Wintertide

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “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.”

  The room was too small for anyone to hide in—they were alone. “What do you want?” Hadrian asked.

  “I thought that was obvious. I want you to join me. It’s your turn.”

  “I’m not interested in playing games.”

  “I think it is a bit presumptuous to consider this a mere game.” Merrick’s voice was paradoxically chilling and friendly, a mannerism Hadrian had witnessed many times before—with Royce.

  Merrick’s demeanor distressed him. Hadrian had learned to read a man by his tone, body language, and the look in his eye, but Merrick was impossible to peg. He appeared completely relaxed, yet he should not be. Although larger and heavier than Royce, Merrick was not a big man. He did not look like a fighter nor did he appear to be wearing any weapons. If Merrick was half as smart as Royce had suggested, he would know Hadrian could kill him. Given how he manipulated them on the Emerald Storm, which resulted in the death of Wesley Belstrad and the destruction of Tur Del Fur, Merrick should further know it was a real possibility, yet the man showed no sign of concern. It unnerved Hadrian and made him think he was missing something.

  Hadrian took the seat across from Merrick and, after glancing at the board for only a moment, slid a pawn forward.

  Merrick smiled with the eagerness of a small boy starting his favorite pastime. He moved another pawn, putting it in jeopardy, and Hadrian took it.

  “Ah, so you accept the Queen’s Gambit,” Merrick said.

  “Huh?”

  “My opening moves. They are referred to as the Queen’s Gambit. How you respond indicates acceptance or not. Your move has signaled the former.”

  “I just took a pawn,” Hadrian said.

  “You did both. Are you aware chess is known as the ‘King’s Game’ due to its ability to teach war strategy?”

  Almost without thought, Merrick brought another pawn forward.

  Hadrian did not reply as he looked at the board. His father had taught him the game when he was a boy to strengthen Hadrian’s understanding of tactics and planning. Danbury Blackwater had made a board and set of pieces from metal scraps. His father was the best chess player in the village. It had taken years for Hadrian to finally checkmate him.

  “Of course, the game has broader implications,” Merrick went on. “I’ve heard bishops base whole sermons on chess. They draw parallels indicating how the pieces represent the hierarchy of the classes, and the rules of movement depict an individual’s duty as ordained by God.”

  Merrick’s third pawn was in jeopardy, and Hadrian took it as well. Merrick moved his bishop, again without pause. The man’s playing style disturbed Hadrian, as he expected more contemplation after taking two of his pieces.

  “So you see, what you deem a simple, frivolous game is actually a mirror to the world around us and how we move in it. For example, did you know that pawns were not always allowed to move two squares at the start? That advent was the result of progress and a slipping of monarchial power. Furthermore, upon reaching the opposite side of the board, pawns used to only be promoted to the rank of councilor, which is the second weakest piece after the pawn itself.”

  “Speaking of pawns…We didn’t appreciate you using us at Tur Del Fur,” Hadrian said.

  Merrick raised a hand. “Royce has already scolded me on that score.”

  “Royce—he spoke to you?”

  Merrick chuckled. “Surprised I’m still alive? Royce and I have a…an understanding. To him I am like that bishop on the board—I’m right there—an easy target—and yet the cost is too high.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “You tricked us into helping you slaughter hundreds of inn
ocent people. Royce has killed for far less.”

  Merrick looked amused. “True, Royce usually requires a reason not to kill. But don’t deceive yourself. He’s not like you. The deaths of innocents, no matter how many, are meaningless to him. He just doesn’t like being used. No, I would venture to say that only one murder has ever caused him to suffer remorse, and that is why I’m still alive. Royce feels the scales are not balanced between us. He feels he still owes me.”

  Merrick gestured toward himself. “Were you waiting on me? I believe it’s your move.”

  Hadrian decided to be more daring and pulled out his queen to threaten Merrick’s king. Merrick moved instantly, almost before Hadrian removed his hand, sliding his king out of harm’s way.

