buy ya a hot meal, how would that be?”

“Don’t,” Kine replied miserably. “Don’t waste it.”

“What do ya mean? When is hot soup ever a waste?”

“I’m like Tibith. Soup won’t help.”

“I told ya, yer not like that,” Mince insisted, slamming the silver in a cup he decided at that moment to use as a bank.

“I can’t feel my feet anymore, Mince, and my hands tingle. I ache all over and my head pounds and…and…I pissed myself today. Did you hear me—I pissed myself! I am like Tibith. I’m just like he was and I’m gonna die just like him.”

“I said ya ain’t. Now quit it!”

“My lips are blue, ain’t they?”

“Be quiet Kine, just—”

“By Mar, Mince, I don’t want to die!” Kine shook even more as he cried.

Mince felt his stomach churn as tears dripped down his cheeks, too. No one ever recovered once their lips went blue.

He looked around for something else to wrap his friend in and then remembered the robe.

“There,” he muttered, draping the robe over Kine. “After all the trouble you’ve been, try to be of some use. Keep him warm or I’ll toss ya in the smith’s fire.”

“W-What?” Kine moaned.

“Nothing, go to sleep.”

***

Royce heard the key turn. The bolt shifted and the door opened on well-oiled hinges. Four pairs of feet shuffled on the slate of the foyer. He heard the door close, the brush of material, and the snap of a cloak. One pair of feet scuffed abruptly as if their owner unexpectedly found himself on the edge of a precipice.

“Mr. Jenkins,” Merrick’s voice said, “I want you and Dobbs to take the rest of the evening off.”

“But, sir, I—”

“This is no time to argue. Please, Mr. Jenkins, just leave. Hopefully I will see you in the morning.”

“Hopefully?” This voice was familiar. Royce recognized Poe, the cook’s mate on the Emerald Storm. It took him a moment, but then Royce understood. “What do you mean you will—hold on. Is he here? How do you know?”

“I want you to go too, Poe.”

“Not if he’s here. You’ll need protection.”

“If he wanted me dead, I would already be lying in a bloody puddle. So I think it is fair to surmise that I am safe. You, on the other hand, are a different story. I doubt he knew you would be here. Now that he knows your connection to me, the only thing keeping you alive is that he is more interested in talking to me than slitting your throat, at least for the moment.”

“Let him try. I think—”

“Poe, leave the thinking to me. And never tempt him like that. This is not a man to toy with. Trust me, he’d kill you without difficulty. I know. I worked with him. We specialized in assassinations and he’s better at it than I am—particularly spur-of-the-moment killings—and right now you’re a very tempting spur. Now, get out while you can. Disappear for a while, just to be safe.”

“What makes you think he even knows I’m here?” Poe asked.

“He’s in the drawing room, listening to us right now. Sitting in the blue chair with its back to the wall, he’s waiting for me to join him. I’m sure he has a crystal glass half-filled with the Montemorcey wine I bought and left in the pantry for him. He’s holding it in his left hand, so if, for whatever reason, he has to draw his dagger, he won’t need to put the glass down first. He hates to waste Montemorcey. He’s swirling it, letting it breathe, and while he’s been here for some time he has yet to taste it. He won’t drink until I sit across from him—until I, too, have a glass.”

“He suspects you poisoned it?”

“No, he hasn’t tasted the wine because...well, it would just be rude He’ll have a glass of cider waiting for me, as he knows I no longer drink spirits.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“Because I know him just as I know you. Right now you’re fighting an urge to enter the drawing room to see if I’m right. Don’t. You’ll never come out again, and I don’t want you staining my new carpet. Now leave. I will contact you when I need to.”

“Are you sure? Yeah, okay, stupid question.”

The door opened, closed, and footsteps could be heard going down the porch stairs.

There was a pause and then a light flared. Merrick Marius entered the dark room holding a single candle. “I hope you don’t mind. I prefer to be able to see you, too.”

Merrick lit four sconce lights, added some logs to the fire, and stirred the embers to life with a poker. He watched them for a long moment then placed the tool back on its hook before taking a seat opposite Royce, next to the poured glass of cider.

“To old friends?” Merrick asked, holding up his drink.

“To old friends,” Royce agreed and the two sipped.

Merrick was dressed in a knee-length coat of burgundy velvet, a finely embroidered vest, and a startlingly white ruffled shirt.

“You’re doing well for yourself,” Royce observed.

“I can’t complain. I’m Magistrate of Colnora now. Have you heard?”

“I hadn’t. Your father would be proud.”

“He said I couldn’t do it. Do you remember? He said I was too smart for my own good.” Merrick took another sip. “I suppose you’re angry about Tur Del Fur.”

“You crossed a line.”

“I know. I am sorry about that. You were the only one who could do that job. If I could have found someone else…” Merrick crossed his legs and looked over his glass at Royce. “You’re not here to kill me, so I’ll assume your visit is about Hadrian.”

“Is that your doing? This deal?”

Merrick shook his head. “Actually, Guy came up with that. They tried to persuade Hadrian to kill Breckton for money and a title. My only contribution was providing the proper incentive.”

“They’re dangling Gaunt?” Royce asked.

Merrick nodded. “And the Witch of Melengar.”

“Arista? When did they get her?”

“A few months ago. She and her bodyguard tried to free Gaunt. He died and she was captured.”

Royce took another drink and then set his glass down before asking, “They’re going to kill Hadrian, aren’t they?”

“Yes. The regents know they can’t just let him go. After he kills Breckton, they will arrest him for murder, throw him in prison, and execute him along with Gaunt and Arista on Wintertide.”

“Why do they want Breckton dead?”

“They offered him Melengar in order to separate him from Ballentyne. He refused, and now they’re afraid the Earl of Chadwick will attempt to use Breckton to overthrow the Empire. They’re spooked and feel their only chance to eliminate him is by using a Teshlor-trained warrior. Nice skills to have in a partner by the way—good choice.”

Royce sipped his wine and thought awhile. “Can you save him?”

“Hadrian?” Merrick paused and then answered, “Yes.”

The word hung there.

“What do you want?” Royce said.

“Interesting that you should ask. As it turns out, I have another job that you would be perfect for.”

“What kind?”

“Find-and-recover. I can’t give you the details yet, but it’s dangerous. Two other groups have already failed. Of course, I wasn’t involved in those attempts, and you weren’t leading the operation. Agree to take the job and I’ll make sure nothing happens to Hadrian.”

“I’ve retired.”

“I heard that rumor.”

Royce drained his glass and stood. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t wait too long, Royce. If you want me to work this, I’ll need a couple of days to prepare. Trust me, you’ll want my help. A dungeon rescue will fail. The prison is dwarven made.”

Chapter 14
Tournament Day

The morning dawned to the wails and cries of the doomed. The snow ran red as axe and mallet slaughtered livestock whose feed had run out. Blood Week happened every winter, but exactly what day it began depended on the bounty of the fall harvest. For an orphan in Aquesta, the best part of winter was Blood Week.

Nothing went to waste—feet, snouts, and even bones sold—but with so much to cleave, butchers could not keep track of every cut. The city’s poor circled the butcher shops like human vultures, searching for an inattentive cutter. Most butchers hired extra help, but they always underestimated the dangers. There were never enough arms carrying the meat to safety or enough eyes keeping lookout. A few daring raids even managed to carry off whole legs of beef. As the day wore on and workers grew exhausted, some desperate butchers resorted to hiring the very thieves they guarded against.

Mince had left The Nest early, looking for what he could scrounge for breakfast. The sun had barely peeked above the city wall when he managed to snatch a fine bit of beef from Gilim’s Slaughterhouse. After a particularly sound stroke from Gilim’s cleaver, a piece of shank skipped across the slick table, fell in the snow, and slid downhill. Mince happened to be in the right place at the right time. Snatching it, he ran with the bloody, fist-sized chunk of meat clutched inside his tunic. Anyone noticing the sprinting boy might conclude he was mortally wounded.

He was anxious to devour his prize, but exposing it would risk losing the meat to a bigger kid. Worse yet, a butcher or guard might spot him. Mince wished Brand and Elbright were with him. They had gone to the slaughterhouses down on Coswell, where most of the butchering would be done. The fights there would be fierce. Grown men would struggle for scraps alongside the orphans. Mince was too small to compete. Even if he managed to grab a hunk, someone would likely take it, beating him senseless in the process. The other two boys could hold their own. Elbright was as tall as most men now and Brand even larger, but Mince had to satisfy himself with the smaller butcher shops.

Arriving on the street in front of Bingham’s Carriage House, Mince stopped. He needed to get inside, but the thought of what he might find there frightened him. In his haste to get an early start, he had forgotten about Kine. For the past few days, his friend’s loud wheezing had woken Mince from a sound sleep, but he could not remember having heard anything that morning.

Mince had seen too much death. He knew eight boys—friends—who had died from cold, sickness, or starvation. They always went in winter, their bodies stiff and frozen. Each lifeless form was once a person—laughing, joking, running, crying—then was just a thing, like a torn blanket or a broken lantern. After finding remains, Mince would drag them to the pile—there was always a pile in winter. No matter how short a distance he needed to drag the body, the trip felt like miles. He remembered the good times and moments they had spent together. Then he would look down at the stiff, pale thing.

Will I be the thing one day? Will someone drag me to the pile?

He gritted his teeth, entered the alley, climbed to the roof, and pulled back the board. Coming in from the brilliant sunlight, Mince crawled blindly into the crevice. The Nest was dark and silent. There was no sound of breathing—wheezing or otherwise. Mince reached forward, imagining Kine’s cold, stiff body. The thought caused his hand to shake even as he willed his fingers to spread out, searching. Touching the silken material of the robe, he recoiled as it began to glow.

Kine was not there.

The robe lay on the floor as if Kine had melted during the night. Mince pulled the material toward him. As he did, the glow increased enough to reach every corner of the room. He was alone. Kine was gone. Not even his body remained.

Mince sat for a second, and then a thought surfaced. He dropped the robe in horror and kicked it away. The robe’s glow throbbed and grew fainter.

“Ya ate him!” Mince cried. “Ya lied to me. Ya are cursed!”

The light went out and Mince backed as far away as possible. He had to get away from the killer robe, but now it was lying between him and the exit.

A silhouette passed in front of the opening, momentarily blocking the sunlight.

“Mince?” Kine’s voice said. “Mince, look. I got me lamb chops!”

Kine entered and replaced the board. Mince’s eyes adjusted until he could see his friend holding a pair of bloody bones. His chin was stained red. “I woulda saved you one, but I couldn’t find you. By Mar, I was famished!”

“Ya all right, Kine?”

“I’m great. I’m still a little hungry, but other than that, I feel fantastic.”

“But last night…” Mince started. “Last night ya—ya—didn’t look so good.”

Kine nodded. “I had all kinds of queer dreams that’s for sure.”

“What kind of dreams?”

“Hmm? Oh just odd stuff. I was drowning in this dark lake. I couldn’t breathe ’cuz water was spilling into my mouth every time I tried to take a breath. I tried to swim, but my arms and legs barely moved—it was a terrible nightmare.” Kine noticed the beef flank Mince still held. “Hey! You got some meat, too? You wanna cook it up? I’m still hungry.”

“Huh? Oh, sure,” Mince said as he looked down at the robe while handing the beef to Kine.

“I love Blood Week, don’t you?”

***

Trumpets blared and drums rolled as the pennants of twenty-seven noble houses snapped in the late-morning breeze. People filed into the stands at Highcourt Field on the opening day of the Grand Avryn Wintertide Tournament. The contest would last ten days, ending with the Feast of Tides. Across the city, shops closed and work stopped. Only the smoking and salting of meat continued as Blood Week ran parallel to the tournament, and the slaughter could not halt even for such an august event. Many thought the timing was an omen that signaled the games would produce a higher number of accidents, which only added to the excitement. Every year crowds delighted in seeing blood.

Two years before, the Baron Linder of Maranon had died when a splintered lance held by Sir Gilbert pierced the visor of his helm. The same year Sir Dulnar of Rhenydd had his right hand severed in the final round of the sword competition. Nothing, however, compared to the showdown five years ago between Sir Jervis and Francis Stanley, the Earl of Harborn. In the final tilt of the tournament, Sir Jervis—who already bore a grudge against the earl—passed over the traditional Lance of Peace and picked up the Lance of War. Against council, the earl agreed to the deadly challenge. Jervis’s lance pierced Stanley’s cuirass as if it were parchment and continued on through his opponent’s chest. The knight did not escape the encounter unscathed. Stanley’s lance pierced Jervis’s helm and entered his eye socket. Both fell dead. Officials judged the earl the victor due to the extra point for a head blow.

Centuries earlier, Highcourt Field had functioned as the supreme noble court of law in Avryn. Civil disputes inevitably escalated until accused and accuser turned to combat to determine who was right. Soon the only dispute in contention became who was the best warrior. As the realms of Avryn expanded, trips to Highcourt became less convenient. Monthly sessions were eventually reduced to bi-yearly events where all grievances were settled over a two-week session. These were held on the holy days of Summersrule and Wintertide, in the belief Maribor was more attentive at these times.

Over the years, the celebration grew. Instead of merely proving their honor, the combatants also fought for glory and gold. Knights from across the nation came to face each other for the most prestigious honor in Avryn: Champion of the Highcourt Games.

Richly decorated tents of the noble competitors clustered around the fringe of the field, adorned in the distinct colors of their owners. Squires, grooms, and pages polished armor and brushed their lords’ horses. Knights entered in the sword competition limbered up with blades and shields, sparring with their squires. Officials walked the line of the carousel—a series of posts dangling steel rings no larger than a man’s fist. They measured the height of each post and the angle of each ring that men on galloping horses would try to collect with lances. Archers took practice shots. Spearmen sprinted and lunged, testing the sand’s traction. On the great jousting field, horses snorted and huffed as unarmored combatants took practice rides across the course.

Amidst all this activity, Hadrian braced himself against a post as Wilbur beat on his chest with a large hammer. Nimbus had arranged for the smith to adjust Hadrian’s borrowed armor. Obtaining a suit was simple, but making it fit properly was another matter.

“Here, sir,” Renwick said, holding out a pile of cloth to Hadrian.

“What’s that for?” Hadrian asked.

Renwick looked at him curiously. “It’s your padding, sir.”

“Don’t hand it to him, lad,” Wilbur scolded. “Stuff it in!”

Embarrassment flooded the boy’s face as he began wadding up the cloth and shoving it into the wide gap between the steel and Hadrian’s tunic.

“Pack it tight!” Wilbur snapped. He took a handful of padding and stuffed it against Hadrian’s chest, ramming it in hard.

“That’s a bit too tight,” Hadrian complained.

Wilbur gave him a sidelong glance. “You might not think that when Sir Murthas’s lance hits you. I don’t want to be accused of bad preparation because this boy failed to pack you properly.”

“Sir Hadrian,” Renwick began, “I was wondering—I was thinking—would it be all right if I were to enter the squire events?”

“Don’t see why not. Are you any good?”

“No, but I would like to try just the same. Sir Malness never allowed it. He didn’t want me to embarrass him.”

“Are you really that bad?”

“I’ve never been allowed to train. Sir Malness forbade me from using his horse. He was fond of saying, ‘A man upon a horse has a certain way of looking at the world, and a lad such as yourself should not get accustomed to the experience, as it will only produce disappointment.’”

“Sounds like Sir Malness was a real pleasant guy,” Hadrian said.

Renwick offered an uncomfortable smile and turned away. “I have watched the events many times—studied them really—and I have ridden but never used a lance.”

“Why don’t you get my mount and we’ll have a look at you.”

Renwick nodded and ran to fetch the horse. Ethelred had provided a brown charger named Malevolent for Hadrian. Bred for stamina and agility, the horse was dressed in a chanfron to protect the animal from poorly aimed lances. Despite the name, he was a fine horse, strong and aggressive, but not vicious. Malevolent did not bite or kick, and upon meeting Hadrian, the horse affectionately rubbed his head up and down against the fighter’s chest.

“Get aboard,” Hadrian told the boy who grinned and scrambled into the high-backed saddle. Hadrian handed him a practice lance and the shield with green and white quadrants, which the regents supplied.

“Lean forward and keep the lance tucked tight against your side. Squeeze it in with your elbow to steady it. Now ride in a circle so I can watch you.”

For all his initial enthusiasm, the boy looked less confident as he struggled to hold the long pole and guide the horse at the same time.

“The stirrups need to be tighter,” Sir Breckton said as he rode up.

Breckton sat astride a strong white charger adorned with an elegant caparison of gold and blue stripes. A matching pennant flew from the tip of a lance booted in his stirrup. Dressed in brightly polished armor, he had a plumed helm under one arm and a sheer blue scarf tied around the other.

“I wanted to wish you good fortune this day,” he said to Hadrian.

“Thanks.”

“You ride against Murthas, do you not? He’s good with a lance. Don’t underestimate him.” Breckton studied Hadrian critically. “Your cuirass is light. That’s very brave of you.”

Hadrian looked down at himself, confused. He had never worn such heavy armor. His experience with a lance remained confined to actual combat, where targets were rarely knights. As it was, Hadrian felt uncomfortable and restricted.

Breckton motioned to the metal plate on his own side. “Bolted armor adds an extra layer of protection where one is most likely to be hit. And where is your elbow pocket?”

Hadrian looked confused for a moment. “Oh, that plate? I had the smith take it off. It made it impossible to hold the lance tight.”

Breckton chuckled. “You do realize that plate is meant to brace the butt of the lance, right?”

Hadrian shrugged. “I’ve never jousted in a tournament before.”

“I see.” Sir Breckton nodded. “Would you be offended should I offer advice?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Keep your head up. Lean forward. Use the stirrups to provide leverage to deliver stronger blows. Absorb the blows you receive with the high back of your saddle to avoid being driven from your horse.”

“Again, thank you.”

“Not at all, I am pleased to be of service. If you have any questions, I will be most happy to answer them.”

“Really?” Hadrian responded mischievously. “In that case, is that a token I see on your arm?”

Breckton glanced down at the bit of cloth. “This is the scarf of Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale. I ride for her this day—for her—and her honor.” He looked out at the field. “It appears the tournament is about to start. I see Murthas taking his position at the alley, and you are up first. May Maribor guide the arm of the worthy.” Breckton nodded respectfully and left.

Renwick returned and dismounted.

“You did well,” Hadrian told him, taking the squire’s place on the charger. “You just need a bit more practice. Assuming I survive this tilt, we’ll work on it some more.”

The boy carried Hadrian’s helm in one hand and, taking the horse’s lead in the other, led the mounted knight to the field. Entering the gate, they circled the alley and came to a stop next to a small wooden stage.

Ahead of Hadrian lay the main arena, which an army of workers had spent weeks preparing by clearing snow and laying sand. The field was surrounded by a sea of spectators divided into sections designated by color. Purple housed the ruler and his immediate family, blue for the ranked gentry, red for the church officials, yellow for the baronage, green for the artisans, and white for the peasantry, which was the largest and only uncovered section.

Hadrian’s father used to bring him to the games but not for entertainment. Observing combat had been part of his studies. Still, Hadrian had been thrilled to see the fights and cheer the victors along with the rest. His father had no use for the winners and only cared to discuss the losers. Danbury questioned Hadrian after each fight, asking what the defeated knight did wrong and how he could have won.

Hadrian had hardly listened. He was distracted by the spectacle—the knights in shining armor, the women in colorful gowns, the incredible horses. He knew one knight’s saddle was worth more than their home and his father’s blacksmith shop combined. How magnificent they had all seemed in comparison to his commoner father. It never occurred to him that Danbury Blackwater could defeat every knight in every contest.

As a youth, Hadrian had dreamed of fighting at Highcourt a million times. Unlike the Palace of the Four Winds, this field was a church to him. Battles were respectful—not to the death. Swords were blunted, archers used targets, and jousts were performed with the Lance of Peace. A combatant lost points if he killed his opponent and could be expelled from the tournament for even injuring a competitor’s horse. Hadrian found that strange. Even after his father explained that the horse was innocent, he had not understood. He did now.

A large man with a loud voice stood on a platform in front the purple section, shouting to those assembled, “…is the chief knight of Alburn, the son of the Earl of Fentin, and he is renowned for his skill in the games and at court. I give to you—Sir Murthas!”

The crowd erupted in applause, drumming their feet on the hollow planks. Ethelred and Saldur sat to either side of a throne that remained as empty as the one in the banquet hall. At the start of the day, officials had announced that the empress felt too ill that morning and could not attend.

“From Rhenydd he hails,” the man on the box shouted as he gestured toward Hadrian, “only recently knighted amidst the carnage of the bloody Battle of Ratibor. He wandered forest and field to reach these games. For his first tournament ever, I present to you—Sir Hadrian!”

Some clapping trickled down from the stands, but it was only polite applause. The contest was already over in the eyes of the crowd.

Hadrian had never held a Lance of Peace. Lighter than a war lance, which had a metal tip, this one was all wood. The broad, flared end floated awkwardly but it was still solid oak and not to be underestimated. He checked his feet in the stirrups and gripped the horse with his legs.

Across the sand-strewn alley, Sir Murthas sat on his gray destrier. His horse was a strong, angry-looking steed cloaked in a damask caparison covered in a series of black-and-white squares and fringed with matching tassels. Murthas himself held a lozengy shield and wore a matching surcoat and cape of black-and-white diamonds. He snapped his visor shut just as the trumpeters sounded the fanfare and the flagman raised his banner.

Mesmerized by the spectacle, Hadrian’s gaze roamed from the stands to the snapping pennants and finally to the percussionists beating on their great drums. The pounding rolled like thunder such that Hadrian could feel it in his chest, yet the roar of the crowd overwhelmed it. Many leapt to their feet in anticipation. Hundreds waited anxiously with every eye fixed upon the riders. As a boy in the white stands, Hadrian had held his father’s fingers, hearing and feeling that same percussive din. He had wished to be one of those knights waiting at their gates—waiting for glory. The wish was a fantasy that only a young boy who knew so little of the world could imagine—an impossible dream he had forgotten until that moment.

The drums stopped. The flag fell. Across the alley, Murthas spurred his horse and charged.

Caught by surprise, Hadrian was several seconds behind. He spurred Malevolent and lurched forward. The audience sprang to their feet, gasping in astonishment. Some screamed in fear. Hadrian ignored them, intent on his task.

Feeling the rhythm of the horse’s stride, he became one with the motion. Hadrian pushed the balls of his feet down, taking up every ounce of slack and pressing his lower back against the saddle. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the lance, pulling it to his side and keeping its movement in sync with the horse’s rapid gait. He calculated the drop rate with the approach of his target.

The wind roared past Hadrian’s ears and stung his eyes as the charger built up speed. The horse’s hooves pounded the soft track, creating explosions of sand. Murthas raced at him, his black-and-white cape flying. The horses ran full out, nostrils flaring, muscles rippling, harnesses jangling.

Crack!

Hadrian felt his lance jolt then splinter. Running out of lane, he discarded the broken lance and pulled back on the reins. Hadrian was embarrassed by his slow start and did not want Murthas to get the jump on him again. Intent on getting the next lance first, he wheeled his charger and saw Murtha’s horse trotting riderless. Two squires and a groom chased the destrier. Along the alley, Hadrian spotted Murthas lying on his back. Men ran to the knight’s aid as he struggled to sit up. Hadrian looked for Renwick and as he did, he noticed the crowd. They were alive with excitement. All of them were on their feet, clapping and whistling. A few even cheered his name. Hadrian guessed they had not expected him to survive the first round.

He allowed himself a smile and the crowd cheered even louder.

“Sir!” Renwick shouted over the roar, running to Hadrian’s side. “You didn’t put your helm on!” The squire held up the plumed helmet.

“Sorry,” Hadrian apologized. “I forgot. I didn’t expect them to start the run so quickly.”

“Sorry? But—but no one tilts without a helm,” Renwick said, an astonished look on his face. “He could have killed you!”

Hadrian glanced over his shoulder at Murthas hobbling off the field with the help of two men and shrugged. “I survived.”

“Survived? Survived? Murthas didn’t even touch you, and you destroyed him. That’s a whole lot better than just survived. Besides, you did it without a helm! I’ve never seen anyone do that. And the way you hit him! You punched him off his horse like he hit a wall. You’re amazing!”

“Beginner’s luck, I guess. I’m all done here, right?”

Renwick nodded and swallowed several times. “You’ll go on to the second round day after tomorrow.”

“Good. How about we go see how well you do at the carousel minor and the quintain. Gotta watch that quintain. If you don’t hit it clean, the billet will swing around and knock you off.”

“I know,” Renwick replied, but his expression showed he was still in a state of shock. His eyes kept shifting from Hadrian to Murthas and back to the still-cheering crowd.

***

Amilia had never been to the tournament before. She had never seen a joust. Sitting in the stands, Amilia realized she had not even been outside the palace in more than a year. Despite the cold, she was enjoying herself. Perched on a thick, velvet cushion, she draped a lush blanket over her lap and held a warm cup of cider between her hands. Everything was so pretty. So many bright colors filled the otherwise bleak winter world. All around her the privileged were grouped according to their station. Across the field, the poor swarmed, trapped behind fence rails. They blended into a single gray mass that almost faded into the background of muddied snow. Without seats, they stood in the slush, shuffling their feet and stuffing hands into sleeves. Still, they were obviously happy to be there, happy to see the spectacle.

“That’s three broken lances for Prince Rudolf!” the duchess squealed, clapping enthusiastically. “A fine example of grand imperial entertainment. Not that his performance compares to Sir Hadrian’s. Everyone thought the poor man was doomed. I still can’t believe he rode without a helm! And what he did to Sir Murthas…well it will certainly be an exciting tournament this year, Amilia. Very exciting indeed.”

Lady Genevieve tugged on Amilia’s sleeve and pointed. “Oh, see there. They are bringing out the blue-and-gold flag. Those are Sir Breckton’s colors. He’s up next. Yes, yes here he comes and see—see on his arm. He wears your token. How exciting! The other ladies—they’re positively drooling. Oh, don’t look now, dear, they’re all staring at you. If eyes were daggers and glares lethal…” She trailed off, as if Amilia should know the rest. “They all see your conquest, my darling, and hate you. How wonderful.”

“Is it?” Amilia asked, noticing how many of the other ladies were staring at her. She bowed her head and kept her eyes focused on her lap. “I don’t want to be hated.”

