Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

“The final virtue is sincerity, which is elusive at best. Nobility by birthright is clear, but what is in question here is noblesse of heart and cannot be taught or learned. It must be accepted and allowed to grow. This virtue is demonstrated through bearing not swagger, confidence not arrogance, kindness not pity, belief not patronage, authenticity not pretension.

“Thus are the virtues that comprise the Code of Chivalry,” Nimbus concluded. “The path of goodness and truth to which men of high honor aspire. The reality, however, is often quite different.”

As if on cue, the door burst open and three men tumbled inside. They were large, stocky brutes dressed in fine doublets with silk trim. The lead man sported a goatee and stood near the door, pointing at Hadrian.

“There he is!” he announced.

“Well, he certainly isn’t this little sod,” roared a second man, who pushed Nimbus hard in the chest and knocked the tutor back against the bunk. This man was the largest of the three and wore several days of beard growth. The insult, as well as the terrified expression on the courtier’s face, brought the new arrivals to laughter.

“What’s your name, Twig?” the man with the goatee asked.

“I am Nimbus of Vernes,” he said while attempting to stand and regain some level of dignity. “I am Imperial Tutor to—”

“Tutor? He’s got a tutor!”

They howled in laughter again.

“Tell us, Twig, what are you teaching Sir Bumpkin here? How to wash his arse? Is that your job? Have you taught him to use the chamber pot yet?”

Nimbus did not answer. He clenched his teeth and fixed his eyes on the unkempt man before him.

“I think you’re getting under that ruffled collar of his,” the last of them observed. He was clean-shaven and sipped wine from a goblet. “Careful, Elgar, he’s made fists.”

“Is that true?” Elgar looked at the tutor’s hands, which were indeed tightly clenched. “Oh dear! Am I impinging on your sacred pedagogical honor? Would you like to throw a punch at me, little Twig? Put me in my proper place, as it were?”

“If he takes a big enough swing, it’s possible you might actually feel it,” the shaved one said.

“I asked you a question, Twig,” Elgar pressed.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll continue this another time,” Nimbus said to Hadrian. “It would seem you have guests.”

Elgar blocked the tutor’s path as he tried to leave and shoved him again. Staggering backward, Nimbus fell onto the bed.

“Leave him alone,” Hadrian ordered as he stood and grabbed a towel.

“Ah, Sir Bumpkin, in all his regal glory!” proclaimed the man with the goatee, pointing. “Well, not that regal and certainly not that glorious!”

“Who are you?” Hadrian demanded, stepping out of the tub and wrapping a towel around himself.

“I am Sir Murthas and the gent with the handsome face beside me here is Sir Gilbert. Over there, that dashing fellow holding the pleasant conversation with the twig is none other than Sir Elgar. We are the three finest knights of the realm, as you will soon discover. We wanted to welcome you to the palace, deliver you a fond tiding, and wish you luck on the field—as luck is all you’ll have.”

Nimbus snorted. “They’re here because they heard a bath was ordered and wanted to see your scars. Knowing nothing about you, they came to see if you have any fresh bruises or recent wounds they might take advantage of on the field. Also, they are trying to intimidate you, as a man in a tub is at a disadvantage. Intimidation can frequently win a contest before it starts.”

Sir Elgar grabbed hold of Nimbus, pulling him up by his tunic. “Talkative little bastard, aren’t you?” He raised a fist just as a sopping towel slammed into his face.

“Sorry. Elgar, is it?” Hadrian asked. “Just got done drying my ass and noticed a smudge on your cheek.”

Elgar threw off the towel and drew his sword. In just two steps, the knight cut the distance to Hadrian who stood naked and unflinching even as Elgar raised the blade’s tip toward his throat.

“Brave bugger, I’ll give you that much,” Elgar said. “But that just means you’ll be an easier target along the fence. You might want to save that water. You’ll need it after I put you in the mud.” Sheathing his sword, he led his friends from the room, nearly colliding with Renwick, who stood outside the door holding a goblet of wine.

“You all right?” Hadrian asked, grabbing a fresh towel.

“Yes, of course,” Nimbus replied in an unsteady voice. He smoothed the material of his tunic.

“Your wine, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian.

Without pause, Nimbus took the cup and drained it. “As I was saying, the reality can be quite different.”





Chapter 9

Winds Abbey





Royce stood before the window of the bedroom, watching Gwen sleep and thinking about their future. He pushed the thought away and suppressed the urge to smile. Just imagining it would bring disaster. The gods—if they existed—detested happiness. Instead, he turned and looked out over the cloistered courtyard.

The previous night’s storm left everything covered in a new dress of unblemished white. The only exception was a single line of footprints that led from the dormitory to a stone bench where a familiar figure sat wrapped in a monk’s habit. He was alone, yet the movement of his hands and the bob of his head revealed he was speaking with great earnest. Across from the monk was a small tree. Planting it was one of the first things Myron did when he returned to the abbey after the fire. It now stood a proud eight feet tall but was so slender it drooped under the snow’s weight. Royce knew there was great resiliency in a tree accustomed to bending in the wind, but he wondered if the strain could be endured. There was a breaking point for everything, after all. As if reading his thoughts, Myron rose and gave the tree a light shake. He had to stand close to do so, and much of the snow fell on his head. The tree sprang back, and without the burden of snow, it appeared more like its former self. Myron returned to his seat and his conversation. Royce knew he was not speaking to the tree but to his boyhood friend who was buried there.

“You’re up early,” Gwen said from where she lay with her head on a clutched pillow. He could make out the elegant slope of her waist and rise of her hip beneath the covers. “After last night I would have thought you’d be sleeping late.”

“We went to bed early.”

“But we didn’t sleep,” she teased.

“It was better than sleep. Besides, around here, after first light is sleeping in. Myron is already outside.”

“He does that so he can talk privately.” She smiled and drew back the covers invitingly. “Isn’t it cold next to that window?”