Wintertide

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Arista tried to turn away, but his wrinkled hands forced her to look at him once again. His expression was not pleased or maniacal. Saldur appeared grim—almost sad.

  “You’ll experience anguish that you never thought possible. Your remaining courage will evaporate into myth and memory. Your mind will abandon you, leaving behind a drooling lump of scarred flesh. Even the guards won’t want you then.”

  Saldur leaned forward until she could feel his breath and feared he might kiss her. “If after all that, you’ve still not given me what I want, I will turn my attention to that pleasant little family who took you in—the Barkers, wasn’t it? I will have them arrested and brought here. The father will watch as his wife takes your place with the guards. Then she will witness her husband and sons drawn and quartered one by one. Imagine what it will do to the woman when she sees her youngest, the one you supposedly saved, die. She will blame you, Arista. That poor woman will curse your name, and rightly so, for it will be your silence that destroyed her life.”

  He gently patted Arista’s burning cheek. “Don’t force me to do it. Tell me the traitor’s name. She is guilty of treason, but the poor Barkers are innocent. They have done nothing. Simply tell me the name of this woman and you can prevent all these horrors.”

  Arista found it difficult to think and fought for breath as she started losing control. Her face throbbed from his blows, and she was sickened by the salty-metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Guilt conjured images of Emery and Hilfred, both of whom had died because of her. She could not bear to add the Barkers’ blood to her hands. To have them suffer for her mistakes.

  “I’ll tell you,” Arista finally said. “But in return I want your assurance nothing will happen to the Barkers.”

  Saldur looked sympathetic, and she could almost see the grandfatherly face from her youth. How he could make such despicable threats and then return to such a kindly expression was beyond her understanding.

  “Of course, my dear, after all, I’m not a monster. Just give me what I want and none of those things will come to pass. Now, tell me…What is her name?”

  Arista hesitated. Saldur lost his smile once again—her time was up. She swallowed and said, “There was someone who hid me, gave me food, and even helped to find Gaunt. She’s been a true friend, so kind and selfless. I can’t believe I am betraying her to you now.”

  “Her name?” Saldur pressed.

  Tears ran from Arista’s eyes as she looked up. “Her name is…is…Edith Mon.”

  Chapter 3

  Sir Breckton

  Archibald Ballentyne, the Earl of Chadwick, stared out the windows of the imperial throne room. Behind him, Saldur shuffled parchments at a table while Ethelred warmed a throne not yet his own. A handful of servants occasionally drifted in and out, as did the Imperial Chancellor who briefly spoke with one regent or the other. No one ever spoke to Archibald or asked for his counsel.

  In just a few short years, Regent Saldur had risen from Bishop of Medford to the architect of the New Empire. Ethelred was about to trade his king’s crown of Warric for the imperial scepter of all Avryn. Even the commoner Merrick Marius managed to secure a noble fief, wealth, and a title.

  What do I have to show for all my contributions? Where is my crown? My wife? My glory?

  The answers Archibald knew all too well. He would wear no crown. Ethelred would wed his wife. And as for his glory, the man who had stolen that was just entering the hall. Archibald heard the boots pounding against the polished marble floor. The sound of the man’s stride was unmistakable—uncompromising, straightforward, brash.

  Turning around, Archibald saw Sir Breckton Belstrad’s floor-length blue cape sweeping behind the knight. Holding his helm in the crook of one arm and wearing a metal breastplate, he looked as if he were just returning from battle. Sir Breckton was tall, his shoulders broad, his chin chiseled. He was a leader of men, victorious in battle, and Archibald hated him.

  “Sir Breckton, welcome to Aquesta,” Ethelred called as the knight crossed the room.

  Breckton ignored him, and Saldur as well, walking directly to Archibald’s side where he stomped dramatically and dropped to one knee. “Your Lordship,” he said.

  “Yes, yes, get up.” The Earl of Chadwick waved a hand at him.

  “As always, I am at your service, My Lord.”

  “Sir Breckton?” Ethelred addressed the knight again.

