Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Anxiety welled up as he struggled to remember Nimbus’s multiple instructions on table etiquette. The list had been massive, but at that moment he could remember just two things: he was not to use the tablecloth to blow his nose and should not pick his teeth with the knife. Following Saldur’s prayer to Maribor, Hadrian’s fears vanished when all the guests ripped into the bountiful food with abandon. They tore legs off pigs and heads from birds. Bits of meat and grease sprayed the table as nobles groped and pawed to taste a bite of every dish, lest they miss something that might be the talk of the feast.

  Hadrian had lived most of his life on black bread, brown ale, hard cheese, salted fish, and vegetable stews. What lay before him was a new experience. He tried the peacock, which, despite its beauty, was dry and not nearly as good as he had expected. The venison had a wonderful hickory-smoked taste. But the best thing by far was the dish of cinnamon baked apples. All conversation stopped when the eating began. The only sounds in the hall were those of a single lute, a lone singer, and scores of chewing mouths.

  Long is the day in the summertime,

  long is the song which I play,

  I will keep your memory in my heart,

  till you come to me…

  The music was beautiful and strangely haunting. Its melody filled the great hall with a radiance that blended well with the glow of the fireplace and candles. After the setting of the sun, the windows turned to black mirrors and the mood became more intimate. Consoled with food, drink, and music, Hadrian forgot his circumstance and began to enjoy himself—until the Earl of Chadwick nudged him back to reality.

  “Are you entered in the joust?” he asked. From his tone and glassy eyes, Hadrian could tell Archibald Ballentyne had started drinking long before the feast.

  “Ah, yes—yes I am, sir—I mean, Your Lordship.”

  “Then you might be riding against my champion Sir Breckton over there.” He waved a limp hand across the table. “He’s also competing in the joust.”

  “Then I don’t stand much of a chance.”

  “No, you don’t,” the earl said. “But you must do your best. There will be a crowd to please.” The earl leaned over in a confidential manner. “Now tell me, was what Saldur told us true?”

  “I would never dispute the word of a regent,” Hadrian replied.

  Archibald guffawed. “I think the phrase you were actually looking for is ‘never trust the word of a regent.’ Did you know they promised me Melengar and then just like that…” The earl attempted to snap his fingers. “… like that…” He attempted again. “… like…” He failed yet a third time. “Well, you know what I mean. They took away what they promised me. So you can see why I’m skeptical. That bit about the empress expecting you, was that true?”

  “I have no idea, my lord. How could I know?”

  “So you haven’t met her? The empress, I mean?”

  Hadrian paused, remembering a young girl named Thrace. “No, I haven’t actually met the empress. Shouldn’t she be seated up there?”

  The earl scowled. “They leave the throne vacant in her honor. She never dines in public. To be honest, I’ve lived in this palace for half a year and have only seen her on three occasions: once in the throne room, once when she addressed the public, and once when I… Well, what matters is she never seems to leave her room. I often wonder whether the regents are keeping her prisoner up there. I should have her kidnapped—free the poor girl.”

  Archibald sat up and said, more to himself than to Hadrian, “That’s what I should do, and there’s just the man I need to talk to.” Plucking a walnut from the centerpiece, he threw it down the table at Albert.

  “Viscount Winslow,” he shouted with more volume than necessary. “I haven’t seen you in quite some time.”

  “No, indeed, Your Lordship. It has been far too long.”

  “Are you still in contact with those two… phantoms of the night? You know, the magicians that can make letters disappear and who are equally adept at saving doomed princesses from tower prisons?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Lordship, but after what they did to you, I terminated my connection with them.”

  “Yes… what they did…” the earl slurred while looking into his cup. “What they did was put Braga’s head in my lap! While I was sleeping, no less! Did you know that? It was a most disagreeable awakening, I tell you.” He trailed off, mumbling to himself.

  Hadrian bit his lip.