  “Now where was I,” Merrick continued. “Oh yes, the evolution of chess, which changes just as the world does. Centuries ago there was no such thing as castling, and a stalemate was considered a win for the player causing it. Most telling, I think, is the changing role of the queen in the game.”

  Hadrian brought forward a pawn to threaten the bishop, and Merrick promptly took it. Hadrian moved his knight out and Merrick did the same.

  “Originally there was no queen at all, as all the pieces were male. Instead, a piece called the king’s chief minister held that position. It wasn’t until much later that the female queen replaced this piece. Back then she was restricted to move only one square diagonally, which made her quite weak. It wasn’t until later that she obtained the ability to move the entire length of the board in any direction and thus becoming the most powerful piece in the game—and the most coveted target to trap or kill.”

  Hadrian started to move his bishop but stopped when he realized that Merrick’s knight was threatening his queen.

  “That was an interesting speech the empress delivered at the feast, don’t you think?” Merrick asked. “Why do you think she did that?”

  “No idea,” Hadrian replied, studying the board.

  Merrick smiled at him. “I see why Royce likes you. You’re not big on conversation. You two are quite the odd pairing, aren’t you? Royce and I are far more similar. We each maintain a common pragmatic view of the world and those in it, but you are more an idealist and dreamer. You look like an ale drinker to me, and Royce prefers his Montemorcey.”

  Another quick succession of moves made Hadrian slow down his play and left him studying the board.

  “Did you know I introduced him to that particular wine? That was years ago, when I brought him a case for his birthday. Well, that’s not precisely correct. Royce has no idea about the actual date of his birth. Still, it could have been, so we celebrated like it was. I liberated the wine from a Vandon caravan loaded with merchandise, and we spent days drinking and debauching a tiny agrarian village that had a surprisingly large proportion of attractive maids. For those three days, Royce relaxed and we had arguably the best time of our lives. I had never seen him drunk before that. He is usually so serious—all dark and brooding, or at least he used to be.”

  Hadrian focused on the board.

  “We were quite the team in our day. I’d plan the jobs and he’d execute them. We had a contest going where I tried to see if I could invent a challenge too difficult, but he always surprised me. His skills are legendary. Of course, back then the shackles of morality didn’t weigh him down. That’s your doing, I suppose. You tamed the demon, or at least think you have.”

  Hadrian found Merrick’s conversation irritating and realized that was the point. He moved his queen to safety. Merrick innocently, almost absentmindedly, slid a pawn forward.

  “It’s still there though—the demon within—hiding; you can’t change the nature of someone like Royce. In Calis they try to tame lions, did you know that? They take them as cubs and raise them in palaces as pets for princes. They think them safe until one day the family dogs are gone. ‘Perhaps the dogs warranted it,’ the love-struck prince says. ‘Maybe the hounds attacked the cat or antagonized it,’ he tries to assure himself as he strokes his loyal beast. The next day they find the carcass of the prince in a tree. No, my friend, you can’t tame a wild animal. Eventually it will return to its true nature.”

  Hadrian made a series of moves that succeeded in taking the white bishop. He could not determine if Merrick was just toying with him or not nearly as good at the game as Hadrian expected.

  “Does he ever speak of me?” asked Merrick.

  “You sound like an abandoned mistress.”

  Merrick sat straighter and adjusted the front of his tunic. “You’ve had a chance to see Breckton joust. Is there any doubt about whether you can defeat him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. But now comes the important question…will you?”

  “I made an agreement, didn’t I? You were there.”

  Merrick leaned forward. “I know you—or at least your type. You’re having second thoughts. You don’t think it’s right to kill an innocent man. You’ve met Breckton. He’s impressive. The kind of man you want to be. You’re hating yourself right now, and you hate me because you think I helped arrange it. Only I didn’t. I have no part in this—well, beyond suggesting they offer you the princess. Whether you want to thank me or kill me for that, I’d just like to point out that at the time you were threatening to kill everyone in the room.”

  “So, if this is none of your business, then why are you here?”

