Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

Royce nodded in agreement.

“You never cease to amaze me, Sir Hadrian. If that is indeed true, then I thank you. Between the two of us, Wesley was always the better man. I only hope I shall meet my end half as well as he did.”





***

Saldur fumed as he started up the stairs to the fifth floor. It was past midday and they should have left for the cathedral hours ago. The Patriarch himself was waiting to perform the ceremony.

As far back as Saldur could recall, which was a good many years, the Patriarch had never left his chambers in Ervanon. Those wishing to see him, to seek his council or blessing, had to travel to the Crown Tower. Even then, he only accepted audiences on rare occasions. The Patriarch had a reputation for refusing great nobles and even kings. Even the highest-ranking members of the church never saw him. Saldur had been Bishop of Medford for nearly ten years without ever meeting the man. As far as the regent knew, even Galien, the former Archbishop of Ghent, who lived with the Patriarch in the Crown Tower, never had a face-to-face meeting. The fact that the sentinels made frequent visits to the tower was common knowledge, but Saldur doubted if any actually stood in his presence.

The fact that the Patriarch had left the Crown Tower for this auspicious occasion was a personal triumph for Saldur. He genuinely looked forward to meeting the great leader of the Nyphron Church—his spiritual father. The wedding was supposed to be a wondrous and moving event, a lavish production complete with a full orchestra and the release of hundreds of white doves. This day was the accumulation of years of careful planning, dating back to that fateful night in Dahlgren when the plan to elevate Lord Rufus to emperor had failed.

At that time, Deacon Tomas had been raving like a lunatic. He claimed to witness the miracle of a young girl named Thrace killing the Gilarabrywn. Seeing as how Saldur himself had proclaimed that only the true Heir of Novron could slay that beast, the deacon’s claim was perceived as a problem. Sentinel Luis Guy planned to erase the incident by killing both the deacon and the girl, but Saldur saw other possibilities.

The Patriarch had wanted to name Saldur as the next Archbishop of Ghent to take the place of Galien, who had died in the Gilarabrywn’s attack. The position was the highest in the church hierarchy, just below the Patriarch himself. The offer was tempting, but Saldur knew the time had arrived for him to take the reins of shaping a New Empire. He abandoned his holy vestments and donned the mantle of politics—something no officer of the church had done since the days of Patriarch Venlin.

Saldur weathered the condemnation of kings and bishops in his battle against ignorance and tradition. He pressured, cajoled, and murdered to reach his goal of a strong, unified Empire that could change the world for the better. With his guidance, the glory of the Old Empire would rise once more. To the feeble minds of Ethelred and his ilk, that just meant one man on one throne. To Saldur it meant civilization. All that once was would be again. Wintertide marked the culmination of all his efforts and years of struggle. This was the last uphill battle and it was proving to be a challenge.

Saldur had expected the peasants to tire themselves out overnight, but their fury seemed to have increased. He was irked that the city, which had been quiet and orderly for years, chose this moment to rampage. In the past, people had been taxed penniless, starved to provide banquets for kings, and had their children taken to fight in wars. Despite all this, they had never revolted. The fact that they did so now was strange, but moreover, it was embarrassing.

Even Merrick had been surprised by the reprisal, which appeared to come out of nowhere and everywhere at once. Saldur expected some disappointment at the outcome of the joust and anticipated a few troublemakers. He knew there was a chance that one of the knights would live, and supporters of the fallen champion might lash out. What he had not counted on was both competitors surviving. With no obvious crime, their arrests appeared unwarranted. Still, the response was curiously impassioned.

At first he thought it would be an easy matter to contend with, and ordered a dozen heavily armed soldiers to silence the agitators. The men returned bloodied and thinned in ranks. What they met was not a handful of dissidents but a citywide uprising. The whole matter was frustrating, but of no actual concern. He had sent for the Southern Army, and it was on its way to restore order. That would take a day or so. In the meantime, Saldur proceeded with the wedding.

The ceremony had been delayed a few hours, as Saldur needed the morning to arrange armed escorts for the carriage’s trip to the cathedral. That had gone well and now he just needed to transport the bride and groom. He was anxious to get the final procession under way, but Ethelred had not returned with Modina. If he did not know better, Saldur might have thought Lanis was exercising his husbandly rights a bit early. Whatever the delay, he was tired of waiting.

Saldur reached the empress’s bedroom and found two guards posted outside the door. At least Nimbus was following orders. Without a word to either guard, Saldur threw the door open, entered, and halted just past the threshold. The regent stood shocked as he took in the grisly scene.

The first thing he saw was the blood. A large pool spread across the white marble floor of the chamber. The second was the broken mirror. Its shards were scattered like brilliant islands in a red sea.

“What have you done!” he exclaimed before he could catch himself.

Modina casually turned away from the window to face him, the hem of her white nightgown soaked red to the knee. She looked at the regent without qualm or concern.

“He dared to place a hand on the empress’s person,” she said simply. “This cannot be allowed.”

Ethelred’s body lay like a twisted doll, an eight-inch shard of glass still protruding from his neck.

“But—”

Modina cocked her head slightly to one side like a bird and looked curiously at Saldur.

She held another long, sharp shard. Despite it being wrapped in material, her grip was so tight blood dripped down her wrist.

“I wonder how a feeble old man such as yourself would fare against a healthy, young farm girl armed with a jagged piece of glass?”

“Guards!” he shouted.

The two soldiers entered the room but showed little reaction at the scene before them.

“Restrain her,” Saldur commanded.

Neither of them moved toward the empress. They simply stood inside the doorway, unmoving, unheeding.

“I said restrain her!”

“There’s no need to shout,” Modina said. Her voice was calm, serene. Modina moved toward Saldur, walking through the puddle. Her feet left macabre tracks of blood.