  “I had no idea. You have my sincere apology,” Albert said with genuine surprise, which was lost on the earl, who had tilted his head back to take another swallow of wine.

  New musicians entered and began playing a formal tune as gentlemen, including Gilbert and Elgar, took the hands of ladies and led them to the dance floor. Hadrian had no idea how to dance. Nimbus had not even tried to instruct him. The Duke and Duchess of Rochelle also left to join in. A clear line of sight opened between Hadrian and Albert.

  “So, Sir Hadrian, is it?” the viscount asked, shifting down to take Lady Genevieve’s vacated chair. “Is this your first time in the banquet hall?”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  “The palace is large and has an impressive history. I’m sure that during your recent recovery you’ve not had an opportunity to visit much of it. If you aren’t planning to dance, I’d be happy to give you a tour. There are some fine paintings and frescoes on the second floor that are exquisite.”

  Hadrian glanced at the men still watching him.

  “I’m sure they are, Viscount, but I think it might be rude to leave the feast so early. Our hosts might look poorly on me for doing so.” He motioned toward the head table, where Saldur and Ethelred sat. “I wouldn’t want to incur their disfavor so early in the celebrations.”

  “I understand completely. Have you found your accommodations at the palace to your liking?”

  “Yes, indeed. I have my own room in the knights’ wing. Regent Saldur has been most generous, and I have nothing to complain about as far as my quarters are concerned.”

  “So you have reason to complain otherwise?” Albert inquired.

  Carefully choosing his words, Hadrian replied, “Not a complaint, really. I am merely concerned about my performance in the coming tournament. I am going to be competing against many renowned knights, such as Sir Breckton here. It is extremely important that I do well in the joust. Some very distinguished people will be watching the outcome quite closely.”

  “You should not be so concerned,” Breckton mentioned. “If you are true to the knight’s code, Maribor will guide you. What others may think has no weight on the field. The truth is the truth, and you know whether you live in accord with it or not. From this you will draw your strength or weakness.”

  “Thank you for your kind words, but I am not merely riding for myself. A success in this tournament will change the fortunes of those I care about as well… my, ah, retinue.”

  Albert nodded.

  Sir Breckton leaned forward. “You are that concerned about the reputation of your squires and grooms?”

  “They are as dear to me as family,” Hadrian responded.

  “That is most admirable. I can’t say I have ever met a knight so concerned with the well-being of those who serve him.”

  “To be honest, sir, it is mainly for their welfare that I ride. I only hope they do nothing to dishonor me, as some of them are prone to poor judgment—rash and risky behavior—usually on my behalf, of course. Still, in this instance, I prefer they would merely enjoy the holiday.”

  Albert gave another nod and drained the last of his wine.

  Ballentyne took another drink as well. He swallowed, burped loudly, and then slouched with his elbow on the table, resting a palm against his cheek. Hadrian surmised that it would not be long before the earl passed out completely.

  The monk and the gray-bearded fellow bid the table good night. The two wandered off while debating the Legend of Kile, the significance of Saldur’s story, and the true nature of the man Hadrian had alleg
edly met in the forest.

  “Well, it has been a delight to dine with you all,” Albert said, rising. “I am not used to such rich living, and this wine has gone to my head. I fear I will make a fool of myself should I remain, so I will retire.”

  The two knights bid him farewell, and Hadrian watched as Albert left the hall without looking back.

  Having no one else left to converse with, Hadrian turned to Breckton. “Did your father not attend, or is he seated somewhere else?”

  Breckton, whose attention was focused toward the front of the hall, took a moment to respond. “My father chose not to come. If not for the request of my lord here”—he gestured at the earl, who did not react—“I would not have attended either. Neither of us is in a mood for celebrations. We only recently learned that my younger brother Wesley died in the empress’s service.”

  Hadrian replied in a somber voice, “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sure he died with honor.”

