“So how would you size me up?”
“Regent Saldur told me your background is completely confidential and that divulging anything would result in my—not too painless—demise. The only information he provided was that you were recently knighted. He refrained from any detail about your station or ancestry. The regent merely mentioned you were lacking refinement and instructed me to ensure you fit seamlessly into the Wintertide festivities.”
Hadrian kept an unwavering stare on the tutor. “You didn’t answer the question.”
Nimbus smiled at him. “You really want to know, don’t you? You aren’t toying with me?”
Hadrian nodded.
The tutor turned to the page. “Renwick?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Fetch Sir Hadrian a cup of wine from the steward in the kitchen.”
“There’s wine in the common room, sir, and it’s closer.”
Nimbus gave him a stern look. “I want some privacy, Renwick.”
“Oh, I see. Of course, sir.”
“Very well, then,” Nimbus said after the boy had left. He pursed his lips and tapped them several times with his index finger before continuing. “The truth of the matter is that you are not a knight. You haven’t even served as a squire, groom, or page. I doubt you’ve ever set foot in a proper castle for more than a few minutes at a time. However—and this is the important point—you are indeed noble.”
Hadrian paused in his scrubbing. “And what makes you think that?”
“You didn’t know where the wardrobe was, you’ve never taken a bath in winter, you shook my hand when we met, and apologized for spilling your bathwater. These are most certainly not the actions of a knight raised from birth to feel and act superior to others.”
Hadrian sniffed the scented soap and discarded it.
“Most telling, however, was the handshake itself. You offered it as a simple gesture of greeting. There was no agenda, no flattery, no insincerity. There also was no insecurity or sense that, by virtue of my clothes and mannerisms, I was your better. How odd, considering, as I now know, you were not raised a noble.” Nimbus looked back at the sword resting on the bed. “It’s an heirloom, isn’t it?”
Picking up a bottle of oil, Hadrian pulled the cork and deemed it acceptable. He added a bit to the bristles of the brush. “I got it from my father.”
The tutor ran his hand along the sheathed blade. “This is a remarkable weapon—a knight’s sword—tarnished with time and travel. You don’t use it as often as the others. The bastard and short sword are tools to you, but this—ah—this is something else—something revered. It lays concealed in a paltry sheath, covered in clothes not its own. It doesn’t belong there. This sword belongs to another time and place. It is part of a grand and glorious world where knights were different, loftier—virtuous. It rests in this false scabbard because the proper one has been lost, or perhaps, it waits for a quest yet to be finished. It longs for that single moment when it can shine forth in all its brilliance. When dream and destiny meet on a clear field, then and only then will it find its purpose. When it faces that honorable cause—that one worthy and desperate challenge for which it was forged and on which so much depends—it will find peace in the crucible of struggle. For good or ill, it will ring true or break. But the wandering, the waiting, the hiding will at last be over. This sword waits for the day when it can save the kingdom and win the lady.”
Hadrian sat staring, not realizing that he had dropped his brush.
Nimbus appeared to take no notice of Hadrian’s reaction and sat on the bunk with a satisfied smile across his face. “Now, while I have your attention, shall we address the task to which I was assigned?”
Hadrian nodded.
“To help me judge where to start, can you tell me what you already know about chivalry?” Nimbus asked.
“It’s a code of conduct for knights,” Hadrian replied, searching the bottom of the tub for the lost brush.
“Yes—well, you are essentially correct. What do you know of its principles?”
“Be honorable, be brave, that sort of thing.”
“ ‘That sort of thing’? Oh, I’m afraid we’ll have to start with the basics. Very well, please pay attention, and don’t forget to scrub the bottoms of your feet.”
Hadrian frowned but lifted a foot.
“The knightly virtues derive themselves from a standard of ethics passed down from the original empire. There are eight such virtues. The first is proficiency. It is the easiest to achieve, as it merely means skill at arms and can be obtained through practice and observation. Judging from the wear on your weapons, I trust you have a solid understanding of this virtue?”
