Wintertide

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “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

&nb
sp; 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.