“Nonsense. Knights aren’t the only ones who tilt at these tournaments. Everyone comes to this field as a competitor, and there can only be one victor. The only difference is that the knights spar in the daylight, and the ladies compete by candlelight. Clearly, you won your first round, but now we must see if your conquest was a wise one, as your victory remains locked with his prowess. Breckton is riding against Gilbert. This should be a close challenge. Gilbert actually killed a man a few years ago. It was an accident, of course, but it still gives him an edge over his opponents. Although, rumor has it that he hurt his leg two nights back, so we shall see.”

“Killed?” Amilia felt her stomach tighten as the trumpet blared and the flag flew.

Hooves shook the ground, and her heart raced as panic flooded her. She shut her eyes before the impact.

Crack!

The crowd roared.

Opening her eyes, she saw Gilbert still mounted but reeling. Sir Breckton trotted back to his gate unharmed.

“That’s one lance for Breckton,” Leo mentioned to no one in particular.

The duke sat on the far side of Genevieve, appearing more animated than Amilia had yet seen him. The duchess ran on for hours, talking about everything and anything, but Leopold almost never spoke. When he did, it was so softly that Amilia thought his words were directed to Maribor alone.

Nimbus sat to Amilia’s right, frequently glancing at her. He looked tense and she loved him for it.

“That Gilbert. Look at the way they are propping him up,” the duchess prattled on. “He really shouldn’t ride again. Oh, but he’s taking the lance—how brave of him.”

“He needs to get the tip up,” Leopold noted.

“Oh, yes, Leo. You are right as always. He doesn’t have the strength. And look at Breckton waiting patiently. Do you see the way the sun shines off his armor? He doesn’t normally clean it. He’s a warrior, not a tournament knight, but he went to the metal smith and ordered it polished so that the wind itself could see its face within the gleam. Now why do you suppose a man who hasn’t combed his hair in months does such a thing?”

Amilia felt terrified, embarrassed, and happy beyond what she believed to be the bounds of emotion.

The trumpet blared, and again the horses charged.

A lance cracked, Gilbert fell, and once again Breckton emerged untouched. The crowd cheered, and to Amilia’s surprise, she found herself on her feet along with the rest. She had a smile on her face that she could not wipe away.

Breckton made certain Gilbert was all right then trotted over to the stands and stopped in front of Amilia’s seat in the nobles’ box. He tossed aside his broken lance, pulled off his helm, rose in his stirrups, and bowed to her. Without thinking, she walked down the steps toward the railing. As she stepped out from under the canopy into the sun, the cheers grew louder, especially from the commoners’ side of the field.

“For you, My Lady,” Sir Breckton told her.

He made a sound to his horse, which also bowed, and once more the crowd roared. Her heart was light, her mind empty, and her whole life invisible except for that one moment in the sun. Feeling Nimbus’s hand on her arm, she turned and saw Saldur scowling from the stands.

“It’s not wise to linger in the sun too long, milady,” Nimbus warned. “You might get burned.”

The expression on Saldur’s face dragged Amilia back to reality. She returned to her seat, noticing the venomous glares from the nobles around her.

“My dear,” the duchess said in an uncharacteristic whisper, “for someone who doesn’t know how to play the game, you are as remarkable as Sir Hadrian today.”

Amilia sat quietly through the few remaining tilts, which she hardly noticed. When the day’s competition had ended, they exited the stands. Nimbus led the way and the duchess walked beside her, holding on to Amilia’s arm.

“You will be coming with us to the hunt on the Eve’s Eve, won’t you, Amilia dear?” Lady Genevieve asked as they walked across the field to the waiting carriages. “You simply must. I’ll have Lois work all week on a dazzling white gown and matching winter cape, so you’ll have something new. Where can we find snow-white fur for the hood?” She paused a moment then waved the thought away. “Oh well, I’ll let her work that out. See you then. Ta-ta!” She blew Amilia a kiss as the ducal carriage left.

The boy was just standing there.

He waited on the far side of the street, revealed when the duke and duchess’s coach pulled away. A filthy little thing, he stared at Amilia, looking both terrified and determined. In his arms he held a soiled bag. He caught her eye and with a stern resolve slipped through the fence.

“Mi-milady Ami—” was all he got out before a soldier grabbed him roughly and shoved him flat. The boy cowered in the snow, looking desperate. “Lady, please, I—”

The guard kicked him hard in the stomach and the boy crumpled around his foot. His eyes squeezed shut in pain as another soldier kicked him in the back.

“Stop it!” Amilia shouted. “Leave him alone!”

The guards paused, confused.

On the ground, the boy struggled to breathe.

“Help him up!” She took a step toward the child, but Nimbus caught her by the arm.

“Perhaps not here, milady.” His eyes indicated the crowd around the line of carriages who were straining to see what the commotion was about. “You’ve already annoyed Regent Saldur once today.”

She paused then glanced at the boy. “Put him in my carriage,” she instructed the guards.

They lifted the lad and shoved him forward. He dropped his bundle and pulled free in time to grab it before scurrying into the coach. Amilia glanced at Nimbus, who shrugged. The two followed the youth inside.

The boy cowered on the seat across from Amilia and Nimbus, a look of horror on his face.

The courtier eyed the lad critically. “I’d have to say he’s ten, no more than twelve. An orphan, certainly, and nearly feral by the look of him. What do you suppose he has in the bag? A dead rat?”

“Oh, stop it, Nimbus,” Amilia rebuked. “Of course it’s not; it’s probably just his lunch.”

“Exactly,” the tutor agreed.

Amilia glared. “Hush, you’re frightening him.”

“Me? He’s the one who came at us with the moldy bag of mystery.”

“Are you all right?” Amilia asked the boy softly.

He managed a nod but just barely. His eyes kept darting around the interior of the carriage but always came back to Amilia as if mesmerized.

“I’m sorry about the guards. That was awful, the way they treated you. Nimbus, do you have some coppers? Anything we could give him?”

The courtier looked helpless. “I’m sorry my lady. I’m not in the habit of carrying coin.”

Disappointed, Amilia sighed and then tried to put on a happy face. “What was it you wanted to say to me?” she asked.

The boy wetted his lips. “I—I have something to give to the empress.” He looked down at the package he clutched.

“What is it?” Amilia tried not to cringe at the possibilities.

“I heard…well…they said she couldn’t be at the tournament today because she was sick and all. That’s when I knew I had to get this to her.” He patted the bundle.

“Get what to her? What do you have?”

“Something that can heal her.”

“Oh, dear. It is a dead rat, isn’t it?” Nimbus shivered in disgust.

The boy pulled the bag open and drew out a folded shimmering robe unlike anything Amilia had ever seen. “It saved the life of my best friend—healed him overnight, it did. It’s…it’s magical, it is!”

“A religious relic?” Nimbus ventured.

Amilia smiled at the boy. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Mince, milady. I can’t say what my real name is, but Mince works well enough, it does.”

“Well, Mince, this is a generous gift. This looks very expensive. Don’t you think you should keep it? It’s certainly better than what you’re wearing.”

Mince shook his head. “I think it wants me to give it to the empress—to help her.”

“It wants?” she asked.

“It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Such things usually are,” the courtier said.

“So, can you give this to her?”

“Perhaps you should let him present it,” Nimbus suggested to Amilia.

“Are you serious?” she replied.

“You wanted to atone for the misdeeds of the guards, didn’t you? For the likes of him, meeting the empress will more than make up for a few bruises. Besides, he’s just a boy. No one will care.”

Amilia thought a moment, staring at the wide-eyed child. “What do you think, Mince? Would you like to give it to the empress yourself?”

The boy looked as if he might faint.

***

Modina had found a mouse in her chamber three months ago. When she lit the lamp, it froze in panic in the middle of the room. Picking it up, she felt its little chest heave as it panted for breath. The dark, tiny eyes looked back at her, clearly terrified. Modina thought it might die of fright. Even after she set it down, it still did not move. Only after the light had been out for several minutes did she hear it scurry away. The mouse had never returned—until now.

He was not that mouse, but the boy looked just the same. He lacked the fur, tail, and whiskers, but the eyes were unmistakable. He stood fearfully still, the only movement the result of his heaving chest and trembling body.

“Did you say his name was Mouse?”

“Mince, I think he said,” Amilia corrected. “It is, Mince, isn’t it?”

The boy said nothing, clutching the bag to his chest.

“I found him at the tournament. He wants to give you a gift. Go on, Mince.”

Instead of speaking, Mince abruptly thrust the bag out with both hands.

“He wanted to give this to you because Saldur announced that you were too sick to attend the tournament. He says it has healing powers.”

Modina took the bag, opened it, and drew forth the robe. Despite being stuffed in the old, dirty sack, the garment shimmered—not a single wrinkle or stain upon it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said sincerely as she held it up, watching it play with the light. “It reminds me of someone I once knew. I will cherish it.”

Hearing the words, tears formed in the boy’s eyes and streaked his dirty cheeks. Falling to his knees, he placed his face on the floor before her.

Puzzled, Modina glanced at Amilia, but the Imperial Secretary only offered a shrug. The empress stared at the boy for a moment and then said to Amilia, “He looks starved.”

“Do you want me to take him to the kitchen?”

“No, leave him here. Go have some food sent up.”

After Amilia left the room, Modina laid the robe on a chair and then sat on the edge of the bed, watching the boy. He had not moved and remained kneeling with his head still touching the floor. After a few minutes, he looked up but said nothing.

Modina spoke gently, “I’m very good at playing the silent game, too. We can sit here for days not saying a word if you want.”

The boy’s lips trembled. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then stopped.

“Go ahead. It’s okay.”

Once he started, the words came out in a flood, as if he felt the need to say everything with a single breath. “I just want ya to get better, that’s all. Honest. I brought ya the robe because it saved Kine, see. It healed him overnight, I tell ya. He was dying, and he woulda been dead by morning, for sure. But the robe made him better. Then today, when they said you was too sick to see the tournament, I knew I had to bring ya the robe to make ya better. Ya see?”

“I’m sorry, Mince, but I’m afraid a robe can’t heal what’s wrong with me.”

The boy frowned. “But…it healed Kine and his lips were blue.”

Modina walked over and sat down on the floor in front of him.

“I know you mean well, and it’s a wonderful gift, but some things can never be fixed.”

“But—”

“No buts. You need to stop worrying about me. Do you understand?”

“Why?”

“You just have to. Will you do that for me?”

The boy looked up and locked eyes with her. “I would do anything for you.”

The sincerity and conviction in his voice staggered her.

“I love you,” he added.

Those three words shook her and even though she was sitting on the floor, the empress put a hand down to steady herself.

“No,” she said. “You can’t. You just met—”

“Yes, I do.”

Modina shook her head. “No, you don’t!” she snapped. “No one does!”

The boy flinched as if struck. He looked back down at the floor and, nevertheless, added in a whisper, “But I do. Everyone does.”

The empress stared at him.

“What do you mean—everyone?”

“Everyone,” The boy said, puzzled. He gestured toward the window.

“You mean the people in the city?”

“Well, sure them, but not just here. Everywhere. Everyone loves you,” the boy repeated. “Folks been coming to the city from all over. I hear them talking. They all come to see ya. All of them saying how the world’s gonna be better ’cuz you’re here. How they would die for you.”

Stunned, Modina stood up slowly.

She turned and walked to the window, where she gazed into the distance—above the roofs to the hills and snow-covered mountains beyond.

“Did I say something wrong?” Mince asked.

She turned back. “No. Not at all. It’s just that…” Modina paused. She moved to the mirror and ran her fingertips along the glass. “There are still ten days to Wintertide, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, because you gave me a gift, I’d like to give you something in return, and it looks like I still have time.”

She crossed to the door and opened it. Gerald stood waiting outside as always. “Gerald,” she said, “could you please do me a favor?”

Chapter 15
The Hunt

“Merry Eve’s Eve, Sir Hadrian,” a girl said brightly when he poked his head outside his room. She was just one of the giggling chambermaids who had been extending smiles and curtsies to him since the day of the first joust. After his second tilt, pages bowed and guards nodded in his direction. His third win, although as clean as the others, had been the worst, as it brought the attention of every knight and noble in the palace. After each joust, he had his choice of sitting in his dormitory or going to the Great Hall. Preferring to be alone, Hadrian usually chose his room.

That morning, like most days, Hadrian found himself wandering the palace hallways. He had seen Albert from a distance on a few occasions, but neither attempted to speak with the other, and there had been no sign of Royce. Crossing through the Grand Foyer, he paused. The staircase spiraled upward, adorned in fanciful candles and painted wood ornaments. Somewhere four flights up, the girl he had known as Thrace was probably still asleep in her bed. He put his foot on the first step.

“Sir Hadrian?” a man he did not recognize asked. “Great joust yesterday. You really gave Louden a hit he’ll not soon forget. I heard the crack even in the high stands. They say Louden will need a new breastplate, and you gave him two broken ribs to boot! What a hit. What a hit, I say. You know, I lost a bundle betting against you the first three jousts, but since then I’ve won everything back. I’m sticking with you for the final. You’ve made a believer out of me. Say, where you headed?”

Hadrian quickly drew back his foot. “Nowhere. Just stretching my legs a bit.”

“Well, just wanted to tell you to keep up the good work and let you know I’ll be rooting for you.”

The man exited the palace through the Grand Entrance, leaving Hadrian at the bottom of the stairs.

What am I going to do, walk into her chambers unannounced? It’s been over a year since I spoke with her. Will she hate me for not trying to see her earlier? Will she remember me at all?

He looked up the staircase once more.

It’s possible she’s all right, isn’t it? Just because no one ever sees her doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it?

Modina was the empress. They could not be treating her too badly. When she lived in Dahlgren she had been happy, and that had been a squalid, little village where people were killed nightly by a giant monster.

How much worse can living in a palace be?

He took one last look around and spotted the two shadows leaning casually near the archway to the throne room. With a sigh, Hadrian turned toward the service wing, leaving the stairway behind.

The sun was not fully up, but the kitchen was already bustling. Huge pots billowed clouds of steam so thick that the walls cried tears. Butchers hammered on cutting blocks, shouting orders. Boys ran with buckets, shouting back. Girls scrubbed cutlery, pans, and bowls. The smells were strong and varied. Some were wonderful, such as baked bread, but others were sulfurous and vile. Unlike the rest of the palace, no holiday decoration adorned the walls or tables. Here, behind the scenes, the signs of Wintertide were reduced to cooling trays of candied apples and snowflake-shaped cookies.

Hadrian stepped into the scullery, fascinated by the activity. As soon as he entered, heads turned, work slowed, and then everything came to a stop. The room grew so quiet that the only sounds were the bubbling pots, the crackling fires, and water dripping from a wet ladle. All the staff stared at him as if he had two heads or three arms.

Hadrian took a seat on one of the stools surrounding an open table. The modest area appeared to be the place where the kitchen staff ate their own meals. He tried to look casual and relaxed, but it was impossible with all the attention.

“What’s all this now?” boomed a voice belonging to a large, beefy cook with a thick beard and eyes wreathed in cheerful wrinkles. Spotting Hadrian, those eyes narrowed abruptly. He revealed—if only for a moment—that he had another side, the same way a playful dog might suddenly growl at an intruder.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked, approaching Hadrian with a meat cleaver in one hand.

“I don’t mean any harm. I was just hoping to find some food.”

The cook looked him over closely. “Are you a knight, sir?”

Hadrian nodded.

“Up early, I see. I’ll have whatever you want brought to the Great Hall.”

“Actually, I’d rather eat here. Is that okay?”

“I’m sorry?” the cook said, confused. “If you don’t mind me asking, why would a fine nobleman like yourself want to eat in a hot, dirty kitchen surrounded by the clang of pots and the gibbering of maids?”

“I just feel more comfortable here,” Hadrian said. “I think a man ought to be at ease when eating. Of course, if it’s a problem…” He stood.

“You’re, Sir Hadrian, aren’t you? I haven’t found the time to see the jousts, but as you can see, most of my staff has. You’re quite the celebrity. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about you and your recent change in fortune. Are any of them true?”

“Well, I can’t say about the stories, but my name is Hadrian.”

“Nice to meet you. Name’s Ibis Thinly. Have a seat, sir. I’ll fix you right up.”

He hurried away, scolding his crew to return to work. Many continued to glance over at Hadrian, stealing looks when they felt the head cook could not see. In a short while, Ibis returned with a plate of chicken, fried eggs, biscuits, and a mug of dark beer. The chicken was so hot that it hurt Hadrian’s fingers, and the biscuits steamed when he pulled them open.

“I appreciate this,” Hadrian told Ibis, taking a bite of biscuit.

Ibis gave him a surprised look and then chuckled. “By Mar! Thanking a cook for food! Them stories are true, aren’t they?”

Hadrian shrugged. “I guess I have a hard time remembering that I’m noble. When I was a commoner, I always knew what noble meant but now, not so much.”

The cook smiled. “Lady Amilia has the same problem. I gotta say it’s nice to see decent folk getting ahead in this world. The news is you’ve ruled the field at Highcourt. Beat every knight who rode against you. I even heard you opened the tournament by tilting against Sir Murthas without a helm!”

Hadrian nodded with a mouth full of chicken, which he shifted from side to side, trying to avoid a burnt tongue.

“When a man does that,” Ibis went on, “and comes from the salt like the rest of us, he wins favor among the lower classes. Yes, indeed. Those of us with dirty faces and sweaty backs get quite a thrill from one such as you, sir.”

Hadrian did not know how to respond and contented himself with swallowing his chicken. He had ridden to the sound of roaring crowds every time he competed, but Hadrian was not there for applause. His task was dark, secret, and not worthy of praise. He had unsaddled five knights and, by the rules of the contest, owned their mounts. Hadrian declined that privilege. He had no need for the horses, but it was more than just that—he did not deserve them. All he wanted was the lives of Arista and Gaunt. In his mind, the whole affair was tainted. Taking anything else from his victories—even the pleasure of success—would be wrong. Nevertheless, the crowds cheered each time he refused his right to a mount, believing him humble and chivalrous instead of what he was—a murderer in waiting.

“It’s just you and Breckton now, isn’t it?” Ibis asked.

Hadrian nodded gloomily. “We tilt tomorrow. There’s some sort of hunt today.”

“Oh yes, the hawking. I’ll be roasting plenty of game birds for tonight’s feast. Say, aren’t you going?”

“Just here for the joust,” Hadrian managed to say even though his mouth was full again.

Ibis bent his head to get a better look. “For a new knight on the verge of winning the Wintertide Highcourt Tournament, you don’t seem very happy. It’s not the food, I hope.”

Hadrian shook his head. “Food’s great. Kinda hoping you’ll let me eat my midday meal here, too.”

“You’re welcome any time. Ha! Listen to me sounding like an innkeeper or castle lord. I’m just a cook.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Sure, these mongrels quiver at my voice, but you’re a knight. You can go wherever you please. Still…if my food has placed you in a charitable mood, I would ask one favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Lady Amilia holds a special place in my heart. She’s like a daughter to me. A sweet, sweet lass, and it seems she’s recently taken a liking to Sir Breckton. He’s good, mind you, a fine lancer, but from what I’ve heard you’re likely to beat him. Now, I’m not saying anything against you, someone of my station would be a fool to even insinuate such a thing, but…”

“But?”

“Well, some knights try to inflict as much damage as they can, taking aim at a visor and such. If something were to happen to Breckton…Well, I just don’t want Amilia to get hurt. She’s never had much, you see. Comes from a poor family and has worked hard all her life. Even now that bas—I mean Regent Saldur—keeps her slaving night and day. But even so, she’s been happy lately, and I’d like to see that continue.”

Hadrian kept his eyes on his plate, concentrating on mopping up yolk with a crust of bread.

“So anyway, if at all possible, it’d be real nice if you went a bit easy on Breckton. So he doesn’t get hurt, I mean. I know a’course that you can’t always help it. Dear Maribor, I know that. But I can tell by talking with you that you’re a decent fellow. Ha! I don’t even know why I brought it up. You’ll do the right thing. I can tell. Here, let me get you some more beer.”

Ibis Thinly walked away, taking Hadrian’s mug and appetite with him.

***

In many ways Amilia felt like a child that Saldur had brought into the world that day in the kitchen when he elevated her to the rank of Lady. Now she was little more than a toddler, still trying to master simple tasks and often making mistakes. No one said anything. No one pointed and laughed, but there were knowing looks and partially hidden smiles. She felt out of her element when trying to navigate the numerous traps and hazards of courtly life without a map.

When addressed as “My Lady” by a finely dressed noble, Amilia felt uncomfortable. Seeing a guard snap to attention at her passing was strange. Especially since those same soldiers had grinned lewdly at her little more than a year ago. Amilia was certain the guards still leered and the nobles still laughed, but now they did so behind polite eyes. She believed the only means of banishing the silent snickers was to fit in. If Amilia did not stumble as she walked, spill a glass of wine, speak too loudly, wear the wrong color, laugh when she should remain quiet, or remain quiet when she should laugh, then they might forget she used to scrub their dishes. Any time Amilia interacted with the nobility was an ordeal, but when she did so in an unfamiliar setting, she became ill. For this reason, Amilia avoided eating anything the morning of the hawking.

The whole court embarked on the daylong event. Knights, nobles, ladies, and servants all rode out together to the forest and field for the great hunt. Dogs trotted in their wake. Amilia had never sat on a horse before. She had never ridden a pony, mule, or even an ox, but that day she found herself precariously balanced atop a massive white charger. She wore the beautiful white gown and matching cape Lady Genevieve had provided her, which by no accident, perfectly matched her horse’s coat. Her right leg was hooked between two horns of the saddle and her left foot rested on a planchette. Sitting this way made staying on the animal’s back a demanding enterprise. Each jerk and turn set her heart pounding and her hands grasping for the charger’s braided mane. On several occasions, she nearly toppled backward. If she were to fall, Amilia imagined she would wind up hanging by her trapped leg, skirt over her head, while the horse pranced proudly about. The thought terrified her so much that she barely breathed and sat rigid with her eyes fixed on the ground below. For the two-hour ride into the wilderness, Amilia did not speak a word. She only dared to look up when the huntsman called for the party’s attention.

They emerged from the shade of a forest into the light of a field. Tall, brown rushes jutted from beneath the snow’s cover. The flicker of morning sunlight reflected off moving water where a river cut the landscape. Lacking any wind, the world was oddly quiet. The huntsman directed them to line up by spreading out along the edge of the forest and facing the marsh.

Amilia was pleased to arrive at what she hoped was their destination and proud of how she managed to direct her horse without delay or mishap. Finally at a standstill, she allowed herself a breath of relief only to see the falconer approaching.

“What bird will you be using today, milady?” he asked, looking up at her from within his red coif. His hands were encased in thick gloves.

She swallowed. “Ah…what would you suggest?”

The falconer appeared surprised, and Amilia felt as if she had done something wrong.

“Well, My Lady, there are many birds but no set regulation. Tradition usually reserves the gyrfalcon for a king, a falcon for a prince or duke, the peregrine for an earl, a bastard hawk for a baron, a saker for a knight, a goshawk for a noble, tercel for a poor man, sparrow hawk for a priest, kestrel for a servant, and a merlin for a lady, but in practice it is more a matter of—”

“She will be using Murderess,” the Duchess of Rochelle announced, trotting up beside them.

“Of course, Your Ladyship.” The falconer bowed his head and made a quick motion with his hand. A servant raced up with a huge, hooded bird held on his fist. “Your gauntlet, milady,” the falconer said, holding out a rough elk-hide glove.

“You’ll want to put that on your left hand, darling,” the duchess said with a reassuring smile and mischievous glint in her eyes.

Amilia felt her heart flutter as she took the glove and pulled it on.

“Hold your hand up, dear. Out away from your face,” Lady Genevieve instructed.

The falconer took the raptor from the servant and carried it over. The hawk was magnificent and blinded by a leather hood with a short decorative plume. While being transferred to Amilia, Murderess spread her massive wings and flapped twice as her powerful talons took hold of the glove. The hawk was lighter than expected and Amilia had no trouble holding her up. Still, Amilia’s fear of falling was replaced by her fear of the bird. She watched in terror as the falconer wrapped the jess around her wrist, tethering her to the hawk.

“Beautiful bird,” Amilia heard a voice say.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. Looking over to see Sir Breckton taking station on her left, Amilia thought she might faint.

“It’s the Duchess of Rochelle’s. She—” Amilia turned. The duchess had moved off, abandoning her. Panic made her stomach lurch. As friendly as Lady Genevieve was, Amilia was starting to suspect the woman enjoyed tormenting her.

Amilia tried to calm herself as she sat face-to-face with the one man in the entire world she wanted to impress. With one hand holding the bird and the other locked on to the horse’s reins, she realized the cold was causing her nose to run. She could not imagine the day getting any worse. Then, as if the gods had heard her thoughts, they answered using the huntsman’s voice.

“Everyone! Ride forward!”

Oh dear Maribor!

Her horse tripped on the rough, frost-heaved ground, throwing her off balance. The sudden jolt also startled Murderess, who threw out her great wings to save herself by flying. Tethered to Amilia’s wrist, the hawk pulled on her arm. She might have stayed in the saddle—if not for the bird’s insistence on dragging her backward.

Amilia cried out as she fell over the rump of the horse, her nightmare becoming reality. Yet, before she cleared the saddle, she stopped. Sir Breckton had caught her around the waist. Though he wore no armor, his arm felt like a band of steel—solid and unmovable. Gently, he drew her upright. The bird flapped twice more then settled down and gripped Amilia’s glove again.

Breckton did not say a word. He held Amilia steady until she reseated herself on the saddle and placed her foot on the planchette. Horrified and flushed with humiliation, she refused to look at him.

Why did that have to happen in front of him!

She did not want to see his face and find the same condescending smirk she had seen on so many others. On the verge of tears, she wanted desperately to be back at the palace, back in the kitchen, back cleaning pots. At that moment she preferred the thought of facing Edith Mon—or even her vengeful ghost—to enduring the humiliation of facing Sir Breckton. Feeling tears gathering, she clenched her jaw and breathed deeply in an effort to hold them back.

“Does it have a name?”

Sir Breckton’s words were so unexpected that Amilia replayed them twice before understanding the question.

“Murderess,” she replied, thanking Maribor that her voice did not crack.

“That seems…appropriate.” There was a pause before he continued. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She tasked her brain to think of something to add, but it came back with nothing.

Why is he talking like that? Why is he asking about the weather?

The knight sighed heavily.

Looking up at him, she found he was not smirking but appeared pained. His eyes accidentally met hers while she studied his face and he instantly looked away. His fingers drummed a marching cadence on his saddle horn.

