“And he’s riding against Sir Breckton tomorrow for the championship,” Ibis reminded her.
“That’s right!” She gasped, raising a hand to her lips. “Have you ever been unseated?”
Hadrian shrugged self-consciously. “Not since I’ve been a knight.”
“Oh, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—I just wondered if it hurt terribly. I guess it can’t feel good. Even with all that armor and padding, being driven from a galloping horse by a pole must not be pleasant.” Her eyes grew troubled. “But all the other knights are fine, aren’t they? I saw Sir Murthas and Sir Elgar on the hawking just today. They were trotting and laughing, so I’m certain everything will be all right no matter who wins.
“I know tomorrow is the final tilt and winning the tournament is a great honor. I understand the desire to prove yourself to those who look down on you. But I ask you to consider that Sir Breckton is a good man—a very good man. He would never hurt you if he could help it. I hope you feel the same.” She struggled to smile at Hadrian.
He put down the bread he was eating as a sickening sensation churned his stomach. Hadrian had to stop eating in the kitchen.
***
The acrobats rapidly assembled their human pyramid. Vaulting one at a time into the air, they somersaulted before landing feetfirst on the shoulders of the one below. One after another they flew, continuing to build the formation until the final man reached up and touched the ceiling of the Great Hall. Despite the danger involved in the exciting performance, Amilia was not watching. She had seen the act before at the audition and rehearsals. Her eyes were on the audience. As Wintertide neared, the entertainment at each feast became grander and more extravagant.
Amilia held her breath until the hall erupted in applause.
They liked it!
Looking for Viscount Winslow, she spotted him clapping, his hands above his head. The two exchanged wide grins.
“I thought I would die from stress toward the end,” Nimbus whispered from the seat next to Amilia. The bruises on the tutor’s face were mostly gone and the annoying whistling sound had finally left his nose.
“Yes, that was indeed excellent,” said King Roswort of Dunmore.
At each feast, Nimbus always sat to Amilia’s left and the queen and king sat to her right.
King Roswort was huge. He made the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle appear petite. His squat, portly build was mimicked—in miniature—in his face, which sagged under its own weight. Amilia imagined that even if he were thin, King Roswort would still sag like an old riding horse. His wife Freda, while no reed herself, was thin by comparison. She was dry and brittle both in looks and manner. The couple was thankfully quiet most of the time, at least until their third glass of wine. Amilia lost count that evening but assumed number three had arrived and perhaps already gone.
“Are the acrobats friends of yours?” the king asked, leaning around his wife to speak to Amilia.
“Mine? No, I merely hired them,” she said.
“Friends of friends, then?”
She shook her head.
“But you know them?” the king pressed further.
“I met them for the first time at the auditions.”
“Rossie,” Freda said. “She’s clearly trying to distance herself from them now that the doors of nobility are open to her. You can’t blame her for that. Anyone would abandon the wretches. Leave them in the street. That’s where they belong.”
“But I—” Amilia began before the king cut her off.
“But, my queen, many are rising in rank. Some street merchants are as wealthy as nobles now.”
“Terrible state of affairs,” Freda snarled through thin, red-painted lips. “A title isn’t what it used to be.”
“I agree, my queen. Why, some knights have no lineage at all to speak of. They are no better than peasants with swords. All anyone needs these days is money to buy armor and a horse, and there you have it—presto—a noble. Commoners are even learning to read. Can you read, Lady Amilia?”
“Actually, I can.”
“See!” The king threw his hands up. “Of course, you are in the nobility now, but I assume you learned letters before that? It’s a travesty. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”
“At least the situation with the elves has improved,” his wife put in. “You have to give Ethelred credit for reducing their numbers. Our efforts to deal with them in Dunmore have met with little success.”
“Deal with them?” Amilia asked, but the monarchs continued under their own momentum.
“If they had any intelligence, they would leave on their own. How much plainer can it be that they are not welcome,” the king said. “The guilds prohibit them from membership in any business, they can’t obtain citizenship in any city, and the church declared them unclean enemies of Novron ages ago. Even the peasants are free to take measures against them. Still, they don’t take the hint. They keep breeding and filling up slums. Hundreds die each year in church-sanctioned Cleansing Days, but they persist. Why not move on? Why not go elsewhere?”
As the king ran out of breath, the queen took over. “They are like rats, festering in every crack. Living among their kind is a curse. It’s what brought down the first empire, you know. Even keeping them as slaves was a mistake. And mark my words, if we don’t get rid of them all, so that not a single elf walks a civilized street or country lane, this Empire will fall to the same ruin.”
“True, true, the old emperors were too soft. They thought that they could fix them—”
“Fix them!” Freda erupted. “What a ridiculous notion. You can’t fix a plague. You can only run from it or wipe it out.”
“I know, darling, I agree with you wholeheartedly. We have a second chance now, and Ethelred is off to a good start.”
Realizing that the king and queen ran through a conversation as familiar and comfortable to them as a pair of well-worn shoes, Amilia nodded politely without really listening. She had seen elves only once in her life. When she was still living in Tarin Vale, three of them came to the village—a family—if they had such notions of kinship. Apparently content to dress in rags, they were dirty and carried small, stained bundles, which Amilia guessed were all they had. They were so thin they looked sick and walked with their heads bowed and shoulders slumped.
Children had called the elves names and villagers threw stones and shouted for them to leave. A rock struck the female’s head and she cried out. Amilia did not throw any rocks, but she watched as the family was bruised and bloodied before they fled from town. At the time, she did not understand how they could be a threat. The monk who had been teaching her letters explained elves were responsible for the downfall of the Empire. They had seemed helpless, and Amilia could not help feeling sorry for them.
Roswort concluded his tirade by accusing the elves of being responsible for the drought two years before, and Amilia caught Nimbus rolling his eyes.
“You don’t share their opinions?” she whispered.
“It’s not my place to counter the words of a king, milady,” the courtier responded politely.
“True, but I sometimes wonder just what goes on under that wig of yours. Something tells me there’s more than just courtly etiquette rattling around.”
Off to Amilia’s right, Roswort and Freda had moved on. “…dwarves aren’t much better, but at least they have skills,” the king was saying. “Fine stonemasons and jewelers, I’ll give them that, but niggardly as an autumn squirrel facing an early snow, the entire lot of them. They can’t be trusted. Any one of them would slit your throat to steal two copper tenents. They stick to their own kind and whisper their outlawed language. Living with dwarves is like trying to domesticate a wild animal, can’t ever truly be done.”
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 em
press 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 anothe
r 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.
Wintertide: Book Five: the Riyria Revlations Page 20