Wintertide (31 page)

“I’ve had better days. What have you come up with? And it better be good because I already told Arista how brilliant you are.”

“How’s she doing?” Royce asked.

Hadrian looked at the princess, who remained asleep, her head still resting against him.

“She asked me to kill her.”

“I’ll take that as
not well
.”

“So? What have you found out?” Hadrian asked.

“It’s not good. I’ve been over every inch of this dungeon three times now. The walls are solid and thick. There are no cracks or worn areas. Even with Magnus doing the digging with his special chisels, it had taken over a week to dig in. No telling how long it would take to tunnel out. I found some stairs leading up to what I assume is the entrance, but there’s no lock. Heck there isn’t even a door. The stairway just ends at the stone ceiling. I still don’t know what to make of that.”

“It’s a gemlock. Like Gutaria. A seret in the North Tower has a sword with an emerald in the hilt.”

“That would explain it. The door I came through won’t budge. It’s not locked, so it must be jammed somehow. It’s probably our best chance at getting out. It’s made of wood, so feasibly we could try to burn it down. It’s pretty thick, though, so I’m not sure I can get it to catch even by using the straw and oil from the lantern. And the smoke—if it doesn’t kill us first—could signal our escape and guards would be waiting at the top.”

“Arista and Gaunt can’t climb out through a well,” Hadrian pointed out.

“Yeah, but that’s just one of the problems. I’m positive the rope isn’t there anymore. I’m not sure if they grabbed Magnus or if he’s responsible. Either way, anyone bothering to spike the door would take the rope, too.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Royce shrugged. “The best I can come up with is to wait for dark and then try to burn down the door. Maybe no one will see the smoke. Maybe we won’t suffocate before we can break it down. Maybe I can slip out unnoticed. Maybe I can kill the guards. Maybe I can rig a way to pull you out of the well.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

“No kidding. But you asked.” Royce sighed. “You got anything?”

“What about Arista?” Hadrian looked down at her sleeping face again, which he held cradled with his good arm. “She’s weak but maybe—”

Royce shook his head. “There are runes all over the walls. Just like the ones in the prison Esrahaddon was in. If she could do anything, I’m pretty sure she would have by now.”

“Albert?”

“If he has half a brain, he’ll lie low. At this point he can’t do anything but draw attention to himself.”

“What about the deal Merrick offered?”

“How do you know about that?” Royce asked, surprised.

“He told me.”

“You two talked?”

“We played chess.”

Royce shrugged. “There’s no deal. He’d already told me what I wanted to know.”

They sat side by side in silence awhile. Finally Hadrian said, “I doubt this is any consolation, but I do appreciate you coming. I know you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of saying that?”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure this will be the last time. At least I finally got to Gaunt. Some bodyguard I turned out to be. He’s nearly dead.”

Royce glanced over. “So that’s the Heir of Novron, eh? I sort of expected more, you know? Scars maybe, or an eye patch—something interesting—distinctive.”

“Yeah, a peg leg, maybe.”

“Exactly.”

They sat together in the dim light. Royce was conserving the lantern oil. Eventually Breckton and Amilia returned and sat beside Arista. Lady Amilia’s eyes were red and puffy. She placed her head on Breckton’s shoulder, and he nodded a greeting to Hadrian and Royce.

“Royce, this is Sir Breckton Belstrad,” Hadrian introduced them.

“Yeah, I recognized him when I opened the door. For a moment, I thought it was Wesley looking back at me.”

“Wesley? You’ve met my brother?”

Hadrian said, “We both have. I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything at the feast. Royce and I served with him on the
Emerald Storm
. Your brother had taken command after the captain was killed. I’ve followed many officers over the years, but I can truthfully say I never served under a more worthy and honorable man. If it wasn’t for Wesley’s bravery in battle, Royce and I both would have died in Calis. He made a sacrificial charge so others would live.”

Royce nodded in agreement.

“You never cease to amaze me, Sir Hadrian. If that is indeed true, then I thank you. Between the two of us, Wesley was always the better man. I only hope I shall meet my end half as well as he did.”

