Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  The courtier eyed the lad critically. “I’d have to say he’s ten, no more than twelve. An orphan, certainly, and nearly feral by the look of him. What do you suppose he has in the bag? A dead rat?”

  “Oh, stop it, Nimbus,” Amilia rebuked. “Of course it’s not. It’s probably just his lunch.”

  “Exactly,” the tutor agreed.

  Amilia glared. “Hush, you’re frightening him.”

  “Me? He’s the one who came at us with the moldy bag of mystery.”

  “Are you all right?” Amilia asked the boy softly.

  He managed a nod, but just barely. His eyes kept darting around the interior of the carriage but always came back to Amilia, as if he were mesmerized.

  “I’m sorry about the guards. That was awful, the way they treated you. Nimbus, do you have some coppers? Anything we could give him?”

  The courtier looked helpless. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m not in the habit of carrying coin.”

  Disappointed, Amilia sighed and then tried to put on a happy face. “What was it you wanted to say to me?” she asked.

  The boy wetted his lips. “I—I have something to give to the empress.” He looked down at the bag.

  “What is it?” Amilia tried not to cringe at the possibilities.

  “I heard… well… they said she couldn’t be at the tournament today because she was sick and all. That’s when I knew I had to get this to her.” He patted the bag.

  “Get what to her? What’s in the bag?”

  “Something that can heal her.”

  “Oh dear. It is a dead rat, isn’t it?” Nimbus shivered in disgust.

  The boy pulled the bag open and drew out a folded shimmering robe unlike anything Amilia had ever seen before. “It saved the life of my best friend—healed him overnight, it did. It’s… it’s magical, it is!”

  “A religious relic?” Nimbus ventured.

  Amilia smiled at the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “They call me Mince, milady. I can’t say what my real name is, but Mince works well enough, it does.”

  “Well, Mince, this is a generous gift. This looks very expensive. Don’t you think you should keep it? It’s certainly better than what you’re wearing.”

  Mince shook his head. “I think it wants me to give it to the empress—to help her.”

  “It wants?” she asked.

  “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “Such things usually are,” the courtier said.

  “So can you give this to her?”

  “Perhaps you should let him give it to her,” Nimbus suggested to Amilia.

  “Are you serious?” she replied.

  “You wanted to atone for the misdeeds of the guards, didn’t you? For the likes of him, meeting the empress will more than make up for a few bruises. Besides, he’s just a boy. No one will care.”

  Amilia thought a moment, staring at the wide-eyed child. “What do you think, Mince? Would you like to give it to the empress yourself?”

  The boy looked as if he might faint.

  Modina had found a mouse in her chamber three months earlier. When she had lit the lamp, it had frozen in panic in the middle of the room. Picking it up, she felt its little chest heave as it panted for breath. Clearly terrified, it looked back at her with its dark, tiny eyes. Modina thought it might die of fright. Even after she set it down, it still did not move. Only after the light had been out for several minutes did she hear it scurry away. The mouse had never returned—until now.

  He was not that mouse, but the boy looked just the same. He lacked the fur, tail, and whiskers, but the eyes were unmistakable. He stood fearfully still, the only movement the result of his heaving chest and trembling body.

  “Did you say his name was Mouse?”

  “Mince, I think he said,” Amilia corrected. “It is Mince, isn’t it?”

  The boy said nothing, clutching the bag to his chest.

  “I found him at the tournament. He wants to give you a gift. Go on, Mince.”

  Instead of speaking, Mince abruptly thrust the bag out with both hands.

  “He wanted to give this to you because Saldur announced that you were too sick to attend the tournament. He says it has healing powers.”

  Modina took the bag, opened it, and drew forth the robe. Despite having been stuffed in the old, dirty sack, the garment shimmered—not a single wrinkle or stain on it.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said sincerely as she held it up, watching it play with the light. “It reminds me of someone I once knew. I will cherish it.”

