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 rose 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 each other.
Hadrian crossed only a quarter of the field before pulling back on the reins. Malevolent slowed to a stop. The lance remained in its boot, pointing skyward.
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, 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 hoofbeats drummed closer.
Nothing happened. Hadrian felt only the breeze of the passing horse.
Did he miss? 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, looking confused. “On what charge?”