Wintertide trr-5

by Michael J. Sullivan

  "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.
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br />   "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 th
at 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.