Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (12 page)

“Then I am honored to sit at the same table as he and even more pleased to have you as my view.”

“I pity all princesses this evening, for surely I am the luckiest of ladies to be seated with the two of you. What is your name, goodly sir?” she asked Hadrian.

Still seated, Hadrian realized his error. Like Breckton, he should have stood at Genny’s approach. Rising awkwardly, he fumbled a bow. “I am… Sir Hadrian,” he said, watching for a raised hand. When she lifted it, he felt foolish but placed a light kiss on its back before sitting down. He expected laughter from the others but no one seemed to notice.

“I am Genevieve, the Duchess of Rochelle.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Hadrian replied.

“Surely you know Sir Breckton?” the duchess asked.

“Not personally.”

“He is the general of the Northern Imperial Army and favored champion of this week’s tournament.”

“Favored by whom, my lady?” Sir Elgar asked, dragging out the seat next to Breckton and sitting with all the elegance
of an elephant. “I believe Maribor favors my talents in this year’s competition.”

“You might like to think that, Sir Elgar, but I suspect your boasting skills are more honed than your riding prowess after so many years of endless practice,” the duchess returned, causing the monk to chuckle.

“No disrespect to Her Ladyship,” Breckton said in cold seriousness, “but Sir Elgar is correct in that only Maribor will judge the victor of this tournament, and no one yet knows the favor of his choice.”

“Do not speak on my behalf,” Elgar growled. “I don’t need your charity, nor will I be the foundation for your tower of virtue. Spare us your monk’s tongue.”

“Don’t be too quick to shun charity or silence a monk,” the robed man across from Hadrian said softly. “Or how else will you know the will of god?”

“Pardon me, good monk. I was not speaking against you but rather rebuking the preaching of this secular would-be priest.”

“Wherever the word of Maribor is spoken, I pray thee listen.”

A squat, teardrop-shaped man claimed the chair beside the duchess. He kissed her cheek and called her dearest. Hadrian had never met Leopold before, but from all Albert had told him, his identity was obvious. Sir Gilbert took the empty chair next to Elgar.

No one sat to Hadrian’s right, and he hoped it would remain that way. With the duchess protecting one flank, if no one took the seat at the other, he had to worry only about a frontal assault. While Hadrian pondered this, another friendly face appeared.

“Good Wintertide, all!” Albert Winslow greeted those at the table with an elegant flourish that made Hadrian envious.
He was certain Albert saw him, but the viscount displayed no indication of recognition.

“Albert!” The duchess beamed. “How wonderful to have you at our table.”

“Ah, Lady Genevieve and Duke Leopold. I had no idea I ranked so highly on Her Eminence’s list that I should be given the honor of dining with such esteemed personages.”

Albert immediately stepped to Genny, bowed, and kissed her hand with effortless grace and style.

“Allow me to introduce Sir Hadrian,” the lady said. “He appears to be a wonderful fellow.”

“Is he?” Albert mused. “And a knight, you say?”

“That is yet to be determined,” Sir Elgar said. “He claims a
Sir
before his name, but I’ve never heard of him before. Has anyone?”

“Generosity of spirit precludes judging a man ill before cause is given,” Sir Breckton said. “As a knight of virtue, I am certain you know this, Sir Elgar.”

“Once more, I need no instruction from you. I, for one, would like to know from whence Sir Hadrian hails and how it was he won his spurs.”

All eyes turned to Hadrian.

He tried to remember the details drilled into him without looking like he was struggling. “I come from… Barmore. I was knighted by Lord Dermont for my service in the Battle of Ratibor.”

“Really?” Sir Gilbert said in a syrupy voice. “I wasn’t aware of
that
victory. I was under the impression the battle was lost and Lord Dermont killed. For what were you knighted, and how, pray tell, did His Lordship knight you? Did his spirit fly overhead, dubbing you with an ethereal sword, saying, ‘Rise up, good knight. Go forth and lose more battles in the name of the empire, the empress, and the lord god Maribor’?”

Hadrian felt his stomach churn. Albert looked at him with tense eyes, clearly unable to help. Even the duchess remained silent.

“Good evening, gentlemen and lady.” From behind him, the voice of Regent Saldur broke the tension, and Hadrian felt the regent’s hand on his shoulder.

Accompanying him was Archibald Ballentyne, the Earl of Chadwick, who took the seat to Hadrian’s right. Everyone at the table nodded reverently to the regent.

“I was just showing the earl to his seat, but I couldn’t help overhearing your discussion concerning Sir Hadrian of Barmore here. You see, it was the empress herself who insisted he attend this festival. I ask him to grant me the guilty pleasure of responding to this honorable inquiry by Sir Gilbert. What do you say, Sir Hadrian?”

“Sure,” he replied stiffly.

“Thank you,” Saldur said, and after clearing his throat, continued, “Sir Gilbert is correct in that Lord Dermont was lost that day, but reports from his closest aides brought back the tale. Three days of rain made a mounted charge impossible, and the sheer number of the unstoppable Nationalist horde convinced Lord Dermont of the futility of engagement. Overcome with grief, he retreated to his tent in resignation.

