Wintertide

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “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.

  Fin
ally, 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.