  When the boy heard the words, tears formed in his eyes and streaked his dirty cheeks. Falling to his knees, he placed his face on the floor before her.

  Puzzled, Modina glanced at Amilia, but the imperial secretary only offered a shrug. The empress stared at the boy for a moment and then said to Amilia, “He looks starved.”

  “Do you want me to take him to the kitchen?”

  “No, leave him here. Go have some food sent up.”

  After Amilia left the room, Modina laid the robe on a chair and then sat on the edge of the bed, watching the boy. He had not moved, and remained kneeling with his head still touching the floor. After a few minutes, he looked up but said nothing.

  Modina spoke gently. “I’m very good at playing the silent game too. We can sit here for days not saying a word if you want.”

  The boy’s lips trembled. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then stopped.

  “Go ahead. It’s okay.”

  Once he started, the words came out in a flood, as if he felt the need to say everything with a single breath. “I just want ya to get better, that’s all. Honest. I brought ya the robe because it saved Kine, see. It healed him overnight, I tell ya. He was dying, and he woulda been dead by morning, for sure. But the robe made him better. Then today, when they said you was too sick to see the tournament, I knew I had to bring ya the robe to make ya better. Ya see?”

  “I’m sorry, Mince, but I’m afraid a robe can’t heal what’s wrong with me.”

  The boy frowned. “But… it healed Kine and his lips were blue.”

  Modina walked over and sat down on the floor in front of him.

  “I know you mean well, and it’s a wonderful gift, but some things can never be fixed.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You need to stop worrying about me. Do you understand?”

  “Why?”

  “You just have to. Will you do that for me?”

  The boy looked up and locked eyes with her. “I would do anything for you.”

  The sincerity and conviction in his voice staggered her.

  “I love you,” he added.

  Those three words shook her, and even though she was sitting on the floor, the empress put a hand down to steady herself.

  “No,” she said. “You can’t. You just met—”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Modina shook her head. “No, you don’t!” she snapped. “No one does!”

  The boy flinched as if struck. He looked back down at the floor and, nevertheless, added in a whisper, “But I do. Everyone does.”

  The empress stared at him.

  “What do you mean—‘everyone’?”

  “Everyone,” the boy said, puzzled. He gestured toward the window.

  “You mean the people in the city?”

  “Well, sure, them, but not just here. Everywhere. Everyone loves you,” the boy repeated. “Folks been coming to the city from all over. I hear them talking. They all come to see ya. All of them saying how the world’s gonna be better ’cuz you’re here. How they would die for you.”

  Stunned, Modina stood up slowly.

  She turned and walked to the window, where she gazed into the distance—above the roofs to the hills and snow-covered mountains beyond.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Mince asked.

  She turned back. “No. Not at all. It’s just that…” Modina paused. She moved to the mirror and ran her fingertips along t
he glass. “There are still ten days to Wintertide, right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Well, because you gave me a gift, I’d like to give you something in return, and it looks like I still have time.”

  She crossed to the door and opened it. Gerald stood waiting outside, as always. “Gerald,” she said, “could you please do me a favor?”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE HUNT

  Merry Eve’s Eve, Sir Hadrian,” a girl said brightly when he poked his head outside his room. She was just one of the giggling chambermaids who had been extending smiles and curtsies to him since the day of the first joust. After his second tilt, pages bowed and guards nodded in his direction. His third win, although as clean as the others, had been the worst, as it brought the attention of every knight and noble in the palace. After each joust, he had his choice of sitting in his dormitory or going to the great hall. Preferring to be alone, Hadrian usually chose his room.

  That morning, like most days, Hadrian found himself wandering the palace hallways. He had seen Albert from a distance on a few occasions, but neither attempted to speak with the other, and there had been no sign of Royce. Crossing through the grand foyer, he paused. The staircase spiraled upward, adorned in fanciful candles and painted wood ornaments. Somewhere four flights up, the girl he had known as Thrace was probably still asleep in her bed. He put his foot on the first step.

