Lady Genevieve tugged on Amilia's sleeve and pointed. "Oh, see there. They are bringing out the blue-and-gold flag. Those are Sir Breckton's colors. He's up next. Yes, yes here he comes and see-see on his arm. He wears your token. How exciting! The other ladies-they're positively drooling. Oh, don't look now, dear, they're all staring at you. If eyes were daggers and glares lethal…" She trailed off, as if Amilia should know the rest. "They all see your conquest, my darling, and hate you. How wonderful."
"Is it?" Amilia asked, noticing how many of the other ladies were staring at her. She bowed her head and kept her eyes focused on her lap. "I don't want to be hated."
"Nonsense. Knights aren't the only ones who tilt at these tournaments. Everyone comes to this field as a competitor, and there can only be one victor. The only difference is that the knights spar in the daylight, and the ladies compete by candlelight. Clearly, you won your first round, but now we must see if your conquest was a wise one, as your victory remains locked with his prowess. Breckton is riding against Gilbert. This should be a close challenge. Gilbert actually killed a man a few years ago. It was an accident, of course, but it still gives him an edge over his opponents. Although, rumor has it that he hurt his leg two nights back, so we shall see."
"Killed?" Amilia felt her stomach tighten as the trumpet blared and the flag flew.
Hooves shook the ground, and her heart raced as panic flooded her. She shut her eyes before the impact.
Crack!
The crowd roared.
Opening her eyes, she saw Gilbert still mounted but reeling. Sir Breckton trotted back to his gate unharmed.
"That's one lance for Breckton," Leo mentioned to no one in particular.
The duke sat on the far side of Genevieve, appearing more animated than Amilia had yet seen him. The duchess ran on for hours, talking about everything and anything, but Leopold almost never spoke. When he did, it was so softly that Amilia thought his words were directed to Maribor alone.
Nimbus sat to Amilia's right, frequently glancing at her. He looked tense and she loved him for it.
"That Gilbert. Look at the way they are propping him up," the duchess prattled on. "He really shouldn't ride again. Oh, but he's taking the lance-how brave of him."
"He needs to get the tip up," Leopold noted.
"Oh, yes, Leo. You are right as always. He doesn't have the strength. And look at Breckton waiting patiently. Do you see the way the sun shines off his armor? He doesn't normally clean it. He's a warrior, not a tournament knight, but he went to the metal smith and ordered it polished so that the wind itself could see its face within the gleam. Now why do you suppose a man who hasn't combed his hair in months does such a thing?"
Amilia felt terrified, embarrassed, and happy beyond what she believed to be the bounds of emotion.
The trumpet blared, and again the horses charged.
A lance cracked, Gilbert fell, and once again Breckton emerged untouched. The crowd cheered, and to Amilia's surprise, she found herself on her feet along with the rest. She had a smile on her face that she could not wipe away.
Breckton made certain Gilbert was all right then trotted over to the stands and stopped in front of Amilia's seat in the nobles' box. He tossed aside his broken lance, pulled off his helm, rose in his stirrups, and bowed to her. Without thinking, she walked down the steps toward the railing. As she stepped out from under the canopy into the sun, the cheers grew louder, especially from the commoners' side of the field.
"For you, My Lady," Sir Breckton told her.
He made a sound to his horse, which also bowed, and once more the crowd roared. Her heart was light, her mind empty, and her whole life invisible except for that one moment in the sun. Feeling Nimbus's hand on her arm, she turned and saw Saldur scowling from the stands.
"It's not wise to linger in the sun too long, milady," Nimbus warned. "You might get burned."
The expression on Saldur's face dragged Amilia back to reality. She returned to her seat, noticing the venomous glares from the nobles around her.
"My dear," the duchess said in an uncharacteristic whisper, "for someone who doesn't know how to play the game, you are as remarkable as Sir Hadrian today."
Amilia sat quietly through the few remaining tilts, which she hardly noticed. When the day's competition had ended, they exited the stands. Nimbus led the way and the duchess walked beside her, holding on to Amilia's arm.