“Cold though,” he said and quickly added, “could be warmer, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” she said again, realizing she must sound like an idiot with all her one-word answers. She wanted to say more. She wanted to be witty and clever, but her brain was as frozen as the ground.

Amilia caught him glancing at her again. This time he shook his head and sighed once more.

“What?” she asked fearfully.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said.

The genuine admiration in his eyes only baffled her further.

“You ride a warhorse sidesaddle over rough ground with a huge hawk perched on your arm and are still managing to make me feel like a squire in a fencing match. My Lady, you are a marvel beyond reckoning. I am in awe.”

Amilia stared at him until she realized she was staring at him. In her mind, she ordered her eyes to look away, but they refused. She had no words to reply, which hardly mattered as Amilia had no air in her body with which to speak. Breathing seemed unimportant at that moment. Forcing herself to take a breath, Amilia discovered she was smiling. A second later, she knew Sir Breckton noticed as well as he abruptly stopped drumming and sat straighter.

“Milady,” said the falconer’s servant, “it’s time to release your bird.”

Amilia looked at the raptor, wondering just how she was going to do that.

“May I help?” Sir Breckton asked. Reaching over, he removed Murderess’s hood and unwound her tether.

With a motion of his own arm, the servant indicated that she should thrust her hand up. Amilia did so, and Murderess spread her great wings, pushed down, and took to the sky. The raptor climbed higher and higher yet remained circling directly overhead. As she watched the goshawk, Amilia noticed Breckton looking at her.

“Don’t you have a bird?” she asked.

“No. I did not expect to be hawking. Truth be told, I haven’t hunted in years. I’d forgotten the joy of it—until now.”

“So you know how?”

“Oh yes. Of course. I used to hunt the fields of Chadwick as a lad. My father, my brother Wesley, and I would spend whole weeks chasing fowl from their nests and rodents from their burrows.”

“Would you think ill of me if I told you this was my first time?”

Breckton’s face turned serious, which frightened her until he said, “My Lady, be assured that should I live so long as to see the day that the sun does not rise, the rivers do not flow, and the winds do not blow, I would never think ill of you.”

She tried to hide another smile. Once more she failed, and once more, Sir Breckton noticed.

“Perhaps you can help me as I am befuddled by all of this,” Amilia said, gesturing at their surroundings.

“It is a simple thing. The birds are waiting-on, that is to say, hovering overhead until the attack. Much the way soldiers stand in line preparing for battle. The enemies are a crafty bunch. They lay hiding before us in the field between the river and ourselves. With the line made by the horses, the huntsman has ensured that the prey will not come this way, which, of course, they would try to do—to reach the safety of the trees—were we not here.”

“But how will we find these hidden enemies?”

“They need to be drawn out, or in this case flushed out. See there? The huntsman has gathered the dogs.”

Amilia looked ahead as a crowd of eager dogs moved forward led by a dozen boys from the palace. After they were turned loose, the hounds disappeared into the undergrowth. Only their raised tails appeared, here and there, above the bent rushes as they dashed into the snowy field without a bark or yelp.

With a blue flag, the huntsman signaled to the falconer, who in turn waved to the riders. He indicated they should move slowly toward the river. With her bird gone, Amilia found it easier to control her horse and advanced along with the rest. Everyone was silent as they crept forward. Amilia felt excited, although she had no idea what was about to happen.

The falconer raised a hand and the riders stopped their horses. Looking up, Amilia saw the birds had matched their movement across the field. The falconer waved a red flag and the huntsman blew a whistle, which sent the dogs bursting forth. Immediately, the field exploded with birds. Loud thumping sounds erupted as quail broke from cover, racing skyward. In their efforts to evade the monstrous dogs, they never saw the death awaiting them in the sky. Hawks swooped down out of the sun, slamming into their targets and bearing them to the ground. One bore its prey all the way to the river, where both hawk and quail hit the water.

“That was Murderess!” Amilia shouted, horrified. Her mind filled with the realization that she had killed Lady Genevieve’s prized bird. Without thinking, she kicked her horse, which leapt forward. She galloped across the field and as she neared the river, spotted a dog swimming out into the icy water. Another quickly followed in its wake. Two birds flapped desperately on the surface, kicking up a white spray.

Just before Amilia charged headlong into the river, Breckton caught her horse by the bit and pulled them both to a halt.

“Wait!”

“But the bird!” was all Amilia could say. Her eyes locked on the splashing.

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “Watch.”

The first dog reached Murderess and, without hesitation, took the hawk in its jaws. Holding the raptor up, the hound circled and swam back. At the same time, the second dog raced out to collect the downed prey. The quail struggled, but Amilia was amazed that the hawk did not fight when the dog set its teeth.

“You see,” Breckton said, “dogs and birds are trained to trust and protect one another. Just like soldiers.”

The hound climbed out of the water still holding the hawk. Both Amilia and Breckton dismounted as the dog brought the bird to them. Gently, the animal opened his jaws and Murderess hopped onto Amilia’s fist once more. She stretched out her wings and snapped them, spraying water.

“She’s all right!” she said amazed.

A boy ran up to her, holding out a dead bird by a string tied around its feet. “Your quail, milady.”

***

When Hadrian returned later that day, Ibis Thinly was waiting with more than just a plate. The entire table was laden with a variety of meats, cheeses, and breads. The scullery had been cleaned such that extra sacks were removed, shelves dusted, and the floor mopped. The table was set with fresh candles, and a larger, cushioned chair replaced the little stool. He guessed not all of this was strictly Ibis’s doing. Apparently, word of his visit had spread. Twice as many servants populated the kitchen as had that morning—most standing idle.

Ibis did not speak to Hadrian this time. The cook was feverishly busy dealing with the flood of game brought in by nobles returning from the hunt. Already maids were plucking away at quail, pheasant, and duck from a long line of beheaded birds that was strung around the room like a garland. With so much to process, even Ibis himself skinned rabbits and squirrels. Despite his obvious urgency, the cook immediately stopped working when Amilia arrived.

“Ibis! Look! I got two!” she shouted, holding the birds above her head. She entered the kitchen dressed in a lovely white gown and matching fur cape.

“Bring them here, lass. Let me see these treasures.”

Hadrian had seen Lady Amilia from a distance at each of the feasts, but this was the first time he saw her up close since posing as a courier. She was prettier than he remembered. Her clothes were certainly better. Whether it was the spring in her step or the flush in her cheeks brought on by the cold, she appeared more alive.

“These are clearly the pick of the lot,” Ibis said after inspecting her trophies.

“They’re scrawny and small, but they’re mine!” She followed the declaration with a carefree, happy laugh.

“Can I infer from your mood that you did not hunt alone?”

Amilia said nothing and merely smiled. Clasping her hands behind her back, she sashayed about the kitchen, swinging her skirt.

“Come now, girl. Don’t toy with me.”

She laughed again, spun around, and announced, “He was at my side almost the whole day. A perfect gentleman, I might add and I think…” She hesitated.

“Think what? Out with it, lass.”

“I think he may fancy me.”

“Bah! Of course he fancies you. But what did the man say? Did he speak plainly? Did he spout verse? Did he kiss you right there on the field?”

“Kiss me? He’s far too proper for such vulgarity, but he was very nervous…silly even. And he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off me!”

“Silly? Sir Breckton? Ah, lass, you’ve got him hooked. You have. A fine catch I must say, a fine catch indeed.”

Amilia could not contain herself and laughed again this time throwing back her head in elation and twirling her gown. Doing so, she caught sight of Hadrian and halted.

“Sorry, I’m just having a late lunch,” he said. “I’ll be gone in a minute.”

“Oh, no. You don’t have to leave. It’s just that I didn’t see you. Other than the staff, I’m the only one who ever comes down here—or so I thought.”

“It’s more comfortable than the hall,” Hadrian said. “I spend my days tilting with the knights. I don’t feel like competing with them at meals, too.”

She walked over, looking puzzled. “You don’t talk like a knight.”

“That’s Sir Hadrian,” Ibis informed Amilia.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You helped Sir Breckton and my poor Nimbus when they were attacked. That was very kind. You’re also the one who rode in the tournament without a helm. You’ve—you’ve unseated every opponent on the first pass and haven’t had a single lance broken on your shield. You’re…very good, aren’t you?”

“And he’s riding against Sir Breckton tomorrow for the championship,” Ibis reminded her.

“That’s right!” She gasped, raising a hand to her lips. “Have you ever been unseated?”

Hadrian shrugged self-consciously. “Not since I’ve been a knight.”

“Oh, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—I just wondered if it hurt terribly. I guess it can’t feel good. Even with all that armor and padding, being driven from a galloping horse by a pole must not be pleasant.” Her eyes grew troubled. “But all the other knights are fine, aren’t they? I saw Sir Murthas and Sir Elgar on the hawking just today. They were trotting and laughing, so I’m certain everything will be all right no matter who wins.

“I know tomorrow is the final tilt and winning the tournament is a great honor. I understand the desire to prove yourself to those who look down on you. But I ask you to consider that Sir Breckton is a good man—a very good man. He would never hurt you if he could help it. I hope you feel the same.” She struggled to smile at Hadrian.

He put down the bread he was eating as a sickening sensation churned his stomach. Hadrian had to stop eating in the kitchen.

***

The acrobats rapidly assembled their human pyramid. Vaulting one at a time into the air, they somersaulted before landing feetfirst on the shoulders of the one below. One after another they flew, continuing to build the formation until the final man reached up and touched the ceiling of the Great Hall. Despite the danger involved in the exciting performance, Amilia was not watching. She had seen the act before at the audition and rehearsals. Her eyes were on the audience. As Wintertide neared, the entertainment at each feast became grander and more extravagant.

Amilia held her breath until the hall erupted in applause.

They liked it!

Looking for Viscount Winslow, she spotted him clapping, his hands above his head. The two exchanged wide grins.

“I thought I would die from stress toward the end,” Nimbus whispered from the seat next to Amilia. The bruises on the tutor’s face were mostly gone and the annoying whistling sound had finally left his nose.

“Yes, that was indeed excellent,” said King Roswort of Dunmore.

At each feast, Nimbus always sat to Amilia’s left and the queen and king sat to her right.

King Roswort was huge. He made the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle appear petite. His squat, portly build was mimicked—in miniature—in his face, which sagged under its own weight. Amilia imagined that even if he were thin, King Roswort would still sag like an old riding horse. His wife Freda, while no reed herself, was thin by comparison. She was dry and brittle both in looks and manner. The couple was thankfully quiet most of the time, at least until their third glass of wine. Amilia lost count that evening but assumed number three had arrived and perhaps already gone.

“Are the acrobats friends of yours?” the king asked, leaning around his wife to speak to Amilia.

“Mine? No, I merely hired them,” she said.

“Friends of friends, then?”

She shook her head.

“But you know them?” the king pressed further.

“I met them for the first time at the auditions.”

“Rossie,” Freda said. “She’s clearly trying to distance herself from them now that the doors of nobility are open to her. You can’t blame her for that. Anyone would abandon the wretches. Leave them in the street. That’s where they belong.”

“But I—” Amilia began before the king cut her off.

“But, my queen, many are rising in rank. Some street merchants are as wealthy as nobles now.”

“Terrible state of affairs,” Freda snarled through thin, red-painted lips. “A title isn’t what it used to be.”

“I agree, my queen. Why, some knights have no lineage at all to speak of. They are no better than peasants with swords. All anyone needs these days is money to buy armor and a horse, and there you have it—presto—a noble. Commoners are even learning to read. Can you read, Lady Amilia?”

“Actually, I can.”

“See!” The king threw his hands up. “Of course, you are in the nobility now, but I assume you learned letters before that? It’s a travesty. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

“At least the situation with the elves has improved,” his wife put in. “You have to give Ethelred credit for reducing their numbers. Our efforts to deal with them in Dunmore have met with little success.”

“Deal with them?” Amilia asked, but the monarchs continued under their own momentum.

“If they had any intelligence, they would leave on their own. How much plainer can it be that they are not welcome,” the king said. “The guilds prohibit them from membership in any business, they can’t obtain citizenship in any city, and the church declared them unclean enemies of Novron ages ago. Even the peasants are free to take measures against them. Still, they don’t take the hint. They keep breeding and filling up slums. Hundreds die each year in church-sanctioned Cleansing Days, but they persist. Why not move on? Why not go elsewhere?”

As the king ran out of breath, the queen took over. “They are like rats, festering in every crack. Living among their kind is a curse. It’s what brought down the first empire, you know. Even keeping them as slaves was a mistake. And mark my words, if we don’t get rid of them all, so that not a single elf walks a civilized street or country lane, this Empire will fall to the same ruin.”

“True, true, the old emperors were too soft. They thought that they could fix them—”

“Fix them!” Freda erupted. “What a ridiculous notion. You can’t fix a plague. You can only run from it or wipe it out.”

“I know, darling, I agree with you wholeheartedly. We have a second chance now, and Ethelred is off to a good start.”

Realizing that the king and queen ran through a conversation as familiar and comfortable to them as a pair of well-worn shoes, Amilia nodded politely without really listening. She had seen elves only once in her life. When she was still living in Tarin Vale, three of them came to the village—a family—if they had such notions of kinship. Apparently content to dress in rags, they were dirty and carried small, stained bundles, which Amilia guessed were all they had. They were so thin they looked sick and walked with their heads bowed and shoulders slumped.

Children had called the elves names and villagers threw stones and shouted for them to leave. A rock struck the female’s head and she cried out. Amilia did not throw any rocks, but she watched as the family was bruised and bloodied before they fled from town. At the time, she did not understand how they could be a threat. The monk who had been teaching her letters explained elves were responsible for the downfall of the Empire. They had seemed helpless, and Amilia could not help feeling sorry for them.

Roswort concluded his tirade by accusing the elves of being responsible for the drought two years before, and Amilia caught Nimbus rolling his eyes.

“You don’t share their opinions?” she whispered.

“It’s not my place to counter the words of a king, milady,” the courtier responded politely.

“True, but I sometimes wonder just what goes on under that wig of yours. Something tells me there’s more than just courtly etiquette rattling around.”

Off to Amilia’s right, Roswort and Freda had moved on. “…dwarves aren’t much better, but at least they have skills,” the king was saying. “Fine stonemasons and jewelers, I’ll give them that, but niggardly as an autumn squirrel facing an early snow, the entire lot of them. They can’t be trusted. Any one of them would slit your throat to steal two copper tenents. They stick to their own kind and whisper their outlawed language. Living with dwarves is like trying to domesticate a wild animal, can’t ever truly be done.”

The conversation died down as another performance started. This time a pair of conjurers pulled apples and oddments from their sleeves then juggled the items. When the act was over, and all the knives and goblets safely caught, Nimbus asked, “Doesn’t the empress hail from your kingdom, Your Majesty?”

“Oh, yes.” Roswort perked up and nearly spilled his drink. “Lived right there in Dahlgren. What a terrible mess that was. Afterward, the deacon ran about babbling his tall tales—and no one believed him. I certainly didn’t. Who would have thought that the Heir of Novron would come from that tiny dust speck?”

“How is it that we never see her?” the queen asked Amilia. “She will be at the wedding, won’t she?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. The empress is saving her strength for just that. She’s still quite weak.”

“I see,” the queen replied coolly. “Surely, she is well enough by now to admit guests. Several of the ladies feel it has been most unseemly the way she has been ignoring us. I would very much like a personal audience with her before the ceremony.”

“I am afraid that’s really not up to me. I only follow her directions.”

“How can you follow her directions on something I have just now suggested? Are you a mind reader?”

“Who would have expected Sir Hadrian to be in the finals of the tournament?” Nimbus said loudly. “I certainly didn’t think a novice would be challenging for the title tomorrow. And against Sir Breckton! You must admit Lady Amilia certainly backed the right arm-and-shield there. Who are you favoring, Your Majesty?”

Roswort pursed his lips. “I find both of them disagreeable. The whole tournament has been too tame for my taste. I prefer the theatrics of Elgar and Gilbert. They know how to play to a crowd. This year’s finalists are as solemn as monks, and neither has done anything other than unseat their opponents. That’s bad form, if you ask me. Knights are trained for war. They should instinctually seek to kill rather than merely bust a pole on a reinforced plate. I think they should be required to use war tips. Do that, and you’ll see something worth watching!”

When the last performance finished, the Lord Chamberlain rapped his brass-tipped staff on the flagstones and Ethelred stood. Conversations trailed off as the banquet hall fell silent.

“My friends,” Lanis Ethelred began in his most powerful voice, “I address you as such to assure you, that even though you will soon be my loyal subjects, I will always think of you, first and foremost, as my friends. We have weathered a long hard struggle together. Centuries of darkness, hardship, barbarianism, and threats from Nationalists have plagued us. But in just two days’ time, the sun will dawn on a new age. This Wintertide we celebrate the rebirth of civilization—the start of a new era. As our Lord Maribor has seen fit to bestow upon me the crown of supreme power, I will pledge to be faithful to his design and lead mankind armed with the firm hand of righteousness. I will return to traditional values in order to make the New Empire a beacon to light the world and blind our enemies.”

The hall applauded.

“I hope you all enjoyed your game birds, courtesy of the hawking. Tomorrow the finalists of the joust will tilt for the honor of Best Knight. I hope you will all enjoy the contest between two such capable men. Sir Breckton, Sir Hadrian—where are you—please stand, both of you.” The two knights hesitantly rose to their feet, and the audience applauded. “A toast to the elite of the New Empire!”

Ethelred, along with everyone in the hall, drank in their honor. The regent sat back down, and Amilia motioned to the musicians to take their places.

As on the previous nights, couples took to the open floor to dance. Amilia spotted Sir Breckton striding her way, dressed in a silver tunic. When he reached the head table, he bowed before her.

“Excuse me, My Lady. Might I enjoy the pleasure of your company for the dance?”

Amilia’s heart beat quickly at his invitation, and she could not think clearly. Before remembering that she could not dance, she stood, walked around the table, and offered her hand.

Taking it, the knight gently led her to where pairs of dancers were forming lines. Accompanying him in such an intimate setting felt like a dream. When the first notes of music hit the air, that dream turned to a nightmare. Amilia had no idea what to do. She had watched the dances the last several evenings but not in order to learn their steps. All she could recall was that the dance started in rows, ended in rows, and at some point in the middle, the dancers touched hands and traded places several times in rapid succession. All other details were a mystery. For a moment, Amilia considered returning to the security of her chair, but to do so now would embarrass her and humiliate Breckton. Lightheaded, she hovered on the verge of fainting but managed a curtsy in response to Breckton’s bow.

Nothing could save her from the pending disaster. A scene played in her mind, where she staggered, tripped, and fell. The other nobles would laugh and sneer while tears ran down her cheeks. She imagined them saying, “What possessed you to think you could be one of us?” Not even Breckton’s calm gaze was able to reassure Amilia.

She shifted her weight from left to right, knowing some action would be required in a half-bar of music. If only she knew which foot to use, she might manage the first step.

Suddenly the music stopped and the entire assemblage halted.

A hush fell as conversations died, replaced by scattered gasps. Everyone stood and all eyes were transfixed as into the Great Hall strode Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Eminence, Empress Modina Novronian.

Two fifth-floor guards flanked her as they crossed the hall. The empress was dressed in the formal gown she had worn for the speech on the balcony, the luxurious mantle trailing behind her. Modina’s hair was pulled under a mesh caul upon which rested the imperial crown. She walked with stunning grace and dignity—chin high, shoulders squared, back straight. As she passed through the silent crowd, she appeared ethereal, like a mythical creature slipping through trees in a forest.

Amilia blinked several times, unsure what she was actually seeing. Transfixed as the others, she could not move. The effect of Modina’s appearance was astounding and reflected on every face present. No one moved and few appeared to breathe.

Reaching the front of the room, Modina walked down the length of the main table over to the imperial throne left vacant each of the previous nights. The empress paused briefly in front of her seat, raised a delicate hand, and simply said, “Continue.”

There was a long pause, and then the musicians began to play once more. Saldur and Ethelred both glared at Amilia who promptly excused herself from the dance. Leaving the floor was quite understandable now, though she was sure it no longer mattered. Amilia doubted anyone, except perhaps Sir Breckton, noticed or cared.

She returned to the main table and stood behind Modina.

“Your Eminence, are you certain you are strong enough to be here? Wouldn’t you like me to escort you back to your room?” she asked softly.

Modina did not look at Amilia. The empress’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the revelry. “Thank you, my dear. You are so kind to inquire, but I am fine.” Amilia exchanged glances with Ethelred and Saldur, both of whom looked tense and helpless.

“I think you should not be risking yourself so,” Saldur told Modina. “You need to save your strength for your wedding.”

“I am certain you are quite correct, Your Grace—as you always are—and I will not stay long. Still, my people deserve to see their empress. Maribor forbid that they come to suspect I don’t exist at all. I am certain many couldn’t distinguish me from a milkmaid. It would be a sad thing indeed if I arrived at my wedding and no one could tell the bride from the bridesmaids.”

Saldur’s look of bewilderment was replaced with a glare of anger.

Amilia remained behind the empress’s chair unsure what to do next. Modina tapped her fingers and nodded her head in rhythm with the music while watching the dance. By contrast, Saldur and Ethelred were rigid as statues.

At the end of the song, Modina applauded and got to her feet. The moment she rose, everyone stopped once more, fixing their eyes on her.

“Sir Breckton and Sir Hadrian, please approach,” the empress commanded.

Saldur shot another concerned glance at Amilia, who could do nothing but clutch the back of Modina’s chair.

The two knights came forward and stood side by side before the empress. Hadrian followed Breckton’s lead, bending to one knee and bowing his head.

“Tomorrow you will compete for the glory of the Empire, and Maribor will decide your fate. You are clearly both beloved by this court, but I see Sir Breckton wears the token of my secretary, Lady Amilia. This grants him an unfair advantage, but I will not ask him to refuse such a gift. Nor would I ask Lady Amilia to seek its return, as a favor once given is a sacred endorsement of faith. Instead, I will mirror her gesture by granting Sir Hadrian my token. I proclaim my faith in his skill, character, and sacred honor. I know his heart is righteous and his intentions virtuous.” Modina drew out a piece of pure white cloth that Amilia recognized as part of her nightgown, and held it out.

Hadrian took the cloth.

Modina continued, “May you both find honor in the eyes of Maribor and compete as true and heroic knights.”

The empress clapped her hands and the hall followed her lead, erupting in cheers and shouts. In the midst of the thunder, Modina turned to Amilia and said, “You may escort me back to my room now.”

The two walked down the length of the table. As they passed the Queen of Dunmore, Freda looked stricken. “Lady Amilia, what I said earlier I—I didn’t mean anything by that, I just—”

“I’m sure you meant no disrespect. Please sit, Your Majesty. You look pale,” Amilia said to the queen and led Modina out of the room. Saldur watched them go, and Amilia was thankful he did not follow. She knew there would be an interrogation, but she had no idea how to explain Modina’s behavior. The empress had never done anything like this before.

Neither woman said anything as they walked arm in arm to the fifth floor. The door to Modina’s bedchamber stood unguarded. “Where is Gerald?” Amilia asked.

“Who?” the empress replied with a blank look.

Amilia scowled. “You know very well who. Gerald. Why isn’t he guarding your door? Did you send him on an errand to get him out of the way?”

“Yes, I did,” the empress replied casually.

Amilia frowned. They entered the bedroom and she closed the door behind them. “Modina, what were you thinking? Why did you do that?”

“Does it matter?” the empress replied, settling onto her bed with a soft bounce.

“It matters to the regents.”

“It’s only two days until Ethelred comes to my bedroom and takes me to the cathedral for our marriage. I did no damage. If anything, I reassured the nobles that I exist and I’m not just a myth created by the regents. They should thank me.”

“That still doesn’t explain why.”

“I have only a few hours left and felt like getting out. Can you begrudge me this?”

The anger melted from Amilia and she shook her head. “No.”

Ever since the mirror had appeared in Modina’s room, the two had avoided discussing the empress’s plans for Wintertide. Amilia considered having it removed, but knew that would not matter. Modina would just find another way. The secretary’s only other alternative was to tell Saldur, but the regent would imprison the empress. The ordeal had nearly destroyed Modina once, and Amilia could not be responsible for inflicting that on her again—even to save the empress’s life. There seemed to be no solution. Especially considering that if their places were reversed, Amilia would probably do the same thing. She had tried to delude herself into believing that Modina would change her mind, but the empress’s words and the reminder of Wintertide’s approach brought her back to reality.

Amilia helped Modina out of her gown, tucked the empress into the big bed, and hugged her tightly while trying to hide her tears.

Modina patted Amilia’s head. “It will be all right. I am ready now.”

***

Hadrian trudged back to the knights’ wing, carrying the white strip of cloth as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Seeing Thrace had removed one burden, but her words had replaced it with an even heavier load. He passed by the common room where a handful of knights still lingered. They handed around a bottle, taking swigs from it.

“Hadrian!” Elgar shouted. The large man stepped out into the hall, blocking his path. Elgar’s face was rosy and his nose red, but his eyes were clear and focused. “Missed you at the hawking today. Come on in and join us.”

“Leave me alone, Elgar, I’m in no mood tonight.”

“All the more reason to come have a drink with us.” The big warrior grinned cheerfully, slapping Hadrian on the back.

“I’m going to sleep.” Hadrian turned away.

Elgar gripped him by the arm. “Listen, my chest still hurts from when you drove me off my saddle.”

“I’m sorry about that but—”

“Sorry?” Elgar looked at him, confused. “Best clobbering I’ve taken in years. That’s how I know you can take Breckton. I’ve wagered money on it. I thought you were a joke when you first showed up but after that flying lesson…Well, if you’re a joke, it’s not a terribly funny one.”

“You’re apologizing?”

Elgar laughed. “Not in your lifetime! Summersrule is only six months away, and I’ll have another chance to repay in kind. But just between you and me, I’m looking forward to seeing Sir Shiny eat some dirt. Sure you won’t have a drink? Send you off to bed right proper?”

Hadrian shook his head.

“All right, go get your beauty rest. I’ll keep the boys as quiet as I can, even if I have to bash a few skulls. Good luck tomorrow, eh?”

Elgar returned to the common room, where at least two of the knights were trying to sing The Old Duke’s Daughter and doing a terrible job of it. Hadrian continued to his room, opened the door, and froze.

“Good evening, Hadrian,” Merrick Marius greeted him. He was dressed in an expensive crimson silk garnache. Around his neck, nearly at shoulder width, was a golden chain of office. Merrick sat nonchalantly at the chamber’s little table, upon which sat the chessboard from the common room. All the pieces were in their proper places except for a single white pawn that was two spaces forward. “I have taken the liberty of making the first move.”