***

Saldur fumed as he started up the stairs to the fifth floor. It was past midday and they should have left for the cathedral hours ago. The Patriarch himself was waiting to perform the ceremony.

As far back as Saldur could recall, which was a good many years, the Patriarch had never left his chambers in Ervanon. Those wishing to see him, to seek his council or blessing, had to travel to the Crown Tower. Even then, he only accepted audiences on rare occasions. The Patriarch had a reputation for refusing great nobles and even kings. Even the highest-ranking members of the church never saw him. Saldur had been Bishop of Medford for nearly ten years without ever meeting the man. As far as the regent knew, even Galien, the former Archbishop of Ghent, who lived with the Patriarch in the Crown Tower, never had a face-to-face meeting. The fact that the sentinels made frequent visits to the tower was common knowledge, but Saldur doubted if any actually stood in his presence.

The fact that the Patriarch had left the Crown Tower for this auspicious occasion was a personal triumph for Saldur. He genuinely looked forward to meeting the great leader of the Nyphron Church—his spiritual father. The wedding was supposed to be a wondrous and moving event, a lavish production complete with a full orchestra and the release of hundreds of white doves. This day was the accumulation of years of careful planning, dating back to that fateful night in Dahlgren when the plan to elevate Lord Rufus to emperor had failed.

At that time, Deacon Tomas had been raving like a lunatic. He claimed to witness the miracle of a young girl named Thrace killing the Gilarabrywn. Seeing as how Saldur himself had proclaimed that only the
true
Heir of Novron could slay that beast, the deacon’s claim was perceived as a problem. Sentinel Luis Guy planned to erase the incident by killing both the deacon and the girl, but Saldur saw other possibilities.

The Patriarch had wanted to name Saldur as the next Archbishop of Ghent to take the place of Galien, who had died in the Gilarabrywn’s attack. The position was the highest in the church hierarchy, just below the Patriarch himself. The offer was tempting, but Saldur knew the time had arrived for him to take the reins of shaping a New Empire. He abandoned his holy vestments and donned the mantle of politics—something no officer of the church had done since the days of Patriarch Venlin.

Saldur weathered the condemnation of kings and bishops in his battle against ignorance and tradition. He pressured, cajoled, and murdered to reach his goal of a strong, unified Empire that could change the world for the better. With his guidance, the glory of the Old Empire would rise once more. To the feeble minds of Ethelred and his ilk, that just meant one man on one throne. To Saldur it meant
civilization
. All that once was would be again. Wintertide marked the culmination of all his efforts and years of struggle. This was the last uphill battle and it was proving to be a challenge.

Saldur had expected the peasants to tire themselves out overnight, but their fury seemed to have increased. He was irked that the city, which had been quiet and orderly for years, chose this moment to rampage. In the past, people had been taxed penniless, starved to provide banquets for kings, and had their children taken to fight in wars. Despite all this, they had never revolted. The fact that they did so now was strange, but moreover, it was embarrassing.

Even Merrick had been surprised by the reprisal, which appeared to come out of nowhere and everywhere at once. Saldur expected some disappointment at the outcome of the joust and anticipated a few troublemakers. He knew there was a chance that one of the knights would live, and supporters of the fallen champion might lash out. What he had not counted on was both competitors surviving. With no obvious crime, their arrests appeared unwarranted. Still, the response was curiously impassioned.

At first he thought it would be an easy matter to contend with, and ordered a dozen heavily armed soldiers to silence the agitators. The men returned bloodied and thinned in ranks. What they met was not a handful of dissidents but a citywide uprising. The whole matter was frustrating, but of no actual concern. He had sent for the Southern Army, and it was on its way to restore order. That would take a day or so. In the meantime, Saldur proceeded with the wedding.

The ceremony had been delayed a few hours, as Saldur needed the morning to arrange armed escorts for the carriage’s trip to the cathedral. That had gone well and now he just needed to transport the bride and groom. He was anxious to get the final procession under way, but Ethelred had not returned with Modina. If he did not know better, Saldur might have thought Lanis was exercising his husbandly rights a bit early. Whatever the delay, he was tired of waiting.