“I’m able to hold my own.”
Nimbus nodded. “Excellent. Next is courage, one of the most important virtues. Courage, however, is not so cheaply bought as by charging against overwhelming odds. It can take many forms. For instance, the bravery to choose life over death, especially if that means living with loss. Or the will to risk all for a cause too noble to let perish. Courage can even be found in surrender—if doing so will mean the survival of something too valuable to lose.
“The third virtue of a knight is honesty. To possess honor, a man must first strive to be honest to men, to women, to children, to great and to small, to the good and to the villainous, but mostly to himself. A knight does not make excuses.”
Hadrian made an extra effort to keep his eyes focused on scrubbing his feet.
“Integrity is a virtue that comprises both loyalty and honor. Possessing integrity often means adhering to a pledge or principle. Loyalty to a sovereign is the mark of a goodly knight. However, integrity can also mean defending those in need who cannot help themselves. A knight should always work for the good of the king third, the betterment of the kingdom second, but always place what is right first.”
“How does a knight know what is right?” Hadrian interrupted. He put down the brush, letting his foot slip back to the bottom of the tub. “I mean… what if I’m forced to choose between two evils? Someone could get hurt no matter what I do. How do I decide?”
“True nobility lies in the heart. You must do what you know to be right.”
“How do I know I’m not being selfish?”
“Ah, that brings us to the next virtue—faith. Faith is not simply a belief in the tenets of the church but a belief in virtue itself. A knight does not find fault. A knight believes in the good of all men, including himself. He trusts in this belief. A knight is confident in the word of others, in the merits of his lord, the worth of his commands, and in his own worth.”
Hadrian nodded, though the words did not help ease his conscience.
“Generosity is the sixth virtue. A knight should show bounteousness to all, noble and commoner alike. More important than generosity of wares is a generosity of spirit. A knight believes the best of others and always extends the benefit of doubt. A knight does not accuse. He does not assume wrongdoing. Still, a knight grants no benefit to himself and always questions if he is at fault.
“Respect is the virtue concerning the good treatment of others. A knight is not thoughtless. He does not harm through recklessness. He seeks not to injure by lazy words or foolishness. A knight does not mimic the bad behavior of others. Instead, he sees it as an opportunity to demonstrate virtue by contrast.”
Nimbus paused. “I don’t think you need worry too much about this one either.” He offered a smile before continuing.
“The final virtue is sincerity, which is elusive at best. Nobility by birthright is clear, but what is in question here is noblesse of heart and cannot be taught or learned. It must be accepted and allowed to grow. This virtue is demonstrated through bearing, not swagger; confidence, not arrogance; kindness, not pity; belief, not patronage; authenticity, not pretension.
“These are the virtues that comprise the Code of Chivalry,” Nimbus concluded, “the path of goodness and truth to which men of high honor aspire. The reality, however, is often quite
different.”
As if on cue, the door burst open and three men tumbled inside. They were large, stocky brutes dressed in fine doublets with silk trim. The lead man sported a goatee and stood near the door, pointing at Hadrian.
“There he is!” he announced.
“Well, he certainly isn’t this little sod,” roared a second man, who pushed Nimbus hard in the chest and knocked the tutor back against the bunk. This man was the largest of the three and wore several days of beard growth. The insult, as well as the terrified expression on the courtier’s face, brought the new arrivals to laughter.
“What’s your name, twig?” the man with the goatee asked.
“I am Nimbus of Vernes,” he said while attempting to stand and regain some level of dignity. “I am imperial tutor to—”
“Tutor? He’s got a tutor!”
They howled in laughter again.
“Tell us, twig, what are you teaching Sir Bumpkin here? How to wash his arse? Is that your job? Have you taught him to use the chamber pot yet?”
Nimbus did not answer. He clenched his teeth and fixed his eyes on the unkempt man before him.