The room was too small for anyone to hide in—they were alone. “What do you want?” Hadrian asked.

“I thought that was obvious. I want you to join me. It’s your turn.”

“I’m not interested in playing games.”

“I think it is a bit presumptuous to consider this a mere game.” Merrick’s voice was paradoxically chilling and friendly, a mannerism Hadrian had witnessed many times before—with Royce.

Merrick’s demeanor distressed him. Hadrian had learned to read a man by his tone, body language, and the look in his eye, but Merrick was impossible to peg. He appeared completely relaxed, yet he should not be. Although larger and heavier than Royce, Merrick was not a big man. He did not look like a fighter nor did he appear to be wearing any weapons. If Merrick was half as smart as Royce had suggested, he would know Hadrian could kill him. Given how he manipulated them on the Emerald Storm, which resulted in the death of Wesley Belstrad and the destruction of Tur Del Fur, Merrick should further know it was a real possibility, yet the man showed no sign of concern. It unnerved Hadrian and made him think he was missing something.

Hadrian took the seat across from Merrick and, after glancing at the board for only a moment, slid a pawn forward.

Merrick smiled with the eagerness of a small boy starting his favorite pastime. He moved another pawn, putting it in jeopardy, and Hadrian took it.

“Ah, so you accept the Queen’s Gambit,” Merrick said.

“Huh?”

“My opening moves. They are referred to as the Queen’s Gambit. How you respond indicates acceptance or not. Your move has signaled the former.”

“I just took a pawn,” Hadrian said.

“You did both. Are you aware chess is known as the ‘King’s Game’ due to its ability to teach war strategy?”

Almost without thought, Merrick brought another pawn forward.

Hadrian did not reply as he looked at the board. His father had taught him the game when he was a boy to strengthen Hadrian’s understanding of tactics and planning. Danbury Blackwater had made a board and set of pieces from metal scraps. His father was the best chess player in the village. It had taken years for Hadrian to finally checkmate him.

“Of course, the game has broader implications,” Merrick went on. “I’ve heard bishops base whole sermons on chess. They draw parallels indicating how the pieces represent the hierarchy of the classes, and the rules of movement depict an individual’s duty as ordained by God.”

Merrick’s third pawn was in jeopardy, and Hadrian took it as well. Merrick moved his bishop, again without pause. The man’s playing style disturbed Hadrian, as he expected more contemplation after taking two of his pieces.

“So you see, what you deem a simple, frivolous game is actually a mirror to the world around us and how we move in it. For example, did you know that pawns were not always allowed to move two squares at the start? That advent was the result of progress and a slipping of monarchial power. Furthermore, upon reaching the opposite side of the board, pawns used to only be promoted to the rank of councilor, which is the second weakest piece after the pawn itself.”

“Speaking of pawns…We didn’t appreciate you using us at Tur Del Fur,” Hadrian said.

Merrick raised a hand. “Royce has already scolded me on that score.”

“Royce—he spoke to you?”

Merrick chuckled. “Surprised I’m still alive? Royce and I have a…an understanding. To him I am like that bishop on the board—I’m right there—an easy target—and yet the cost is too high.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You tricked us into helping you slaughter hundreds of innocent people. Royce has killed for far less.”

Merrick looked amused. “True, Royce usually requires a reason not to kill. But don’t deceive yourself. He’s not like you. The deaths of innocents, no matter how many, are meaningless to him. He just doesn’t like being used. No, I would venture to say that only one murder has ever caused him to suffer remorse, and that is why I’m still alive. Royce feels the scales are not balanced between us. He feels he still owes me.”

Merrick gestured toward himself. “Were you waiting on me? I believe it’s your move.”

Hadrian decided to be more daring and pulled out his queen to threaten Merrick’s king. Merrick moved instantly, almost before Hadrian removed his hand, sliding his king out of harm’s way.

“Now where was I,” Merrick continued. “Oh yes, the evolution of chess, which changes just as the world does. Centuries ago there was no such thing as castling, and a stalemate was considered a win for the player causing it. Most telling, I think, is the changing role of the queen in the game.”

Hadrian brought forward a pawn to threaten the bishop, and Merrick promptly took it. Hadrian moved his knight out and Merrick did the same.

“Originally there was no queen at all, as all the pieces were male. Instead, a piece called the king’s chief minister held that position. It wasn’t until much later that the female queen replaced this piece. Back then she was restricted to move only one square diagonally, which made her quite weak. It wasn’t until later that she obtained the ability to move the entire length of the board in any direction and thus becoming the most powerful piece in the game—and the most coveted target to trap or kill.”

Hadrian started to move his bishop but stopped when he realized that Merrick’s knight was threatening his queen.

“That was an interesting speech the empress delivered at the feast, don’t you think?” Merrick asked. “Why do you think she did that?”

“No idea,” Hadrian replied, studying the board.

Merrick smiled at him. “I see why Royce likes you. You’re not big on conversation. You two are quite the odd pairing, aren’t you? Royce and I are far more similar. We each maintain a common pragmatic view of the world and those in it, but you are more an idealist and dreamer. You look like an ale drinker to me, and Royce prefers his Montemorcey.”

Another quick succession of moves made Hadrian slow down his play and left him studying the board.

“Did you know I introduced him to that particular wine? That was years ago, when I brought him a case for his birthday. Well, that’s not precisely correct. Royce has no idea about the actual date of his birth. Still, it could have been, so we celebrated like it was. I liberated the wine from a Vandon caravan loaded with merchandise, and we spent days drinking and debauching a tiny agrarian village that had a surprisingly large proportion of attractive maids. For those three days, Royce relaxed and we had arguably the best time of our lives. I had never seen him drunk before that. He is usually so serious—all dark and brooding, or at least he used to be.”

Hadrian focused on the board.

“We were quite the team in our day. I’d plan the jobs and he’d execute them. We had a contest going where I tried to see if I could invent a challenge too difficult, but he always surprised me. His skills are legendary. Of course, back then the shackles of morality didn’t weigh him down. That’s your doing, I suppose. You tamed the demon, or at least think you have.”

Hadrian found Merrick’s conversation irritating and realized that was the point. He moved his queen to safety. Merrick innocently, almost absentmindedly, slid a pawn forward.

“It’s still there though—the demon within—hiding; you can’t change the nature of someone like Royce. In Calis they try to tame lions, did you know that? They take them as cubs and raise them in palaces as pets for princes. They think them safe until one day the family dogs are gone. ‘Perhaps the dogs warranted it,’ the love-struck prince says. ‘Maybe the hounds attacked the cat or antagonized it,’ he tries to assure himself as he strokes his loyal beast. The next day they find the carcass of the prince in a tree. No, my friend, you can’t tame a wild animal. Eventually it will return to its true nature.”

Hadrian made a series of moves that succeeded in taking the white bishop. He could not determine if Merrick was just toying with him or not nearly as good at the game as Hadrian expected.

“Does he ever speak of me?” asked Merrick.

“You sound like an abandoned mistress.”

Merrick sat straighter and adjusted the front of his tunic. “You’ve had a chance to see Breckton joust. Is there any doubt about whether you can defeat him?”

“No.”

“That’s good. But now comes the important question…will you?”

“I made an agreement, didn’t I? You were there.”

Merrick leaned forward. “I know you—or at least your type. You’re having second thoughts. You don’t think it’s right to kill an innocent man. You’ve met Breckton. He’s impressive. The kind of man you want to be. You’re hating yourself right now, and you hate me because you think I helped arrange it. Only I didn’t. I have no part in this—well, beyond suggesting they offer you the princess. Whether you want to thank me or kill me for that, I’d just like to point out that at the time you were threatening to kill everyone in the room.”

“So, if this is none of your business, then why are you here?”

“I need Royce to do another job for me—an important one, and he’ll be far less inclined if you die, which you will if you don’t kill Breckton. If, however, you keep your promise, everything should work out nicely. So I’ve come to affirm what you already know, and what Royce would tell you if he were here. You must kill Breckton. Keep in mind you will be trading the life of the most capable enemy of Melengar for its princess and the leader of the Nationalists. Together, they could revitalize the resistance. And let’s not forget your legacy. This is your one chance to correct the sin of your father and bring peace to his spirit. If nothing else, don’t you think you owe Danbury that much?”

“How do you know about that?”

Merrick merely smiled.

“You’re a smug bastard, aren’t you?” Hadrian glared at him. “But you don’t know everything.”

Hadrian reached out to move, but Merrick raised a hand and stopped him.

“You’re about to take my rook with your bishop. After that, you will take the other with your queen. How can you not? The poor castle is completely undefended. You’ll be feeling quite pleased with yourself at that point. You’ll be thinking that I don’t play this game anywhere near as well as you expected. What you won’t realize is that while you have gained materially, you’ve systematically given up control of the board. You’ll have more troops, but discover too late that you can’t effectively mount an attack. I will sacrifice my queen. You will have no choice but to kill her. By that time, I will be perfectly positioned to reach your king. In the end, you will have taken a bishop, two rooks, and my queen, but none of this will matter. I will checkmate you on the twenty-second turn by moving my remaining bishop to king’s seven.” Merrick stood and moved toward the door. “You’ve already lost, but you lack the foresight to see it. That’s your problem. I, on the other hand, do not suffer from that particular malady. I am telling you for your own good, for Royce’s sake, for Arista, Gaunt, and even for your father—you must kill Sir Breckton. Good night, Hadrian.”

Chapter 16
Trials by Combat

The sky was overcast, the day a dull gray, and the wind blew a chilled blast across the stands. And yet the crowd at Highcourt was larger and louder than ever. The entire imperial court, and most of the town, turned out to see the spectacle. Every inch of the bleachers was jammed, and a sea of bodies pushed against the fence. On the staging field only the blue-and-gold tent of Sir Breckton and the green-and-white tent of Sir Hadrian remained.

Hadrian arrived early that morning alongside Renwick, who went right to work feeding and brushing Malevolent. Hadrian did not want to be in the palace and risk an encounter with Breckton, Amilia, or Merrick. All he wanted was to be left alone and for this day to be over.

“Hadrian!” a strangely familiar voice called. Along the fence line, he spotted a man amidst the crowd, waving at him while a pike-armed guard held him back. “It’s me, Russell Bothwick from Dahlgren!”

Leaving Renwick to finish dressing Malevolent, Hadrian walked over to the fence to get a better look. As he did, his shadows from the palace moved closer.

Hadrian shook Russell’s hand. His wife Lena and his son Tad stood next to his old host. Behind them he noticed Dillon McDern, the town smith who had once helped Hadrian build bonfires to fend off a monster.

“Let them through,” Hadrian told the guard.

“Look at you,” Dillon exclaimed as they passed under the rail to join Hadrian at his tent. “Too bad Theron’s not here. He’d be braggin’ about how he had taken fencing lessons from the next Wintertide Champion.”

“I’m not champion yet,” Hadrian replied solemnly.

“That’s not what Russell here’s been saying,” Dillon clapped his friend on the back. “He’s done his own fair share of bragging at every tavern in town about how the next champion once spent a week living in his home.”

“Four people bought me drinks for that,” Russell said with a laugh.

“It’s very nice to see you again,” Lena said, taking Hadrian’s hand gently and patting it. “We all wondered what became of you and your friend.”

“I’m fine and so is Royce, but what happened to all of you?”

“Vince led us all to Alburn,” Dillon explained. “We manage to scratch a living out of the rocky dirt. It’s not like it was in Dahlgren. My sons have been taken for the Imperial Army, and we have to hand over most of what we grow. Still, I guess it could be worse.”

“We saved all our coppers to come up here for the holidays,” Russell said. “But we had no idea we’d find you riding in the tournament. Now that really is something! Rumor is they knighted you on the field of battle. Very impressive.”

“Not as much as you might think,” Hadrian replied.

“How’s Thrace?” Lena asked, still holding his hand.

He hesitated, not sure what to say. “I don’t know. I don’t get to see her much. But she came to the banquet last night and she looked well enough.”

“We just about died when we heard Deacon Tomas was calling for her to be crowned empress.”

“Thought the old boy had gone mad, really,” Dillon put in. “But then they went and did it! Can you imagine that? Our little Thrace—I mean Modina—empress! We had no idea she and Theron were descended from Novron. That’s probably where the old man got all his stubbornness and she her courage.”

“I wonder if she’s in love with Regent Ethelred,” speculated Verna, Dillon’s daughter. “I bet he’s handsome. It must be wonderful to be the empress and live in that palace with servants and knights kissing your hand.”

“You’d think she woulda remembered some of us little folk who cared for her like a daughter,” Russell said bitterly.

“Rus!” Lena scolded him. Her eyes drifted to the high walls of the palace visible over High Court’s tents. “The poor girl has gone through so much. Look up there. Do you think she’s happy with all these problems she has to deal with? Wars and such. Do you think she has time to think about old neighbors, much less track us down? Of course not, the poor dear!”

“Excuse me, Sir Hadrian, but it’s time.” Renwick announced, leading Malevolent.

With the help of a stool, Hadrian mounted the horse, which was decorated in full colors.

“These are friends of mine,” Hadrian told the squire. “Take care of them for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir! Did you hear that?” Dillon slapped his thigh. “Wow, to be knighted and in the final bout of the Wintertide tournament. You must be the happiest man in the world right now.”

Hadrian looked at their faces and tried to smile before trotting toward the gate.

The crowd exploded with applause as the two knights rode onto the field. The clouds overhead were heavier than before and appeared to have drained the color from the banners and flags. He felt cold, inside and out, as he took position at the gate.

Across from him, Breckton waited in the same fashion. His horse’s caparison waved in the bitter wind. The squires arrived and took their positions on the podium, beside the lances. The herald, a serious looking man in a heavy coat, stepped up to the platform. The crowd grew silent when trumpeters blew the fanfare for the procession to begin.

Ethelred and Saldur rode at the head of the line followed by King Armand and Queen Adeline of Alburn, King Roswort and Queen Freda of Dunmore, King Fredrick and Queen Josephine of Galeannon, King Rupert of Rhenydd—recently crowned and not yet married—and King Vincent and Queen Regina of Maranon. After the monarchs came the princes and princesses, the Lord Chancellor and Lord Chamberlain, Lady Amilia and Nimbus, and the archbishop of each kingdom. Lastly, the knights arrived and took their respective seats.

The trumpeters blew once more and the herald addressed the crowd in loud, reverent tones.

“On this hallowed ground, this field of tourney where trials are decided, prowess and virtue revealed, and truth discovered we assemble to witness this contest of skill and bravery. On this day, Maribor will decide which of these two men shall win the title of Wintertide Champion!”

Cheers burst forth from the crowd and the herald paused, waiting for them to quiet.

“To my left, I give you the commander of the victorious Northern Imperial Army, hero of the Battle of Van Banks, son of Lord Belstrad of Chadwick, and favored of our Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale—Sir Breckton of Chadwick!”

Again, the crowd cheered. Hadrian caught sight of Amilia in the stands, clapping madly with the rest.

“To my right, I present the newest member to the ranks of knightly order, hero of the Battle of Ratibor, and favored of Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Eminence, Empress Modina Novronian—Sir Hadrian!”

The crowd roared with such intensity that Hadrian could feel their shouts vibrating his chest plate. Looking at the sea of commoners, he could almost imagine a small boy standing next to his father, waiting in excited anticipation.

“For the title of Champion, for the honor of the Empire, and for the glory of Maribor these two battle. May Maribor grant the better man victory!”

The herald stepped down to the blasts of trumpets, which were barely noticeable above the cry of the crowd.

“Good luck, sir.” A stranger dressed in gray stood at Hadrian’s station, holding out his helm.

Hadrian looked around but could not see Renwick anywhere. He took the helm and placed it on his head.

“Now, the lance, sir,” the man said.

The moment Hadrian lifted it, he could tell the difference. The weapon looked the same, but the tip was heavy. Holding it actually felt better to him, more familiar. There was no doubt he could kill Breckton with it. His opponent was a good lancer, but Hadrian was better.

Hadrian glanced once more at the stands. Amilia stood with her hands pressed to her face. He tried to think of Arista and Gaunt. Then his eyes found the empty space between Ethelred and Saldur—the throne of the empress—Modina’s empty seat.

“I proclaim my faith in his skill, character, and sacred honor. I know his heart is righteous and his intentions virtuous. May you both find honor in the eyes of Maribor and compete as true and heroic knights.”

The flags raised and he took a deep breath, lowering his visor. The trumpets sounded, the flags dropped, and Hadrian spurred his horse. Breckton responded at the same instant and the two raced toward one another.

Hadrian only crossed a quarter of the field before pulling back on the reins. Malevolent slowed to a stop. The lance remained in its boot, pointing skyward.

Breckton rode toward him. A bolt of gold and blue thundering across the frozen ground.

Excellent form.

The thought came to Hadrian as if he were a spectator—safe in the stands, or like that boy so long ago holding his father’s hand along the white rail, feeling the pounding of the hooves. He closed his eyes and braced for the impact. “I’m sorry, Da. I’m sorry, Arista,” he muttered within the shell of his helm. With luck, Breckton’s blow might kill him.

The hoof beats drummed closer.

Nothing happened. Hadrian felt only the breeze of the passing horse.

Had he missed? Is that possible?

Hadrian opened his eyes and turned to see Breckton riding down the alley.

The crowd died down, shuffling as a low murmur drifted on the air. Hadrian removed his helm just as Breckton pulled his horse to a stop. The other knight also removed his helm and trotted back to meet Hadrian at the rail.

“Why didn’t you tilt?” Breckton asked.

“You’re a good man. You don’t deserve to die by treachery.” Hadrian let the tip of his lance fall to the ground. Upon impact, the broad ceramic head shattered to reveal the war point.

“Nor do you,” Breckton said. He slammed his own pole and revealed that it, too, had a metal tip. “I felt its weight when I charged. It would seem we are both the intended victims of deceit.”

The sergeant of the guard led a contingent of twenty soldiers onto the field and said “The two of you are ordered to dismount! By the authority of the regents, I place you under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Breckton asked, confused. “On what charge?”

“Treason.”

“Treason?” Breckton’s face revealed shock at the accusation.

“Sir, dismount now or we will use force. Try to run and you will be cut down.”

On the far side of the field, a contingent of seret entered in formation and mounted troops blocked the exits.

“Run? Why would I run?” Breckton sounded bewildered. “I demand to hear the details of this charge against me.”

No answer was provided. Outnumbered and out-armed, Breckton and Hadrian dismounted. Seret surrounded them and rushed the two knights off the field. As they did, Hadrian spotted Luis Guy in the stands near Ethelred and Saldur.

The crowd erupted. They booed and shouted. Fists shook and Highcourt Field was pelted with whatever they could find to throw. More than once Hadrian heard the question, “What’s going on?”

The seret shoved them out of the arena through a narrow corridor of soldiers that created a path leading them out of the crowd’s sight and into a covered wagon that hauled them away.

“I don’t understand,” Breckton said, sitting among the company of five seret. “Someone conspires to kill us and we are accused of treason? It doesn’t make sense.”

Hadrian glanced at the hard faces of the seret and then down at the wagon floor. “The regents were trying to kill you…and I was supposed to do it. You were right. I’m not a knight. Lord Dermont never dubbed me. I wasn’t even a soldier in the Imperial Army. I led the Nationalists against Dermont.”

“Nationalists? But Regent Saldur vouched for you. They confirmed your tale. They—”

“Like I said, they wanted you dead and hired me to do it.”

“But why?”

“You refused their offer to serve Ethelred. As commander of the Northern Imperial Army, that makes you a threat. So they offered me a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Breckton asked, his voice cold.

“I was to kill you in exchange for the lives of Princess Arista and Degan Gaunt.”

“The Princess of Melengar and the leader of the Nationalists?” Breckton fell into thought once more. “Are you in her service? His?”

“Neither. I never met Gaunt, but the princess is a friend.” Hadrian paused. “I agreed in order to save their lives. Because if I failed to kill you, they will die tomorrow.”

The two traveled in silence for some time, rocking back and forth as the wooden wheels of the wagon rolled along the snow-patched cobblestone. Breckton finally turned to Hadrian and asked, “Why didn’t you do it? Why didn’t you kill me?”

Hadrian shook his head and sighed. “It wasn’t right.”

***

“There are over a hundred rioters just in Imperial Square,” Nimbus reported. “And more arriving every minute. Ethelred has pulled the guards back and closed the palace gates.”

“I heard some guards were killed. Is that true?” Amilia asked from her desk.

“Only one, I think. But several others were badly beaten. The rioters are calling for the empress.”

“I’ve heard them. They’ve been chanting for the last hour.”

“Since the tournament, they don’t trust Ethelred or Saldur. The crowd wants an explanation and they’ll accept it only from the empress.”

“Saldur will be coming here, won’t he? He’ll want me to have Modina say something. He’ll order me to have the empress make a statement about Breckton and Hadrian plotting to take the throne.”

Nimbus sighed and nodded. “I would suspect so.”

“I won’t do it,” Amilia said defiantly. She rose and slapped her desk. “Sir Breckton isn’t a traitor and neither is Sir Hadrian. I won’t be a party to their execution!”

“If you don’t, it’s likely you will share their fate,” Nimbus warned. “After tomorrow, Ethelred will be the emperor. He will officially rule and there will be precious little need for Modina’s nursemaid.”

“I love him, Nimbus.” This was the first time she had said the words—the first time she admitted it, even to herself. “I can’t help them kill him. I don’t care what they do to me.”

Nimbus gave her a sad smile and sat down in the chair near her desk. This was the first time that Amilia could remember him sitting in her presence without first asking permission. “I suppose they will have even less need for a tutor. Hadrian obviously did something wrong and I will likely be blamed.”

Someone walked by outside the office and both shot nervous glances at the closed door.

“It’s like the whole world is ending.” Tears ran down Amilia’s cheeks. “This morning I was so happy. I think I woke up happier than I’d ever been.”

They paused anxiously as they heard several more people running past the door.

“Do you think I should check on Modina?” Amilia asked.

“It might be wise.” Nimbus nodded. “The empress always sits by that window. She’s bound to hear the protests. She’ll be wondering what’s going on.”

“I should talk to her. After the way she acted at the feast, who knows what she’s thinking.” Amilia stood.

Just as the two moved toward the door, it burst open and Saldur stormed in. The regent was red-faced, his jaw clenched. He slammed the door shut behind him.

“Here!” Saldur shoved a parchment in Amilia’s face. A few lines of uneven text were scrawled across it. “Make Modina learn this and have her reciting it on the balcony in one hour—exactly as written!”

Wheeling to leave, he opened the door.

“No,” Amilia said softly.

Saldur froze. Slowly, he closed the door and turned around. He glared at her. “What did you say?”

“I won’t ask Modina to lie about Sir Breckton. That’s what this is, isn’t?” She looked at the parchment and read aloud, “My loyal subjects…” She skipped down. “…found evidence…Sir Breckton and Sir Hadrian…guilty of treason against the Empire…committed the vilest crime both to man and god and must pay for their evil.” Amilia looked up. “I won’t ask her to read this.”

“How dare you.” Saldur rose to his full height and glowered down at her.

“How dare you?” she retorted defiantly. “Sir Breckton is a great man. He is loyal, considerate, kind, honora—”

Saldur struck Amilia hard across the face, sending her to the floor. Nimbus started to move to her, but stopped short. Saldur ignored him.

“You were a scullery girl! Or have you forgotten? I made you! Have you enjoyed pretending to be a lady? Did you like wearing fine dresses and riding off to the hunt, where knights fawned all over you? I’m sure you did, but don’t let your feelings for Breckton go to your head. This is no game and you should know better. I understand you’re upset. I understand you like the man. But none of this matters. I am building an empire here! The fate of future generations is in our hands. You can’t toss that aside because you have a crush on someone you think looks dashing in a suit of armor. You want a knight? I’ll arrange for you to have any knight in the kingdom. I promise. I can even arrange a marriage with a crown prince, if that is what you wish. How’s that? Is that grand enough for you, Amilia? Would you like to be a queen? Done. What matters right now is that we keep the Empire from crumbling. I’ve given you power because I admire your cunning. But this is not negotiable. Not this time.

“There might only be a few hundred rioters out there now,” Saldur said, pointing to her window, “but word will spread and in a day or two we could be facing a civil war! Do you want that? Do you want to force me to send the army out to slaughter hundreds of citizens? Do you want to see the city set on fire? I will not have it. Do you hear me?”

Saldur grew angrier and more animated as his tirade continued. “I like you, Amilia. You’ve served me well. You’re smarter than any ten nobles, and I honestly plan to see you rewarded handsomely for your service. I’m serious about making you a queen. I will need loyal, intelligent monarchs governing the imperial provinces. You’ve proved I can count on you and that you can think for yourself. I value such qualities. I admire your spirit, but not THIS time. You will obey me, Amilia, or by Maribor’s name, I’ll have you executed with the rest!”

Amilia shook. Her lower lip trembled even as she clenched her jaw. Still clutching the paper, she balled her hands into tight fists and breathed deeply as she tried to control herself. “Then you’d better order another stake for the bonfire,” she said, tearing the parchment in two.

He glared at her for a moment longer, and then threw open the door and two seret entered. “Take her!”

Chapter 17
The Final Darkness

Jasper was back.

Arista lay on her side, face flat against the stone. She heard the rat skittering somewhere in the dark. The sound sent chills through her.

Everything hurt from lying on the floor. Worst of all, her feet and hands were numb nearly all the time now. Occasionally, Arista woke to the feel of her leg moving—the only indication that Jasper was eating her foot. Horrified, she would try to kick only to find her effort barely shifted her leg. She was too weak.

No food had arrived for a very long time, and Arista wondered how many days ago they had stopped feeding her. She was so feeble that even breathing took concentrated effort. The coming flames were now a welcome thought. That fate would be better than this slow death, eaten alive by a rat she called by name.

Terrible ideas assailed her exhausted, unguarded mind.

How long will it take for a single rat to eat me? How long will I stay conscious? Will he remain content to gnaw off my foot, or once he realizes I can no longer resist, will he go for softer meat? Will I be alive when he eats my eyes?

Shocked to realize there were worse things than burning alive, Arista hoped Saldur had not forgotten her. She found herself straining, listening for the sound of the guards and praying to Maribor that they would arrive soon. If she had the strength, Arista would gladly light the pyre herself.

She heard pattering, scratching on the floor—tiny nails clicking. Her heart fluttered at the sound. Jasper was moving toward her head. She waited.