  “Sir Hadrian?” a man he did not recognize asked. “Great joust yesterday. You really gave Louden a hit he’ll not soon forget. I heard the crack even in the high stands. They say Louden will need a new breastplate, and you gave him two broken ribs to boot! What a hit. What a hit, I say. You know, I lost a bundle betting against you the first three jousts, but since then I’ve won everything back. I’m sticking with you for the final. You’ve made a believer out of me. Say, where you headed?”

  Hadrian quickly drew back his foot. “Nowhere. Just stretching my legs a bit.”

  “Well, just wanted to tell you to keep up the good work and let you know I’ll be rooting for you.”

  The man exited the palace through the grand entrance, leaving Hadrian at the bottom of the stairs.

  What am I going to do, walk into her chambers unannounced? It’s been over a year since I spoke with her. Will she hate me for not trying to see her earlier? Will she remember me at all?

  He looked up the staircase once more.

  It’s possible she’s all right, isn’t it? Just because no one ever sees her doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it?

  Modina was the empress. They could not be treating her too badly. When she lived in Dahlgren, she had been happy, and that had been a squalid little village where people were killed nightly by a giant monster.

  How much worse can living in a palace be?

  He took one last look around and spotted the two shadows leaning casually near the archway to the throne room. With a sigh, Hadrian turned toward the service wing, leaving the stairway behind.

  The sun was not fully up, but the kitchen was already bustling. Huge pots billowed clouds of steam so thick that the walls cried tears. Butchers hammered on cutting blocks, shouting orders. Boys ran with buckets, shouting back. Girls scrubbed cutlery, pans, and bowls. The smells were strong and varied. Some, such as that of baked bread, were wonderful, but others were sulfurous and vile. Unlike in the rest of the palace, no holiday decoration adorned the walls or tables. Here, behind the scenes, the signs of Wintertide were reduced to cooling trays of candied apples and snowflake-shaped cookies.

  Hadrian stepped into the scullery, fascinated by the activity. As soon as he entered, heads turned, work slowed, and then everything came to a stop. The room grew so quiet that the only sounds came from the bubbling pots, the crackling fires, and water dripping from a wet ladle. All the staff stared at him, as if he had two heads or three arms.

  Hadrian took a seat on one of the stools surrounding an open table. The modest area appeared to be the place where the kitchen staff ate their own meals. He tried to look casual and relaxed, but it was impossible with all the attention.

  “What’s all this now?” boomed a voice belonging to a large, beefy cook with a thick beard and eyes wreathed in cheerful wrinkles. Spotting Hadrian, those eyes narrowed abruptly. He revealed—if only for a moment—that he had another side, the same way a playful dog might suddenly growl at an intruder.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked, approaching Hadrian with a meat cleaver in one hand.

  “I don’t mean any harm. I was just hoping to find some food.”

  The cook looked him over closely. “Are you a knight, sir?”

  Hadrian nodded.

  “Up early, I see. I’ll have whatever you want brought to the great hall.”

  “Actually, I’d rather eat here. Is that okay?”

  “I’m sorry?” the cook said, confused. “If you don’t mind me asking, why would a fine nobleman like yourself want to eat in a hot, dirty kitchen surrounded by the clang of pots and the gibbering of maids?”

  “I just feel more comfortable here,” Hadrian said. “I think a man ought to be at ease when eating. Of course, if it’s a problem…” He stood.

  “You’re Sir Hadrian, aren’t you? I haven’t found the time to see the jousts, but as you can see, most of my staff has. You’re quite the celebrity. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about you and your recent change in fortune. Are any of them true?”

  “Well, I can’t say about the stories, but my name is Hadrian.”

  “Nice to meet you. Name’s Ibis Thinly. Have a seat, sir. I’ll fix you right up.”

  He hurried away, scolding his crew to return to work. Many continued to glance over at Hadrian, stealing looks when they felt the head cook could not see. In a short while, Ibis returned with a plate of chicken, fried eggs, and biscuits and a mug of dark beer. The chicken was so hot that it hurt Hadrian’s fingers, and the biscuits steamed when he pulled them open.