“I think you’re getting under that ruffled collar of his,” the last of them observed. He was clean-shaven and sipped wine from a goblet. “Careful, Elgar, he’s made fists.”
“Is that true?” Elgar looked at the tutor’s hands, which were indeed tightly clenched. “Oh dear! Am I impinging on your sacred pedagogical honor? Would you like to throw a punch at me, little twig? Put me in my proper place, as it were?”
“If he takes a big enough swing, it’s possible you might actually feel it,” the shaved one said.
“I asked you a question, twig,” Elgar pressed.
“If you don’t mind, we’ll continue this another time,” Nimbus said to Hadrian. “It would seem you have guests.”
Elgar blocked the tutor’s path as he tried to leave, and shoved him again. Staggering backward, Nimbus fell onto the bed.
“Leave him alone,” Hadrian ordered as he stood and grabbed a towel.
“Ah, Sir Bumpkin, in all his regal glory!” proclaimed the man with the goatee, pointing. “Well, not that regal and certainly not that glorious!”
“Who are you?” Hadrian demanded, stepping out of the tub and wrapping the towel around himself.
“I am Sir Murthas and the gent with the handsome face beside me here is Sir Gilbert. Over there, that dashing fellow holding the pleasant conversation with the twig is none other than Sir Elgar. We are the three finest knights of the realm, as you will soon discover. We wanted to welcome you to the palace, deliver you a fond tiding, and wish you luck on the field—as luck is all you’ll have.”
Nimbus snorted. “They’re here because they heard a bath was ordered, and wanted to see your scars. Knowing nothing about you, they came to see if you have any fresh bruises or recent wounds they might take advantage of on the field. Also, they are trying to intimidate you, as a man in a tub is at a disadvantage. Intimidation can frequently win a contest before it starts.”
Sir Elgar grabbed hold of Nimbus, pulling him up by his tunic. “Talkative little bastard, aren’t you?” He raised a fist just as a sopping towel slammed into his face.
“Sorry. Elgar, is it?” Hadrian asked. “Just got done drying my ass and noticed a smudge on your face.”
Elgar threw off the towel and drew his sword. In just two steps, the knight cut the distance to Hadrian, who stood naked and unflinching even as Elgar raised the blade’s tip toward his throat.
“Brave bugger, I’ll give you that much,” Elgar said. “But that just means you’ll be an easier target along the fence. You might want to save that water. You’ll need it after I put you in the mud.” Sheathing his sword, he led his friends from the room, nearly colliding with Renwick, who stood outside the door holding a goblet of wine.
“You all right?” Hadrian asked, grabbing a fresh towel.
“Yes, of course,” Nimbus replied in an unsteady voice. He smoothed the material of his tunic.
“Your wine, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian.
Without pause, Nimbus took the cup and drained it. “As I was saying, the reality can be quite different.”
CHAPTER 9
WINDS ABBEY
Royce stood before the window of the bedroom, watching Gwen sleep and thinking about their future. He pushed the thought away and suppressed the urge to smile. Just imagining it would bring disaster. The gods—if they existed—detested happiness. Instead, he turned and looked out over the cloistered courtyard.
The previous night’s storm had left everything covered in a new dress of unblemished white. The only exception was a single line of footprints that led from the dormitory to a stone bench, where a familiar figure sat wrapped in a monk’s habit. He was alone, yet the movement of his hands and the bob of his head revealed he was speaking with great earnest. Across from the monk was a small tree. Planting it was one of the first things Myron had done when he had returned to the abbey after the fire. It now stood a proud eight feet tall but was so slender it drooped under the snow’s weight. Royce knew there was great resiliency in a tree accustomed to bending in the wind, but he wondered if the strain could be endured. There was a breaking point for everything, after all. As if reading his thoughts, Myron rose and gave the tree a light shake. He had to stand close to do so, and much of the snow fell on his head. The tree sprang back, and without the burden of snow, it appeared more like its former self. Myron returned to his seat and his conversation. Royce knew he was not speaking to the tree but to his boyhood friend who was buried there.