Patter, patter, patter—he came closer.

She tried to raise a hand, but it did not respond. She tried to raise her head, but it was too heavy.

Patter, patter, patter—closer still.

Arista could hear Jasper sniffing, smelling. He had never come this close to her face before. She waited—helpless. Nothing happened for several minutes. When she started to fall asleep, Arista stopped herself. She did not want to be unconscious with Jasper so close. There was nothing she could do to keep him from feeding, but being awake was somehow better than not knowing.

When a minute had passed with no further noise, Arista thought the rat might have moved away. The sound of sharp teeth clicking told her Jasper was right next to her ear. He sniffed again and she felt him touch her hair. As the rat tugged, Arista began to cry, but she had no tears to weep.

Rumble.

Arista had not heard the sound in quite some time. The stone-on-stone grinding told her the door to the prison was opening.

There were sounds of gruff voices and several sets of footsteps.

Tink-tink!

Guards—but others were with them, others with softer shoes—boots perhaps? One walked, the other staggered.

“Put ’em in numbers four and five,” a guard ordered.

More steps. A cell door opened. There was a scuffle and then the door slammed closed. More steps and the sound of a burden dragged across the stone. They came closer and closer, but stopped just short of her door.

Another cell opened. The burden dropped—a painful grunt.

Tink-tink.

The guards went back out and sealed them in. It was only a deposit. There would be no food, no water, no help, not even the salvation of an execution.

Arista continued to lie there. The noise had not scared Jasper away. She could hear him breathing near her head. In a moment or two, the rat would resume his meal. She began to sob again.

“Arista?”

She heard the voice, but quickly concluded she had only imagined it. For the briefest moment she thought it was—

“Arista, it’s Hadrian. Are you there?”

She blinked and rocked her head side to side on the stone floor.

What is this? A trick? A demon of my own making? Has my mind consumed itself at last?

“Arista, can you hear me?”

The voice sounded so real.

“Ha—Hadrian?” she whispered in a voice so faint she feared he would not hear.

“Yes!”

“What are you doing here?” Her words came out as little more than puffs of air.

“I came to save you. Only I’m not doing very well.”

There was the sound of tearing cloth.

Nothing made sense. Like all dreams, this one was both silly and wonderful.

“I messed up. I failed. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be…” she said to the dream, her voice cracking. “It means a lot…that you…that anyone tried.”

“Don’t cry,” he said.

“How long until…my execution?”

There was a long pause.

“Please…” she begged. “I don’t think I can stand this much longer. I want to die.”

“DON’T SAY THAT!” The dungeon boomed with his voice. The sudden outburst sent Jasper skittering away. “Don’t you ever say that.”

There was a long pause. The prison grew silent once more, but Jasper did not return.

The tower was swaying. She looked under the bed, but still she couldn’t find the brush. How was that possible? They were all there except the first one. It was the most important. She had to have it.

Standing up, she accidently caught sight of her reflection in the swan mirror. She was thin, very thin. Her eyes had sunk into their sockets like marbles in pie dough. Her cheeks were hollow, and her lips stretched tight over bone, revealing rotted teeth. Her hair was brittle and falling out, leaving large, bald areas on her pale white skull. Her mother stood behind her with a sad face, shaking her head.

“Mother, I can’t find the brush!” she cried.

“It won’t matter soon,” her mother replied gently. “It’s almost over.”

“But the tower is falling. Everything is breaking and I have to find it. It was just here. I know it was. Esrahaddon told me I needed to get it. He said it was under the bed, but it’s not here. I’ve looked everywhere and time is running out. Oh, Mother, I’m not going to find it in time, am I? It’s too late. It’s too late!”

Arista woke. She opened her eyes, but there was no light to indicate a difference. She still lay on the stone. There was no tower, no brushes, and her mother was long dead. It was all just a dream.

“Hadrian…I’m so scared,” she said to the darkness. There was no answer. He was part of the dream, too. Her heart sank in the silence.

“Arista, it will be all right.” She heard his voice again.

“You’re a dream.”

“No. I’m here.”

His voice sounded strained.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Just tired. I was up late and—” He grunted painfully.

“Wrap the wounds tight,” another man said. Arista did not recognize him. This voice was strong, deep, and commanding. “Use your foot as leverage.”

“Wounds?” she asked.

“It’s nothing. The guards just got a bit playful,” Hadrian told her.

“Are you bleeding badly?” the other voice asked.

“I’m getting it under control…I think…hard to tell in the dark. I’m…feeling a bit dizzy.”

The dungeon’s entrance opened again and once more there was the sound of feet.

“Put her in eight,” a guard said.

The door to Arista’s cell opened and the light of the guard’s torch blinded her. She could barely make out Lady Amilia’s face.

“Eight’s taken,” the guard shouted down the corridor.

“Oh yeah, number eight gets emptied tomorrow. Don’t worry about it, for one night they can share.”

The guard shoved the secretary inside and slammed the door closed, casting them into darkness.

“Oh dear Novron!” Amilia cried.

Arista could feel her kneeling beside her, stroking her hair.

“Dear Maribor, Ella! What have they done to you?”

“Amilia?” the deep voice called out.

“Sir Breckton! Yes, it’s me!”

“But—why?” the knight asked.

“They wanted me to make Modina denounce you. I refused.”

“Then the empress knew nothing? This is not her will?”

“Of course not. Modina would never agree to such a thing. It was all Saldur’s and Ethelred’s doing. Oh, poor Ella, you’re so thin and hurt. I’m so sorry.”

Arista felt fingers brushing her cheek gently and realized she had not heard Hadrian in a long time. “Hadrian?”

She waited. There was no response.

“Hadrian?” she called again, fearful this time.

“Ella—er—Arista, calm down.”

Arista felt her stomach tighten as she realized just how important it was to hear his voice, to know he was still alive. She was terrified he would not speak again. “Had—”

“I’m…here,” he said. His voice was weak and labored.

“Are you all right?” Arista asked.

“Mostly, but drifting in and out.”

“Has the bleeding stopped?” Breckton asked.

“Yeah…I think.”

***

As the night wore on, Modina could still hear them—voices shouting in anger and crying out in rage. There must be hundreds, perhaps thousands, by now. Merchants, farmers, sailors, butchers, and road menders all shouted with one voice. They beat on the gate. She could hear the pounding. Earlier, Modina saw smoke rising from just outside the walls. In the darkness she could see the flicker of torches and bonfires.

What is burning? An effigy of the regents? The gate itself? Maybe it is just cook fires to feed all of them while they camp.

Modina sat at the window and listened to the wails the cold wind brought her.

The door to her bedroom burst open. She knew who was there before turning around.

“Get up, you little idiot! You’re going to make a speech to calm the people.”

Regent Saldur crossed the dim chamber with Nimbus in tow. He held out a parchment toward Nimbus.

“Take this and have her read it.”

Nimbus slowly approached the regent and bowed. “Your Grace, I—”

“We don’t have time for foolishness!” Saldur exploded. “Just make her read it.”

The regent paced with intensity while Nimbus hurriedly lit a candle.

“Why is there no guard at this door?” Saldur asked. “Do you have any idea what could happen if someone else had waltzed up here? Have soldiers stationed as soon as we leave or I’ll find someone else to replace Amilia.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Nimbus brought over the candle and said, “His grace respectfully requests that—”

“Damn you.” Saldur took the parchment from Nimbus. He brought it over and held it so close to Modina’s face that she could not have read it even if she knew how. “Read it!”

Modina did not respond.

“You spoke well enough for Amilia. You always speak for her. You even opened your mouth when I threatened her for letting you play with that damn dog. Well, how’s this, my little empress. You get out there and read this—clearly and accurately—or I will have your sweet little Amilia executed tomorrow along with the rest. Don’t think I won’t. I’ve already sent her to the dungeon.”

Modina remained as unmoving as a statue.

Saldur struck her across the face. She rocked back but made no sound. Not a hand rose in defense. She did not flinch or blink. A tear of blood dripped from her lip.

“You insane little bitch!” He hit her again.

Once more, she showed no notice, no fear, no pain.

“I’m not certain she can even hear you, Your Grace,” Nimbus offered. “Her Eminence has been known to go into a kind of trance when overwhelmed.”

Saldur stared at the girl and sighed. “Very well then. If the crowd doesn’t disperse by morning, we’ll send out the army to cut us a path to the cathedral. But the wedding will go on as scheduled and then we can finally be rid of her.”

Saldur turned and left.

Nimbus paused to set the candle on Modina’s table. “I’m so very sorry,” he whispered before following the regent from the room.

The door closed.

Cool air on her face soothed the heat left by Saldur’s hand.

“You can come out now,” Modina said.

Mince crawled out from under the bed. He was pale in the light of the single flame.

“I’m sorry you had to hide, but I didn’t want you to get into trouble. I knew he would be coming.”

“It’s okay. Are you cold? Do you want the robe?” he asked.

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Mince crawled back under the bed and pulled out the shimmering cloth. He shook it a few times before gently draping it over her shoulders.

“Why do you sit next to this window? It’s awfully chilly and the stone is hard.”

“You can sit on the bed if you like,” she said.

“I know, but why do you sit here?”

“It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done for so very long now.”

There was a pause.

“He hit you,” Mince said.

“Yes.”

“Why did you let him?”

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Soon it will all be over. Tomorrow is Wintertide.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. She kept her eyes on the city reflected by the flickering fires beyond her window. Behind her, Mince shifted and fidgeted occasionally, but he did not speak.

Eventually Modina said, “I want you to do something for me.”

“You know I will.”

“I want you to go back to the city again. This time I want you to stay there. You need to be careful and find somewhere safe until the rioting is over. But—and this is the important thing—I don’t want you to come back here again. Will you promise me that?”

“Yes, if that is what you want,” Mince told her.

“I don’t want you to see what I must do. Or be hurt afterward because of it. I want you to remember me the way I’ve been over these last few days with you.”

She got up, crossed to the boy, and kissed him on the forehead. “Remember what I said, and keep your promise to me.”

Mince nodded.

Modina waited until he left the room and his footsteps faded down the hall. She blew out the candle, took the water pitcher from the dresser, and shattered the mirror.

***

Royce peered out from under the tarpaulin draped over a potato cart. No one was paying attention to the courtyard. He took special care to study the darkened corners and the gap behind the woodpile. A yellow glow rose from beyond the front gate as if the city was ablaze. Shouts were still coming from the far side, growing louder and demanding the release of Hadrian and Breckton. The unseen mob called for the empress to show herself. It was a perfect diversion, but also put every guard in the palace on alert.

“Are we going in or not?” Magnus grumbled, half-buried in tubers. Royce slipped out and led the dwarf to the well while keeping a constant check on the guards facing the gate. The thief was impressed by how quietly Magnus moved.

“You want to crank me down, or do you want to go first?” Magnus whispered.

“There’s no power in existence that could cause me to let you do the lowering.”

Magnus muttered something about a lack of trust and sat on the bucket, holding the rope tight between his legs. Royce waited for the dwarf to get settled, then lowered him until Magnus signaled for him to stop. When the weight left the bucket, Royce lowered the pail to the bottom, braced the windlass, and climbed down the rope.

Albert had gained the dwarf access to the inner ward as a member of the wedding event crew. It had taken Magnus just five minutes to determine the dungeon’s location. A few stomps told him where to find empty spaces below. A nighttime lowering into the well by Royce revealed the rest. Peppered with small air ducts, Magnus deduced the well ran along the outer wall of the prison, granting the dwarf access to the face of the ancient stone. For eleven nights, Magnus worked cutting an entry. Merrick was right, the prison was dwarven made, but he never expected Royce to bring his own dwarf—especially one with experience in burrowing through stone.

As Royce descended, he spotted a faint glow from an opening in the side of the shaft. The hole itself was really more like a tunnel due to the thickness of the ancient stone. He removed the bundle he carried containing a sword and lantern and passed it through the hole to the dwarf. Even with all of Magnus’s skill, the stone must have been difficult to dig through, as the passage was narrow. While sufficient for a dwarf, it was a tight squeeze for Royce, and he hoped Hadrian would fit.

Emerging from the tunnel, Royce found himself peering around a small cell, where a dead body was lying on the floor. Dressed in a priest’s habit and curled into a tight ball, the dead man gave off a terrible stench. The room was tiny, barely large enough to accommodate the corpse. Magnus stood awkwardly against the wall, holding a crystal that glowed with a faint green radiance.

Royce pointed at the rock. “Where’d you get the stone?”

“Beats the heck out of flint and steel, eh?” Magnus grinned and winked. “I dug it up. I’m a dwarf, remember?”

“Really trying to forget that,” Royce said. He crossed to the door, picked the lock, and peered down the hallway outside. The walls had the same kind of markings he saw in Gutaria Prison—small spidery patterns. He examined the seam where the walls met the floor.

“What are you waiting fer. Let’s get on with it,” Magnus said.

“You in a hurry?” Royce whispered.

“It’s cold. Besides, I can think of a lot better places to be than here. Heck, the stench is reason enough. I’d like to be done with this.”

“I’m heading in. You wait here and watch for anyone coming behind us—and be careful.”

“Royce?” Magnus asked. “I did good right? With the stone work, I mean.”

“Sure. You did fine.”

“After this is over…You think you could let me study Alverstone for a while? You know, as kind of a reward—to show your appreciation and all.”

“You’ll be paid in gold, just like Albert. You’ve got to get over this obsession of yours.”

Royce entered the hallway. The darkness was nearly absolute, the only illumination coming from Magnus’s green stone.

He made a quick sweep of the corridors—no guards. Most of the cells were empty but he could hear faint movement and breathing from behind four doors. The only other sound was the drip, drip, drip of the well echoing off the stone walls. After he was sure it was safe, Royce lit the lantern but kept the flame low. He picked the lock on one of the cells and found a blond man lying motionless on the floor. He was dangerously thin but still breathing. Royce shook him, but the man did not wake. Royce left the door open and moved on.

He unlocked the next cell, and a man sitting on the floor looked up. The resemblance was unmistakable and Royce recognized him immediately.

“Who’s there?” Breckton Belstrad asked, holding up a hand to block the glare of the lantern.

“No time to chat. Just wait here for a minute. We’ll be leaving soon.”

Royce moved to the next cell. Inside, two women slept. One he did not know, and the other he almost did not recognize. Princess Arista was ghastly thin, dressed in a rag, and covered with what looked to be bite marks. He left them and moved to the last cell.

“Fourth time’s the charm,” he whispered under his breath as he opened the final door.

Hadrian sat leaning against the wall. He was shirtless. His tunic had been torn into strips and tied around his leg, arm, and midsection. His shirt was fashioned into a pad pressed tight to his side. Each piece of material was soaked dark, but Royce’s partner was still breathing.

“Wake up, buddy,” Royce whispered, nudging him. Hadrian was damp with sweat.

“About time you got here. I was starting to think you ran off and left me.”

“I considered it, but the thought of Magnus as my best man kinda forced the issue. Nice haircut, by the way. It looks good on you—very knightly.”

Hadrian started a laugh that turned to grunts of pain.

“They skewered you good, didn’t they?” Royce asked, adjusting the cloth strips. He pulled the midsection one tighter.

Hadrian winced. “The prison guards don’t like me much. They lost money betting against me five jousts in a row.”

“Oh, well, that’s understandable. I would have stuck you, too.”

“You got Arista, right? And Gaunt? Is he alive?”

“Yeah, she’s sleeping next door. As for Gaunt, he’s in pretty bad shape. I’ll have to drag him out. Can you walk?”

“I don’t know.”

Royce gripped Hadrian around the waist and slowly helped him up. Together they struggled down the corridor to the end cell with the well breach. Royce pushed on the door but it did not budge. He tried harder, but still nothing happened.

“Magnus, open the door,” Royce whispered.

There was no answer.

“Magnus, come on. Hadrian is hurt and I’m gonna need your help. Open up.”

Silence.

Chapter 18
Wintertide

In the darkness of the prison, Amilia lay cradled in Breckton’s arms, pondering the incomprehensible—how it was possible to simultaneously drown in both bliss and fear.

“Look,” Sir Breckton whispered.

Amilia raised her head and saw a weak light leaking around the last cell’s door. In the pale glow, the figures in the prison appeared ghostly faint, devoid of all color. Princess Arista, Sir Hadrian, and Degan Gaunt lay in the corridor, upon a communal bed built from straw gathered from all the cells. The three looked like corpses awaiting graves. Sir Hadrian’s torso was wrapped in makeshift bandages stained frighteningly red. The princess was so thin that she no longer looked like herself, but Degan Gaunt was the worst of all. He appeared to be little more than skin stretched over bone. If not for his shallow breathing, he could have been a cadaver, several days dead.

During the night, a man had broken into the prison in an attempt to free them. He opened the doors to the cells, but the plan to escape had failed. Now the man prowled around the prison.

“It’s morning,” Sir Breckton said. “It’s Wintertide.”

Realizing the light indicated a new day, Amilia began to cry. Breckton did not ask why. He simply pulled her close. From time to time the knight patted her arm and stroked her hair in a manner she could hardly have thought possible less than a day before.

“You’ll be all right,” he reassured her with surprising conviction. “As soon as the empress discovers the treachery of the regents, I am certain nothing will stop her from saving you.”

Amilia pressed her quivering lips tightly together. She gripped the knight’s arm and squeezed it.

“Modina is also a prisoner,” Arista stated.

Amilia had thought the princess was sleeping. Looking over, she saw Arista’s eyes were open and her head was tilted just enough to see them.

“They use her as a puppet. Saldur and Ethelred run everything.”

“So she’s a complete fabrication? It was all just a ruse? Even that story about slaying Rufus’s Bane?” Breckton asked her.

“That was real,” Arista replied. “I was there.”

“You were there?” Amilia asked.

Arista started to speak, then coughed. She took a moment then drew in a wavering breath. “Yes. She was different then—strong, unwavering. Just a girl, but one determined to save her father and daunted by nothing. I watched her pick up a bit of broken glass to use as a weapon against an invincible monster the size of a house.”

“There now, My Lady,” Breckton said. “If the empress can do that I am certain—”

“She can’t save us!” Amilia sobbed. “She’s dead!”

Breckton looked at her, stunned.

She pointed at the light under the door. “It’s Wintertide. Modina killed herself at sunrise.” She wiped her face. “The empress died in her room, in front of her window, watching the sun rise.”

“But…why?” he asked.

“She didn’t want to marry Ethelred. She didn’t want to live. She didn’t have a reason to go on. She…she…” Overcome with emotion, Amilia rose and moved down the corridor. Breckton followed after.

***

Hadrian woke to the sound of Arista coughing. He struggled to sit up, surprised at his weakness and wincing at the pain. He inched close enough to lift the princess’s head and rest it on his thigh.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Scared. How about you?”

“I’m great. Care to dance?”

“Maybe later.”Arista said. Her body was bruised and covered with ugly red marks. “This sounds terrible,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

“This sounds stupid,” he replied, “but I’m glad I am.”

“That is stupid.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a run of stupidity as of late.”

“I think we all have.”

Hadrian shook his head. “Not like mine. I actually trusted Saldur. I made a deal with him—and Luis Guy of all people. You and Royce wouldn’t have made that mistake. Royce would have used the time between jousts to break you out. And you—you would’ve probably figured some way to take over the whole empire. No, you two are the smart ones.”

“You think I’m smart?” she asked softly.

“You? Of course. How many women could have taken a city in armed conflict with no military training? Or saved their brother and kingdom from a plot to overthrow the monarchy? And how many would have tried to single-handedly break into the imperial palace?”

“You could have stopped before that last one. If you didn’t notice, that was a colossal failure.”

“Well two out of three isn’t so bad.” He grinned.

“I wonder what is happening up there,” Arista said after a time. “It’s probably midday. They should have come and taken us to the stakes by now.”

“Well, maybe Ethelred had a change of heart,” Hadrian said.

“Or maybe they’ve decided to just leave us down here to starve.”

Hadrian said nothing and Arista stared at him for a long time.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I want to ask you to do me a favor.”

“What is it?”

“It’s not an easy favor to ask,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Name it.”

She still hesitated and then took a deep breath. Looking away at first, she said, “Will you kill me?”

Hadrian felt the air go out of him.

“What?”

She looked back at him but said nothing.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“You could strangle me.” Reaching out, she took his hand and placed it to her neck. “Just squeeze. I’m certain it won’t take long. I don’t think it will hurt much. Please, I’m so weak already, and Royce didn’t bring any food or water. I—I want it to be over. I just want this nightmare to end…” She started to cry.

Hadrian stared at her, feeling the warmth of her neck against his hand. His lips trembled.

“There’s this rat, and he’s going to…” she hesitated. “Please, Hadrian. Oh, please. Please?”

“No one is going to be eaten alive.” Hadrian looked again at the marks on her skin. “Royce is working on a way out. This is what he does, remember? This is what we always do. We’re miracle workers, right? Isn’t that what Alric calls us? You just need to hang on.”

Hadrian took his hand from her throat and pulled her close with his good arm. Feeling dead inside, only the stab wounds reminded him he was otherwise. He stroked Arista’s hair while her body jerked with the sobs. Gradually, she calmed down and drifted back to sleep. Hadrian faded in and out as well.

“You awake?” Royce asked, sitting down next to Hadrian.

“Am now. What’s up?”

“How you feeling?”

“I’ve had better days. What have you come up with? And it better be good because I already told Arista how brilliant you are.”

“How’s she doing?” Royce asked.

Hadrian looked at the princess, who remained asleep, her head still resting against him.

“She asked me to kill her.”

“I’ll take that as not well.”

“So? What have you found out?” Hadrian asked.

“It’s not good. I’ve been over every inch of this dungeon three times now. The walls are solid and thick. There are no cracks or worn areas. Even with Magnus doing the digging with his special chisels, it had taken over a week to dig in. No telling how long it would take to tunnel out. I found some stairs leading up to what I assume is the entrance, but there’s no lock. Heck there isn’t even a door. The stairway just ends at the stone ceiling. I still don’t know what to make of that.”

“It’s a gemlock. Like Gutaria. A seret in the North Tower has a sword with an emerald in the hilt.”

“That would explain it. The door I came through won’t budge. It’s not locked, so it must be jammed somehow. It’s probably our best chance at getting out. It’s made of wood, so feasibly we could try to burn it down. It’s pretty thick, though, so I’m not sure I can get it to catch even by using the straw and oil from the lantern. And the smoke—if it doesn’t kill us first—could signal our escape and guards would be waiting at the top.”

“Arista and Gaunt can’t climb out through a well,” Hadrian pointed out.

“Yeah, but that’s just one of the problems. I’m positive the rope isn’t there anymore. I’m not sure if they grabbed Magnus or if he’s responsible. Either way, anyone bothering to spike the door would take the rope, too.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Royce shrugged. “The best I can come up with is to wait for dark and then try to burn down the door. Maybe no one will see the smoke. Maybe we won’t suffocate before we can break it down. Maybe I can slip out unnoticed. Maybe I can kill the guards. Maybe I can rig a way to pull you out of the well.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

“No kidding. But you asked.” Royce sighed. “You got anything?”

“What about Arista?” Hadrian looked down at her sleeping face again, which he held cradled with his good arm. “She’s weak but maybe—”

Royce shook his head. “There are runes all over the walls. Just like the ones in the prison Esrahaddon was in. If she could do anything, I’m pretty sure she would have by now.”

“Albert?”

“If he has half a brain, he’ll lie low. At this point he can’t do anything but draw attention to himself.”

“What about the deal Merrick offered?”

“How do you know about that?” Royce asked, surprised.

“He told me.”

“You two talked?”

“We played chess.”

Royce shrugged. “There’s no deal. He’d already told me what I wanted to know.”

They sat side by side in silence awhile. Finally Hadrian said, “I doubt this is any consolation, but I do appreciate you coming. I know you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of saying that?”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure this will be the last time. At least I finally got to Gaunt. Some bodyguard I turned out to be. He’s nearly dead.”

Royce glanced over. “So that’s the Heir of Novron, eh? I sort of expected more, you know? Scars maybe, or an eye patch—something interesting—distinctive.”

“Yeah, a peg leg, maybe.”

“Exactly.”

They sat together in the dim light. Royce was conserving the lantern oil. Eventually Breckton and Amilia returned and sat beside Arista. Lady Amilia’s eyes were red and puffy. She placed her head on Breckton’s shoulder, and he nodded a greeting to Hadrian and Royce.

“Royce, this is Sir Breckton Belstrad,” Hadrian introduced them.

“Yeah, I recognized him when I opened the door. For a moment, I thought it was Wesley looking back at me.”

“Wesley? You’ve met my brother?”

Hadrian said, “We both have. I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything at the feast. Royce and I served with him on the Emerald Storm. Your brother had taken command after the captain was killed. I’ve followed many officers over the years, but I can truthfully say I never served under a more worthy and honorable man. If it wasn’t for Wesley’s bravery in battle, Royce and I both would have died in Calis. He made a sacrificial charge so others would live.”

Royce nodded in agreement.

“You never cease to amaze me, Sir Hadrian. If that is indeed true, then I thank you. Between the two of us, Wesley was always the better man. I only hope I shall meet my end half as well as he did.”

***

Saldur fumed as he started up the stairs to the fifth floor. It was past midday and they should have left for the cathedral hours ago. The Patriarch himself was waiting to perform the ceremony.

As far back as Saldur could recall, which was a good many years, the Patriarch had never left his chambers in Ervanon. Those wishing to see him, to seek his council or blessing, had to travel to the Crown Tower. Even then, he only accepted audiences on rare occasions. The Patriarch had a reputation for refusing great nobles and even kings. Even the highest-ranking members of the church never saw him. Saldur had been Bishop of Medford for nearly ten years without ever meeting the man. As far as the regent knew, even Galien, the former Archbishop of Ghent, who lived with the Patriarch in the Crown Tower, never had a face-to-face meeting. The fact that the sentinels made frequent visits to the tower was common knowledge, but Saldur doubted if any actually stood in his presence.

The fact that the Patriarch had left the Crown Tower for this auspicious occasion was a personal triumph for Saldur. He genuinely looked forward to meeting the great leader of the Nyphron Church—his spiritual father. The wedding was supposed to be a wondrous and moving event, a lavish production complete with a full orchestra and the release of hundreds of white doves. This day was the accumulation of years of careful planning, dating back to that fateful night in Dahlgren when the plan to elevate Lord Rufus to emperor had failed.

