Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (25 page)

The room was too small for anyone to hide in—they were alone. “What do you want?” Hadrian asked.

“I thought that was obvious. I want you to join me. It’s your turn.”

“I’m not interested in playing games.”

“I think it is a bit presumptuous to consider this a mere game.” Merrick’s voice was paradoxically chilling and friendly, a mannerism Hadrian had witnessed many times before—in Royce.

Merrick’s demeanor distressed him. Hadrian had learned to read a man by his tone, his body language, and the look in his eye, but Merrick was impossible to peg. He appeared completely relaxed, yet he should not be. Although larger and heavier than Royce, Merrick was not a big man. He did not look like a fighter, nor did he appear to be wearing any weapons. If Merrick was half as smart as Royce had suggested, he knew Hadrian could kill him. Given how he had manipulated them on the
Emerald Storm
, which had resulted in the death of Wesley Belstrad and the destruction of Tur Del Fur, Mer
rick should further know it was a real possibility, yet the man showed no sign of concern. It unnerved Hadrian and made him think he was missing something.

Hadrian took the seat across from Merrick and, after glancing at the board for only a moment, slid a pawn forward.

Merrick smiled with the eagerness of a small boy starting his favorite pastime. He moved another pawn, putting it in jeopardy, and Hadrian took it.

“Ah, so you accept the Queen’s Gambit,” Merrick said.

“Huh?”

“My opening moves. They are referred to as the Queen’s Gambit. How you respond indicates acceptance or not. Your move has signaled the former.”

“I just took a pawn,” Hadrian said.

“You did both. Are you aware chess is known as the King’s Game due to its ability to teach war strategy?”

Almost without thought, Merrick brought another pawn forward.

Hadrian did not reply as he looked at the board. His father had taught him the game when he was a boy to strengthen Hadrian’s understanding of tactics and planning. Danbury Blackwater had made a board and set of pieces from metal scraps. His father had been the best chess player in the village. It had taken years for Hadrian finally to checkmate him.

“Of course, the game has broader implications,” Merrick went on. “I’ve heard bishops base whole sermons on chess. They draw parallels indicating how the pieces represent the hierarchy of the classes, and the rules of movement depict an individual’s duty as ordained by God.”

Merrick’s third pawn was in jeopardy, and Hadrian took it as well. Merrick moved his bishop, again without pause. The man’s playing style disturbed Hadrian, as he expected more contemplation after Hadrian had taken two of his pieces.

“So you see, what you deem a simple, frivolous game is actually a mirror to the world around us and how we move in it. For example, did you know that pawns were not always allowed to move two squares at the start? That advent was the result of progress and a slipping of monarchial power. Furthermore, upon reaching the opposite side of the board, pawns used to only be promoted to the rank of councilor, which is the second-weakest piece, after the pawn itself.”

“Speaking of pawns… We didn’t appreciate you using us at Tur Del Fur,” Hadrian said.

Merrick raised a hand. “Royce has already scolded me on that score.”

“Royce—he spoke to you?”

Merrick chuckled. “Surprised I’m still alive? Royce and I have a… an understanding. To him I am like that bishop on the board. I’m right there—an easy target—and yet the cost is too high.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You tricked us into helping you slaughter hundreds of innocent people. Royce has killed for far less.”

Merrick looked amused. “True, Royce usually requires a reason
not
to kill. But don’t deceive yourself. He’s not like you. The deaths of innocents, no matter how many, are meaningless to him. He just doesn’t like being used. No, I would venture to say that only one murder has ever caused him to suffer remorse, and that is why I’m still alive. Royce feels the scales are not balanced between us. He feels he still owes me.”

Merrick gestured toward himself. “Were you waiting on me? I believe it’s your move.”

Hadrian decided to be more daring and pulled out his queen to threaten Merrick’s king. Merrick moved instantly,
sliding his king out of harm’s way, almost before Hadrian removed his hand.

“Now where was I?” Merrick continued. “Oh yes, the evolution of chess, which changes just as the world does. Centuries ago there was no such thing as castling, and a stalemate was considered a win for the player causing it. Most telling, I think, is the changing role of the queen in the game.”