Saldur reached the empress’s bedroom and found two guards posted outside the door. At least Nimbus was following orders. Without a word to either guard, Saldur threw the door open, entered, and halted just past the threshold. The regent stood shocked as he took in the grisly scene.

The first thing he saw was the blood. A large pool spread across the white marble floor of the chamber. The second was the broken mirror. Its shards were scattered like brilliant islands in a red sea.

“What have you done!” he exclaimed before he could catch himself.

Modina casually turned away from the window to face him, the hem of her white nightgown soaked red to the knee. She looked at the regent without qualm or concern.

“He dared to place a hand on the empress’s person,” she said simply. “This cannot be allowed.”

Ethelred’s body lay like a twisted doll, an eight-inch shard of glass still protruding from his neck.

“But—”

Modina cocked her head slightly to one side like a bird and looked curiously at Saldur.

She held another long, sharp shard. Despite it being wrapped in material, her grip was so tight blood dripped down her wrist.

“I wonder how a feeble old man such as yourself would fare against a healthy, young farm girl armed with a jagged piece of glass?”

“Guards!” he shouted.

The two soldiers entered the room but showed little reaction at the scene before them.

“Restrain her,” Saldur commanded.

Neither of them moved toward the empress. They simply stood inside the doorway, unmoving, unheeding.

“I said restrain her!”

“There’s no need to shout,” Modina said. Her voice was calm, serene. Modina moved toward Saldur, walking through the puddle. Her feet left macabre tracks of blood.

Panic welled in Saldur’s chest. He looked at the guards then back at the empress, who approached with the knife-like glass in her hand.

“What are you doing?” he demanded of the soldiers. “Can’t you see she’s crazy? She KILLED Regent Ethelred!”

“Your forgiveness, Your Grace,” one guard spoke, “but she
is
the empress. The descendent of Novron. The child of God.”

“She’s INSANE!”

“No,” Modina said, cold and confident. “I’m not.”

Saldur’s fear mingled with a burning rage. “You might have these guards fooled, but you won’t succeed. Men loyal to me—the whole Southern Imperial Army—are already on their way.”

“I know,” she told him in her disturbingly dispassionate voice. “I know everything.” She nodded at the guard and added, “As is fitting for the daughter of Novron.

“I know, for example, that you killed Edith Mon for aiding Arista, which incidentally she didn’t—I did. The princess lived for weeks in this very room. I know you arranged to have Gaunt captured and imprisoned. I know you hired Merrick Marius to kill Esrahaddon. I know you made a deal with him that handed the port city of Tur Del Fur over to the Ba Ran Ghazel. I know how you bargained with a dwarf named Magnus to betray Royce Melborn in exchange for a dagger. I know you convinced Hadrian to kill Sir Breckton in the tournament. I know you slipped Breckton a war tip. Only neither knight killed the other. I like to think I had a hand in that.

“You thought you had anticipated everything, but you hadn’t expected a riot. You didn’t know about the rumors circulating through the throngs of the city to expect treachery at the joust as proof of your treason. Yesterday’s crowd wasn’t watching for entertainment—but for confirmation of that rumor.

“I also know that you were planning to kill me.” She glanced down at Ethelred’s body. “That was actually his idea. He doesn’t care for women. You, on the other hand, just wanted to lock me up again in that hole. That hole that nearly drove me mad.”

“How do you know all this?” Saldur felt real fear. This girl, this child, this peasant’s daughter
had
slain the Gilarabrywn. She butchered Ethelred, and now she knew—she knew everything. It was as if…as if she really were…

She smiled.

“Voices came to me. They told me everything.” She paused, seeing the shock on his face. “No, the words were not Novron’s. The truth is worse than that. Your mistake was appointing Amilia, who loved and cared for me. She freed me from my cell and brought me to this room. After so many months in the dark and cold, I was starved for sunlight. I spent hours sitting beside the window.” She turned and looked at the opening in the wall behind her. “I had nothing to live for and had decided to kill myself. The opening was too small but when I tried to fit through it, I heard the voices. Your office window is right below mine. It’s easier to hear you in the summer, but even with your window closed, I can still make out the words.