At that time, Deacon Tomas had been raving like a lunatic. He claimed to witness the miracle of a young girl named Thrace killing the Gilarabrywn. Seeing as how Saldur himself had proclaimed that only the true Heir of Novron could slay that beast, the deacon’s claim was perceived as a problem. Sentinel Luis Guy planned to erase the incident by killing both the deacon and the girl, but Saldur saw other possibilities.

The Patriarch had wanted to name Saldur as the next Archbishop of Ghent to take the place of Galien, who had died in the Gilarabrywn’s attack. The position was the highest in the church hierarchy, just below the Patriarch himself. The offer was tempting, but Saldur knew the time had arrived for him to take the reins of shaping a New Empire. He abandoned his holy vestments and donned the mantle of politics—something no officer of the church had done since the days of Patriarch Venlin.

Saldur weathered the condemnation of kings and bishops in his battle against ignorance and tradition. He pressured, cajoled, and murdered to reach his goal of a strong, unified Empire that could change the world for the better. With his guidance, the glory of the Old Empire would rise once more. To the feeble minds of Ethelred and his ilk, that just meant one man on one throne. To Saldur it meant civilization. All that once was would be again. Wintertide marked the culmination of all his efforts and years of struggle. This was the last uphill battle and it was proving to be a challenge.

Saldur had expected the peasants to tire themselves out overnight, but their fury seemed to have increased. He was irked that the city, which had been quiet and orderly for years, chose this moment to rampage. In the past, people had been taxed penniless, starved to provide banquets for kings, and had their children taken to fight in wars. Despite all this, they had never revolted. The fact that they did so now was strange, but moreover, it was embarrassing.

Even Merrick had been surprised by the reprisal, which appeared to come out of nowhere and everywhere at once. Saldur expected some disappointment at the outcome of the joust and anticipated a few troublemakers. He knew there was a chance that one of the knights would live, and supporters of the fallen champion might lash out. What he had not counted on was both competitors surviving. With no obvious crime, their arrests appeared unwarranted. Still, the response was curiously impassioned.

At first he thought it would be an easy matter to contend with, and ordered a dozen heavily armed soldiers to silence the agitators. The men returned bloodied and thinned in ranks. What they met was not a handful of dissidents but a citywide uprising. The whole matter was frustrating, but of no actual concern. He had sent for the Southern Army, and it was on its way to restore order. That would take a day or so. In the meantime, Saldur proceeded with the wedding.

The ceremony had been delayed a few hours, as Saldur needed the morning to arrange armed escorts for the carriage’s trip to the cathedral. That had gone well and now he just needed to transport the bride and groom. He was anxious to get the final procession under way, but Ethelred had not returned with Modina. If he did not know better, Saldur might have thought Lanis was exercising his husbandly rights a bit early. Whatever the delay, he was tired of waiting.

Saldur reached the empress’s bedroom and found two guards posted outside the door. At least Nimbus was following orders. Without a word to either guard, Saldur threw the door open, entered, and halted just past the threshold. The regent stood shocked as he took in the grisly scene.

The first thing he saw was the blood. A large pool spread across the white marble floor of the chamber. The second was the broken mirror. Its shards were scattered like brilliant islands in a red sea.

“What have you done!” he exclaimed before he could catch himself.

Modina casually turned away from the window to face him, the hem of her white nightgown soaked red to the knee. She looked at the regent without qualm or concern.

“He dared to place a hand on the empress’s person,” she said simply. “This cannot be allowed.”

Ethelred’s body lay like a twisted doll, an eight-inch shard of glass still protruding from his neck.

“But—”

Modina cocked her head slightly to one side like a bird and looked curiously at Saldur.

She held another long, sharp shard. Despite it being wrapped in material, her grip was so tight blood dripped down her wrist.

“I wonder how a feeble old man such as yourself would fare against a healthy, young farm girl armed with a jagged piece of glass?”

“Guards!” he shouted.

The two soldiers entered the room but showed little reaction at the scene before them.

“Restrain her,” Saldur commanded.

Neither of them moved toward the empress. They simply stood inside the doorway, unmoving, unheeding.

“I said restrain her!”

“There’s no need to shout,” Modina said. Her voice was calm, serene. Modina moved toward Saldur, walking through the puddle. Her feet left macabre tracks of blood.

Panic welled in Saldur’s chest. He looked at the guards then back at the empress, who approached with the knife-like glass in her hand.

“What are you doing?” he demanded of the soldiers. “Can’t you see she’s crazy? She KILLED Regent Ethelred!”

“Your forgiveness, Your Grace,” one guard spoke, “but she is the empress. The descendent of Novron. The child of God.”

“She’s INSANE!”

“No,” Modina said, cold and confident. “I’m not.”

Saldur’s fear mingled with a burning rage. “You might have these guards fooled, but you won’t succeed. Men loyal to me—the whole Southern Imperial Army—are already on their way.”

“I know,” she told him in her disturbingly dispassionate voice. “I know everything.” She nodded at the guard and added, “As is fitting for the daughter of Novron.

“I know, for example, that you killed Edith Mon for aiding Arista, which incidentally she didn’t—I did. The princess lived for weeks in this very room. I know you arranged to have Gaunt captured and imprisoned. I know you hired Merrick Marius to kill Esrahaddon. I know you made a deal with him that handed the port city of Tur Del Fur over to the Ba Ran Ghazel. I know how you bargained with a dwarf named Magnus to betray Royce Melborn in exchange for a dagger. I know you convinced Hadrian to kill Sir Breckton in the tournament. I know you slipped Breckton a war tip. Only neither knight killed the other. I like to think I had a hand in that.

“You thought you had anticipated everything, but you hadn’t expected a riot. You didn’t know about the rumors circulating through the throngs of the city to expect treachery at the joust as proof of your treason. Yesterday’s crowd wasn’t watching for entertainment—but for confirmation of that rumor.

“I also know that you were planning to kill me.” She glanced down at Ethelred’s body. “That was actually his idea. He doesn’t care for women. You, on the other hand, just wanted to lock me up again in that hole. That hole that nearly drove me mad.”

“How do you know all this?” Saldur felt real fear. This girl, this child, this peasant’s daughter had slain the Gilarabrywn. She butchered Ethelred, and now she knew—she knew everything. It was as if…as if she really were…

She smiled.

“Voices came to me. They told me everything.” She paused, seeing the shock on his face. “No, the words were not Novron’s. The truth is worse than that. Your mistake was appointing Amilia, who loved and cared for me. She freed me from my cell and brought me to this room. After so many months in the dark and cold, I was starved for sunlight. I spent hours sitting beside the window.” She turned and looked at the opening in the wall behind her. “I had nothing to live for and had decided to kill myself. The opening was too small but when I tried to fit through it, I heard the voices. Your office window is right below mine. It’s easier to hear you in the summer, but even with your window closed, I can still make out the words.

“When I first came here, I was only a stupid farm girl, and I didn’t care what was being said. After my family died, I didn’t care about anything. As time went on, I listened and learned. Still there was nothing to care about—no one to live for. Then one day a little mouse whispered a secret in my ear that changed everything. I learned I have a new family, a family that loves me, and no monster will ever take them from me again.”

“You won’t get away with this! You’re just a—a—”

“The word you are searching for is—empress.”

***

That morning Archibald woke feeling miserable, and his spirits only fell as the day progressed. He did not bother going to the cathedral. He could not bear to see Ethelred taking her hand. Instead, he wandered the palace, listening to the sounds of the peasants shouting outside. There was the blast of an army trumpet coming from somewhere in the city. The Southern Army must be arriving.

A pity, he thought.

Even though he would fare poorly at the hands of the mob, should the rioters breech the gate or walls, he still reveled in the knowledge that the regents would suffer more.

He entered the Great Hall, which was empty except for the servants readying it for the wedding feast. They scurried about like ants, feverishly carrying plates, wiping chairs, and placing candles. A few of the ants bowed and offered the obligatory My Lord as he passed. Archibald ignored them.

Reaching another corridor, he found himself walking toward the main stair. Archibald was halfway up the first flight before he realized where he was headed. The empress would not be there, but he was drawn to her room just the same. Modina would be at the altar by now, her room empty. A vacant space never to be filled again now that she was…he refused to think about it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of figures. Turning, he spotted Merrick Marius standing at the end of the corridor, speaking to someone Archibald did not recognize—an old man wrapped in a cloak. When they spotted him, the pair abruptly slipped around a corner. Archibald wondered whom Merrick was speaking with, as he was always up to no good. Just then, a commotion overhead interrupted his thoughts. Hearing a man cry out, he ran for the stairs.

When he reached the fourth floor, he found a guard lying dead. Blood dripped down the marble steps in tiny rivers. Archibald drew his own sword and continued to climb. On the fifth floor, he discovered two more slain guards.

In the corridor ahead, Luis Guy was fighting another palace guard. Archibald had almost reached them when the sentinel delivered a quick thrust and the guard fell as dead as the others.

“Thank Maribor you’ve arrived!” Saldur’s voice echoed from Modina’s room as Guy entered the chamber. The regent sounded shaken. “We have to kill her. She’s been faking all this time and eavesdropping. She knows everything!”

“But the wedding?” Guy protested.

“FORGET THE WEDDING! Ethelred is dead. Kill her and we’ll tell everyone she is still sick. I will rule until we can find a replacement for Ethelred. We will announce the new emperor married her in a private ceremony.”

“No one will believe that.”

“We don’t have a choice. Now kill her!”

Archibald peered in. Guy stood, sword in hand, with Saldur. Beyond them, near the window, was Modina in her red-stained nightdress. Presumably the blood belonged to Ethelred, who lay dead on the floor. Sunlight glinted off a shard of glass gripped tightly in the empress’s hands.

“How do I know you’re not going to just saddle me with both their murders?”

“Do you see another way out of this? If we let her live, we are all dead men. Look around you. Look at the guards you just killed. Everyone believes she really is the empress. You have to kill her!”

Guy nodded and advanced on her.

Modina took a step back still holding the shard out.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the Earl of Chadwick announced as he entered. “I hope this isn’t a private party. You see I was growing bored. Waiting for this wedding is very dull.”

“Get out of here, Archie,” Saldur snapped. “We don’t have time for you. GET OUT!”

“Yes, I can see you’re very busy, aren’t you? You have to hurry up and kill the empress, but before you do—perhaps I can be of assistance. I would like to propose an alternative.”

“Such as?” Saldur asked.

“I’ve wanted to marry Modina for some time—and still do. Now that the old bugger’s dead,” he looked down at Ethelred’s body and offered a wry smile, “why not choose me? I’ll marry her and things can go on as planned, only with me on the throne instead of Ethelred. Nothing has to change. You could say I dueled him for the right of her hand. I won and she swooned for me.”

“We can’t let her leave the room. She’ll talk,” Saldur said.

Archibald considered this as he strolled around him. He eyed the empress, who stood defiantly even though Guy’s sword was only a few feet away.

“Consider this. I’ll hold the point of a dagger at her ribs hidden by my cloak during the ceremony. She either does as we want or dies on the altar. If I kill her in front of all the crowned heads, neither of you will be held responsible. You can claim innocence of the whole affair. Her death will fall on me—that crazy lunatic Archie Ballentyne.”

Saldur thought for a moment then shook his head. “No, we can’t risk letting her out of this room. If she gets to people, she can take control. Too many are devoted to her. It has to end here. We’ll pick up the pieces afterward. Kill her, Guy.”

“Wait!” Archibald said quickly. “If she’s going to die—let me do it. I know it sounds strange, but if I can’t have her, I will take some satisfaction from denying her to anyone else.”

“You are a twisted little git, aren’t you, Ballentyne?” Guy said with a disgusted look.

Archibald moved closer. For each step he took forward, Modina took another step back until she had no more room to retreat.

Archibald raised his sword and while keeping his eyes focused on Modina, he plunged the blade toward Luis Guy. The sentinel did not see the attack coming, but Archibald’s ruse prevented an accurate strike. His thrust landed poorly. Instead of piercing Guy’s heart, the blade glanced off a rib and merely sliced through his side. Archibald quickly withdrew his blade, turned, and tried to strike again. The sentinel was faster.

The earl felt Guy’s blade enter his chest. The last thing Archibald Ballentyne saw before he died was Modina Novronian running past Saldur, slicing his arm as he unsuccessfully tried to stop her.

***

Royce’s head turned abruptly.

“What—” Hadrian began, but stopped when Royce held up a hand.

Getting to his feet in one fluid motion, Royce paused mid-stride on a single foot, listening. He waited a moment and then moved swiftly to the cell door, which admitted the light. He lay down and placed his ear to the crack at the bottom.

“What is it?” Hadrian asked.

“Fighting,” he replied at last.

“Fighting? Who?”

“I can’t hear the color of their uniforms.” Royce smirked. “Soldiers though. I hear swords on armor.”

They all looked at the door. Soon, Hadrian heard it, too. Very faint at first, like the rustle of leaves in autumn, but then he picked out the sounds of steel on steel and the unmistakable cry of men in pain. Within the prison, new sounds rose—the main entrance opened, shouts rang out, and footsteps echoed down the hall.

Royce picked up the sword he had brought and held it out toward Hadrian.

He shook his head. “Give it to Breckton. I doubt I can even hold it.”

Royce nodded, handed the weapon to the knight, and raced down the hall with Alverstone drawn.

Breckton left Amilia’s side and moved to stand in front of them all. Hadrian knew whoever was coming would have to kill the knight to get by.

Hard heels and soles echoed off the stone. A man cried out in terror.

“By Mar!” he heard Royce say. “What are you doing here?”

“Where is she?” responded a young man’s voice. Hadrian recognized him but could not understand how he could possibly be there.

Torch light filled the hall, growing brighter as footsteps hurried near. The group appeared first as dark silhouettes, everyone wincing at the brilliance. Hadrian raised an arm to shield his eyes.

“Alric? Mauvin?” Hadrian asked, stunned, then quickly added, “Breckton, STOP! Don’t fight!”

The King of Melengar and his best friend were leading a party of men into the dungeon. Renwick, Ibis Thinly, and several others Hadrian did not know, crowded the stone corridor. When Alric Essendon saw the prisoners, he wavered and a sickened expression crossed his face.

“You two—go back,” Alric barked orders to his retinue. “Fetch stretchers.” He raced to his sister’s side. “Arista! Good Maribor, what have they done to you?” Over his shoulder he shouted, “Bring water! Bring bandages and more light!”

“You’re not looking too good, my friend,” Mauvin Pickering said, kneeling beside Hadrian. Mauvin was dressed in shimmering mail, his blood-spattered tabard bearing the crest of the Essendon falcon.

“They have indeed treated you poorly, sir,” Renwick agreed, looking distraught. He was also dressed in bloodstained mail, and his face and hair were thick with sweat.

“I don’t understand,” Royce said. “Last we heard, Drondil Fields was under siege and about to fall.”

“It was,” Mauvin replied. “Then the damndest thing happened. The flag of truce went up from the vanguard of the Northern Imperial Army. A rider advanced and asked permission to speak at the gates. He explained that new orders had arrived along with a personal message to King Alric. If that wasn’t strange enough, the personal guard of Empress Modina had delivered them.” He nodded toward a palace guard who was providing water to Amilia. “His name is Gerald. Anyway, the message said that Regents Ethelred and Saldur were traitors, and they were keeping the empress a prisoner in her own palace. It also said the war against Melengar was their personal quest for power, and that their commander, Sir Breckton, was either dead by treachery or falsely imprisoned and awaiting execution.”

Hadrian started to speak, but Mauvin stopped him. “Wait…wait…it gets better. The orders commanded the acting leader of the Northern Army to cease all aggression against Melengar, extend the empress’s sincerest apologies to King Alric, and return to Aquesta with all haste. The messenger went on to explain that Arista was scheduled for execution on Wintertide, and Empress Modina requested Alric to send whatever assistance he could spare.”

“What did Alric say?” Hadrian asked Mauvin, as the king was consumed with aiding his sister.

“Are you kidding? He figured it was a ploy. Some trick to get us to come out. We all thought so. Then Alric yells down, more as a joke than anything, ‘To prove you are telling the truth, lay down your weapons!’ We laughed real hard until the commander, a guy named Sir Tibin—who’s a decent enough fellow once you get to know him—did just that. We all stood on the parapet watching in disbelief as the Imperialists made this huge pile of spears, swords, and shields.

“That convinced Alric. He told them that not only would he send help, but he would personally lead the detachment. We rode day and night and expected to have a rough time breeching the city walls, but when we arrived the gates were open. The people were rioting in the empress’s name and shouting for Ethelred and Saldur’s heads. We stormed the palace and found only token resistance—just some foot soldiers and a few seret.”

“Your sword has blood on it,” Hadrian noted, pointing to Mauvin’s blade.

“Yeah, funny that. I was determined never to draw it again, but when the fighting started, it just kind of came out by itself.”

“What about Modina?” Amilia asked. “Is she…is she…”

Gerald’s face was grave.

“What?” Amilia begged.

“There was an unfortunate incident in her bedroom this morning,” the guard said.

Tears rose in Amilia’s eyes. “Did she…”

“She killed Regent Ethelred.”

“She what?”

“She stabbed him with a piece of broken glass from her mirror. She escaped an attempt on her life and ran to the courtyard. She rallied the soldiers who were loyal to her. When we arrived, she was ordering her men about like a seasoned general. Her troops managed to open the palace gates for us. Along with the Melengarians and the Northern Army, we suppressed the remaining seret and the palace guards loyal to the regents.”

“Where is she now?” Amilia asked.

“She’s on her throne, accepting vows of allegiance from the monarchs, nobles, and knights—everyone that had come for the wedding.”

Men with stretchers appeared in the hall. Amilia turned to Sir Breckton. With tears in her eyes, she let out an awkward laugh and said, “You were right. She did save us.”

Chapter 19
New Beginnings

Modina stood alone on the little hill just beyond the city. This was the first time she had been outside the palace gates in more than a year. Four men with pickaxes worked the better part of three days, cutting through the frozen ground to make a hole deep enough for the grave. What had taken days to dig was filled in just minutes, leaving a dark mound on a field of white.

Her reunion with the world was bittersweet, because her first act was to bury a friend. The gravediggers tried to explain it was customary to wait until spring, but Modina insisted. She had to see him put to rest.

Seventeen soldiers waited at the base of the hill. Some trotted a perimeter on horseback while others kept a watchful eye on her or the surrounding area. Standing quietly in that bleak landscape, her robe shimmered and flapped in the wind like gossamer.

“You did this to me,” she accused the dirt mound before her.

Modina had not seen him since Dahlgren. She knew of him the way she knew about everything.

Saldur enjoyed the sound of his own voice, which made him an excellent tutor. The regent even talked to himself when no one else was around. When he did not know something, he always summoned experts to the sanctity of his office, the one place he felt safe from prying ears. Most of the names and places were meaningless at first, but with repetition, everything became clear. Modina learned of Androus Billet from Rhenydd, who murdered King Urith, Queen Amiter, and their children. Androus succeeded where Percy Braga had failed when trying to seize control of Melengar. She learned how Monsignor Merton, though loyal to the church, was becoming a liability because he was a true believer. She heard that the regents could not decide if King Roswort of Dunmore’s biggest asset was his cowardice or his greed. She learned the names of Cornelius and Cosmos DeLur, men the regents saw as genuine threats unless properly controlled. Their influence on trade was crucial to maintaining imperial stability.

In the beginning Modina heard without listening as the words just flowed past. Over time, their constant presence filtered through the fog, settling like silt upon her mind. The day his name floated by was the first time she actually paid attention to what was being said.

The regents were toasting him for their success. Initially, Modina thought he was in Saldur’s study, sharing a glass of spirits with them, but eventually it became apparent they were mocking him. His efforts were instrumental to their rise, but he would not share in the rewards. They spoke of him as a mad lunatic who had served his purpose. Instead of execution, they locked him in the secret prison—that oubliette for refuse they wanted to forget.

He died alone in the darkness. The doctors said it was due to starvation, but Modina knew better. She was intimately familiar with the demons that visited prisoners trapped in that darkness: regret, hopelessness, and most of all fear. She knew how the fiends worked—entering in silence, filling a void, and growing until the soul was pushed out, until nothing remained. Like an old tree, the trunk can continue to stand while the core rots away, but when all strength is gone, the first breeze will snap the spirit.

She knelt down and felt the gritty texture of a cold clump of dirt in her hand. Her father had loved the soil. He would break it up with his huge leathery fingers and smell it. He even tasted it. Field and farm had been his whole world, but they would not be hers.

“I know you meant well,” she said. “I know you believed. You thought you were standing up for me, protecting me, saving me. In some ways, you succeeded. You might have saved my life, but you did not save me. What fate might we have had if you hadn’t championed my cause? If you hadn’t become a martyr? If we stayed in Dahlgren, you could have found us a new home. The Bothwicks would have raised me as their own daughter. I would have carried wounds, but perhaps I would have known happiness again. Eventually. I could have been the wife of a farmer. I would have spun wool, pulled weeds, cooked turnips, and raised children. I would have been strong for my family. I would have fought against wolves and thieves. Neighbors would say, ‘She got that strength from the hardships of her youth.’ I could have lived a small, quiet life. But you changed all that. I’m not an innocent maid anymore. You hardened and hammered me into a new thing. I know too much. I’ve seen too much. And now I’ve killed.”

Modina paused and glanced up at the sky. There were only a few clouds on the field of blue, the kind of clear blue only seen on a crisp winter day.

“Perhaps the two paths really aren’t so different. Ethelred was just a wolf who walked like a man, and the empire is my family now.”

Placing a hand on the grave, she softly said, “I forgive you.” Then Modina stood and walked away, leaving behind the mound with the marker bearing the name Deacon Thomas.

***

The candles had burned down to nubs and still they were not through the list. Amilia’s eyes drooped and she fought the urge to lay her head down on the desk. She sat wrapped in a blanket with part of it made into a hood.

“Should we stop here and come back to it tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

The empress shook her head. She was wearing the robe Mince had given her. Amilia had not seen her wear anything else since Modina had taken control of the Empire. Other than the night of the hawking feast, the empress never donned the crown or mantle of her office. “I want to get through this last set tonight. I can’t afford to have these positions left vacant. Isn’t that right, Nimbus?”

“It would be best to settle on the remaining prefects, at least. If I may speak plainly, Your Eminence, you relieved over one third of all office holders. If new ones are not appointed soon, the resulting void might give warlords an opportunity to exert authority and fracture the Empire.”

“How many do we still have to go?” Modina asked.

Nimbus shuffled through parchments. “Ah, there are still forty-two vacant positions.”

“Too many. We have to finish this.”

“If only you hadn’t removed so many,” Amilia said in a tired voice.

Since taking power, Modina had worked tirelessly and demanded the same of her aides. The change in her was amazing. The once quiet, shy waif, who sat before a window each day, had transformed into an empress, commanding and strong. She organized meetings of state, judged the accused, appointed new officials, and even demanded Nimbus teach her letters and history.

Amilia admired her but regretted Modina’s dedication. With so much required of her, Amilia only had a few moments each day to spend with Sir Breckton. The secretary found herself strangely nostalgic for the hours they spent imprisoned together.

Each day the empress, Nimbus, and Amilia met in Saldur’s old office. Modina insisted on working there because it contained numerous charts, maps, and scrolls. These imperial records were meticulously organized and provided details on all aspects of the kingdom. Not being able to read, Modina had to rely on Nimbus and Amilia to sift through the documents and find answers to her questions. Nimbus was a greater help than Amilia, but still Modina insisted on her presence.

“I just wish I could remove some of the nobles as well,” Modina said. “There are several kings and dukes that are as bad as the regents. Saldur got King Armand of Alburn his throne through the assassination of King Reinhold, and I hate that he is rewarded for such treachery. Are you certain I can’t remove him?”

Nimbus cringed. “Technically you can. As empress and the descendent of Novron, you are semi-divine and your authority is absolute to all those who call Maribor god. However, such notions are fine in theory, but you must function based on reality. A ruler’s power comes from the support and loyalty of her nobles. Offend enough of them and not only will they not obey you, they will almost certainly raise armies against you. Unless you are prepared to govern by the strength of Maribor’s will alone, I suggest we keep the ruling nobles—if not happy—at least content.”

Nimbus shifted in his seat. “A number of Ethelred and Saldur supporters are most certainly preparing for a coup. Given the current situation, however, I am certain they are puzzled how best to proceed. For over a year the regents actively promoted you as empress and a goddess—supreme and infallible. Now that you actually wield power, it will take some creative manipulation to convince others to act against you. Finding allies won’t be easy, and they have some other advantages. For instance, you are inexperienced and they expect you to make mistakes, which they will hope to exploit. The key is to avoid making any.”

Modina thought for a moment and then asked, “So, although I am all powerful, I have to obey the nobles?”

“No, you merely have to keep them from wanting to get rid of you. You can do this in two ways. Keep them placated by providing things they want such as wealth, power, and prestige. Or make the idea of opposing you more distasteful than bowing to you. Personally, I suggest doing both. Feed their egos and coffers, but build your base around loyal leaders. Men like Alric of Melengar would be a good start. He’s proven himself to be trustworthy, and you’ve already won his gratitude by saving his kingdom. Bolster his position by providing income through preferential trade agreements. Grow that seed of an alienated monarchy into an economic, political, and military ally. With powerful supporters, the nobles will not be so quick to attack you.”

“But Melengar isn’t even in the Empire.”

“All the better. Those already inside will compete for power amongst themselves. Everyone on the ladder wants to be on a higher rung. Because Alric isn’t part of that ladder, no one will feel slighted when he receives preferential status. If you were to act similarly with one of your own nobles, you will generate resentment of that favoritism. You can proclaim aid to Melengar as prudent foreign affairs. By endorsing Alric, you’ll be building a supporter who won’t be easily assailable. And one who will be more grateful than those who consider it their due.”

“But won’t this be expensive? Where will I get the funds? The people are already suffering under a heavy tax,” the empress said.

“I would suggest meeting with the DeLurs. They generally operate outside official channels, but offering them legitimacy can provide mutual benefit. Given recent events with the Ba Ran Ghazel in Delgos, Cornelius DeLur in particular should be most receptive to a proposal of imperial protection.”

“I’ve been thinking about Cornelius DeLur quite a bit lately. Do you think I should appoint him as Trade Secretary?”

Nimbus smiled, started to speak, paused, and then eventually said, “I think that might be a little too much like placing a drunk in charge of a tavern, but you’re thinking along the proper lines. Perhaps a better choice might be to appoint him Prefect of Colnora. Until recently, it was a merchant-run city, so recognizing this officially would go a long way toward good relations with merchants in general and the DeLurs in particular. Best of all, it won’t cost you anything.”