  “I appreciate this,” Hadrian told Ibis, taking a bite of biscuit.

  Ibis gave him a surprised look and then chuckled. “By Mar! Thanking a cook for food! Them stories are true, aren’t they?”

  Hadrian shrugged. “I guess I have a hard time remembering that I’m noble. When I was a commoner, I always knew what noble meant, but now, not so much.”

  The cook smiled. “Lady Amilia has the same problem. I gotta say it’s nice to see decent folk getting ahead in this world. The news is you’ve ruled the field at Highcourt. Beat every knight who rode against you. I even heard you opened the tournament by tilting against Sir Murthas without a helm!”

  Hadrian nodded with a mouthful of chicken, which he shifted from side to side, trying to avoid a burnt tongue.

  “When a man does that,” Ibis went on, “and comes from the salt like the rest of us, he wins favor among the lower classes. Yes, indeed. Those of us with dirty faces and sweaty backs get quite a thrill from one such as you, sir.”

  Hadrian did not know how to respond and contented himself with swallowing his chicken. He had ridden to the sound of roaring crowds every time he had competed, but Hadrian was not there for applause. His task was dark, secret, and not worthy of praise. He had unsaddled five knights and, by the rules of the contest, owned their mounts. Hadrian had declined that privilege. He had no need for the horses, but it was more than just that—he did not deserve them. All he wanted was the lives of Arista and Gaunt. In his mind, the whole affair was tainted. Taking anything else from his victories—even the pleasure of success—would be wrong. Nevertheless, the crowds cheered each time he refused his right to a mount, believing him humble and chivalrous instead of what he was—a murderer in waiting.

  “It’s just you and Breckton now, isn’t it?” Ibis asked.

  Hadrian nodded gloomily. “We tilt tomorrow. There’s some sort of hunt today.”

  “Oh yes, the hawking. I’ll be roasting plenty of game birds for tonight’s feast. Say, aren’t you going?”

  “Just here for the joust,” Hadrian
managed to say even though his mouth was full again.

  Ibis bent his head to get a better look. “For a new knight on the verge of winning the Wintertide Highcourt Tournament, you don’t seem very happy. It’s not the food, I hope.”

  Hadrian shook his head. “Food’s great. Kinda hoping you’ll let me eat my midday meal here too.”

  “You’re welcome anytime. Ha! Listen to me sounding like an innkeeper or castle lord. I’m just a cook.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Sure, these mongrels quiver at my voice, but you’re a knight. You can go wherever you please. Still… if my food has placed you in a charitable mood, I would ask one favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lady Amilia holds a special place in my heart. She’s like a daughter to me. A sweet, sweet lass, and it seems she’s recently taken a liking to Sir Breckton. He’s good, mind you, a fine lancer, but from what I’ve heard, you’re likely to beat him. Now, I’m not saying anything against you—someone of my station would be a fool to even insinuate such a thing—but…”

  “But?”

  “Well, some knights try to inflict as much damage as they can, taking aim at a visor and such. If something were to happen to Breckton… Well, I just don’t want Amilia to get hurt. She’s never had much, you see. Comes from a poor family and has worked hard all her life. Even now, that bas—I mean, Regent Saldur—keeps her slaving night and day. But even so, she’s been happy lately, and I’d like to see that continue.”

  Hadrian kept his eyes on his plate, concentrating on mopping up yolk with a crust of bread.

  “So anyway, if at all possible, it’d be real nice if you went a bit easy on Breckton. So he doesn’t get hurt, I mean. I know a’course that you can’t always help it. Dear Maribor, I know that. But I can tell by talking with you that you’re a decent fellow. Ha! I don’t even know why I brought it up. You’ll do the right thing. I can tell. Here, let me get you some more beer.”

  Ibis Thinly walked away, taking Hadrian’s mug and appetite with him.