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!”
When the last performance finished, the lord chamberlain rapped his brass-tipped staff on the flagstones and Ethelred stood. Conversations trailed off as the banquet hall fell silent.
“My friends,” Lanis Ethelred began in his most powerful voice, “I address you as such to assure you that even though you will soon be my loyal subjects, I will always think of you, first and foremost, as my friends. We have weathered a long hard struggle together. Centuries of darkness, hardship, barbarianism, and threats from Nationalists have plagued us. But in just two days’ time, the sun will dawn on a new age. This Wintertide we celebrate the rebirth of civilization—the start of a new era. As our lord Maribor has seen fit to bestow onto me the crown of supreme power, I will pledge to be faithful to his design and lead mankind armed with the firm hand of righteousness. I will return to traditional values in order to make the New Empire a beacon to light the world and blind our enemies.”
The hall applauded.
“I hope you all enjoyed your game birds, courtesy of the hawking. Tomorrow the finalists of the joust will tilt for the honor of best knight. I hope you will all enjoy the contest between two such capable men. Sir Breckton, Sir Hadrian—where are you?—please stand, both of you.” The two knights hesitantly rose to their feet, and the audience applauded. “A toast to the elite of the New Empire!”
Ethelred, along with everyone else in the hall, drank in their honor. The regent sat back down, and Amilia motioned to the musicians to take their places.
As on the previous nights, couples took to the open floor to dance. Amilia spotted Sir Breckton, dressed in a silver tunic, striding her way. When he reached the head table, he bowed before her.
“Excuse me, my lady. Might I enjoy the pleasure of your company for the dance?”
Amilia’s heart beat quickly at his invitation, and she could not think clearly. Before remembering that she could not dance, she stood, walked around the table, and offered her hand.
Taking it, the knight gently led her to where pairs of dancers formed into lines. Accompanying him in such an intimate setting felt like a dream. When the first notes of music hit the air, that dream turned to a nightmare. Amilia had no idea what to do. She had watched the dances the past several evenings but not to learn their steps. All she could recall was that the dance started in rows and ended in rows, and at some point in the middle, the dancers touched hands and traded places several times in rapid succession. All other details were a mystery. For a moment, Amilia considered returning to the security of her chair, but to do so now would embarrass her and humiliate Breckton. Light-headed, she hovered on the verge of fainting but managed a curtsy in response to Breckton’s bow.
Nothing could save her from the pending disaster. In her mind played a scene, in which she staggered, tripped, and fell. The other nobles would laugh and sneer while tears ran down her cheeks. She imagined them saying, What possessed you to think you could be one of us? Not even Breckton’s calm gaze was able to reassure Amilia.
She shifted her weight from left to right, knowing some action would be required in a half bar of music. If only she knew which foot to use, she might manage the first step.
Suddenly the music stopped and the entire assemblage halted.
A hush fell as conversations died, replaced by scattered gasps. Everyone stood and all eyes were transfixed as into the great hall strode Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Eminence, Empress Modina Novronian.
Two fifth-floor guards flanked her as they crossed the hall. The empress was dressed in the formal gown she had worn for the speech on the balcony, the luxurious mantle trailing behind her. Modina’s hair was pulled under a mesh cowl, upon which rested the imperial crown. She walked with stunning grace and dignity—chin high, shoulders squared, back straight. As she passed through the silent crowd, she appeared ethereal, like a mythical creature slipping through trees in a forest.
Amilia blinked several times, unsure what she was actually seeing and remained as transfixed as the others. The effect of Modina’s appearance was astounding and was reflected by every face in the room. No one moved and few appeared to breathe.