"You will be coming with us to the hunt on the Eve's Eve, won't you, Amilia dear?" Lady Genevieve asked as they walked across the field to the waiting carriages. "You simply must. I'll have Lois work all week on a dazzling white gown and matching winter cape, so you'll have something new. Where can we find snow-white fur for the hood?" She paused a moment then waved the thought away. "Oh well, I'll let her work that out. See you then. Ta-ta!" She blew Amilia a kiss as the ducal carriage left.
The boy was just standing there.
He waited on the far side of the street, revealed when the duke and duchess's coach pulled away. A filthy little thing, he stared at Amilia, looking both terrified and determined. In his arms he held a soiled bag. He caught her eye and with a stern resolve slipped through the fence.
"Mi-milady Ami-" was all he got out before a soldier grabbed him roughly and shoved him flat. The boy cowered in the snow, looking desperate. "Lady, please, I-"
The guard kicked him hard in the stomach and the boy crumpled around his foot. His eyes squeezed shut in pain as another soldier kicked him in the back.
"Stop it!" Amilia shouted. "Leave him alone!"
The guards paused, confused.
On the ground, the boy struggled to breathe.
"Help him up!" She took a step toward the child, but Nimbus caught her by the arm.
"Perhaps not here, milady." His eyes indicated the crowd around the line of carriages who were straining to see what the commotion was about. "You've already annoyed Regent Saldur once today."
She paused then glanced at the boy. "Put him in my carriage," she instructed the guards.
They lifted the lad and shoved him forward. He dropped his bundle and pulled free in time to grab it before scurrying into the coach. Amilia glanced at Nimbus, who shrugged. The two followed the youth inside.
The boy cowered on the seat across from Amilia and Nimbus, a look of horror on his face.
The courtier eyed the lad critically. "I'd have to say he's ten, no more than twelve. An orphan, certainly, and nearly feral by the look of him. What do you suppose he has in the bag? A dead rat?"
"Oh, stop it, Nimbus," Amilia rebuked. "Of course it's not; it's probably just his lunch."
"Exactly," the tutor agreed.
Amilia glared. "Hush, you're frightening him."
"Me? He's the one who came at us with the moldy bag of mystery."
"Are you all right?" Amilia asked the boy softly.
He managed a nod but just barely. His eyes kept darting around the interior of the carriage but always came back to Amilia as if mesmerized.
"I'm sorry about the guards. That was awful, the way they treated you. Nimbus, do you have some coppers? Anything we could give him?"
The courtier looked helpless. "I'm sorry my lady. I'm not in the habit of carrying coin."
Disappointed, Amilia sighed and then tried to put on a happy face. "What was it you wanted to say to me?" she asked.
The boy wetted his lips. "I-I have something to give to the empress." He looked down at the package he clutched.
"What is it?" Amilia tried not to cringe at the possibilities.
"I heard…well…they said she couldn't be at the tournament today because she was sick and all. That's when I knew I had to get this to her." He patted the bundle.
"Get what to her? What do you have?"
"Something that can heal her."
"Oh, dear. It is a dead rat, isn't it?" Nimbus shivered in disgust.
The boy pulled the bag open and drew out a folded shimmering robe unlike anything Amilia had ever seen. "It saved the
life of my best friend-healed him overnight, it did. It's…it's magical, it is!"
"A religious relic?" Nimbus ventured.
Amilia smiled at the boy. "What's your name?"
"They call me Mince, milady. I can't say what my real name is, but Mince works well enough, it does."
"Well, Mince, this is a generous gift. This looks very expensive. Don't you think you should keep it? It's certainly better than what you're wearing."
Mince shook his head. "I think it wants me to give it to the empress-to help her."
"It wants?" she asked.
"It's kind of hard to explain."
"Such things usually are," the courtier said.
"So, can you give this to her?"
"Perhaps you should let him present it," Nimbus suggested to Amilia.
"Are you serious?" she replied.
"You wanted to atone for the misdeeds of the guards, didn't you? For the likes of him, meeting the empress will more than make up for a few bruises. Besides, he's just a boy. No one will care."
