Wintertide

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “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 grip
ped 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—”