Hadrian brought forward a pawn to threaten the bishop, and Merrick promptly took it. Hadrian moved his knight out and Merrick did the same.

“Originally there was no queen at all, as all the pieces were male. Instead, a piece called the king’s chief minister held that position. It wasn’t until much later that the female queen replaced this piece. Back then she was restricted to moving only one square diagonally, which made her quite weak. It wasn’t until later that she obtained the ability to move the entire length of the board in any direction, thus becoming the most powerful piece in the game—and the most coveted target to trap or kill.”

Hadrian started to move his bishop but stopped when he realized that Merrick’s knight was threatening his queen.

“That was an interesting speech the empress delivered at the feast, don’t you think?” Merrick asked. “Why do you think she did that?”

“No idea,” Hadrian replied, studying the board.

Merrick smiled at him. “I see why Royce likes you. You’re not big on conversation. You two are quite the odd pairing, aren’t you? Royce and I are far more similar. We each maintain a common pragmatic view of the world and those in it, but you are more an idealist and dreamer. You look like an ale drinker to me, and Royce prefers his Montemorcey.”

Another quick succession of moves made Hadrian slow down his play and left him studying the board.

“Did you know I introduced him to that particular wine? That was years ago, when I brought him a case for his birthday. Well, that’s not precisely correct. Royce has no idea about the actual date of his birth. Still, it could have been, so we celebrated like it was. I liberated the wine from a Vandon caravan loaded with merchandise, and we spent three whole days drinking and debauching a tiny agrarian village. That town had a surprisingly large proportion of attractive maids. I had never seen Royce drunk before that. He’s usually so serious—all dark and brooding—or at least he was back then. For those three days he relaxed and we had arguably the best time of our lives.”

Hadrian focused on the board.

“We were quite the team back in our day. I’d plan the jobs and he’d execute them. We had quite a contest going. I tried to see if I could invent a challenge too difficult, but he always surprised me. His skills are legendary. Of course, back then the shackles of morality didn’t weigh him down. That’s your doing, I suppose. You tamed the demon, or at least think you have.”

Hadrian found Merrick’s conversation irritating and realized that was the point. He moved his queen to safety. Merrick innocently, almost absentmindedly, slid a pawn forward.

“It’s still there, though—the demon within—hiding; you can’t change the nature of someone like Royce. In Calis they try to tame lions, did you know that? They take them as cubs and raise them in palaces as pets for princes. They think them safe until one day the family dogs are gone. ‘Perhaps the dogs warranted it,’ the love-struck prince says. ‘Perhaps the hounds attacked the cat or antagonized it,’ he says as he strokes his loyal beast. The next day they find the carcass of the prince in a tree. No, my friend, you can’t tame a wild animal. Eventually it will return to its true nature.”

Hadrian made a series of moves that succeeded in taking the white bishop. He could not determine if Merrick was just toying with him or was not nearly as good at the game as Hadrian had expected.

“Does he ever speak of me?” asked Merrick.

“You sound like an abandoned mistress.”

Merrick sat straighter and adjusted the front of his tunic. “You’ve had a chance to see Breckton joust. Is there any doubt about whether you can defeat him?”

“No.”

“That’s good. But now comes the important question… will you?”

“I made an agreement, didn’t I? You were there.”

Merrick leaned forward. “I know you—or at least your type. You’re having second thoughts. You don’t think it’s right to kill an innocent man. You’ve met Breckton. He’s impressive. The kind of man you want to be. You’re hating yourself right now, and you hate me because you think I helped arrange it. Only I didn’t. I have no part in this—well, beyond suggesting they offer you the princess. Whether you want to thank me or kill me for that, I’d just like to point out that at the time you were threatening to kill everyone in the room.”

“So if this is none of your business, then why are you here?”

“I need Royce to do another job for me—an important one—and he’ll be far less inclined if you die, which you will if you don’t kill Breckton. If, however, you keep your promise, everything should work out nicely. So I’ve come to affirm what you already know, and what Royce would tell you if he were here. You
must
kill Breckton. Keep in mind you will be trading the life of the most capable enemy of Melengar for its princess and the leader of the Nationalists. Together, they could revitalize the resistance. And let’s not forget your legacy. This is your one chance to correct the sin of your father and
bring peace to his spirit. If nothing else, don’t you think you owe Danbury that much?”

