Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

“I’m not champion yet,” Hadrian replied solemnly.

“That’s not what Russell here’s been saying,” Dillon clapped his friend on the back. “He’s done his own fair share of bragging at every tavern in town about how the next champion once spent a week living in his home.”

“Four people bought me drinks for that,” Russell said with a laugh.

“It’s very nice to see you again,” Lena said, taking Hadrian’s hand gently and patting it. “We all wondered what became of you and your friend.”

“I’m fine and so is Royce, but what happened to all of you?”

“Vince led us all to Alburn,” Dillon explained. “We manage to scratch a living out of the rocky dirt. It’s not like it was in Dahlgren. My sons have been taken for the Imperial Army, and we have to hand over most of what we grow. Still, I guess it could be worse.”

“We saved all our coppers to come up here for the holidays,” Russell said. “But we had no idea we’d find you riding in the tournament. Now that really is something! Rumor is they knighted you on the field of battle. Very impressive.”

“Not as much as you might think,” Hadrian replied.

“How’s Thrace?” Lena asked, still holding his hand.

He hesitated, not sure what to say. “I don’t know. I don’t get to see her much. But she came to the banquet last night and she looked well enough.”

“We just about died when we heard Deacon Tomas was calling for her to be crowned empress.”

“Thought the old boy had gone mad, really,” Dillon put in. “But then they went and did it! Can you imagine that? Our little Thrace—I mean Modina—empress! We had no idea she and Theron were descended from Novron. That’s probably where the old man got all his stubbornness and she her courage.”

“I wonder if she’s in love with Regent Ethelred,” speculated Verna, Dillon’s daughter. “I bet he’s handsome. It must be wonderful to be the empress and live in that palace with servants and knights kissing your hand.”

“You’d think she woulda remembered some of us little folk who cared for her like a daughter,” Russell said bitterly.

“Rus!” Lena scolded him. Her eyes drifted to the high walls of the palace visible over High Court’s tents. “The poor girl has gone through so much. Look up there. Do you think she’s happy with all these problems she has to deal with? Wars and such. Do you think she has time to think about old neighbors, much less track us down? Of course not, the poor dear!”

“Excuse me, Sir Hadrian, but it’s time.” Renwick announced, leading Malevolent.

With the help of a stool, Hadrian mounted the horse, which was decorated in full colors.

“These are friends of mine,” Hadrian told the squire. “Take care of them for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir! Did you hear that?” Dillon slapped his thigh. “Wow, to be knighted and in the final bout of the Wintertide tournament. You must be the happiest man in the world right now.”

Hadrian looked at their faces and tried to smile before trotting toward the gate.

The crowd exploded with applause as the two knights rode onto the field. The clouds overhead were heavier than before and appeared to have drained the color from the banners and flags. He felt cold, inside and out, as he took position at the gate.

Across from him, Breckton waited in the same fashion. His horse’s caparison waved in the bitter wind. The squires arrived and took their positions on the podium, beside the lances. The herald, a serious looking man in a heavy coat, stepped up to the platform. The crowd grew silent when trumpeters blew the fanfare for the procession to begin.

Ethelred and Saldur rode at the head of the line followed by King Armand and Queen Adeline of Alburn, King Roswort and Queen Freda of Dunmore, King Fredrick and Queen Josephine of Galeannon, King Rupert of Rhenydd—recently crowned and not yet married—and King Vincent and Queen Regina of Maranon. After the monarchs came the princes and princesses, the Lord Chancellor and Lord Chamberlain, Lady Amilia and Nimbus, and the archbishop of each kingdom. Lastly, the knights arrived and took their respective seats.

The trumpeters blew once more and the herald addressed the crowd in loud, reverent tones.

“On this hallowed ground, this field of tourney where trials are decided, prowess and virtue revealed, and truth discovered we assemble to witness this contest of skill and bravery. On this day, Maribor will decide which of these two men shall win the title of Wintertide Champion!”

Cheers burst forth from the crowd and the herald paused, waiting for them to quiet.

“To my left, I give you the commander of the victorious Northern Imperial Army, hero of the Battle of Van Banks, son of Lord Belstrad of Chadwick, and favored of our Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale—Sir Breckton of Chadwick!”

Again, the crowd cheered. Hadrian caught sight of Amilia in the stands, clapping madly with the rest.

“To my right, I present the newest member to the ranks of knightly order, hero of the Battle of Ratibor, and favored of Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Eminence, Empress Modina Novronian—Sir Hadrian!”

The crowd roared with such intensity that Hadrian could feel their shouts vibrating his chest plate. Looking at the sea of commoners, he could almost imagine a small boy standing next to his father, waiting in excited anticipation.

“For the title of Champion, for the honor of the Empire, and for the glory of Maribor these two battle. May Maribor grant the better man victory!”

The herald stepped down to the blasts of trumpets, which were barely noticeable above the cry of the crowd.

“Good luck, sir.” A stranger dressed in gray stood at Hadrian’s station, holding out his helm.

Hadrian looked around but could not see Renwick anywhere. He took the helm and placed it on his head.

“Now, the lance, sir,” the man said.

The moment Hadrian lifted it, he could tell the difference. The weapon looked the same, but the tip was heavy. Holding it actually felt better to him, more familiar. There was no doubt he could kill Breckton with it. His opponent was a good lancer, but Hadrian was better.

Hadrian glanced once more at the stands. Amilia stood with her hands pressed to her face. He tried to think of Arista and Gaunt. Then his eyes found the empty space between Ethelred and Saldur—the throne of the empress—Modina’s empty seat.

“I proclaim my faith in his skill, character, and sacred honor. I know his heart is righteous and his intentions virtuous. May you both find honor in the eyes of Maribor and compete as true and heroic knights.”

The flags raised and he took a deep breath, lowering his visor. The trumpets sounded, the flags dropped, and Hadrian spurred his horse. Breckton responded at the same instant and the two raced toward one another.

Hadrian only crossed a quarter of the field before pulling back on the reins. Malevolent slowed to a stop. The lance remained in its boot, pointing skyward.