  Breckton showed no sign of acknowledgement and continued to speak with his liege. “You called, My Lord? What is it you wish of me?”

  “Actually, I summoned you on behalf of Regent Ethelred. He wishes to speak with you.”

  The knight stood. “As you wish, My Lord.”

  Breckton turned and crossed the distance to the throne. His sword slapped against his side and his boots pounded against the stone. He stopped at the base of the steps and offered only a shallow bow.

  Ethelred scowled but only briefly. “Sir Breckton, at long last. I’ve sent summons for you six times over the past several weeks. Have the messages not reached you?”

  “They have, Your Lordship.”

  “But you did not respond,” Ethelred said.

  “No, Your Lordship.”

  “Why?”

  “My Lord, the Earl of Chadwick commanded me to take Melengar. I was following his orders,” Breckton replied.

  “So the crucial demands of battle prevented you from breaking away until now.” Ethelred nodded.

  “No, Your Lordship. Only the fall of Drondil Fields remains and the siege is well tended. Victory is assured and does not require my attention.”

  “Then I don’t understand. Why didn’t you come when I ordered you to appear before me?”

  “I do not serve you, Your Lordship. I serve the Earl of Chadwick.”

  Archibald’s disdain for Breckton did not diminish his delight at seeing Ethelred verbally slapped.

  “May I remind you, sir knight, that I will be emperor in just a few weeks?”

  “You may, Your Lordship.”

  Ethelred looked confused. This brought a smile to Archibald’s face. He enjoyed seeing someone else trying to deal with Breckton and knew exactly how the regent felt. Was Breckton granting Ethelred permission to remind the knight, or had he just insinuated the regent might not be emperor? Either way, the comment was rude yet spoken so plainly and respectfully that it appeared innocent of any ill intent. Breckton was like that—politely confounding and pointedly confusing. He had a way of making Archibald feel stupid, and that was just one of the many reasons he despised the arrogant man.

  “I see this is going to continue to be an issue,” Ethelred said. “It demonstrates the point of this meeting. As emperor, I will require good men to help me reign. You have proven yourself a capable leader, and as such, I want you to serve me directly. I am prepared to offer you the office and title of Grand Marshall of all Imperial Forces. In addition, I’ll grant you the province of Melengar.”

  Archibald staggered. “Melengar is mine! Or will be when it is taken. It was promised to me.”

  “Yes, Archie, but times change. I need a strong man in the north, defending my border.” Ethelred looked at Breckton. “I will appoint you the Marquis of Melengar. All too fitting, given that you were responsible for taking it.”

  “This is outrageous!” Archibald shouted, stomping his foot. “We had a deal. You have the imperial crown and Saldur has the imperial miter. What do I get? What is the reward for all my sweat and sacrifice? Without me, you wouldn’t have Melengar to bestow to anyone!”

  “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Archie,” Saldur said gently. “You must have known we could never entrust such an important realm to you. You are too young, too inexperienced, too…weak.”

  There was silence as Archibald fumed.

  “Well?” Ethelred turned his attention back to Breckton. “Marquis of Melengar? Grand Marshall of the Imperial Host? What say you?”

  Sir Breckton showed no emotion. “I serve the Earl of Chadwick, just
as my father and grandfather before me. It does not appear he wishes this. If there is nothing else, I must return to my charge in Melengar.” Sir Breckton pivoted sharply and strode back to Archibald, where he knelt once more.

  Ethelred stared after him in shock.

  “Don’t leave Aquesta just yet,” Archibald told the knight. “I may have need of you here.”

  “As you wish, My Lord.” Breckton stood and briskly departed.

  The hall was silent as they listened to the knight’s footfalls echo and fade. Ethelred’s face turned scarlet and he clenched his fists. Saldur stared after Breckton with his usual irritated glare.

  “It seems you didn’t take into account the man’s unwavering sense of loyalty when you made your plans,” Archibald railed. “But then how could you, seeing as how you obviously don’t understand the meaning of the word yourself. You should have consulted me first. I would have told you what the result would be. But you couldn’t do that, could you? No, because it was me you were plotting to stab in the back!”