Amilia thought a moment, staring at the wide-eyed child. "What do you think, Mince? Would you like to give it to the empress yourself?"
The boy looked as if he might faint.
***
Modina had found a mouse in her chamber three months ago. When she lit the lamp, it froze in panic in the middle of the room. Picking it up, she felt its little chest heave as it panted for breath. The dark, tiny eyes looked back at her, clearly terrified. Modina thought it might die of fright. Even after she set it down, it still did not move. Only after the light had been out for several minutes did she hear it scurry away. The mouse had never returned-until now.
He was not that mouse, but the boy looked just the same. He lacked the fur, tail, and whiskers, but the eyes were unmistakable. He stood fearfully still, the only movement the result of his heaving chest and trembling body.
"Did you say his name was Mouse?"
"Mince, I think he said," Amilia corrected. "It is, Mince, isn't it?"
The boy said nothing, clutching the bag to his chest.
"I found him at the tournament. He wants to give you a gift. Go on, Mince."
Instead of speaking, Mince abruptly thrust the bag out with both hands.
"He wanted to give this to you because Saldur announced that you were too sick to attend the tournament. He says it has healing powers."
Modina took the bag, opened it, and drew forth the robe. Despite being stuffed in the old, dirty sack, the garment shimmered-not a single wrinkle or stain upon it.
"It's beautiful," she said sincerely as she held it up, watching it play with the light. "It reminds me of someone I once knew. I will cherish it."
Hearing the words, tears formed in the boy's eyes and streaked his dirty cheeks. Falling to his knees, he placed his face on the floor before her.
Puzzled, Modina glanced at Amilia, but the Imperial Secretary only offered a shrug. The empress stared at the boy for a moment and then said to Amilia, "He looks starved."
"Do you want me to take him to the kitchen?"
"No, leave him here. Go have some food sent up."
After Amilia left the room, Modina laid the robe on a chair and then sat on the edge of the bed, watching the boy. He had not moved and remained kneeling with his head still touching the floor. After a few minutes, he looked up but said nothing.
Modina spoke gently, "I'm very good at playing the silent game, too. We can sit here for days not saying a word if you want."
The boy's lips trembled. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then stopped.
"Go ahead. It's okay."
Once he started, the words came out in a flood, as if he felt the need to say everything with a single breath. "I just want ya to get better, that's all. Honest. I brought ya the robe because it saved Kine, see. It healed him overnight, I tell ya. He was dying, and he woulda been dead by morning, for sure. But the robe made him better. Then today, when they said you was too sick to see the tournament, I knew I had to bring ya the robe to make ya better. Ya see?"
"I'm sorry, Mince, but I'm afraid a robe can't heal what's wrong with me."
The boy frowned. "But…it healed Kine and his lips were blue."
Modina walked over and sat down on the floor in front of him.
"I know you mean well, and it's a wonderful gift, but some things can never be fixed."
"But-"
"No buts. You need to stop worrying about me. Do you understand?"
"Why?"
"You just have to. Will you do that for me?"
The boy looked up and locked eyes with her. "I would do anything for you."
The sincerity and conviction in his voice staggered her.
"I love you," he added.
Those three words shook her and even though she was sitting on the floor, the empress put a hand down to steady herself.
"No," she said. "You can't. You just met-"
"Yes, I do."
Modina shook her head. "No, you don't!" she snapped. "No one does!"
The boy flinched as if struck. He looked back down at the floor and, nevertheless, added in a whisper, "But I do. Everyone does."
The empress stared at him.
"What do you mean-everyone?"
"Everyone," The boy said, puzzled. He gestured toward the window.
"You mean the people in the city?"
"Well, sure them, but not just here. Everywhere. Everyone loves you," the boy repeated. "Folks been coming to the city from all over. I hear them talking. They all come to see ya. All of them saying how the world's gonna be better 'cuz you're here. How they would die for you."
Stunned, Modina stood up slowly.
She turned and walked to the window, where she gazed into the distance-above the roofs to the hills and snow-covered mountains beyond.