“I like the idea of Cornelius as prefect,” Modina said and turned to Amilia. “Please summon him for an audience. We can present the idea and see what he says.” The empress returned her attention to Nimbus. “Is there anything else I need to be looking into at present?”

“I suggest creating sanctioned imperial representatives, trained here in Aquesta, to travel and relay instructions. They can be your eyes and ears to check up on local administrators. You might consider drawing these representatives from the monasteries. Monks are usually educated, used to living in poverty, and will be especially devoted because of your Novronian lineage. Religious fervor can often be more powerful than wealth, which will keep your agents bribe-resistant. Oh, one other thing, be certain to avoid appointing anyone to a province who is from that area, and be sure to rotate them often. This will prevent them from becoming too familiar with those they administer.”

“As if I didn’t have enough to do.” Modina sighed. “The best approach is to divide and conquer. Do you have a short list for the remainder of the prefects, Nimbus?”

“Yes.” He reached into his piles and pulled out a stack of parchments. “I’ve compiled what I think are the best candidates. Shall we go through them?”

“No, I trust your judgment.”

Nimbus looked disappointed.

“To save time, call in your top choices and interview them yourself. If you’re satisfied, I want you to go ahead and appoint them. What’s next?”

“What about Saldur?” Nimbus asked.

Modina sighed once more and slouched in her chair.

“Many of the others can be tried for treason, but he’s different,” Nimbus explained. “He wasn’t just the regent. He was also once a very powerful officer in the Nyphron Church. An execution would be…well…awkward. Saldur is too dangerous to let go and too dangerous to execute. I suppose we could keep him imprisoned indefinitely.”

“No!” Modina suddenly said. “I can’t do that. You’re right in that his situation is unique, but we must settle the matter one way or another. Even though he’s in the tower and not the dungeon, I won’t let anyone stay locked up forever. Even with adequate food, water, and light, the knowledge that you’ll never be free has a way of destroying you from the inside. I’ll not do that to anyone, not even him.”

“Well, the Patriarch hasn’t left for Ervanon, yet. He’s taken up residence in the cathedral. If we could convince him to denounce Saldur, that would make it possible to execute the ex-regent without fear of reprisal. Shall I set up a meeting?”

Modina nodded.

“Is that it?” Amilia asked. “Can we go to bed?”

“Yes, I think that will do for now,” Modina told them. “Thank you both for all of your assistance. I couldn’t hope to do any of this without you.”

“You’re most welcome, Your Eminence,” Nimbus replied.

“You know, Nimbus, you don’t have to be so formal. We are alone after all. You can call me Modina.”

“Don’t bother,” Amilia said. “You can’t stop him. Trust me. I’ve tried. I’ve badgered him for nearly a year, yet he still calls me ‘milady.’”

“My respect for you both prevents me from doing otherwise.”

“Honestly, Nimbus,” Modina told him. “You should be Chancellor permanently. You are already doing the job behind the scenes. I don’t know why you won’t officially take the position.”

“I am happy to serve now, in your time of need, but who is to say what the future might bring?”

Modina frowned.

“Oh, one more thing,” Nimbus said. “There have been some strange rumors from the north. The information is sketchy, but there appears to be some kind of trouble.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know exactly. All I’ve heard is that the roads from Dunmore are choked with refugees fleeing south.”

“You might want to send someone to find out what’s happening,” Modina told him.

“I already did. I asked Supreme General Breckton to investigate, and he has sent three separate patrols. Quite some time ago, in fact.”

“And?” the empress inquired.

“None of them have returned,” Nimbus replied.

“What do you make of it?”

Nimbus shrugged. “Perhaps they are delayed by bad weather or flooding. Although, to be honest, the most likely answer would point toward pestilence. If the patrols visited a plague-ridden city, they would remain rather than risk bringing the disease back with them. Even so, illnesses have a way of traveling on their own. It might be best to brace for an epidemic.”

Modina sighed. “Will it never end?”

“Wishing you were back at your window now, aren’t you?” Amilia asked.

***

Hadrian had found himself in the infirmary along with Arista Essendon and Degan Gaunt. For the first three days, he did little more than sleep and was only marginally aware that his wounds had been stitched and wrapped. Whenever he woke, Royce was beside the bed, enveloped in a cloak with the hood covering his face. With his feet propped up on a chair, the thief appeared to be sleeping, but Hadrian knew better.

As he regained enough strength to focus, Royce entertained him with current events. The good news was that Modina seemed to have matters concerning the Empire well in hand. The bad news was that Merrick Marius and Luis Guy managed to escape and had not been seen since Wintertide.

By the seventh day, Hadrian felt strong enough to try walking, and he had been moved out of the infirmary and into a bedroom on the third floor. Each day he walked down the corridor holding on to Royce, Albert, or Renwick. The squire and viscount were frequent visitors, but Hadrian did not have the opportunity to thank the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle for their help before they returned for home. Like the other nobles gathered for the wedding, they swore fealty to Modina before departing. Albert continued to stay in Genny and Leo’s suite, as the viscount was in no hurry to trade the luxurious palatial accommodations for his austere cell at the monastery. From time to time, Mauvin and Alric stopped by, usually on their way to visit Arista. Even Nimbus peeked in once or twice, but Royce and Renwick, who took turns as his steadfast sentries, tended to Hadrian day and night.

The princess rested two doors down. Though still thin and weak, Arista was recovering faster than Hadrian based on the pace of her strides past his door. At first Alric or Mauvin escorted her, but recently she started passing by unaided. Hadrian was disappointed that she never came to his room, and likewise he never visited hers.

Degan Gaunt had been at death’s door when first pulled from the dungeon, and few expected him to survive. At Hadrian’s insistence, Royce checked in on him and relayed updates on his condition. Even when given thin chicken broth, Gaunt had choked and vomited. One night the doctors had called in a priest of Nyphron, but somehow Gaunt pulled through. The latest reports indicated Degan was now eating solid foods and starting to regain weight.

“Ready for another walk?” Royce asked, handing Hadrian a cloak.

Recently woken, Hadrian was still rubbing his eyes. “Geez, you’re in a hurry. Mind if I relieve myself first? Is somebody getting a bit anxious to get back to Gwen?”

“Yes, and you’re milking all the attention. Now get up.”

Royce helped Hadrian to his feet. Feeling the tug on his stitches, Hadrian grimaced as he slowly stood.

“How’s the head today?” Royce asked.

“Much better. Not dizzy at all. I think I can walk on my own.”

“Maybe so, but lean on me anyway. I don’t want you falling down the stairs and ripping your side open. If you do, I’ll be stuck here playing nursemaid another week.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming,” Hadrian said, wincing as he slipped on a tunic.

“Let’s just start by getting you down to the courtyard. If you’re still feeling okay after that, then you can try going on your own.”

“Oh, may I?” Hadrian replied.

Using Royce as a crutch, Hadrian limped out to the hallway.

He let his friend lead him toward the main landing. He expected pain but only felt a modest twinge.

“You know, I meant what I said in the dungeon. I appreciate you coming for me,” Hadrian said.

Royce laughed. “You do realize that I really didn’t do anything. Everything would have turned out exactly the same if I had stayed at Windermere with Gwen. She keeps insisting I’m needed to save you, but you seem pretty self-sufficient these days. Well, not right now, but you know what I mean.”

They reached the courtyard and Royce helped Hadrian down the stairs. A warm spell had moved in and the weather was unusually pleasant. He heard the sound of dripping water everywhere as the snow melted.

“Early spring?” Hadrian asked.

“Only temporary I’m sure,” Royce replied. “Nothing this nice stays long. Okay, now that you’re on level ground, try walking to the gate. I’ll wait here.”

Even after two weeks, the courtyard still bore signs of combat. Dark smears and sooty smudges on the walls, a broken cart, a missing door, and several shattered windows all told the story of what had happened while he was in the prison.

Hadrian spotted another patient out for her daily exercise. Arista wore a simple blue dress and had gained enough weight to start looking like herself again. She swung her arms and took deep breaths of fresh air while circling the ward. Her hair was down and blowing in the breeze.

“Hadrian!” Arista cried out after seeing him.

He tried to straighten up and winced.

“Here, let me help you.” She rushed forward.

“No, no, I’m trying to go solo today. Royce is releasing some of his tyrannical control.” He hooked a thumb toward his friend waiting at the palace doors. “I’m surprised Alric lets you wander around alone.”

She laughed and pointed at two well-armed guards whose eyes never wavered from Arista as they stood a short distance away. “He has turned into a mother hen. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I’m not going to complain. Did you know he cried the night they carried us out? Alric has always been more like our mother than I am. How can I be mad at someone for caring?”

They walked together to a bench. Clear of snow, the warm sun had dried it clean. The two of them sat down and Hadrian was grateful for the rest.

“Alric did well,” he said. “I’m sure it was difficult for him to leave Medford and go to Drondil Fields. Royce tells me he took quite a few of the citizenry with him.”

She nodded. “Yes, and doing so made the siege difficult. Hundreds of people were jammed into the corridors, halls, and all around the courtyard. Food was scarce after only a month because there were so many mouths to feed. Alric’s advisors told him he had to deny food to the sick to save others, but he refused to listen. Some of the weak actually died. Count Pickering said Alric needed to surrender in order to save those he could. I heard from Mauvin that Alric was planning to do just that. He was just waiting until after Wintertide. I’m proud of my brother. He knew they would kill him, but he was willing to sacrifice himself for his people.”

“How are things now at Drondil Fields?”

“Oh, fine. Supplies are flowing again and Count Pickering is administrating from there. I’m not sure if you know, but Medford was destroyed. Drondil Fields will need to function as the capital until Alric can rebuild. That’s funny, as it served just such a purpose in the beginning.”

Hadrian nodded and the pair continued to sit while quietly looking around the courtyard. Arista unexpectedly took his hand and squeezed. Glancing down, he saw her looking back with a warm smile.

“I want to thank you for trying to rescue me,” Arista said. “You have no idea how much it meant. When I was in the…” She paused and looked away, staring at some distant, unseen point. A shadow crossed her face and lingered long enough to make her lip quiver. When she spoke again, her voice was softer and less confident. “I felt very alone. More so than I imagined a person could be.”

Arista chuckled softly. “I was so naive. When I was first captured, I believed I could face death bravely—like Alric was going to.” Arista paused again, studying the fallow garden and wetting her lips. “I’m ashamed to say that I’d completely given up by the end. I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted the fear to stop. I was terrified, so terrified that… and then…then I heard your voice.” She gave another sad, little smile. “I couldn’t believe what I heard at first. You sounded like a birdsong in the dead of winter…so warm, so friendly, so very out of place. I was falling into an abyss, and at the very last moment, you reached out and caught me. Just your voice. Just your words. I don’t think I can ever express how much they meant.”

He nodded and squeezed her hand back. “I’m pleased to have been of service, My Lady.” Hadrian gave a reverent little bow of his head.

They sat quietly again for some time. When the silence was nearly uncomfortable, Hadrian asked, “What are you going to do now? Go with Alric to Drondil Fields?”

“Actually, that’s something I need to talk to you about—but not today. We both have healing yet to do. It will wait until we are stronger. Did you know Esrahaddon is dead?”

“Yeah, we found that out.”

“He came to me the night he was killed and told me something. Something involving Degan Gaunt…” Her voice faded as she glanced toward the main gate, a look of curiosity crossing her face. “Who is that…?” She pointed.

Hadrian followed her gaze and saw a lone figure entering on horseback. The rider was thin, small, and wearing a monk’s frock. The man rode slumped over the horse’s neck. Once inside the palace’s gate, he fell face first into the slush. Royce was the farthest away, but he was still able to reach the man first. Several servants were right behind him. Hadrian and Arista approached, and by the time they arrived, Royce had already rolled the man over and pulled back his hood.

“Myron?” Hadrian said in disbelief. He stared down at the familiar face of their friend from the Winds Abbey. The monk was unconscious, but there was no sign of a wound.

“Myron?” Arista asked, puzzled. “Myron Lanaklin of Windermere? I thought he never left the abbey.”

Hadrian shook his head. “He doesn’t.”

***

The little monk lay on a cot in the infirmary. Two chambermaids and the palace physician busied themselves tending to him. They brought water and cleaned the mud from his face, arms, and legs, looking for wounds. Myron woke with a startled expression, looked around in a panic, and collapsed again. A miserable moan escaped his lips followed by, “Royce?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Hadrian asked.

“Just exhausted, as far as I can tell,” the doctor replied. “He needs food and drink.” Just as he said this, a maid entered with a steaming bowl.

“I’m so sorry,” Myron said, opening his eyes again and focusing on Royce. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure it was my fault. I should have done something…I don’t know what to say.”

“Slow down,” Royce snapped. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

“Everything?” Hadrian asked. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

“It was four days ago and me and Miss DeLancy were out talking with Renian. I was telling him about a book I had just finished. It was early and no one was in the garden but us. Everything was so quiet. I didn’t hear anything. Maybe if I had heard…”

“Get to the point, Myron.” Royce’s irritation increased.

“He just appeared out of nowhere. I was talking with Renian when I heard her gasp. When I turned, he was behind her with a knife to her throat. I was so scared. I didn’t want to do anything that might get Miss DeLancy hurt.”

“What did he look like? Who put a knife to her throat?” Royce asked intently.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say his name. He looked a little like you, only larger. Pale skin, like new vellum—and dark eyes—very dark. He told me, ‘Listen carefully. I’ve been told you can remember exactly what you hear or read. I hope that is true for her sake. You will travel to the palace in Aquesta, find Royce Melborn, and deliver him a message. Any delay or mistake may cost her life, so pay attention.’”

“What’s the message?” Royce asked.

“It was very strange, but this is what he told me, ‘Black queen takes king. White rooks retreat. Black queen captures bishop. White rook to bishop’s four, threatening. Check. White’s pawn takes queen and bishop. Jade’s tomb, full face.’”

Royce looked devastated. He stepped back and actually stumbled. Breathing hard, he sat on a vacant bed.

“What is it?” Hadrian asked anxiously. “Royce?”

His friend did not answer. He did not look at him or at anyone. He merely stared. Hadrian had seen the look before. Royce was calculating, and from his intense expression, he was doing so in earnest.

“Royce, talk to me. What did that mean? I know it’s a code but for what?”

Royce got up. “Gwen’s in danger. I have to go.”

“Let me get my swords.”

“No,” he said bluntly. “I want you to stay out of this.”

“Stay out of it? Stay out of what? Royce since when do—”

Royce’s face turned to a mask of calm. “Look at you—you’re hobbling around. I can handle this. You get some rest. It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t try to manage me. Something terrible is happening. It’s Merrick, isn’t it? He likes chess. What did that message mean? I was the one who got you to help me find Gaunt, and if there is a price to be paid, I want to help. What’s Merrick up to?”

Royce’s face changed again. The calm faded, and what lay behind it was a look Hadrian had never seen on his partner’s face before—terror. When he spoke, his voice quavered. “I have to go, and I need you to stay out of it.”

Hadrian noticed Royce’s hands were shaking. When Royce saw them, too, he pulled them under his cloak.

“Don’t follow me. Get well and take your own path. We won’t be seeing each other again. Goodbye.”

Royce bolted from the room.

“Wait!” Hadrian called. He struggled to stand and follow, but it was useless. Royce was already gone.

Chapter 20
The Queen’s Gambit Accepted

It was late as Arista walked the balcony of her room. The storm from the night before had left the handrails mounded with snow, and icicles dangled from the eaves. In the light of the nearly full moon everything was so pretty, like a fairytale. Pulling her cloak tight, Arista lifted the hood such that she looked out through a fur-lined tunnel. Still the cold reached her. She considered going back inside, but she needed to be out. She needed to see the sky.

Arista could not sleep. She felt uneasy—restless.

Despite her exhaustion, sleeping was nearly impossible. The nightmares were not a surprise given what she had gone through. She often woke in the dark, covered in sweat, certain she was still in the dungeon—certain that the sounds of snow blowing against the window were the scratches of a rat named Jasper. Afterward, lying awake brought thoughts of Hadrian. The hours of darkness trapped in that hole had stripped her bare and forced her to face the truth. In Arista’s most desperate moment, her thoughts had turned to him. The mere sound of his voice had saved her, and the thoughts of her own death were extinguished when she feared he was hurt.

She was in love with Hadrian.

The revelation was bitter, as it was clear he did not feel the same. In those last hours, the only words that passed his lips were ones of common comfort, the same encouragement anyone would give. He might care about her, but he did not love her. In one way, she found that a blessing, as every man who ever did had died. She could not bear to see Hadrian die as well. She concluded they would remain friends. Close friends, she hoped, but she would not endanger that friendship by admitting anything more. She wondered if somewhere Hilfred was watching her and laughing at the irony or crying in sympathy.

Still, it was not thoughts of Jasper or Hadrian that kept Arista walking the balcony that night. Another ghost stalked her troubled mind, whispering memories. Something was happening. She had felt it building ever since they pulled her from the prison. At first she assumed it was the lingering effect of starvation, a form of light-headedness affecting her senses. Now she realized it was more than that.

“…at Wintertide the Uli Vermar ends. They will come—without the horn everyone dies. Only you know now—only you can save…”

The words of Esrahaddon echoed in her head, but she could not understand what they meant.

What is the Uli Vermar? And who is coming?

Something had clearly happened. Somehow the world had changed on Wintertide. She could feel it. She could taste it. The air sizzled with the sensation. While she had known how to tap the natural power of the world, Arista was shocked to discover that the world could talk back, speaking to her in a language she did not fully understand. It came in subtle impressions, vague feelings she might have previously dismissed as imagination. All the signals spoke of a great shift. She, like every living thing in tune with the natural world, was aware of the change just as they were aware of the approaching dawn. Something about this Wintertide was different. Something rare, something old, something great had transpired. Her eyes looked to the northeast. It was there, hurtling toward them.

They are coming.

“Anne said you were out here,” a voice startled her.

Arista spun to see Modina standing behind her. She wore a simple kirtle dress. Her arms folded across her chest, fending off the cold. She looked more like the girl Arista had first met in Dahlgren than an empress.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Modina said.

Arista gathered herself and curtseyed as best she could. “Not at all, Your Eminence.”

Modina sighed. “Please don’t. I have enough people kissing the floor. I refuse to take it from you. And I’m sorry for taking so long to visit.”

“You are the empress—the real empress. I’m sure your time is limited. And because I am still the Ambassador of Melengar, I really should greet and address you properly.”

Modina frowned. “Perhaps, but can’t we skip the formalities when in private?”

“If that is your wish.”

“I wanted to let you know that we are officially allies now. I signed a preferred trade agreement and defense pact this morning with Alric.”

“That’s wonderful.” Arista smiled. “Although you’re putting me out of a job, by going over my head like that.”

“Can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.” Modina led the way back into Arista’s room.

In the dim light, Arista noticed something lying folded neatly on the bed.

“I was so worried about you,” Modina whispered as she unexpectedly hugged the princess, squeezing her tight. “And just so you know, I did visit you—nearly every night, you’ve just been asleep.”

“You saved my life, my brother, and my kingdom,” Arista replied, returning the embrace. “Do you really think I can feel slighted by you?”

Modina let go. “I’m sorry it took so long. I’m sorry that you had to stay in that…that…place. I didn’t save Deacon Thomas, and I didn’t save Hilfred. Perhaps if I had acted sooner…”

“Don’t,” Arista said, seeing the empress’s eyes watering. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Modina wiped the tears and nodded. “I wanted to give you something…something special.” She walked to the bed and held up a familiar robe, which unfolded in shimmering cascades.

“Do you recognize it?”

Arista nodded.

“I can’t imagine there are two such robes in all the world. I think he would want you to have it, and so do I.”

***

Modina had just left Arista’s room and was passing Degan’s half-open door when he called out, “Hang on there!”

She pushed the door open and stood in the threshold, looking at him.

Tall and still very thin, he sat in bed propped against a bank of pillows. “My chamber pot needs emptying, and the room is starting to stink. Wanna get in here and take care of it?”

“I’m not the chambermaid,” Modina replied.

“Oh? Are you a nurse? Cause I’m still not feeling well. I could use some more food. Some beef would be nice—steak perhaps?”

“I’m not a nurse or scullery maid, either.”

Degan looked irritated. “What good are you, then? Listen, I just got out of the dungeon, and they literally starved me. I deserve some sympathy. I need more food.”

“If you want, I can walk you down to the kitchen and we can find something there.”

“You’re joking, right? Didn’t you just hear what I said? I’m sick, I’m weak. I’m not about to go rummaging around like a rodent.”

“You won’t regain your strength by sitting in bed.”

“I thought you said you weren’t the nurse. Listen, if you won’t bring it to me, find someone who will. Don’t you realize who I am?”

“You’re Degan Gaunt.”

“Yes, but do you know who I am?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “I’m sorry…I don’t kn—”

“Can you keep a secret?” he asked, leaning forward and speaking in a conspiratorial tone.

Modina nodded.

“As it turns out, I’m the Heir of Novron.” Modina feigned surprise and Gaunt grinned in reply. “I know—I was shocked, too. I only recently learned myself.”

“But I thought Empress Modina was the heir.”

“From what I heard, that’s just what the old regents wanted everyone to believe.”

“So, do you plan to overthrow the empress?”

“Don’t need to,” he said with a wink. “I heard she’s young and beautiful, so I figure I’ll just marry her. I also hear she’s popular too, so I can benefit from the goodwill she already has. See how smart that is?”

“What if she won’t marry you?”

“Hah! Why wouldn’t she? I’m the Heir of Novron. You can’t do no better than that.”

Modina noticed Gaunt looking her over more intently. His tongue licked his upper lip, sliding back and forth. “Say, you’re kinda pretty, you know that?” He glanced past her, into the hallway. “What do ya say you shut the door and slip on over here?” He patted the covers.

“I thought you were sick and feeble.”

“I said I was weak not feeble, and I’m not that weak. If you won’t get me something to eat, the least you can do is help warm my bed.”

“I don’t think that is the least I can do. Yes, I can definitely think of less.”

He furrowed his brow at her. “You know, I’m gonna be the emperor just as soon as I get well enough. You might want to be nicer to me. We can keep this thing going, even after the wedding. I expect I’ll have several ladies in waiting, if you know what I mean. I’ll be taking good care of them, too. This is your chance to get in early and be the first.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“Oh, you know. I take care of you. Give you a room here at the palace. See that you get some fine dresses. That kind of stuff.”

“I already have those things.”

“Sure, but you might not after I take over. This way you can make sure that your future is protected. So, what do you say?”

“Remarkably, I think I will pass.”

“Suit yourself.” Gaunt waved her away. “But hey, if you do see a maid, tell her to get her ass in here and get rid of this pot, okay?”

When Modina reached the stair, she met a gate soldier climbing up.

“Your Eminence.” He approached, bowed, and waited.

“Yes?” she asked.

“A man at the palace gate is requesting an audience.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, Your Eminence. I told him it wasn’t possible.”

“It’s getting kind of late. Ask him to see the palace clerk in the morning.”

“I already told him that, but he says he and his family must leave at first light. They came for Wintertide, and he wanted to make one last attempt to see you before departing. He said you would know him.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“Yes, Russell Bothwick of Dahlgren.”

Modina lit up. “Where is he now?”

“I had him wait at the gate.”

When she lived in Dahlgren, the Bothwicks had been as close as family. They had taken her in after the death of her mother, and the excitement of seeing her old friends overtook Modina. She trotted down the stairs to the main entry, causing the guards to rush to open the huge double doors for her. Modina hurried into the snowy courtyard and regretted not bringing a cloak the moment she stepped outside. The night was dark, and as she crossed the courtyard toward the front gate, she realized she could have used a lantern as well. Seeing Russell and Lena was too good to be true. She would give them the finest suite in the palace and stay up all night reminiscing about old times…better times.

As she passed the stable, a voice close by said, “Thrace?”

She spun around and was surprised to find Royce there. “What are you doing out here? Come with me to the gate. The Bothwicks are here.”

“I want you to know I am very sorry about this,” Royce told her.

“About what?”

He had a sad expression in his eyes as one hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled for a moment, but it was over quickly. The last thing she heard was his voice whispering in her ear, “I’m sorry.”

***

The palace bell rang before dawn. Hadrian and the other residents of the third floor stepped into the hallway. Arista wore Esrahaddon’s glimmering robe, and Degan Gaunt yawned while clutching a blanket around his shoulders.

Amilia and Breckton led a troop of guards into the corridor.

“Have any of you seen the empress?”

“Not since last night,” Arista said.

“What’s going on?” Gaunt grumbled irritably. This was the first time Hadrian had seen him since the dungeon.

“The empress is missing,” Breckton announced. He motioned to the soldiers, who opened doors and swept into the rooms.

“So what’s all the fuss? Check the quarters of the best-looking servant,” Gaunt said. “She probably just fell asleep afterward.”

“Bishop Saldur is also missing,” Breckton said. “The guard at the tower and two gate sentries are dead as well.”

The soldiers finished searching the rooms and returned to the hallway.

“How could Saldur have gotten out?” Arista asked. “And why would he take Modina?”

Hadrian glanced at her and then at the floor. “It wasn’t Saldur.”

“But who could have—” Arista started.

Hadrian interrupted her, “Royce took her. He has taken them both. ‘White’s pawn takes queen and bishop.’ It’s the Queen’s Gambit and Royce has accepted.”

Chapter 21
Langdon Bridge

Directly overhead the full moon peered through a break in the clouds, making the Bernum River glisten like a dark, oily snake as it wound through the heart of Colnora. Numerous warehouses perched on the high banks, sleeping like behemoths on the cold winter night. Far from the residential neighborhoods, the mercantile district was desolate at this hour. Frost-covered lampposts fashioned in the shapes of swans dotted the length of the Langdon Bridge, illuminating icicles hanging from every ledge and ornament. Snow started to fall once more, and fluffy flakes caught in the lamplight twirled and drifted on air currents rising from the river gorge. The sound of the Bernum roared up from the depths like some monstrous, insatiable beast.

Royce stood in the shadows on the north side of the bridge. Despite the cold, he was drenched in sweat. Behind him, Saldur and Modina stood silently with their wrists tied behind their backs. Royce did not use gags—they were not required. He had given his prisoners several reasons to remain silent.

Extracting Saldur from the prison tower had been easy enough. The ex-regent offered no resistance and obeyed every whispered command promptly and quietly. Royce had been disappointed, as he was eager for any excuse to correct that particular captive’s behavior. Modina was another matter. He honestly regretted taking her. He simply had no choice. Royce had squeezed her neck with the least amount of pressure and for the shortest interval necessary to drop her painlessly into unconsciousness. He was certain she woke with a terrible headache but suffered no other harm.