  “Thank you, but death in service is not unexpected. It would be a comfort to know the circumstances. He died far from home, serving aboard the Emerald Storm, which was lost at sea.” Breckton got to his feet. “Please excuse me. I think I’ll also take my leave.”

  “Of course, good evening to you.”

  He watched Breckton go. The knight had the same stride as his brother, and Hadrian had to remind himself that the two choices he faced were equally unpleasant. Even without his emotional ties, two lives were more valuable than one. Breckton was a soldier, and as he himself had stated, death in service was not unexpected. Hadrian had no choice, but that fact did little to ease his conscience.

  Ballentyne’s head slipped off his hand, making a solid thud as it hit the table.

  Hadrian sighed. Like knighthood, noble feasts were not as illustrious as he had expected.

  CHAPTER 11

  KNIGHTLY VIRTUE

  Albert Winslow walked quickly through Aquesta, holding his heavy cloak tightly around him, its hood raised. He regretted not switching to boots, as his buckled shoes were treacherous on the icy cobblestones. He could have taken a carriage. The palace had a few available for hire, but walking made it easier to determine if he was being followed. Glancing back, Albert found the street empty.

  By the time he entered The Bailey Inn, the fire in the common room was burning low. An elderly man slept near the hearth, a cup of brandy nearly spilling in his lap. Albert walked quickly to the stairs and up to his room. He would write out a note, leave it on the table, and then head back to the palace. Formulating the wording in his head, he took out a key and unlocked the door.

  How do I begin to explain what I just saw?

  Instead of entering a cold, dark room, he found a fire burning, lighted candles on the table, and—lying on his bed with boots still on—a dwarf.

  “Magnus?”

  The door closed abruptly, and Albert spun to see Royce behind him. “You should remember to lock your door,” the thief said.

  Albert smirked. “I won’t even dignify that with a comment. When did you get back?”

  “Not long enough ago to get any rest,” Magnus grumbled. “He drove us like dogs to get here.”

  “Hey, watch the boots,” Albert said, slapping them with the back of his hand.

  “What’s happened with Hadrian?” Royce spoke sharply, his hood still up.

  When Albert first met Royce, the viscount had been a drunk living in a farmer’s barn outside Colnora. Reduced to selling his clothes piecemeal to buy rum, he was down to little more than his nightshirt and old rags. Wailing about the misfortune of being the noble son of a spendthrift father, he offered Royce and Hadrian his silk nightshirt for five copper tenents. Royce had made him a better offer. Riyria needed a nobleman to work as a liaison to the wealthy and privileged—a respectable face to sell disreputable services. They cleaned him up, paid for new clothes, and provided all the trappings of success that a viscount required. They gave him back his dignity, and Albert was noble once more. From then on the viscount saw Royce as a friend, but at times like this—when Royce’s hood was raised, and his voice harsh—even Albert was scared of him.

  “Well?” Royce pressed, stepping closer and causing Albert to back up. “Is he in prison? They didn’t…”

  “What? No!” Albert shook his head. “You’re actually not going to believe this. I just came from the Feast of the Nobles, the big opening party for the Wintertide celebration. Everyone was there, kings, bishops, knights, you name it.”

  “Get to the point, Albert.”

  “I am. Hadrian was there too.”

  Albert saw Royce’s hands form fists. “What were they doing to him?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that—they were feeding him. He was—They made him a knight, Royce—a knight of the empire. You should have seen the outfit he was wearing.”

  At this, even the dwarf sat up.

  “What? Speak sense, you crazy—”

  “I swear. It’s the truth! Regent Saldur even came over and told the whole table this nutty story about how Hadrian fought for the Imperialists at the Battle of Ratibor and was knighted because of it. Can you believe that?”

  “No, I don’t. Have you been drinking again?”

  “Just a bit of wine. I’m sober. I swear,” Albert said.

  “But why would they do such a thing? Were you able to get near him? What did he say?”