  “I need Royce to do another job for me—an important one, and he’ll be far less inclined if you die, which you will if you don’t kill Breckton. If, however, you keep your promise, everything should work out nicely. So I’ve come to affirm what you already know, and what Royce would tell you if he were here. You must kill Breckton. Keep in mind you will be trading the life of the most capable enemy of Melengar for its princess and the leader of the Nationalists. Together, they could revitalize the resistance. And let’s not forget your legacy. This is your one chance to correct the sin of your father and bring peace to his spirit. If nothing else, don’t you think you owe Danbury that much?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  Merrick merely smiled.

  “You’re a smug bastard, aren’t you?” Hadrian glared at him. “But you don’t know everything.”

  Hadrian reached out to move, but Merrick raised a hand and stopped him.

  “You’re about to take my rook with your bishop. After that, you will take the other with your queen. How can you not? The poor castle is completely undefended. You’ll be feeling quite pleased with yourself at that point. You’ll be thinking that I don’t play this game anywhere near as well as you expected. What you won’t realize is that while you have gained materially, you’ve systematically given up control of the board. You’ll have more troops, but discover too late that you can’t effectively mount an attack. I will sacrifice my queen. You will have no choice but to kill her. By that time, I will be perfectly positioned to reach your king. In the end, you will have taken a bishop, two rooks, and my queen, but none of this will matter. I will checkmate you on the twenty-second turn by moving my remaining bishop to king’s seven.” Merrick stood and moved toward the door. “You’ve already lost, but you lack the foresight to see it. That’s your problem. I, on the other hand, do not suffer from that particular malady. I am telling you for your own good, for Royce’s sake, for Arista, Gaunt, and even for your father—you must kill Sir Breckton. Good night, Hadrian.”

  Chapter 16

  Trials by Combat

  The sky was overcast, the day a dull gray, and the wind blew a chilled blast across the stands. And yet the crowd at Highcourt was larger and louder than ever. The entire imperial court, and most of the town, turned out to see the spectacle. Every inch of the bleachers was jammed, and a sea of bodies pushed against the fence. On the staging field only the blue-and-gold tent of Sir Breckton and the green-and-white tent of Sir Hadrian remained.

  Hadrian arrived early that morning alongside Renwick, who went right to work feeding and brushing Malevole
nt. Hadrian did not want to be in the palace and risk an encounter with Breckton, Amilia, or Merrick. All he wanted was to be left alone and for this day to be over.

  “Hadrian!” a strangely familiar voice called. Along the fence line, he spotted a man amidst the crowd, waving at him while a pike-armed guard held him back. “It’s me, Russell Bothwick from Dahlgren!”

  Leaving Renwick to finish dressing Malevolent, Hadrian walked over to the fence to get a better look. As he did, his shadows from the palace moved closer.

  Hadrian shook Russell’s hand. His wife Lena and his son Tad stood next to his old host. Behind them he noticed Dillon McDern, the town smith who had once helped Hadrian build bonfires to fend off a monster.

  “Let them through,” Hadrian told the guard.

  “Look at you,” Dillon exclaimed as they passed under the rail to join Hadrian at his tent. “Too bad Theron’s not here. He’d be braggin’ about how he had taken fencing lessons from the next Wintertide Champion.”

  “I’m not champion yet,” Hadrian replied solemnly.

  “That’s not what Russell here’s been saying,” Dillon clapped his friend on the back. “He’s done his own fair share of bragging at every tavern in town about how the next champion once spent a week living in his home.”

  “Four people bought me drinks for that,” Russell said with a laugh.

  “It’s very nice to see you again,” Lena said, taking Hadrian’s hand gently and patting it. “We all wondered what became of you and your friend.”

  “I’m fine and so is Royce, but what happened to all of you?”

  “Vince led us all to Alburn,” Dillon explained. “We manage to scratch a living out of the rocky dirt. It’s not like it was in Dahlgren. My sons have been taken for the Imperial Army, and we have to hand over most of what we grow. Still, I guess it could be worse.”

  “We saved all our coppers to come up here for the holidays,” Russell said. “But we had no idea we’d find you riding in the tournament. Now that really is something! Rumor is they knighted you on the field of battle. Very impressive.”