Wintertide (26 page)

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.”