Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

“Thank you,” Saldur said, and clearing his throat continued, “Sir Gilbert is correct in that Lord Dermont was lost that day, but reports from his closest aides brought back the tale. Three days of rain made a mounted charge impossible, and the sheer number of the unstoppable Nationalist horde convinced Lord Dermont of the futility of engagement. Overcome with grief, he retreated to his tent in resignation.

“Without Lord Dermont to lead them, the Imperial Army floundered when the attack came. It was Sir Hadrian—then Captain Hadrian of the Fifth Imperial Mounted Guard—who roused the men and set them to ranks. He raised the banner and led them forth. At first, only a handful of soldiers responded. Indeed, only those who served with him answered his call, for they alone knew firsthand his mettle. Ignoring his meager numbers, he trusted in Maribor and called the charge.”

Hadrian looked down and fidgeted with an uncooperative toggle on his tunic as the others sat enthralled.

“Although it was suicide, Captain Hadrian rode at the head of the troop into the fen field. His horse threw mud and slop, and a magnificent rainbow burst forth from the spray as he galloped across a stretch of standing water. He drove at the heart of the enemy with no thought of his own safety.”

Saldur’s voice grew in volume and intensity. His tone and cadence assumed the melodramatic delivery of a church sermon. A few nobles at the other tables turned to listen as he continued.

“His courageous charge unnerved the Nationalist foot soldiers, who fell back in fear. Onward he plunged, splitting their ranks until at last his mount became overwhelmed by the soft earth and fell. Wielding sword and shield, he got to his feet and continued to drive forward. Clashing against steel, he cried out the name of the empress, ‘For Modina! Modina! Modina Novronian!’”

Saldur paused and Hadrian looked up to see every eye at the table shifting back and forth between the regent and himself.

“Finally, shamed by the bravery of this one lone captain, the rest of the Imperial Army rallied. They cried to Maribor for forgiveness even as they drew sword and spear and rushed to follow. Before reinforcements could reach him, Hadrian was wounded and driven into the mud. Some of his men bore him from the field and took him to the tent of Lord Dermont. There they told the tale of his bravery and Lord Dermont swore by Maribor to honor Hadrian’s sacrifice. He proclaimed his intent to knight the valiant captain.

“‘Nay, Lord!’ cried Captain Hadrian even as he lay wounded and bleeding. ‘Knight me not for I am unworthy. I have failed.’ Lord Dermont clutched his blade and was heard to say, ‘You are more worthy of the noble title of knight-valiant than I am of the title of man!’ And with that, Lord Dermont dubbed him Sir Hadrian.”

“Oh my!” the duchess gasped.

With everyone staring at him, Hadrian felt hot, awkward, and more naked than when Elgar had interrupted his bath.

“Lord Dermont called for his own horse and thanked Sir Hadrian for the chance to redeem his honor before Maribor. He led his personal retinue into the fight, where he and all but a few of his men perished on the pikes of the Nationalists.

“Sir Hadrian tried to return to the battle despite his wounds, but fell unconscious before reaching the field. After the Nationalists’ victory, they left him for dead and only providence spared his life. He awoke covered in mud. Desperate for food and water, he crawled into the forest where he came upon a small hovel. There he was fed and tended to by a mysterious man. Sir Hadrian rested there for six days, and on the seventh, the man brought forth a horse and told Sir Hadrian to take it, ride to Aquesta, and present himself to the court. After he handed over the reins, thunder cracked and a single white feather fell from a clear blue sky. The man caught the feather before it reached the ground, a broad smile across his face. And with that, the man disappeared.

“Now, gentlemen and ladies.” Saldur paused to look each of them in the eye. “I tell you truthfully that two days before Sir Hadrian arrived, the empress came to me and said, ‘A knight riding a white horse will come to the palace. Admit him and honor him, for he shall be the greatest knight of the New Empire.’ Sir Hadrian has been here, recuperating from his wounds, ever since. Today he is fully recovered and sits before you all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take my seat, as the feast is about to begin.” Saldur bowed and left them.

No one said a word for some time. Everyone stared at Hadrian in wonder, including Albert, whose mouth hung agape.

It was the duchess who finally found words to sum up their collective thoughts. “Well, aren’t you just an astonishment topped with surprises?”





***

Dinner was served in a fashion that Hadrian had never seen before. Fifty servants moving in concert delivered steaming plates of exotic victuals in elaborate presentations. Two peacocks were posed on large platters. One peered up as if surprised while the other’s head curled under its wings as if sleeping. Each was surrounded by an array of succulent, carved meat. Ducks, geese, quail, turtledoves, and partridges were displayed in similar fashion, and one pure-white trumpeter swan reared up with its wings outstretched as if about to take flight. Rings of nuts, berries, and herbs surrounded glazed slabs of lean venison, dark boar, and marbled beef. Breads of various shades, from snow-white to nearly black, lay in heaping piles. Massive wedges of cheese, cakes of butter, seven different types of fish, oysters steamed in almond milk, meat pies, custard tarts, and pastries drizzled with honey covered every inch of the table. Stewards and their many assistants served endless streams of wine, beer, ale, and mead.

Anxiety welled up, as he struggled to remember Nimbus’s multiple instructions on table etiquette. The list had been massive, but at that moment he could remember just two things: he was not to use the tablecloth to blow his nose, and should not pick his teeth with the knife. Following Saldur’s prayer to Maribor, Hadrian’s fears vanished when all the guests ripped into the bountiful food with abandon. They tore legs off pigs and heads from birds. Bits of meat and grease sprayed the table as nobles groped and pawed to taste a bite of every dish, lest they miss something that might be the talk of the feast.

Hadrian had lived most of his life on black bread, brown ale, hard cheese, salted fish, and vegetable stews. What lay before him was a new experience. He tried the peacock, which despite its beauty, was dry and not nearly as good as he expected. The venison had a wonderful hickory-smoked taste. But the best thing by far was the dish of cinnamon baked apples. All conversation stopped when the eating began. The only sounds in the hall were those of a single lute, a lone singer, and scores of chewing mouths.

“…long is the day in the summertime, long is the song which I play,