Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (23 page)

“Ibis! Look! I got two!” she shouted, holding the birds above her head. She entered the kitchen dressed in a lovely white gown and matching fur cape.

“Bring them here, lass. Let me see these treasures.”

Hadrian had seen Lady Amilia from a distance at each of the feasts, but this was the first time he had seen her up close since he had posed as a courier. She was prettier than he remembered. Her clothes were certainly better. Whether it was the spring in her step or the flush in her cheeks brought on by the cold, she appeared more alive.

“These are clearly the pick of the lot,” Ibis said after inspecting her trophies.

“They’re scrawny and small, but they’re
mine
!” She followed the declaration with a carefree, happy laugh.

“Can I infer from your mood that you did not hunt alone?”

Amilia said nothing and merely smiled. Clasping her hands behind her back, she sashayed about the kitchen, swinging her skirt.

“Come now, girl. Don’t toy with me.”

She laughed again, spun around, and announced, “He was at my side almost the whole day. A
perfect
gentleman, I might add, and I think…” She hesitated.

“Think what? Out with it, lass.”

“I think he may fancy me.”

“Bah! Of course he fancies you. But what did the man say? Did he speak plainly? Did he spout verse? Did he kiss you right there on the field?”

“
Kiss me?
He’s
far
too proper for such vulgarity, but he was
very
nervous… silly, even. And he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off me!”

“Silly? Sir Breckton? Ah, lass, you’ve got him hooked. You have. A fine catch, I must say, a fine catch indeed.”

Amilia could not contain herself and laughed again, this time throwing back her head in elation and twirling her gown. Doing so, she caught sight of Hadrian and halted.

“Sorry, I’m just having a late lunch,” he said. “I’ll be gone in a minute.”

“Oh no. You don’t have to leave. It’s just that I didn’t see you. Other than the staff, I’m the only one who ever comes down here—or so I thought.”

“It’s more comfortable than the hall,” Hadrian said. “I
spend my days tilting with the knights. I don’t feel like competing with them at meals too.”

She walked over, looking puzzled. “You don’t talk like a knight.”

“That’s Sir Hadrian,” Ibis informed Amilia.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You helped Sir Breckton and my poor Nimbus when they were attacked. That was very kind. You’re also the one who rode in the tournament without a helm. You’ve—you’ve unseated every opponent on the first pass and haven’t had a single lance broken on your shield. You’re… very good, aren’t you?”

“And he’s riding against Sir Breckton tomorrow for the championship,” Ibis reminded her.

“That’s right!” She gasped, raising a hand to her lips. “Have you
ever
been unseated?”

Hadrian shrugged self-consciously. “Not since I’ve been a knight.”

“Oh, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—I just wondered if it hurt terribly. I guess it can’t feel good. Even with all that armor and padding, being driven from a galloping horse by a pole must not be pleasant.” Her eyes grew troubled. “But all the other knights are fine, aren’t they? I saw Sir Murthas and Sir Elgar on the hawking just today. They were trotting and laughing, so I’m certain everything will be all right no matter who wins.

“I know tomorrow is the final tilt and winning the tournament is a great honor. I understand firsthand the desire to prove yourself to those who look down on you. But I ask you to consider that Sir Breckton is a good man—a very good man. He would never hurt you if he could help it. I hope you feel the same.” She struggled to smile at Hadrian.

He put down the bread he was eating as a sickening
sensation churned his stomach. Hadrian had to stop eating in the kitchen.

The acrobats rapidly assembled their human pyramid. Vaulting one at a time into the air, they somersaulted before each landed feetfirst on the shoulders of the one below. One after another they flew, continuing to build the formation until the final man reached up and touched the ceiling of the great hall. Despite the danger involved in the exciting performance, Amilia was not watching. She had seen the act before at the audition and rehearsals. Her eyes were on the audience. As Wintertide neared, the entertainment at each feast became grander and more extravagant.

Amilia held her breath until the hall erupted in applause.

They liked it!

Looking for Viscount Winslow, she spotted him clapping, his hands above his head. The two exchanged wide grins.

“I thought I would die from stress toward the end,” Nimbus whispered from the seat next to Amilia. The bruises on the tutor’s face were mostly gone and the annoying whistling sound had finally left his nose.

“Yes, that was indeed excellent,” said King Roswort of Dunmore.

At each feast, Nimbus always sat to Amilia’s left and the queen and king sat to her right.

King Roswort was huge. He made the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle appear petite. His squat, portly build was mimicked—in miniature—in his face, which sagged under its own weight. Amilia imagined that even if he were thin, King Roswort would still sag like an old riding horse. His wife, Freda, while no reed herself, was thin by comparison. She was
dry and brittle both in looks and manner. The couple were fortunately quiet most of the time, at least until their third glasses of wine. Amilia lost count that evening but assumed number three had arrived and perhaps already gone.

“Are the acrobats friends of yours?” the king asked, leaning around his wife to speak to Amilia.

“Mine? No, I merely hired them,” she said.

“Friends of friends, then?”

She shook her head.

“But you know them?” the king pressed further.

“I met them for the first time at the auditions.”

“Rossie,” Freda said. “She’s clearly trying to distance herself from them now that the doors of nobility are open to her. You can’t blame her for that. Anyone would abandon the wretches. Leave them in the street. That’s where they belong.”

“But I—” Amilia began before the king cut her off.

