Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

That morning, like most days, Hadrian found himself wandering the palace hallways. He had seen Albert from a distance on a few occasions, but neither attempted to speak with the other, and there had been no sign of Royce. Crossing through the Grand Foyer, he paused. The staircase spiraled upward, adorned in fanciful candles and painted wood ornaments. Somewhere four flights up, the girl he had known as Thrace was probably still asleep in her bed. He put his foot on the first step.

“Sir Hadrian?” a man he did not recognize asked. “Great joust yesterday. You really gave Louden a hit he’ll not soon forget. I heard the crack even in the high stands. They say Louden will need a new breastplate, and you gave him two broken ribs to boot! What a hit. What a hit, I say. You know, I lost a bundle betting against you the first three jousts, but since then I’ve won everything back. I’m sticking with you for the final. You’ve made a believer out of me. Say, where you headed?”

Hadrian quickly drew back his foot. “Nowhere. Just stretching my legs a bit.”

“Well, just wanted to tell you to keep up the good work and let you know I’ll be rooting for you.”

The man exited the palace through the Grand Entrance, leaving Hadrian at the bottom of the stairs.

What am I going to do, walk into her chambers unannounced? It’s been over a year since I spoke with her. Will she hate me for not trying to see her earlier? Will she remember me at all?

He looked up the staircase once more.

It’s possible she’s all right, isn’t it? Just because no one ever sees her doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it?

Modina was the empress. They could not be treating her too badly. When she lived in Dahlgren she had been happy, and that had been a squalid, little village where people were killed nightly by a giant monster.

How much worse can living in a palace be?

He took one last look around and spotted the two shadows leaning casually near the archway to the throne room. With a sigh, Hadrian turned toward the service wing, leaving the stairway behind.

The sun was not fully up, but the kitchen was already bustling. Huge pots billowed clouds of steam so thick that the walls cried tears. Butchers hammered on cutting blocks, shouting orders. Boys ran with buckets, shouting back. Girls scrubbed cutlery, pans, and bowls. The smells were strong and varied. Some were wonderful, such as baked bread, but others were sulfurous and vile. Unlike the rest of the palace, no holiday decoration adorned the walls or tables. Here, behind the scenes, the signs of Wintertide were reduced to cooling trays of candied apples and snowflake-shaped cookies.

Hadrian stepped into the scullery, fascinated by the activity. As soon as he entered, heads turned, work slowed, and then everything came to a stop. The room grew so quiet that the only sounds were the bubbling pots, the crackling fires, and water dripping from a wet ladle. All the staff stared at him as if he had two heads or three arms.

Hadrian took a seat on one of the stools surrounding an open table. The modest area appeared to be the place where the kitchen staff ate their own meals. He tried to look casual and relaxed, but it was impossible with all the attention.

“What’s all this now?” boomed a voice belonging to a large, beefy cook with a thick beard and eyes wreathed in cheerful wrinkles. Spotting Hadrian, those eyes narrowed abruptly. He revealed—if only for a moment—that he had another side, the same way a playful dog might suddenly growl at an intruder.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked, approaching Hadrian with a meat cleaver in one hand.

“I don’t mean any harm. I was just hoping to find some food.”

The cook looked him over closely. “Are you a knight, sir?”

Hadrian nodded.

“Up early, I see. I’ll have whatever you want brought to the Great Hall.”

“Actually, I’d rather eat here. Is that okay?”

“I’m sorry?” the cook said, confused. “If you don’t mind me asking, why would a fine nobleman like yourself want to eat in a hot, dirty kitchen surrounded by the clang of pots and the gibbering of maids?”

“I just feel more comfortable here,” Hadrian said. “I think a man ought to be at ease when eating. Of course, if it’s a problem…” He stood.

“You’re, Sir Hadrian, aren’t you? I haven’t found the time to see the jousts, but as you can see, most of my staff has. You’re quite the celebrity. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about you and your recent change in fortune. Are any of them true?”

“Well, I can’t say about the stories, but my name is Hadrian.”

“Nice to meet you. Name’s Ibis Thinly. Have a seat, sir. I’ll fix you right up.”

He hurried away, scolding his crew to return to work. Many continued to glance over at Hadrian, stealing looks when they felt the head cook could not see. In a short while, Ibis returned with a plate of chicken, fried eggs, biscuits, and a mug of dark beer. The chicken was so hot that it hurt Hadrian’s fingers, and the biscuits steamed when he pulled them open.

“I appreciate this,” Hadrian told Ibis, taking a bite of biscuit.

Ibis gave him a surprised look and then chuckled. “By Mar! Thanking a cook for food! Them stories are true, aren’t they?”

Hadrian shrugged. “I guess I have a hard time remembering that I’m noble. When I was a commoner, I always knew what noble meant but now, not so much.”

The cook smiled. “Lady Amilia has the same problem. I gotta say it’s nice to see decent folk getting ahead in this world. The news is you’ve ruled the field at Highcourt. Beat every knight who rode against you. I even heard you opened the tournament by tilting against Sir Murthas without a helm!”

Hadrian nodded with a mouth full of chicken, which he shifted from side to side, trying to avoid a burnt tongue.

“When a man does that,” Ibis went on, “and comes from the salt like the rest of us, he wins favor among the lower classes. Yes, indeed. Those of us with dirty faces and sweaty backs get quite a thrill from one such as you, sir.”

Hadrian did not know how to respond and contented himself with swallowing his chicken. He had ridden to the sound of roaring crowds every time he competed, but Hadrian was not there for applause. His task was dark, secret, and not worthy of praise. He had unsaddled five knights and, by the rules of the contest, owned their mounts. Hadrian declined that privilege. He had no need for the horses, but it was more than just that—he did not deserve them. All he wanted was the lives of Arista and Gaunt. In his mind, the whole affair was tainted. Taking anything else from his victories—even the pleasure of success—would be wrong. Nevertheless, the crowds cheered each time he refused his right to a mount, believing him humble and chivalrous instead of what he was—a murderer in waiting.

“It’s just you and Breckton now, isn’t it?” Ibis asked.

Hadrian nodded gloomily. “We tilt tomorrow. There’s some sort of hunt today.”

“Oh yes, the hawking. I’ll be roasting plenty of game birds for tonight’s feast. Say, aren’t you going?”

“Just here for the joust,” Hadrian managed to say even though his mouth was full again.

Ibis bent his head to get a better look. “For a new knight on the verge of winning the Wintertide Highcourt Tournament, you don’t seem very happy. It’s not the food, I hope.”