“How do you know about that?”

Merrick merely smiled.

“You’re a smug bastard, aren’t you?” Hadrian glared at him. “But you don’t know everything.”

Hadrian reached out to move, but Merrick raised a hand and stopped him.

“You’re about to take my rook with your bishop. After that, you will take the other with your queen. How can you not? The poor castle is completely undefended. You’ll be feeling quite pleased with yourself at that point. You’ll be thinking that I don’t play this game anywhere near as well as you expected. What you won’t realize is that while you have gained materially, you’ve systematically given up control of the board. You’ll have more troops but discover too late that you can’t effectively mount an attack. I will sacrifice my queen. You will have no choice but to kill her. By that time, I will be perfectly positioned to reach your king. In the end, you will have taken a bishop, two rooks, and my queen, but none of this will matter. I will checkmate you on the twenty-second turn by moving my remaining bishop to king’s seven.” Merrick stood and moved toward the door. “You’ve already lost, but you lack the foresight to see it. That’s your problem. I, on the other hand, do not suffer from that particular malady. I am telling you for your own good, for Royce’s sake, for Arista, Gaunt, and even for your father—you must kill Sir Breckton. Good night, Hadrian.”

T
he sky was overcast, the day a dull gray, and the wind blew a chilled blast across the stands. And yet the crowd at Highcourt was larger and louder than ever. The entire imperial court, and most of the town, had turned out to see the spectacle. Every inch of the bleachers was jammed, and a sea of bodies pushed against the fence. On the staging field only the blue and gold tent of Sir Breckton and the green and white tent of Sir Hadrian remained.

Hadrian arrived early that morning alongside Renwick, who went right to work feeding and brushing Malevolent. Hadrian did not want to be in the palace and risk an encounter with Breckton, Amilia, or Merrick. All he wanted was to be left alone and for this day to be over.

“Hadrian!” a strangely familiar voice called. Along the fence line, he spotted a man amidst the crowd waving at him while a pike-armed guard held him back. “It’s me, Russell Bothwick from Dahlgren!”

Leaving Renwick to finish dressing Malevolent, Hadrian walked over to the fence to get a better look. As he did, his shadows from the palace moved closer.

Hadrian shook Russell’s hand. His wife, Lena, and his son
Tad stood next to Hadrian’s old host. Behind them was Dillon McDern, the town smith, who had once helped Hadrian build bonfires to fend off a monster.

“Let them through,” Hadrian told the guard.

“Look at you!” Dillon exclaimed as they passed under the rail to join Hadrian at his tent. “Too bad Theron’s not here. He’d be braggin’ about how he had taken fencing lessons from the next Wintertide champion.”

“I’m not champion yet,” Hadrian replied solemnly.

“That’s not what Russell here’s been saying.” Dillon clapped his friend on the back. “He’s done his own fair share of bragging at every tavern in town about how the next champion once spent a week living in his home.”

“Four people bought me drinks for that,” Russell said with a laugh.

“It’s very nice to see you again,” Lena said, taking Hadrian’s hand gently and patting it. “We all wondered what became of you and your friend.”

“I’m fine and so is Royce, but what happened to all of you?”

“Vince led us all to Alburn,” Dillon explained. “We manage to scratch a living out of the rocky dirt. It’s not like it was in Dahlgren. My sons have been taken for the imperial army, and we have to hand over most of what we grow. Still, I guess it could be worse.”

“We saved all our coppers to come up here for the holidays,” Russell said. “But we had no idea we’d find
you
riding in the tournament. Now that really is something! Rumor is they knighted you on the field of battle. Very impressive.”

“Not as much as you might think,” Hadrian replied.

“How’s Thrace?” Lena asked, still holding his hand.

He hesitated, not sure what to say. “I don’t know. I don’t get to see her much. But she came to the banquet last night and she looked well enough.”

“We just about died when we heard Deacon Tomas was calling for her to be crowned empress.”

