Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

Breckton rode toward him. A bolt of gold and blue thundering across the frozen ground.

Excellent form.

The thought came to Hadrian as if he were a spectator—safe in the stands, or like that boy so long ago holding his father’s hand along the white rail, feeling the pounding of the hooves. He closed his eyes and braced for the impact. “I’m sorry, Da. I’m sorry, Arista,” he muttered within the shell of his helm. With luck, Breckton’s blow might kill him.

The hoof beats drummed closer.

Nothing happened. Hadrian felt only the breeze of the passing horse.

Had he missed? Is that possible?

Hadrian opened his eyes and turned to see Breckton riding down the alley.

The crowd died down, shuffling as a low murmur drifted on the air. Hadrian removed his helm just as Breckton pulled his horse to a stop. The other knight also removed his helm and trotted back to meet Hadrian at the rail.

“Why didn’t you tilt?” Breckton asked.

“You’re a good man. You don’t deserve to die by treachery.” Hadrian let the tip of his lance fall to the ground. Upon impact, the broad ceramic head shattered to reveal the war point.

“Nor do you,” Breckton said. He slammed his own pole and revealed that it, too, had a metal tip. “I felt its weight when I charged. It would seem we are both the intended victims of deceit.”

The sergeant of the guard led a contingent of twenty soldiers onto the field and said “The two of you are ordered to dismount! By the authority of the regents, I place you under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Breckton asked, confused. “On what charge?”

“Treason.”

“Treason?” Breckton’s face revealed shock at the accusation.

“Sir, dismount now or we will use force. Try to run and you will be cut down.”

On the far side of the field, a contingent of seret entered in formation and mounted troops blocked the exits.

“Run? Why would I run?” Breckton sounded bewildered. “I demand to hear the details of this charge against me.”

No answer was provided. Outnumbered and out-armed, Breckton and Hadrian dismounted. Seret surrounded them and rushed the two knights off the field. As they did, Hadrian spotted Luis Guy in the stands near Ethelred and Saldur.

The crowd erupted. They booed and shouted. Fists shook and Highcourt Field was pelted with whatever they could find to throw. More than once Hadrian heard the question, “What’s going on?”

The seret shoved them out of the arena through a narrow corridor of soldiers that created a path leading them out of the crowd’s sight and into a covered wagon that hauled them away.

“I don’t understand,” Breckton said, sitting among the company of five seret. “Someone conspires to kill us and we are accused of treason? It doesn’t make sense.”

Hadrian glanced at the hard faces of the seret and then down at the wagon floor. “The regents were trying to kill you…and I was supposed to do it. You were right. I’m not a knight. Lord Dermont never dubbed me. I wasn’t even a soldier in the Imperial Army. I led the Nationalists against Dermont.”

“Nationalists? But Regent Saldur vouched for you. They confirmed your tale. They—”

“Like I said, they wanted you dead and hired me to do it.”

“But why?”

“You refused their offer to serve Ethelred. As commander of the Northern Imperial Army, that makes you a threat. So they offered me a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Breckton asked, his voice cold.

“I was to kill you in exchange for the lives of Princess Arista and Degan Gaunt.”

“The Princess of Melengar and the leader of the Nationalists?” Breckton fell into thought once more. “Are you in her service? His?”

“Neither. I never met Gaunt, but the princess is a friend.” Hadrian paused. “I agreed in order to save their lives. Because if I failed to kill you, they will die tomorrow.”

The two traveled in silence for some time, rocking back and forth as the wooden wheels of the wagon rolled along the snow-patched cobblestone. Breckton finally turned to Hadrian and asked, “Why didn’t you do it? Why didn’t you kill me?”

Hadrian shook his head and sighed. “It wasn’t right.”





***

“There are over a hundred rioters just in Imperial Square,” Nimbus reported. “And more arriving every minute. Ethelred has pulled the guards back and closed the palace gates.”

“I heard some guards were killed. Is that true?” Amilia asked from her desk.

“Only one, I think. But several others were badly beaten. The rioters are calling for the empress.”

“I’ve heard them. They’ve been chanting for the last hour.”

“Since the tournament, they don’t trust Ethelred or Saldur. The crowd wants an explanation and they’ll accept it only from the empress.”

“Saldur will be coming here, won’t he? He’ll want me to have Modina say something. He’ll order me to have the empress make a statement about Breckton and Hadrian plotting to take the throne.”

Nimbus sighed and nodded. “I would suspect so.”

“I won’t do it,” Amilia said defiantly. She rose and slapped her desk. “Sir Breckton isn’t a traitor and neither is Sir Hadrian. I won’t be a party to their execution!”

“If you don’t, it’s likely you will share their fate,” Nimbus warned. “After tomorrow, Ethelred will be the emperor. He will officially rule and there will be precious little need for Modina’s nursemaid.”

“I love him, Nimbus.” This was the first time she had said the words—the first time she admitted it, even to herself. “I can’t help them kill him. I don’t care what they do to me.”

Nimbus gave her a sad smile and sat down in the chair near her desk. This was the first time that Amilia could remember him sitting in her presence without first asking permission. “I suppose they will have even less need for a tutor. Hadrian obviously did something wrong and I will likely be blamed.”

Someone walked by outside the office and both shot nervous glances at the closed door.

“It’s like the whole world is ending.” Tears ran down Amilia’s cheeks. “This morning I was so happy. I think I woke up happier than I’d ever been.”

They paused anxiously as they heard several more people running past the door.

“Do you think I should check on Modina?” Amilia asked.

“It might be wise.” Nimbus nodded. “The empress always sits by that window. She’s bound to hear the protests. She’ll be wondering what’s going on.”

“I should talk to her. After the way she acted at the feast, who knows what she’s thinking.” Amilia stood.

Just as the two moved toward the door, it burst open and Saldur stormed in. The regent was red-faced, his jaw clenched. He slammed the door shut behind him.

“Here!” Saldur shoved a parchment in Amilia’s face. A few lines of uneven text were scrawled across it. “Make Modina learn this and have her reciting it on the balcony in one hour—exactly as written!”

Wheeling to leave, he opened the door.