"Did I say something wrong?" Mince asked.
She turned back. "No. Not at all. It's just that…" Modina paused. She moved to the mirror and ran her fingertips along the glass. "There are still ten days to Wintertide, right?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Well, because you gave me a gift, I'd like to give you something in return, and it looks like I still have time."
She crossed to the door and opened it. Gerald stood waiting outside as always. "Gerald," she said, "could you please do me a favor?"
Chapter 15
The Hunt "Merry Eve's Eve, Sir Hadrian," a girl said brightly when he poked his head outside his room. She was just one of the giggling chambermaids who had been extending smiles and curtsies to him since the day of the first joust. After his second tilt, pages bowed and guards nodded in his direction. His third win, although as clean as the others, had been the worst, as it brought the attention of every knight and noble in the palace. After each joust, he had his choice of sitting in his dormitory or going to the Great Hall. Preferring to be alone, Hadrian usually chose his room.
That morning, like most days, Hadrian found himself wandering the palace hallways. He had seen Albert from a distance on a few occasions, but neither attempted to speak with the other, and there had been no sign of Royce. Crossing through the Grand Foyer, he paused. The staircase spiraled upward, adorned in fanciful candles and painted wood ornaments. Somewhere four flights up, the girl he had known as Thrace was probably still asleep in her bed. He put his foot on the first step.
"Sir Hadrian?" a man he did not recognize asked. "Great joust yesterday. You really gave Louden a hit he'll not soon forget. I heard the crack even in the high stands. They say Louden will need a new breastplate, and you gave him two broken ribs to boot! What a hit. What a hit, I say. You know, I lost a bundle betting against you the first three jousts, but since then I've won everything back. I'm sticking with you for the final. You've made a believer out of me. Say, where you headed?"
Hadrian quickly drew back his foot. "Nowhere. Just stretching my legs a bit."
"Well, just wanted to tell you to keep up the good work and let you know I'll be rooting for you."
&n
bsp; The man exited the palace through the Grand Entrance, leaving Hadrian at the bottom of the stairs.
What am I going to do, walk into her chambers unannounced? It's been over a year since I spoke with her. Will she hate me for not trying to see her earlier? Will she remember me at all?
He looked up the staircase once more.
It's possible she's all right, isn't it? Just because no one ever sees her doesn't necessarily mean anything, does it?
Modina was the empress. They could not be treating her too badly. When she lived in Dahlgren she had been happy, and that had been a squalid, little village where people were killed nightly by a giant monster.
How much worse can living in a palace be?
He took one last look around and spotted the two shadows leaning casually near the archway to the throne room. With a sigh, Hadrian turned toward the service wing, leaving the stairway behind.
The sun was not fully up, but the kitchen was already bustling. Huge pots billowed clouds of steam so thick that the walls cried tears. Butchers hammered on cutting blocks, shouting orders. Boys ran with buckets, shouting back. Girls scrubbed cutlery, pans, and bowls. The smells were strong and varied. Some were wonderful, such as baked bread, but others were sulfurous and vile. Unlike the rest of the palace, no holiday decoration adorned the walls or tables. Here, behind the scenes, the signs of Wintertide were reduced to cooling trays of candied apples and snowflake-shaped cookies.
Hadrian stepped into the scullery, fascinated by the activity. As soon as he entered, heads turned, work slowed, and then everything came to a stop. The room grew so quiet that the only sounds were the bubbling pots, the crackling fires, and water dripping from a wet ladle. All the staff stared at him as if he had two heads or three arms.
Hadrian took a seat on one of the stools surrounding an open table. The modest area appeared to be the place where the kitchen staff ate their own meals. He tried to look casual and relaxed, but it was impossible with all the attention.
"What's all this now?" boomed a voice belonging to a large, beefy cook with a thick beard and eyes wreathed in cheerful wrinkles. Spotting Hadrian, those eyes narrowed abruptly. He revealed-if only for a moment-that he had another side, the same way a playful dog might suddenly growl at an intruder.
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