“You’re up early,” Gwen said from where she lay with her head on a clutched pillow. He could make out the elegant slope of her waist and rise of her hip beneath the covers. “After last night, I would have thought you’d be sleeping late.”
“We went to bed early.”
“But we didn’t sleep,” she teased.
“It was better than sleep. Besides, around here, waking after first light is sleeping in. Myron is already outside.”
“He does that so he can talk privately.” She smiled and drew back the covers invitingly. “Isn’t it cold next to that window?”
“You’re a bad influence,” he said, lying down and wrapping his arms around her. He marveled at the softness of her skin. She drew the quilt over both of them and laid her head on his chest.
Their room was one of the bigger guest chambers, which was three times larger than any of the monks’ cells. Gwen, who had left Medford a week before Breckton’s invasion, had arranged to bring everything with her, even her canopied bed, carpets, and wall hangings. Looking around the room, Royce could easily imagine he was back on Wayward Street. He felt at home, but not because of the decorations. All he needed was Gwen.
“Am I corrupting you?” she asked playfully.
“Yes.”
His fingers caressed her bare shoulder and ran along the swirled tattoo. “This last trip Hadrian and I went on, we went to Calis… into the jungles. We stayed in a Tenkin village, where I met an unusual woman.”
“Did you? Was she beautiful?”
“Yes, very.”
“Tenkin women can be exceptionally attractive.”
“Yes, they can. And this one had a tattoo that—”
“Did Hadrian find the heir?”
“No—well, yes, but not how we expected. We stumbled on the news the empire is holding him in Aquesta. They’re going to execute him on Wintertide. But this tattoo—”
“Execute him?” Gwen pushed herself up on one elbow, looking surprised—too surprised just to be avoiding questions. “Shouldn’t you be helping Hadrian?”
“I will, although I’m not sure why. I was hardly any help on the last trip, and I didn’t need to save him. So your little prophecy was wrong.”
He thought it would put Gwen at ease to know her prediction of disaster had not come to pass. Instead, she pushed him away—the familiar sadness returned.
“You need to go h
elp him,” she said firmly. “I might be wrong about the timing, but I’m not wrong about Hadrian dying unless you are there to save him.”
“Hadrian will be fine until I get back.”
She hesitated, took a deep breath, and laid her head back down. Hiding her face against his chest, she became quiet.
“What’s the matter?” Royce asked.
“I am a corrupting influence.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he told her. “Personally, I’ve always rather liked corruption.”
There was a long pause, and he watched her head riding on the swells of his breath. Running his fingers through her hair, he marveled at it—at her. He touched the tattoo again.
“Royce, can we just lie here a little while?” She squeezed him, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “Can we just be still and listen to the wind and make believe it is blowing past us?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” she said, “but I want to pretend.”
“There wasn’t much of a fight,” Magnus said.
Royce always thought the dwarf’s voice sounded louder and deeper than it should for someone his size. They sat at a long table in the refectory. Now that Royce knew Gwen was safe, his appetite returned. The monks prepared an excellent meal, accompanied by the first good wine he had tasted in ages.
“Alric just ran,” Magnus said while mopping up the last of an egg. For someone so small, he ate a lot and never passed up an opportunity for food. “So Breckton’s army took over everything except Drondil Fields, but they’ll have that soon.”
“Who burned Medford?” Royce asked.
“Medford was burned?”
“When I came through there a couple days ago, it was.”
The dwarf shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say church-led fanatics out of Chadwick or maybe Dunmore. They’ve been pillaging homes and hunting elves since the invasion.”
Magnus finished eating and leaned back with his feet on an empty stool. Gwen sat beside Royce, clutching his arm as if she owned him. The very idea of belonging to her was so strange that he found it distracting, but he was surprised to discover he enjoyed the sensation.
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