“That’s hardly necessary. You hold your sword like a woman. No, that’s not true. I’ve actually known women who can sword fight. The truth is, you’re just terrible.”
“What I lack in style, I make up for in strength.” Elgar charged Hadrian, raising his blade over his head and leaving his entire chest exposed. Hadrian’s training made him instinctively want to aim a single thrust at the man’s heart, which would kill Elgar instantly. He fought the urge and lowered his weapon. Saldur and Ethelred would not approve. Besides, Elgar was drunk. Instead, he dodged to one side and left a foot behind to trip the knight. Elgar fell, hitting his head on the stone.
“Is he dead?” Nimbus asked, watching Hadrian roll the big man over on his back.
“No, but I think he might have chipped the slate. Now that’s a hard head.”
Hadrian sat down next to Nimbus and inspected the tutor’s wounds.
“Shouldn’t you help Sir Breckton?”
Hadrian glanced up as Murthas made another lunge.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, nor would it be proper to step into another man’s fight. However…” Picking up Elgar’s sword, Hadrian yelled, “Breckton!” before throwing it across the common room. Breckton caught the weapon and Murthas stepped back, looking less confident.
“Damn you!” Murthas shouted, taking one last swing before fleeing.
Hadrian could not suppress the temptation to stick out his foot once more, tripping Murthas as he ran by. Murthas fell, got back to his feet, and ran off.
“Thank you,” Breckton said, offering Hadrian a slight nod.
“It’s Murthas who should be thanking me,” Hadrian replied.
Breckton smiled. “Indeed.”
“I don’t understand,” Nimbus said. “Murthas lost. Why would he thank you?”
“He’s still alive,” Hadrian explained.
“Oh,” was all Nimbus said.
Hadrian managed to stop Nimbus’s bleeding. The tutor’s nose did not appear broken. Even so, none of them was interested in returning to the banquet hall. Hadrian and Breckton escorted Nimbus to his room, where the slim man thanked the two knights for their assistance.
“You fight well,” Breckton said as he and Hadrian walked the palace corridors back toward the knights’ wing.
“Why did they attack you?”
“They were drunk.”
“Where I come from, drunks sing badly and sleep with ugly women. They don’t attack rival knights and courtly gentlemen.”
Breckton was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Where do you come from, Sir Hadrian?”
“Saldur explained—”
“Some of the men that fought with Lord Dermont and survived the Battle of Ratibor joined my army in the north. Captain Lowell was one of them. His accounting of that day in no way resembles the tale Regent Saldur described. I would not embarrass the regent or you by mentioning it in public, but now that we are alone…”
Hadrian said nothing.
“What Lowell did tell me was the entire imperial army was caught sleeping on that rainy morning. Most never managed to strap on a sword, much less mount a horse.”
Hadrian simply replied, “It was a very confusing day.”
“So you say, but perhaps you were never there at all. A knight taking credit for another’s valor is most dishonorable.”
“I can assure you, I was there,” Hadrian said sincerely. “And that I rode across the muddy field leading men into battle that morning.”
Breckton stopped at the entrance of his own room and studied Hadrian’s face. “You must forgive me for my rudeness. You have aided me this evening, and I have responded with accusations. It is unseemly for one knight to accuse another without proper evidence. I will not let it happen again. Good night.”
He offered Hadrian a curt nod and left him alone in the corridor.
CHAPTER 12
A QUESTION OF SUCCESSION
The sun reached its midday peak and Arcadius Vintarus Latimer, the master of lore at Sheridan University, still waited in the grand foyer of the imperial palace. He had been there before, but that was back when it had been called Warric Castle and had been the home of the most powerful king in Avryn. Now it was the seat of the New Empire. The imperial seal etched in the white marble floor was a constant and unavoidable reminder. Arcadius read the inscription that ringed the design, shaking his head in disgust. “They misspelled honor,” he said aloud, even though he waited alone.
Finally, a steward approached and motioned for him to follow. “The regent Saldur will see you now, sir.”
One step closer, Arcadius thought as he headed toward the stairs. The steward was nearly to the fourth floor when he realized Arcadius had reached only the second landing.
“My apologies,” the lore master called up to him, leaning on the banister and removing his glasses to wipe his brow. “Are you certain the meeting is all the way up there?”
“The regent asked for you to come to his office.”
The old professor nodded. “Very well, I’ll be right along.”
Another positive development.
While it was unlikely that Saldur would agree to his proposal, Arcadius judged his odds of success tripled with each flight he climbed. He did not want to speak in a reception hall filled with gossipy courtiers. Not that he held much hope, no matter where the subject was broached. Still, if this meeting went well, he would be free of his guilt and the burden of responsibility. A private meeting with the regent would be perfect. Saldur was an intellectual, and Arcadius could appeal to the regent’s respect for education. However, when he reached the office, Saldur was not alone.
“Well, of course we need a southern defense,” Ethelred was saying when the steward opened the door. “We have a nation of goblins down there now. You haven’t seen them, Sauly. You don’t know… er… Yes? What is it?”
“May I present Professor Arcadius Latimer, master of lore at Sheridan University,” the steward announced.
“Oh yes, the teacher,” Ethelred said.
“He’s a bit more than that, Lanis,” Saldur corrected.
“Not at all, not at all,” Arcadius said with a cheerful smile. “Instructing young minds is the noblest act I perform. I am honored.”
The lore master bowed to the four people in the room. In addition to the regents, there were two men he did not recognize. One, however, was dressed in the distinct vestments of a church sentinel.
“You are a long way from Sheridan, Professor.” Saldur addressed him from behind a large desk. “Did you come for the holiday?”
“Why no, Your Grace. At my age it takes a bit more than the allure of jingling bells and sweetmeats to rouse one such as I from warm chambers in the depth of winter. I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a great deal of snow outside.”
Arcadius took a moment to examine his surroundings. Hundreds of books sat on shelves, locked behind glass cabinets with little keyholes. A pretty carpet, somewhat muddled in its colors and partially hidden by the regent’s desk, portrayed what appeared to be a scene of Novron conquering the world while Maribor guided his sword.