  “Calm down, Archie,” Saldur said.

  “Stop calling me that. My name is Archibald!” Spit flew from his lips. “You’re both so smug and arrogant, but I’m no pawn. One word from me and Breckton will turn his army and march on Aquesta.” The earl pointed toward the still open door. “They’re loyal to him you know—every last one of the miserable cretins. They will do whatever he says, and as you can see, he worships me.”

  He clenched his fists and advanced, maddened that his soft heels did not have the same audible impact as Breckton’s.

  “I could get King Alric to throw his support behind me as well. I could return his precious Melengar in exchange for the rest of Avryn. I could beat you at your own little game. I’d have the Northern Imperial Army in my right hand and what remains of the Royalists in my left. I could crush both of you in less than a month. So don’t tell me to calm down, Sauly! I’ve had it with your condescending tone and your holier-than-thou attitude. You’re as much a worm as Ethelred. You’re both in this together, weaving your webs and plotting against me. You just may have caught your own selves in your sticky trap this time!”

  He headed for the door.

  “Archi—I mean Archibald!” Ethelred called after him.

  The earl did not pause as he swept past Chancellor Biddings, who was just outside the throne room and gave the earl a concerned look. Servants scattered before Archibald as he marched in a fury through the doorway to the inner ward. Bursting into the brilliant sunshine reflected by the courtyard’s snow, he discovered he was unsure where to go from there. After a few moments, Archibald decided that it did not matter. It felt good to just move, to burn off energy, to get away. He considered calling for his horse. A long ride over hard ground seemed like just the thing he needed, but it was cold out. Archibald did not want to end up miles from shelter freezing, tired, and hungry. Instead, he settled for pacing back and forth, creating a shallow trench in the new snow.

  Frustration turned to pleasure as he recalled his little speech. He liked the look it put on both of their faces. They had not expected such a bold response from him. The delight ate up most of the burning anger and the pacing dissipated the rest. Taking a seat on an upturned bucket, he stomped the snow from his boots.

  Would Breckton turn his forces against Aquesta? Could I become the new emperor and have Modina for my own with just a single order?

  The answer formed almost as quickly as the question. The thought was an appealing dream but nothing more. Breckton would never agree and would refuse the order. For all the knight’s loyal bravado, everything that man did was subservient to some inscrutable code.

  The entire House of Belstrad had been that way. Archibald recalled his father complaining about their ethics. The Ballentynes believed that knights should take orders without question in exchange for wealth and power. The Belstrads believed differently. They clung to an outdated ideal that the ruler—appointed by Maribor—must act within His will to earn a knight’s loyalty. Archibald was certain Breckton would not consider civil war to be Maribor’s will. Apparently, nothing Archibald ever really wanted fit that category.

  Still, he had rocked the regents on their heels, and they would treat him better. He would finally have respect now that they realized just how important he was. The regents would have no clue that he could not deliver his threats, so they would try to placate him with a larger prize. In the end, Archibald would have Melengar and perhaps more.

  Chapter 4

  Wedding Plans

  The Duchess of Rochelle was a large woman in more than just girth. Her husband matched her, as they were both rotund people with thick necks, short pudgy fingers, and cheeks that jiggled when they laughed, which in the case of the lady was often and loud. They were like bookends to each other. A male and female version, cut from the same cloth in every way except temperament. While the duke was quiet, Lady Genevieve was anything but.

  Amilia always knew when the duchess was coming, as the lady heralded her own arrival with a trumpet-like voice that echoed through the palace halls. She greeted everyone, regardless of class, with a hearty, “Hullo! How are you?” in her brassy voice that boomed off the dull stone. She would hug servants, guards, and even the huntsman’s hound if he crossed her path.

  Amilia had met the duke and duchess when they first arrived. Saldur was there and had made the mistake of trying to explain why an audience with the empress was not possible. Amilia had been able to excuse herself, but she was certain Saldur had not been so lucky and probably was delayed for hours. Since then, Amilia had been avoiding the duchess, as the woman was not one to take no for an answer, and she did not want to repeat Saldur’s mistake. After three days Amilia’s luck finally ran out, when she was leaving the chapel.

