“Yes, that was excellent!” Ethelred said. “We can now put the fiasco of the coronation behind us. I can’t say I approve of the self-aggrandizement, Amilia, but seeing what you’ve done with her, I can’t begrudge you a little recognition. In fact, we should consider rewarding her for a job well done, Sauly.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “We’ll have to consider what that should be. Come, Lanis, let’s proceed to the banquet.” The two of them left, talking back and forth about the ceremony as they went.
Amilia moved to the empress’s side, took her hand, and escorted her back to her quarters. “You’ll be the death of me yet,” she told her.
CHAPTER 16
THE BATTLE OF RATIBOR
Hadrian sat in the rain. Heavy chains shackled his ankles and wrists to a large metal stake driven into the ground. All day, and throughout the night, he waited in the mud, watching the lazy movements of the Nationalist army. They were just as slow to decide his fate as they were to attack. Horses walked past, meals were called, and men grumbled about the rain and the mud. The gray light faded into night and regret consumed him.
He should have escaped, even if it had meant shedding blood. He might have been able to save Arista’s life. He could have warned her that the Nationalists would not cooperate and would have her call off the attack. Now even if she succeeded, the victory would be short-lived and she would face the gallows or a beheading.
“Gill!” he shouted as he saw the sentry walking by in his soaked cloak.
“Ah yes!” Gill laughed, coming closer with a grin. “If it isn’t the grand marshal. Not so grand now, are you?”
“Gill, you have to help me,” he shouted over the roar of the rain. “I need you to get a message to—”
Gill bent down. “Now why would I help the likes of you? You made a fool out of me. Sergeant Milford weren’t too pleased neither. He has me running an all-night shift to show his displeasure.”
“I have money,” Hadrian told him eagerly. “I could pay you.”
“Really? And where is this money, in some chest buried on some distant mountain, or merely in another pair of pants?”
“Right here in the purse on my belt. I have at least ten gold tenents. You can have it all if you just promise me to take a message to Ratibor.”
Gill looked at Hadrian’s belt curiously. “Sure,” he said. Reaching down, he untied the purse. He weighed it in his hands. The bouncing produced a jingle. He pulled open the mouth and poured out a handful of coins. “Whoa! Look at that. You weren’t joshing. There’s really gold in here. One, two, three … damn! Well, thank you, Marshal.” He made a mock salute. “This will definitely take the sting out of having to stand two watches.” He started to walk away.
“Wait!” Hadrian told him. “You need to hear the message.”
Gill kept walking.
“You need to tell Arista not to attack,” he shouted desperately, but Gill continued on his way, swinging the purse, until his figure was obscured by the rain.
Hadrian cursed and kicked the stake hard. He collapsed on his side, lost in frustration. He remembered the look on Arista’s face, how hopeful she had been. It had never crossed her mind that he could fail. When he had first met the princess, he had thought she was arrogant and egotistical, like all nobles—grown-up brats, greedy and self-centered.
When did that change?
Images flooded back to him. He remembered her hanging out her wet undergarments at Sheridan. How stubbornly she had slept under the horse blanket that first night outside, crying herself to sleep. He and Royce had both been certain she would cancel the mission the next day. He saw her sleeping in the skiff that morning when they had drifted down the Bernum, and remembered how she had practically announced her identity to everyone when drunk in Dunstan’s home. She had always been their patron and their princess, but somewhere along the way she had become more than that.
As he sat there, pelted with rain and helpless in the mud, he was tormented with visions of her death. He saw her lying facedown in the filthy street, her dress torn, her pale skin stained red with blood. The Imperialists would likely hoist her body above Central Square or perhaps drag it behind a horse to Aquesta. Maybe they would cut her head off and send it to Alric as a warning.
In a flash of anger and desperation, he began digging in the mud, trying to dislodge the stake. He dug furiously, pulled hard, then dug again—wrenching the stake back and forth. A guard spotted him and used a second stake on the chains connected to his wrists to stretch him out flat.
“Still trying to get away and cause mischief, are ya?” the guard said. “Well, that ain’t gonna happen. You killed Gaunt. You’ll die for that, but until then, you’ll stay put.” The guard spat in his face, but the effect was hardly what he sought, as the rain rinsed it away. It crushed Hadrian to know that it was Arista’s rain washing him clean. Lying there, he saw the first sign of dawn lightening the morning sky and his heart sank further.