Royce studied the warehouses on the far side of the bridge. One had a four-leaf clover painted on its side. That was the place where he had mistakenly killed Merrick’s lover. It happened back when all three of them were assassins in the Black Diamond Thieves Guild. Jade’s tomb. He worried about the message Merrick was sending with his choice of location.

After glancing up again and checking the location of the moon, Royce lit a lantern and stepped into the street. Two nerve-wracking moments later, another light appeared in reply from the far end of the bridge. Merrick was there. And Gwen was with him.

She’s alive!

Royce’s heart leapt. Relief mixed with anxiety. She was so close, yet not close enough. No one else was visible—the Black Diamond was conspicuously absent. Royce had expected members of the thieves’ guild to descend the instant he entered the city. Either Merrick had arranged for safe passage, or they decided they did not want any part of this transaction.

“Show them,” Merrick’s voice carried on the cool, crisp air.

Royce motioned and Modina and Saldur stepped from the shadows next to him.

“I’ll double your reward for this, Marius,” Saldur shouted. “You’ll be Marquis of Melengar. I’ll—” He cried out in pain as Royce dragged Alverstone along his shoulder blade. The gleaming knife sliced through the regent’s robes and into his skin.

“Did we forget our agreement?” Royce hissed.

Royce looked at Modina, who stood quiet and still. The empress displayed no fear, anger, or malice. She did not struggle. She merely waited.

“Send them across,” Merrick ordered.

“Don’t run, Saldur,” Royce said. “You need to match Gwen’s pace. I’m good at throwing a dagger, and you won’t be out of my range until you reach the bridge’s midpoint. If you pass it before she does, it will be the last step you ever take.”

The captives stepped forward at the same time as Gwen. She wore a heavy wool cloak and boots that were not her own. Tears streamed down her cheeks. With her arms tied behind her back, she could not push away her tangled hair or free her mouth from the gag. They each walked toward one another at an agonizingly slow pace.

For Royce, nothing on the face of the world stirred except for the three hostages on the bridge. The prisoners passed at the bridge’s center, exchanging only brief glances. The wind blew harder, throwing the snow and Gwen’s hair askew. Royce’s heart thundered in his chest as she broke into a run. He no longer cared about the others. Saldur could rule all of Elan, so long as he could have Gwen. They would go to Avempartha—leave that very night. The wagon was already filled with supplies and hitched to a strong team. He would take her beyond everyone’s reach. Royce would finally have a place to call home and have a life worth living. Every night he would sleep with Gwen in his arms, knowing he would never need to leave her again. Together they would walk through open fields without Royce having to look over his shoulder. They would have children, and he would delight in providing them a childhood he never had. Royce would grow old, content with Gwen at his side.

He was sprinting to her. He did not recall telling his feet to move, yet they raced toward her. As the distance between them closed, Royce threw out his arms to embrace Gwen. Suddenly her eyes widened with shock, then shut tight with anguish. She stiffened and arched her back as the crossbow bolt exited the front of her body. Royce felt a spray of blood.

She fell.

“GWEN!” he screamed.

He slid to his knees and turned her over so they could see each other. Dark blood pooled around her, staining the snow. He cradled Gwen in his arms, pulled her to him, and brushed the hair from her face. Royce’s hands shook as he cut her restraints. He pulled away the gag, which was soaked in blood.

She coughed. “Roy-Roy-ce,” she struggled. “Roy-ce…my love…”

“Shh,” he told her. “It will be all right. I’ll find a doctor. I’ll take care of you. We’re going to get married right away. No more waiting. I swear it!”

“No.” She shook her head in his hands. “I don’t…need a doctor.”

Royce wiped the blood from her mouth and supported her head as her eyes fought for focus.

Her hand twitched as she tried to lift it toward his face. “Don’t cry,” she said.

Royce had not been aware that he was until that moment. Tears ran down his cheeks and fell to her face, mixing with the thin line of blood that trickled from the side of her mouth.

This cannot be happening, his mind screamed. We are going away together. The wagon is ready!

He shook and shuddered as if he might break in two.

“Don’t leave me Gwen. I love you. Please don’t leave me.”

“It’s okay, R-Royce…Don’t you see?”

“No, no—it’s not. It’s not okay! It’s—” his voice broke. He swallowed. “How can this be okay? How can you leaving me alone be all right?”

She jerked in his arms. Her eyes closed and she coughed once more. When her eyes opened again, her chest heaved for breath. A thick gurgling sound came from her throat.

“It’s the fork in your lifeline,” she managed to say, her voice weaker now—only a coarse whisper. “You reached it…The death of the one you love most. Only I was wrong…I was wrong. It wasn’t Hadrian…It was me…It was me all along.”

“Yes,” he cried, kissing her forehead.

“And what did I tell you about that? What did I say? Do you remember?”

“You said…You said that you could die a happy woman if only that were true.”

She looked up at him tenderly, but her eyes lost focus and began to wander. “I can’t see you, Royce. It’s dark. I can’t see in the dark like you can. I’m scared.”

He clenched her hand. “I’m here, Gwen. I’m right beside you.”

“Royce, listen to me. You have to hang on,” she said, her voice suddenly urgent. “Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let go. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me, Royce Melborn? You have to hang on, Royce. Please…give me your hand. Give me your hand!”

He squeezed her hand tighter. “I’m here, Gwen. I have you. I’m not letting go. I’ll never let go.”

“Promise me. You must promise. Please, Royce.”

“I promise,” he told her.

“I love you, Royce. Don’t forget…Don’t let go…”

“I love you.”

“Don’t…let…”

Her body hitched again. She struggled to breathe, stiffened in his arms, and then slowly…gradually…fell limp. Her head tilted backward. Clutching her tightly to his chest, he kissed her face. Gwen was gone and Royce was alone.

***

Amilia, Breckton, Hadrian, and Arista led thirty horsemen to the gates of Colnora. The cavalry detachment was selected from the Northern Imperial Army and included Breckton’s best soldiers. Most of them had been at the siege of Drondil Fields only weeks before. These were not the sons of counts and dukes. They did not wear elaborately decorated armor of full plate. They were grim, battle-hardened men who honed their skills on bloody fields.

In the wake of Modina’s abduction, Amilia found herself in the surreal position of imperial steward. The former scullery maid now ruled the Empire. She tried not to think about it. Unlike Modina, she was not descended from Novron and held no pedigree to protect her. And she had no idea how long she had before her power, her station, and perhaps her very life, ended.

She had no idea what to do, but to her great relief, Sir Breckton mobilized his men and vowed to find the empress. When Sir Hadrian and Arista volunteered to join them, Amilia decided to ride as well. She could not sit in the palace. She did not know how to administrate, so she left Nimbus in charge until her return. If she could not find Modina, there might be no point in returning at all. They had to find her.

“Open the gate!” Sir Breckton shouted toward the watchtower that sat atop the wall in Colnora.

“City gate opens at dawn,” someone replied from above.

“I am Sir Breckton, Commander of the Imperial Hosts, on a mission of grave importance to Her Eminence. I demand that you open at once!”

“And I am the gatekeeper with strict orders to keep this gate sealed between dusk and dawn. Come back at first light.”

“What are we going to do?” Amilia asked as panic threatened to consume her. The absurdity of the situation was overwhelming. The empress’s life was at stake, and they were at the mercy of a foolish man and a wooden gate.

Breckton dismounted. “We can lash tree branches together to make ladders and go over the walls. Or we can build a ram—”

“We don’t have time for that,” Hadrian interrupted. “The full moon’s high. Royce is doing the exchange at the Langdon Bridge. We have to get inside and down to that bridge—now!”

“This is all your fault!” Amilia burst out and shook with fury. “You and your friend. First you attempt to kill Sir Breckton, and now he’s taken Modina.”

Breckton reached up and took her hand. “Although he had the power to do so, Sir Hadrian did not kill me. He is not responsible for the actions of his associate. He is trying to help.”

Amilia wiped tears from her eyes and nodded. She did not know what to do. She was no general. She was just a stupid peasant girl who the nobility would soon execute. Everything was so hopeless. The only one who did not seem upset was Arista.

The princess was humming.

Already off her horse, she stood with her eyes closed and her hands outstretched. Her fingers moved delicately through the air and a low vibration echoed from deep in her throat. The sound was not a tune or a song of any kind. There was no discernable melody, and as Arista’s voice grew louder, the air seemed to grow thick and heavy. Then there was another hum. An echo resonated from the gate. The wooden beams moved like a man quivering in the cold. They cracked and buckled. The great hinges rattled, and bits of stone fractured where they met the walls. Arista stopped humming. The gate ceased its trembling. Then, in one burst of voice, she uttered an unrecognizable word, and the gate exploded in flying bits of splintered wood and scattered snow.

***

Modina tested the ropes on her wrists, but the movement only caused them to bite deeper. Merrick Marius and two men she did not know had dragged her off the bridge and into a nearby warehouse. Saldur was allowed to walk freely. The building was cavernous, abandoned, and in need of repair. Broken windows let in snow, which drifted across the bare floorboards. Torn sacks and broken glass littered the floor.

“Excellent, my boy. Excellent.” Saldur addressed Merrick Marius as another man cut his hands free. “I will honor my offer to reward you handsomely. You will—”

“Shut up!” Merrick ordered harshly. “Get them both upstairs.”

One of the men threw Modina over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carried her up the steps.

“I don’t understand,” Saldur said, even as the other stranger steered him upstairs, too.

“This isn’t over,” Merrick replied. “DeLancy is dead. You have no idea what that means. The scales are balanced. The demon is unleashed.”

He said more, but his voice faded as she was carried up several flights. The man carrying Modina dropped her in an empty room on the third floor. He pulled a wad of twine from his pocket and bound her ankles tight. When he was done, he moved to the broken window and peered out.

Moonlight fell across his face. He was a short, husky brute with a rough beard and flat nose. He wore a dark cowl over a coarse woolen garnache, but Modina’s eyes were focused on the leather girdle from which two long daggers hung. He crouched on one knee, looking at the street below.

“Be very quiet, miss,” he murmured, “or I’ll have to slit your throat.”

***

With trembling hands, Royce laid Gwen’s lifeless body near the side of the bridge. He closed her eyes and kissed her lips one last time. Folding her arms gently across her chest, he covered her as best he could with the rough, oversized cloak as if putting her to bed. He could not bring himself to cover her face and stared at it for a long while, noting the smile she wore even in death.

Turning from her, he got up and, without conscious thought, found himself crossing the bridge.

“Stop right there, Royce!” Merrick shouted when he had reached the far side.

From the sound and angle of his voice, Royce knew Merrick was on the second floor of the warehouse.

“All of the lower doors and windows are sealed. I have a man with a dagger to the empress’s throat.”

Royce ignored him. He deftly climbed up the closest lamppost, shattered the lantern, and snuffed out the flame. He repeated this twice more, darkening the area.

“I mean it, Royce,” Merrick shouted again. The tinge of panic in his voice betrayed that his old partner could no longer see him. “Don’t make the mistake of killing another innocent woman tonight.”

Royce tore the bottom of his cloak and soaked the scrap in the lamppost reservoir. Then he walked to the warehouse.

“You can’t get to me without killing her!” Merrick shouted again. “Get back where I can see you.”

Royce began coating the base of the walls with oil.

“Damn it, Royce. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill her. It wasn’t me.”

Royce struck a light, catching the oiled cloth on fire and pushed it under the door. The wood was old and dry, and the flames hungrily took hold. The brisk winter wind did its part, spreading flames to the clapboard sides.

“What are you doing?” asked Saldur’s voice, rising in terror. “Marius, do something. Threaten to cut Modina’s throat if he doesn’t—”

“I did, you idiot! He doesn’t care about the empress. He’s going to kill us all!” Marius shouted.

The flames spread quickly. Royce went back for more oil to lure the fire across the timbers. The exterior of the storehouse blazed, and sheets of flame raced upward. Royce stepped back and watched the building burn. He felt the heat on his face as the flaming building lit up the street.

Shouts came from inside, fighting to be heard over the crackling of the fire. Royce waited, watching the cloverleaf insignia burn away.

It was not long before the first man jumped from a second-story window. He managed to land well enough, but Royce was on him in an instant. Alverstone flickered in the firelight. The man screamed, but Royce was in no hurry and took his time. He cut the tendons of the man’s legs, making it impossible for him to run. Then, sitting on his chest, he severed the man’s fingers. It had been a long time since Royce had used Alverstone to dismember someone. He marveled at how well the white dagger cut through the toughest cartilage and even through bone. Royce left the first man to bleed when he noticed another one jump. This one came from a third-story window. He landed awkwardly, and Royce heard a bone break.

“No!” the man cried, struggling to crawl away as Royce’s dark form flew toward him. The man scraped desperately at the snow. Once more, Royce was slow and methodical. The man howled with each cut. When he stopped moving, Royce removed his heart. He stood up, drenched in blood, his right arm soaked to the elbow, and threw the organ through the window the man had leapt from.

“You’re next, Saldur,” he taunted. “I can’t wait to see if you actually have one or not.”

There was no response.

Out of the corner of his eye, Royce saw a dark figure moving from the back of the building. Merrick was barely noticeable as he slipped through the dancing shadows. Royce guessed he was planning to hide on the lip under the Langdon Bridge, which the Black Diamond used to ambush targets. Royce left Saldur to burn. The fire completely engulfed the second floor. It would just be a matter of time. The only way out was for the regent to jump, and a man his age would fare poorly in a three-story drop to frozen ground.

Royce chased after Merrick, who abandoned stealth to make an open run for it. Royce caught up quickly, and Merrick gave up near the middle of the bridge. He turned, his dagger drawn, his face covered in sweat and soot.

“I didn’t kill her,” he shouted.

Royce did not respond. He rapidly closed the remaining distance and attacked. The white dagger lashed out like a snake. Merrick dodged. He avoided the first swipe but Royce caught him on the return stroke, slicing across his chest.

“Listen to me,” Merrick said, still trying to back away. “Why would I kill her? You know me! Don’t you think I knew she was my protection? Have you ever seen me do anything as stupid as that? Just ask yourself—why would I do such a thing? What would I gain? Think, Royce, think. What reason would I have to kill her?”

“The same reason that I’m going to kill you—revenge.”

Royce lunged. Merrick tried to move, but he was too slow. He would have died instantly if Royce had aimed for his heart or throat. Instead, Alverstone caught Merrick in the right shoulder.

It plunged deep and Merrick dropped his weapon.

“IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!” Merrick screamed at him. “This has nothing to do with Jade. If I wanted revenge, I could have killed you years ago. I only wanted Saldur and the empress. I was never going to hurt her. We’ve made our peace with one another, Royce. I was serious about that offer to work together again. We are not enemies. Don’t make the same mistake I did. You were set up when Jade died, but I couldn’t see that—I didn’t want to. Now someone is doing the same thing to me. I’ve been set up, don’t you see? Just like you were. Use your brain! If I had a bow, would I have let you burn the warehouse? It wasn’t me. It was someone else!”

Royce made a show of looking around. “Funny, I don’t see anyone else here.”

He pounced again. Merrick retreated and his heel hit the short curb of the bridge.

“You’re running out of room.”

“Damn it Royce, you have to believe me. I would never kill Gwen. I swear to you—I didn’t do it!”

“I believe you,” Royce said. “I just don’t care.”

With one final thrust, he stabbed Alverstone into Merrick’s chest.

Merrick toppled backward. He reached out for the only thing he could grab, and together he and Royce fell over the edge.

***

When the gate had burst open, Hadrian did not wait for the others. Instead, he spurred his horse and raced toward the river. Malevolent slipped on the snow and nearly fell as he rounded the corner to Landon Bridge. On the far side, the warehouse burned like a giant pyre. The street lamps on that side of the bridge were dark. On his side, the iron swans, dusted with snow, flickered with an eerie orange light. The tall lampposts cast wavering shadows—thin, dark, dancing spears that fluttered and jabbed.

Hadrian saw her lying near the side of the bridge.

“Oh, dear Maribor, no!” He ran to Gwen’s side. Flakes of snow gathered on her closed eyes and clung to her dark lashes. He put his head to her chest. There was no heartbeat—she was dead.

“IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!” Hadrian heard someone cry out. Looking down the bridge, he saw them at the very apex of the span. Royce had Merrick backed up along the edge. Merrick was hurt, unarmed, and screaming. Jumping to his feet, Hadrian sprinted forward, his boots slipping on the slick snow. From only a few strides away, Hadrian saw Royce stab Merrick and watched as both of them tumbled over the side.

He slid, caught himself against the lip, and looked over. His heart pounded in his chest. Far below, the churning water of the Bernum River revealed itself as a dark line broken by moonlit explosions where water crashed against rocks. He saw something dark still falling. A moment later, it hit the surface with a brief flash of white.

***

Arista flexed her fingers and climbed back on her horse. Breckton remounted as well and rode forward to speak with the shouting gate guards. Hadrian had already disappeared into the twisting streets.

No one mentioned anything about the exploding gate.

Without Hadrian to guide them, Sir Breckton led the detachment through Colnora. They crossed the Bernum using the Warpole Bridge and were midway across when they saw the warehouse ablaze near a bridge farther down the river, signaling their destination. Rather than backtrack, Breckton continued across the Warpole and arrived at the Langdon Bridge on the warehouse side, causing them to pass in front of the monstrous blaze.

The building was an inferno. The burning hulk mesmerized Arista. Huge spirals of flames reached to the sky. All four stories were on fire. The north wall blistered and snapped. The east wall curled and partially collapsed, releasing a burst of sparks and a rain of burning debris that hissed when it struck snow. White smoke billowed out from shattered windows and a nearby oak tree blazed, its naked limbs turned into a giant torch.

Arista heard a woman cry out.

“That’s Modina!” Amilia shrieked, pulling back so hard on her horse’s reins that the beast shook its head and backed up a step. “SHE’S INSIDE!”

Sir Breckton and several of his men dismounted and rushed to the doorway. They broke down the bolted door, but the heat forced them back. Breckton pulled his cloak over his head and started to enter.

“Stop!” Arista shouted as she slid from her horse.

The knight hesitated.

“You’ll die before you reach her. I’ll go.”

“But—” Breckton started to say then stopped. Rubbing his jaw, he looked at the fire and then back at Arista. “Can you save her?”

Arista shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before, but I stand a better chance than you do. Just keep everyone else back.”

She pulled the sleeves of Esrahaddon’s robe over her hands and the hood up around her head and then approached the crumbling warehouse. Realizing she could sense the fire’s movements was exhilarating. The blaze moved and acted like a living thing. It withered, snapped, and fed on the old wood like a ravenous beast. It was hungry, starved for nourishment, a never ending want, boundless greed. Approaching the inferno, she sensed it noticing her, and the fire regarded Arista with desire.

No, she told it. Eat the wood. Ignore me.

The fire hissed.

Leave me alone or I will snuff you out.

Arista knew she could conjure a rainstorm, or even a whirlwind, but rain would take too long, and wind would collapse the fragile building. Perhaps there was a way to eliminate the fire altogether, but she was not certain how to go about it and Modina could not wait for her to figure it out.

The fire snapped. She felt its elemental eye turn away and Arista entered the blackened doorway. She walked into an inferno of smoke and fire. Everything around her was burning. Hot currents of air whipped and gusted, blasting through the building’s interior. She moved through a raging river of smoky air that parted around her.

After finding the scorched wooden stairs, she carefully began to climb. Beneath her feet the planks fractured, splintered, and popped. With the protection of Esrahaddon’s robe, she felt warmth but nothing more. Breathing through the material, Arista found fresh, cool air.

“Thanks Esra,” she muttered, pushing forward into the thick, surging smoke.

She heard a muffled cry from above and climbed. On the third floor, she found Modina. The empress was in the center of a small room, hands and feet bound. The fire was busy enjoying the older, drier timber of the main brace on the far side of the room and ignored the greener floorboards where Modina lay. Running along the rafters it ate into the supporting beams with wolfish delight.

“Not much time,” the princess said, glancing up. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Modina answered.

Arista cursed herself for not wearing a dagger as her fingers struggled to untie the empress’s hands. Once loose, they worked to free her feet.

Modina coughed and gagged. Arista removed the robe. Instantly the intense heat slammed into her. She wrapped the garment over their shoulders like a blanket and held one of the sleeves to her mouth.

“Breathe through the robe,” she told Modina over the roaring blaze.

The two women moved down the stairs together. Arista kept her focus on the fire’s intentions and warned it away when it came too close. A timber cracked overhead and crashed with the sound of thunder. The building shuddered with the blow. A step snapped under Arista, and Modina pulled her forward in time to save the princess from a two-story fall.

“We can thank the dungeon for you not weighing much,” Modina said through the sleeve pressed against her mouth.

They reached the ground floor and raced out together. The moment Modina emerged, Amilia threw her arms around her.

“There’s someone else up there,” Sir Breckton announced. “In that upper window near the end.”

“Help!” Saldur cried. “Someone help me!”

A few looked to Arista, but she made no move to re-enter the building.

“HELP ME!” he screamed.

Arista stepped back to get a better view. The old man was in tears. His face transfigured with horror.

“Arista!” he pleaded, spotting her. “In the name of Novron…help me child.”

“It’s a shame,” she shouted back, her voice rising above the roar of the fire, “that Hilfred isn’t here to save you.”

There was another loud crack and Saldur’s eyes filled with panic. He grabbed the windowsill and clung to it as the floor gave way beneath him. With a final scream, his fingers slipped and Maurice Saldur, former Bishop of the Nyphron Church, co-regent and architect of the New Empire, vanished from view into the inferno.

***

Hadrian was bent over the bridge’s edge, looking over the side. His eyes fixated on the spot far below where the body hit the river. A gust of wind revealed a familiar cloak that flapped out from below the skirt of the bridge.

His heart beat faster as he spotted four fingers clinging to a hidden lip that ran beneath the span. He hurriedly wrapped his feet around a lamppost and lowered himself farther. Royce was there, just out of reach. His partner’s left hand held the underside of the Langdon, his feet dangling free.

“Royce!” Hadrian called.

His partner did not look up.

“Royce—damn you, look at me!”

Royce continued to stare down into the foaming waters as the wind whipped his black cape like the broken wings of a bird.

“Royce, I can’t reach you,” Hadrian shouted, extending his arm toward his friend. “You have to help me. You need to reach with your other hand so I can pull you up.”

There was a pause.

“Merrick is dead,” Royce said softly.

“I know.”

“Gwen is dead.”

Hadrian paused, “Yes.”

“I—I burned Modina alive.”

“Royce, goddamn it! That doesn’t matter. Please, look at me.”

Slowly, Royce tilted his head up. His hood fell away and tears streaked his cheeks. He refused to meet Hadrian’s eyes.

“DON’T DO IT!” Hadrian yelled.

“I—I don’t have anything left,” Royce muttered, his words almost stolen by the wind. “I don’t—”

“Royce, listen to me. You have to hang on. Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let go. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me, Royce Melborn? You have to hang on, Royce. Please…Give me your hand. Give me your hand!”

Royce’s head snapped up. He focused on Hadrian and there was a curious look in his eyes. “What—What did you say?”

“I said I can’t reach you. I need your help.”

Hadrian extended his arm farther.

Royce sheathed Alverstone and swung his body. The momentum thrust his right hand upward. Hadrian grabbed it and lifted.

THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

If you enjoyed this novel, you will be happy to learn that…

Wintertide is the fifth in a six-book series entitled The Riyria Revelations. This saga is neither a string of sequels nor a lengthy work unnaturally divided. Instead, The Riyria Revelations was conceived as a single epic tale told through six individual episodes. While a book might hint at building mysteries or thickening plots, these threads are not essential to reach a satisfying conclusion to the current episode—which has its own beginning, middle, and end.

Eschewing the recent trends in fantasy toward the lengthy, gritty, and dark, The Riyria Revelations brings the genre back to its roots. Avoiding unnecessarily complicated language and world building for its own sake, this series is a distillation of the best elements of traditional fantasy—great characters, a complex plot, humor, and drama all in appropriate measures.

While written for an adult audience, The Riyria Revelations lacks sex, gratuitous violence, and profanity, making it appropriate for readers thirteen and older.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Detroit, Michigan, Michael J. Sullivan was raised in Novi. He has also lived in Vermont, North Carolina, and Virginia. He worked as a commercial artist and illustrator, founding his own advertising agency in 1996, which he closed in 2005 to pursue writing fulltime. His first published novel, The Crown Conspiracy, was released in October 2008 and sold out its first printing in December 2009. He currently resides in Fairfax, Virginia, with his wife and three children.

WEBSITES

Author’s Homepage: www.michaelsullivan-author.com
Author’s Blog: www.riyria.blogspot.com

CONTACT

Twitter: @author_sullivan
Email: michael.sullivan.dc@gmail.com

BOOKS IN THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

The Crown Conspiracy
Avempartha
Nyphron Rising
The Emerald Storm
Wintertide
Percepliquis*

*Coming in April 2011

AWARDS FOR THE RIYRIA REVELATION BOOKS

THE CROWN CONSPIRACY

2009 Dark Wolf Award for Top 10 Fantasy Books
2009 National Indie Excellence Award Finalist
2008 ReaderViews Literary Award Finalist
2007 Foreword Magazine Book of the Year Finalist

AVEMPARTHA

2009 Winner Book Spot Central Tournament of Books
2009 Dark Wolf Award for Top 10 Fantasy Books
2010 Foreword Magazine Book of the Year Finalist

NYPHRON RISING

2010 Foreword Magazine Book of the Year Finalist
2009 Dark Wolf Award for Top 10 Fantasy Books

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Aquesta

Chapter 2: Into Darkness

Chapter 3: Sir Breckton

Chapter 4: Wedding Plans

Chapter 5: Footprints in the Snow

Chapter 6: The Palace

Chapter 7: Deeper into Darkness

Chapter 8: Sir Hadrian

Chapter 9: Winds Abbey

Chapter 10: The Feast of Nobles

Chapter 11: Knightly Virtue

Chapter 12: A Question of Succession

Chapter 13: The House on Heath Street

Chapter 14: Tournament Day

Chapter 15: The Hunt

Chapter 16: Trials by Combat

Chapter 17: The Final Darkness

Chapter 18: Wintertide

Chapter 19: New Beginnings

Chapter 20: The Queen’s Gambit Accepted

Chapter 21: Langdon Bridge