“But, my queen, many are rising in rank. Some street merchants are as wealthy as nobles now.”

“Terrible state of affairs,” Freda snarled through thin, red-painted lips. “A title isn’t what it used to be.”

“I agree, my queen. Why, some knights have no lineage at all to speak of. They are no better than peasants with swords. All anyone needs these days is money to buy armor and a horse, and there you have it—presto—a noble. Commoners are even learning to read. Can you read, Lady Amilia?”

“Actually, I can.”

“See!” The king threw his hands up. “Of course, you are in the nobility now, but I assume you learned letters before that? It’s a travesty. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

“At least the situation with the elves has improved,” his wife put in. “You have to give Ethelred credit for reducing their numbers. Our efforts to deal with them in Dunmore have met with little success.”

“Deal with them?” Amilia asked, but the monarchs continued under their own momentum.

“If they had any intelligence, they would leave on their own. How much plainer can it be that they are not welcome?” the king said. “The guilds prohibit them from membership in any business, they can’t obtain citizenship in any city, and the church declared them unclean enemies of Novron ages ago. Even the peasants are free to take measures against them. Still, they don’t take the hint. They keep breeding and filling up slums. Hundreds die each year in church-sanctioned Cleansing Days, but they persist. Why not move on? Why not go elsewhere?”

As the king ran out of breath, the queen took over. “They are like rats, festering in every crack. Living among their kind is a curse. It’s what brought down the first empire, you know. Even keeping them as slaves was a mistake. And mark my words, if we don’t get rid of them all, so that not a single elf walks a civilized street or country lane, this empire will fall to the same ruin.”

“True, true, the old emperors were too soft. They thought that they could
fix
them—”

“Fix them!” Freda erupted. “What a ridiculous notion. You can’t fix a plague. You can only run from it or wipe it out.”

“I know, darling, I agree with you wholeheartedly. We have a second chance now, and Ethelred is off to a good start.”

Realizing that the king and queen ran through a conversation as familiar and comfortable to them as a pair of well-worn shoes, Amilia nodded politely without really listening. She had seen elves only once in her life. When she had still been living in Tarin Vale, three of them had come to the village—a family, if they had such notions of kinship. Apparently content to dress in rags, they were dirty and carried
small, stained bundles, which Amilia guessed were all they had. They were so thin they looked sick, and walked with their heads bowed and shoulders slumped.

Children had called the elves names and villagers had thrown stones and shouted for them to leave. A rock struck the female’s head and she cried out. Amilia did not throw any rocks, but she watched as the family was bruised and bloodied before they fled from town. At the time, she did not understand how they could be a threat. The monk who had been teaching her letters explained elves were responsible for the downfall of the empire. They had seemed helpless, and Amilia could not help feeling sorry for them.

Roswort concluded his tirade by accusing the elves of being responsible for the drought two years before, and Amilia caught Nimbus rolling his eyes.

“You don’t share their opinions?” she whispered.

“It’s not my place to counter the words of a king, milady,” the courtier responded politely.

“True, but I sometimes wonder just what goes on under that wig of yours. Something tells me there’s more than courtly etiquette rattling around.”

Off to Amilia’s right, Roswort and Freda had moved on. “Dwarves aren’t much better, but at least they have skills,” the king was saying. “Fine stonemasons and jewelers, I’ll give them that, but niggardly as an autumn squirrel facing an early snow, the entire lot of them. They can’t be trusted. Any one of them would slit your throat to steal two copper tenents. They stick to their own kind and whisper their outlawed language. Living with dwarves is like trying to domesticate a wild animal, can’t ever truly be done.”

The conversation died down as another performance started. This time a pair of conjurers pulled apples and oddments from their sleeves, then juggled the items. When the act was over,
and all the knives and goblets safely caught, Nimbus asked, “Doesn’t the empress hail from your kingdom, Your Majesty?”

“Oh yes.” Roswort perked up and nearly spilled his drink. “Lived right there in Dahlgren. What a terrible mess that was. Afterward, the deacon ran about babbling his tall tales—and no one believed him. I certainly didn’t. Who would have thought that the Heir of Novron would come from that tiny dust speck?”

“How is it that we never see her?” the queen asked Amilia. “She
will
be at the wedding, won’t she?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. The empress is saving her strength for just that. She’s still quite weak.”

“I see,” the queen replied coolly. “Surely she is well enough by now to admit guests. Several of the ladies feel it has been most unseemly the way she has been ignoring us. I would very much like a personal audience with her before the ceremony.”

“I am afraid that’s really not up to me. I only follow her directions.”

“How can you follow her directions on something I have just now suggested? Are you a mind reader?”

“Who would have expected Sir Hadrian to be in the finals of the tournament?” Nimbus said loudly. “I certainly didn’t think a novice would be challenging for the title tomorrow. And against Sir Breckton! You must admit Lady Amilia certainly backed the right arm-and-shield there. Who are you favoring, Your Majesty?”

Roswort pursed his lips. “I find both of them disagreeable. The whole tournament has been too tame for my taste. I prefer the theatrics of Elgar and Gilbert. They know how to play to a crowd. This year’s finalists are as solemn as monks, and neither has done anything other than unseat their opponents. That’s bad form, if you ask me. Knights are trained for war.
They should instinctually seek to kill rather than merely bust a pole on a reinforced plate. I think they should be required to use war tips. Do that, and you’ll see something worth watching!”