“Without Lord Dermont to lead them, the imperial army floundered when the attack came. It was Sir Hadrian—then
Captain
Hadrian of the Fifth Imperial Mounted Guard—who roused the men and set them to ranks. He raised the banner and led them forth. At first, only a handful of soldiers responded. Indeed, only those who served with him answered his call, for they alone knew firsthand his mettle. Ignoring his meager numbers, he trusted in Maribor and called the charge.”

Hadrian looked down and fidgeted with an uncooperative toggle on his tunic as the others sat enthralled.

“Although it was suicide, Captain Hadrian rode at the head of the troop into the fen field. His horse threw mud and slop, and a magnificent rainbow burst forth from the spray as he galloped across a stretch of standing water. He drove at the heart of the enemy with no thought of his own safety.”

Saldur’s voice grew in volume and intensity. His tone and cadence assumed the melodramatic delivery of a church sermon. A few nobles at the other tables turned to listen as he continued.

“His courageous charge unnerved the Nationalist foot soldiers, who fell back in fear. Onward he plunged, splitting their ranks until at last his mount became overwhelmed by the soft earth and fell. Wielding sword and shield, he got to his feet and continued to drive forward. Clashing against steel, he cried out the name of the empress: ‘For Modina! Modina! Modina Novronian!’ ”

Saldur paused and Hadrian looked up to see every eye at the table shifting back and forth between the regent and him.

“Finally, shamed by the bravery of this one lone captain, the rest of the imperial army rallied. They cried to Maribor for forgiveness even as they drew sword and spear and rushed to follow. Before reinforcements could reach him, Hadrian was wounded and driven into the mud. Some of his men bore him from the field and took him to the tent of Lord Dermont. There they told the tale of his bravery and Lord Dermont swore by Maribor to honor Hadrian’s sacrifice. He proclaimed his intent to knight the valiant captain.

“ ‘Nay, lord!’ cried Captain Hadrian even as he lay wounded and bleeding. ‘Knight me not, for I am unworthy. I have failed.’ Lord Dermont clutched his blade and was heard to say ‘You are more worthy of the noble title of
knight-valiant
than I am of the title of
man
!’ And with that, Lord Dermont dubbed him
Sir
Hadrian.”

“Oh my!” the duchess gasped.

With everyone staring at him, Hadrian felt hot, awkward, and more naked than when Elgar had interrupted his bath.

“Lord Dermont called for his own horse and thanked Sir Hadrian for the chance to redeem his honor before Maribor. He led his personal retinue into the fight, where he and all but a few of his men perished on the pikes of the Nationalists.

“Sir Hadrian tried to return to the battle despite his wounds, but fell unconscious before reaching the field. After the Nationalists’ victory, they left him for dead and only providence spared his life. He awoke covered in mud. Desperate for food and water, he crawled into the forest, where he came upon a small hovel. There he was fed and tended to by a mysterious man. Sir Hadrian rested there for six days, and on the seventh, the man brought forth a horse and told Sir Hadrian to take it, ride to Aquesta, and present himself to the court. After he handed over the reins, thunder cracked and a single white feather fell from a clear blue sky. The man caught the feather before it reached the ground, a broad smile across his face. And with that, the man disappeared.

“Now, gentlemen and ladies.” Saldur paused to look out over the other tables whose attention he had drawn. “I tell you truthfully that two days before Sir Hadrian arrived, the empress came to me and said, ‘A knight riding a white horse will come to the palace. Admit him and honor him, for he shall be the greatest knight of the New Empire.’ Sir Hadrian has been here, recuperating from his wounds, ever since. Today he is fully recovered and sits before you all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take my seat, as the feast is about to begin.” Saldur bowed and left them.

No one said a word for some time. Everyone stared at Hadrian in wonder, including Albert, whose mouth hung agape.

It was the duchess who finally found words to sum up their collective thoughts. “Well, aren’t you just an astonishment topped with surprises!”

Dinner was served in a fashion that Hadrian had never seen before. Fifty servants moving in concert delivered steaming plates of exotic victuals in elaborate presentations. Two peacocks were posed on large platters. One peered up as if surprised, while the other’s head curled backward as if it were sleeping. Each was surrounded by an array of succulent carved meat. Ducks, geese, quail, turtledoves, and partridges were displayed in similar fashion, and one pure-white trumpeter swan reared up with its wings outstretched as if about to take flight. Rings of nuts, berries, and herbs surrounded glazed slabs of lean venison, dark boar, and marbled beef. Breads of various shades, from snow white to nearly black, lay in heaping piles. Massive wedges of cheese, cakes of butter, seven different types of fish, oysters steamed in almond milk, meat pies, custard tarts, and pastries drizzled with honey covered every inch of the table. Stewards and their many assistants served endless streams of wine, beer, ale, and mead.

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.