“Thought the old boy had gone mad, really,” Dillon put in. “But then they went and did it! Can you imagine that? Our little Thrace—I mean, Modina—empress! We had no idea she and Theron were descended from Novron. That’s probably where the old man got all his stubbornness and she her courage.”

“I wonder if she’s in love with Regent Ethelred,” speculated Verna, Dillon’s daughter. “I bet he’s handsome. It must be wonderful to be the empress and live in that palace with servants and knights kissing your hand.”

“You’d think she woulda remembered some of us
little folk
who cared for her like a daughter,” Russell said bitterly.

“Rus!” Lena scolded him. Her eyes drifted to the high walls of the palace visible over Highcourt’s tents. “The poor girl has gone through so much. Look up there. Do you think she’s happy with all these problems she has to deal with? Wars and such. Do you think she has time to think about old neighbors, much less track us down? Of course not, the poor dear!”

“Excuse me, Sir Hadrian, but it’s time,” Renwick announced, leading Malevolent.

With the help of a stool, Hadrian mounted the horse, which was decorated in full colors.

“These are friends of mine,” Hadrian told the squire. “Take care of them for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“ ‘Yes,
sir
’! Did you hear that?” Dillon slapped his thigh. “Wow, to be knighted and in the final bout of the Wintertide tournament. You must be the happiest man in the world right now.”

Hadrian looked at their faces and tried to smile before trotting toward the gate.

The crowd exploded with applause as the two knights rode onto the field. The clouds overhead were heavier than before and appeared to have drained the color from the banners and flags. He felt cold, inside and out, as he took his position at the gate.

Across from him, Breckton waited in the same fashion. His horse’s caparison waved in the bitter wind. The squires arrived and took their positions on the podium, beside the lances. The herald, a serious-looking man in a heavy coat, stepped up to the platform. The crowd grew silent when trumpeters blew the fanfare for the procession to begin.

Ethelred and Saldur rode at the head of the line, followed by King Armand and Queen Adeline of Alburn, King Roswort and Queen Freda of Dunmore, King Fredrick and Queen Josephine of Galeannon, King Rupert of Rhenydd—recently crowned and not yet married—and King Vincent and Queen Regina of Maranon. After the monarchs came the princes and princesses, the lord chancellor and lord chamberlain, Lady Amilia and Nimbus, and the archbishop of each kingdom. Lastly, the knights arrived and took their respective seats.

The trumpeters blew once more and the herald addressed the crowd in loud, reverent tones.

“On this hallowed ground, this field of tourney where trials are decided, prowess and virtue revealed, and truth discovered, we assemble to witness this contest of skill and bravery. On this day, Maribor will decide which of these two men shall win the title of Wintertide champion!”

Cheers burst forth from the crowd and the herald paused, waiting for them to quiet.

“To my left, I give you the commander of the victorious Northern Imperial Army, hero of the Battle of Van Banks, son of Lord Belstrad of Chadwick, and favored of our lady Amilia of Tarin Vale—Sir Breckton of Chadwick!”

Again, the crowd cheered. Hadrian caught sight of Amilia in the stands, clapping madly with the rest.

“To my right, I present the newest member to the ranks of knightly order, hero of the Battle of Ratibor, and favored of Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Eminence, Empress Modina Novronian—Sir Hadrian!”

The crowd roared with such intensity that Hadrian could feel their shouts vibrating his chest plate. Looking at the sea of commoners, he could almost imagine a small boy standing next to his father, waiting in excited anticipation.

“For the title of champion, for the honor of the empire, and for the glory of Maribor these two battle. May Maribor grant the better man victory!”

The herald stepped down to the blasts of trumpets, which were barely noticeable above the cry of the crowd.

“Good luck, sir.” A stranger dressed in gray stood at Hadrian’s station, holding out his helm.

Hadrian looked around but could not see Renwick anywhere. He took the helm and placed it on his head.

“Now,
the lance
, sir,” the man said.

The moment Hadrian lifted it, he could tell the difference. The weapon looked the same, but the tip was heavy. Holding it actually felt better to him, more familiar. There was no doubt he could kill Breckton with it. His opponent was a good lancer, but Hadrian was better.

