Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (21 page)

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 the 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?”

M
erry 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.

In many ways Amilia felt like a child Saldur had brought into the world that day in the kitchen when he had elevated her to
the rank of lady. Now she was little more than a toddler, still trying to master simple tasks and often making mistakes. No one said anything. No one pointed and laughed, but there were knowing looks and partially hidden smiles. She felt out of her element when trying to navigate the numerous traps and hazards of courtly life without a map.

When addressed as
my lady
by a finely dressed noble, Amilia felt uncomfortable. Seeing a guard snap to attention at her passing was strange. Especially since those same soldiers had grinned lewdly at her little more than a year earlier. Amilia was certain the guards still leered and the nobles still laughed, but now they did so behind polite eyes. She believed the only means of banishing the silent snickers was to fit in. If Amilia did not stumble as she walked, spill a glass of wine, speak too loudly, wear the wrong color, laugh when she should remain quiet, or remain quiet when she should laugh, then they might forget she used to scrub their dishes. Any time Amilia interacted with the nobility was an ordeal, but when she did so in an unfamiliar setting, she became ill. For this reason, Amilia avoided eating anything the morning of the hawking.

The whole court embarked on the daylong event. Knights, nobles, ladies, and servants all rode out together to the forest and field for the great hunt. Dogs trotted in their wake. Amilia had never sat on a horse before. She had never ridden a pony, a mule, or even an ox, but that day she found herself precariously balanced atop a massive white charger. She wore the beautiful white gown and matching cape Lady Genevieve had provided her, which, by no accident, perfectly matched her horse’s coat. Her right leg was hooked between two horns of the saddle and her left foot rested on a planchette. Sitting this way made staying on the animal’s back a demanding enterprise. Each jerk and turn set her heart pounding and her hands grasping for the charger’s braided mane. On several occasions,
she nearly toppled backward. Amilia imagined that if she were to fall, she would wind up hanging by her trapped leg, skirt over her head, while the horse pranced proudly about. The thought terrified her so much that she barely breathed and sat rigid with her eyes fixed on the ground below. For the two-hour ride into the wilderness, Amilia did not speak a word. She dared to look up only when the huntsman called for the party’s attention.