  “Amilia, darling!” the Duchess shouted, rushing forward with her elegant gown billowing behind her. When she reached Amilia, two huge arms surrounded the Imperial Secretary in a crushing embrace. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Every time I inquire, I’m told you are busy. They must work you to death!”

  The duchess released her grip. “You poor thing. Let me look at you.” She took Amilia’s hands and spread her arms wide. “Oh my, how lovely you are. But, darling, please tell me this is a washday and your servants are behind. No, don’t bother. I am certain that is the case. Still, I hope you won’t mind if I have Lois, my seamstress, whip you up something. I do so love giving gifts and it’s Wintertide, after all. By the look of you, it will hardly take any material or time. Lois will be thrilled.”

  Lady Genevieve took Amilia’s arm and walked her down the hall. “You really are a treasure, you know, but I can tell they treat you poorly. What can you expect with men like Ethelred and Saldur running the show? Everything will be fine, though, now that I’m here.”

  They rounded a corner and Amilia was amazed by the woman’s ability to talk so quickly without seeming to take a breath.

  “Oh! I just loved the invitation you sent me, and yes, I know it was all your doing. It’s all been your doing, hasn’t it? They have you planning the whole wedding, don’t they? No wonder you are so busy. How insensitive. How cruel! But don’t worry, as I said, I’m here to help you. I’ve fashioned many weddings in my day and they’ve all been wonderful. What you need is an experienced planner—a wizard of wonder. We aristocrats expect panache and dazzle at these events and we hate to be disappointed. Being that this is the wedding of the empress, it must be larger, grander, and more amazing than anything that has come before. Nothing less will suffice.”

  She stopped suddenly and peered at Amilia. “Do you have doves to release? You must have them. You simply must!”

  Amilia thought to reply, but the concern fled the duchess’s face before she had a chance. Lady Genevieve was walking once more, pulling Amilia along. “Oh, I don’t want to frighten you, darling. There is still plenty of time given the proper help, of course. I am here now, and Modina will be thrilled at what we will achieve together. It wil
l simply astound her.”

  “I—”

  “How many white horses have you arranged for? Not nearly enough, I’m sure. Never mind, it will all come together. You’ll see. Speaking of horses, I insist you accompany me on the hawking. I won’t stand for you riding with anyone else. You’ll love Leopold—he’s quiet, just like you are, but a real pumpkin. Do you know what I mean? It doesn’t look like you do—but no matter. You two will get on marvelously. Do you have a bird?”

  “A bird?” Amilia managed to squeeze in.

  “I’ll let you use Murderess. She is one of my own goshawks.”

  “But—”

  “No worries, my dear. There’s nothing to it. The bird does all the work. All you need to do is just sit on your horse and look pretty—which you will in the new dress Lois will make. Blue would be a good color and will go wonderfully with your eyes. I suppose I will have to arrange a horse as well. We can’t have you trudging through the snow and ruining the gown, now can we? I just know Saldur never thinks of such things. He appointed you Secretary to the Empress, but does he realize the need for clothing? A horse? Jewelry?”

  The duchess paused again still gripping her arm like a cider press. “Oh, my darling, I just realized you aren’t wearing any—jewelry that is. Don’t be embarrassed. I understand perfectly. Otto is a fabulous jeweler. He can set a sapphire pendent in the blink of an eye. Won’t that look stunning with your new blue gown? Thank Maribor I brought my full retinue. Lord knows the local artisans could never keep up with me. When you think about it, who can?” She laughed, and Amilia wondered just how much longer she could go on.

  With another pull, they were off again. “I tend to be a bit much, don’t I? It’s the way I am. I can’t help it. My husband stopped trying to turn me into a proper wife years ago. Of course, now he knows that my exuberance is what he loves most about me. ‘Never a dull moment or a moment’s peace,’ he always says. Speaking of men, have you chosen a champion to carry your favor in the joust?”