Hadrian glanced once more at the stands. Amilia stood with her hands pressed to her face. He tried to think of Arista and Gaunt. Then his eyes found the empty space between Ethelred and Saldur—the throne of the empress—Modina’s empty seat.

I proclaim my faith in his skill, character, and sacred honor. I know his heart is righteous, and his intentions virtuous. May you both find honor in the eyes of Maribor and compete as true and heroic knights.

The flags rose and he took a deep breath, lowering his visor. The trumpets sounded, the flags dropped, and Hadrian spurred his horse. Breckton responded at the same instant and the two raced toward each other.

Hadrian crossed only a quarter of the field before pulling back on the reins. Malevolent slowed to a stop. The lance remained in its boot, pointing skyward.

Breckton rode toward him. A bolt of gold and blue thundering across the frozen ground.

Excellent form.

The thought came to Hadrian as if he were a spectator, safe in the stands, like that boy so long ago holding his father’s hand along the white rail, feeling the pounding of the hooves. He closed his eyes and braced for the impact. “I’m sorry, Da. I’m sorry, Arista,” he muttered within the shell of his helm. With luck, Breckton’s blow might kill him.

The hoofbeats drummed closer.

Nothing happened. Hadrian felt only the breeze of the passing horse.

Did he miss? Is that possible?

Hadrian opened his eyes and turned to see Breckton riding down the alley.

The crowd died down, shuffling as a low murmur drifted on the air. Hadrian removed his helm just as Breckton pulled his horse to a stop. The other knight also removed his helm and trotted back to meet Hadrian at the rail.

“Why didn’t you tilt?” Breckton asked.

“You’re a good man. You don’t deserve to die by treachery.” Hadrian let the tip of his lance fall to the ground. Upon impact, the broad ceramic head shattered to reveal the war point.

“Nor do you,” Breckton said. He slammed his own pole and revealed that it too had a metal tip. “I felt its weight when
I charged. It would seem we are both the intended victims of deceit.”

The sergeant of the guard led a contingent of twenty soldiers onto the field and said, “The two of you are ordered to dismount! By the authority of the regents, I place you under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Breckton asked, looking confused. “On what charge?”

“Treason.”

“Treason?” Breckton’s face revealed shock at the accusation.

“Sir, dismount now or we will use force. Try to run and you
will
be cut down.”

On the far side of the field, a contingent of seret entered in formation, and mounted troops blocked the exits.

“Run? Why would I run?” Breckton sounded bewildered. “I demand to hear the details of this charge against me.”

No answer was provided. Outnumbered and out-armed, Breckton and Hadrian dismounted. Seret surrounded them and rushed the two knights off the field. As they did, Hadrian spotted Luis Guy in the stands near Ethelred and Saldur.

The crowd erupted. They booed and shouted. Fists shook and Highcourt Fields was pelted with whatever they could find to throw. More than once Hadrian heard the question “What’s going on?”

The seret shoved them out of the arena through a narrow corridor of soldiers that created a path leading them out of the crowd’s sight and into a covered wagon, which hauled them away.

“I don’t understand,” Breckton said, sitting among the company of five seret. “Someone conspires to kill us and we are accused of treason? It doesn’t make sense.”

Hadrian glanced at the hard faces of the seret and then down at the wagon floor. “The regents were trying to kill
you… and I was supposed to do it. You were right. I’m not a knight. Lord Dermont never dubbed me. I wasn’t even a soldier in the imperial army. I led the Nationalists
against
Dermont.”

“Nationalists? But Regent Saldur vouched for you. They confirmed your tale. They—”

“Like I said, they wanted you dead and hired me to do it.”

“But why?”

“You refused their offer to serve Ethelred. As commander of the Northern Imperial Army, that makes you a threat. So they offered me a deal.”

“What
kind
of deal?” Breckton asked, his voice cold.

“I was to kill you in exchange for the lives of Princess Arista and Degan Gaunt.”

“The Princess of Melengar and the leader of the Nationalists?” Breckton fell into thought once more. “Are you in her service? His?”