  “He wasn’t able to speak freely and hinted that he was being watched, but I think he’s competing in the tournament. It sounded like the regents made him some kind of deal.”

  “The tournament at Highcourt?”

  “Yes. He made it pretty clear that we shouldn’t interfere or try to help.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “I feel ridiculous,” Amilia whispered to Nimbus as she pushed her plate away.

  One hundred and twenty-three pairs of eyes stared at her. She knew the exact number. She knew which rulers brought wives and which sat with courtesans. She knew who was sensitive to drafts and who was uncomfortable near the heat of the hearth. She knew which princess refused to sit beside which countess. She knew who held power and which ones were just puppets. She knew every quirk and foible, every bias and fear, every name and title—but not a single face.

  They were manageable as slips of parchment, but now they were all here—staring. No, not staring. Their expressions were too malicious and filled with contempt for something as benign as staring. In their eyes she could see the exasperation and she knew what they were thinking: How is it that she—the poor daughter of a carriage maker—sits at the empress’s table? She felt as though one hundred and twenty-three wolves snarled at her with exposed teeth.

  “You look beautiful,” Nimbus said. His fingers kept tempo with the pavane. The tutor was apparently oblivious to the waves of hatred crashing over them.

  She sighed. There was nothing to do now but struggle through the night as best she could. Sitting up straight, Amilia reminded herself to breathe, which was no easy feat in the tight bodice.

  Amilia wore the gown the duchess had presented to her that morning. Far from just an ordinary dress, it was a work of art in blue silk. Ribbons woven into elaborate designs resembling swans adorned the front. The fitted bodice pressed her stomach flat and led to a full, billowing skirt that shimmered like rippling water when she moved. A deep neckline left the tops of her breasts exposed. To Lady Genevieve’s dismay, Amilia wore a scarf, covering them and the exquisite jeweled necklace the duchess had lent. Perhaps to avoid a similar concealment with the diamond earrings, the duchess had sent three stylists to put Amilia’s hair up. They spent the better part of two hours on the coif and were followed by a pair of cosmetic artists, who painted her lips, eyelids, cheeks, and even her fingernails. Amilia never wore makeup of any kind. She never styled her hair, and she certainly never exposed her breasts. Out of respect for the duchess, she complied, but she felt like a clown—a buffoonish entertainment on display for those one h
undred and twenty-three sets of eyes.

  One hundred and twenty-four, she corrected herself. There had been a last-minute addition.

  “Which one is he?” she asked Nimbus.

  “Who? Sir Hadrian? I squeezed him in over there. He’s the one in purple and gold. Saldur is passing him off as a knight, but I’ve never met a man so unknightly.”

  “He’s cruel?”

  “Not at all. He’s considerate and respectful, even to servants. He complains less than a monk, and while I am certain he knows the use of a blade, he seems as violent as a mouse. He drinks only moderately, considers a bowl of porridge a feast, and rises at dawn. He is no knight but rather what a knight should be.”

  “He looks familiar,” she said, but could not place him. “How is he coming along?”

  “Slowly,” Nimbus told her. “I just hope he doesn’t attempt to dance. I haven’t found time to teach him, and I am certain he hasn’t a clue.”

  “You know how to dance?” Amilia asked.

  “I am exceedingly talented, milady. Would you like me to teach you as well?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I hardly think I will need to know that.”

  “Are you sure? Didn’t Sir Breckton seek your favor for the joust?”

  “Out of pity.”

  “Pity? Are you certain? Perhaps you… Oh dear, what have we here?” Nimbus stopped as Sir Murthas navigated the tables, walking straight for them. Wearing a ribbed burgundy doublet that was tight in the waist and sported broad, padded shoulders, he looked quite impressive. An elegant gold chain with a ruby hung around his neck. His dark eyes matched his coal-black hair, and his goatee appeared freshly trimmed.

  “Lady Amilia, I am Sir Murthas of Alburn.” He held out his hand, covered in thick rings.