Reaching the front of the room, Modina walked down the length of the main table to the imperial throne left vacant each of the previous nights. The empress paused briefly in front of her seat, raised a delicate hand, and simply said, “Continue.”
There was a long pause, and then the musicians began to play once more. Saldur and Ethelred both glared at Amilia, who promptly excused herself from the dance. Her leaving the floor was quite understandable now, though she was sure it no longer mattered. Amilia doubted anyone, except perhaps Sir Breckton, noticed or cared.
She returned to the main table and stood behind Modina.
“Your Eminence, are you certain you are strong enough to be here? Wouldn’t you like me to escort you back to your room?” she asked softly.
Modina did not look at Amilia. The empress’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the revelry. “Thank you, my dear. You are so kind to inquire, but I am fine.” Amilia exchanged glances with Ethelred and Saldur, both of whom looked tense and helpless.
“I think you should not be risking yourself so,” Saldur told Modina. “You need to save your strength for your wedding.”
“I am certain you are quite correct, Your Grace—as you always are—and I will not stay long. Still, my people deserve to see their empress. Maribor forbid that they come to suspect I don’t exist at all. I am certain many couldn’t distinguish me from a milkmaid. It would be a sad thing indeed if I arrived at my wedding and no one could tell the bride from the bridesmaids.”
Saldur’s look of bewilderment was replaced with a glare of anger.
Amilia remained behind the empress’s chair, unsure what to do next. Modina tapped her fingers and nodded in rhythm with the music while watching the dance. By contrast, Saldur and Ethelred were as rigid as statues.
At the end of the song, Modina applauded and got to her feet. The moment she rose, all the guests stopped once more, fixing their eyes on her.
“Sir Breckton and Sir Hadrian, please approach,” the empress commanded.
Saldur shot another concerned glance at Amilia, who could do nothing but clutch the back of Modina’s chair.
The two knights came forward and stood side by side before the empress. Hadrian followed Breckton’s lead, bending to one knee and bowing his head.
“Tomorrow you will compete for the glory of the empire, and Maribor will decide your fate. You are clearly both beloved by this court, but I see Sir Breckton wears the token of my secretary, Lady Amilia. This grants him an unfair advantage, but I will not ask him to refuse such a gift. Nor would I ask Lady Amilia to seek its return, as a favor once given is a sacred endorsement of faith. Instead, I will mirror her gesture by granting Sir Hadrian my token. I proclaim my faith in his skill, character, and sacred honor. I know his heart is righteous, and his intentions virtuous.” Modina drew out a piece of pure white cloth that Amilia recognized as part of her nightgown, and held it out.
Hadrian took the cloth.
Modina continued, “May you both find honor in the eyes of Maribor and compete as true and heroic knights.”
The empress clapped her hands and the hall followed her lead, erupting in cheers and shouts. In the midst of the thunder, Modina turned to Amilia and said, “You may escort me back to my room now.”
The two walked down the length of the table. As they passed the Queen of Dunmore, Freda looked stricken. “Lady Amilia, what I said earlier—I—I didn’t mean anything by that, I just—”
“I’m sure you meant no disrespect. Please sit, Your Majesty. You look pale,” Amilia said to the queen, and led Modina out of the room. Saldur watched them go, and Amilia was thankful he did not follow. She knew there would be an interrogation, but she had no idea how to explain Modina’s behavior. The empress had never done anything like this before.
Neither woman said anything as they walked arm in arm to the fifth floor. The door to Modina’s bedchamber stood unguarded. “Where is Gerald?” Amilia asked.
“Who?” the empress replied with a blank look.
Amilia scowled. “You know very well who. Gerald. Why isn’t he guarding your door? Did you send him on an errand to get him out of the way?”
“Yes, I did,” the empress replied casually.
Amilia frowned. They entered the bedroom and she closed the door behind them. “Modina, what were you thinking? Why did you do that?”
“Does it matter?” the empress replied, settling onto her bed with a soft bounce.
“It matters to the regents.”
“It’s only two days until Ethelred comes to my bedroom and takes me to the cathedral for our marriage. I did no damage. If anything, I reassured the nobles that I exist and am not just a myth created by the regents. They should thank me.”
“That still doesn’t explain why.”
“I have only a few hours left and felt like getting out. Can you begrudge me this?”
The anger melted from Amilia and she shook her head. “No.”
Ever since the mirror had appeared in Modina’s room, the two had avoided discussing the empress’s plans for Wintertide. Amilia considered having it removed, but knew that would not matter. Modina would just find another way. The secretary’s only other alternative was to tell Saldur, but the regent would imprison the empress. The ordeal had nearly destroyed Modina once, and Amilia could not be responsible for inflicting that on her again—even to save the empress’s life. There seemed to be no solution. Especially considering that if their places were reversed, Amilia would probably do the same thing. She had tried to delude herself into believing that Modina would change her mind, but the empress’s words and the reminder of Wintertide’s approach brought her back to reality.
Amilia helped Modina out of her gown, tucked the empress into the big bed, and hugged her tightly while trying to hide her tears.
Modina patted Amilia’s head. “It will be all right. I am ready now.”
Hadrian trudged back to the knights’ wing, carrying the white strip of cloth as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Seeing Thrace had removed one burden, but her words had replaced it with an even heavier load. He passed by the common room, where a handful of knights still lingered. They handed around a bottle, taking swigs from it.
“Hadrian!” Elgar shouted. The large man stepped into the hall, blocking his path. Elgar’s face was rosy, and his nose red, but his eyes were clear and focused. “Missed you at the hawking today. Come on in and join us.”
“Leave me alone, Elgar, I’m in no mood tonight.”
“All the more reason to come have a drink with us.” The big warrior grinned cheerfully, slapping Hadrian on the back.
“I’m going to sleep.” Hadrian turned away.
Elgar gripped him by the arm. “Listen, my chest still hurts from when you drove me off my saddle.”
“I’m sorry about that but—”
“Sorry?” Elgar looked at him, clearly confused. “Best clobbering I’ve taken in years. That’s how I know you can take Breckton. I’ve wagered money on it. I thought you were a joke when you first showed up, but after that flying lesson… Well, if you’re a joke, it’s not a terribly funny one.”