Wintertide trr-5 Read online

  "Degan, do you have a necklace? A small silver medallion?"

  "Yeah-well, I did." He paused a long while, and when he spoke again his voice was better. "My mother gave it to me before I left home-my good luck charm. They took it when they put me in here. Why do you ask?"

  "Because you are the Heir of Novron. That necklace was created by Esrahaddon nearly nine hundred years ago. There were two of them, one for the heir and one for the guardian trained to defend him. For generations they protected the wearers from magic and hid their identities. Esrahaddon taught me a spell that could find who wore them. I was the one who helped him find you. He's been trying to restore you to the throne."

  Degan was quiet for some time. "If I have a guardian, where is he? I could use one right now."

  The waves of self-loathing washed over her again. "His name is Hadrian. Oh, Degan, it's all my fault. He doesn't know where you are. Esrahaddon and I were going to find you and tell him, but I messed it all up. After Esrahaddon's death, I thought I could get you out on my own. I failed."

  "Yeah, well, it's only my life-nothing important." There was a pause then, "Arista?"

  "Yes?"

  "What about that thing Guy mentioned? That horn? Did Esrahaddon ever mention it to you? If we can tell them something about it, maybe they won't kill us."

  Arista felt the hair on her arms stand up.

  Is this a trick? Is he working for them?

  Weak and exhausted, she could not think clearly. In the darkness she felt vulnerable and disoriented-exactly what they wanted.

  Is it even Gaunt at all? Or did they discover I was coming and plant someone from the start? Or did they switch the real Gaunt while I slept? Is it the same voice?

  She tried to remember.

  "Arista?" he called out again.

  She opened her mouth to reply but paused and thought of something else to say. "It's hard to recall. My head's fuzzy, and I'm trying to piece the conversation together. He talked about the horn the same day I met your sister. I remember he introduced her…and then…oh, how did it go again? He said, 'Arista this is…this is…oh, it's just beyond my memory. Help me out, Degan. I feel like a fool. Can you remind me what your sister's name is?"

  Silence.

  Arista waited. She listened and thought she heard movement somewhere beyond her cell, but she was not sure.

  "Degan?" she ventured after several minutes passed. "Don't you know your own sister's name?"

  "Why do you want to know her name?" Degan asked. His tone was lower, colder.

  "I just forgot it is all. I thought you could help me remember the conversation."

  He was quiet for so long that she thought he might not speak again. Finally he said, "What did they offer you to find out about her?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Maybe you're Arista Essendon, or maybe you're an Imperialist trying to get secrets from me."

  "How do I know any different about you?" she asked.

  "You supposedly came to free me, and now you doubt who I am?"

  "I came to free Degan Gaunt, but who are you?"

  "I won't tell you the name of my sister."

  "In that case, I think I will sleep." She meant it as a bluff, but as the silence continued, she dozed off.

  Chapter 8

  Sir Hadrian Hadrian sat on the edge of his bunk, perplexed by the tabard. A single red, diagonal strip decorated each side. Depending on how he wore it, the stripe either started from his right or left shoulder, and he could not figure out which was correct.

  As he finally made a decision and placed it over his head, there was a quiet knock followed by the timid opening of his door. A man's face, accentuated by a beaklike nose and topped by a foppish powdered wig, peered inside. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Sir Hadrian."

  "Congratulations, you found him," Hadrian replied.

  The man entered, followed closely by a boy who remained near the door. Thin and brittle-looking, the man was dressed in bright satin knee breeches and an elaborate, ruffled tunic. Even without the outlandish clothing, he would still be comical. Encased in buckled shoes, his feet seemed disproportionally large, and all his limbs were gangly. The teenage lad behind him wore the more conventional attire of a simple brown tunic and hose.

  "My name is Nimbus of Vernes, and I am Imperial Tutor to the Empress. Regent Saldur thought you might need some guidance on court protocol and instruction in knightly virtues, so he asked me to assist you."

  "Pleased to meet you," Hadrian said. He stood and offered his hand. At first Nimbus appeared confused, but then he reached out and shook.

  Motioning toward the tabard Hadrian wore, he nodded. "I can see why I was called upon."

  Hadrian glanced down and shrugged. "Well, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance." Removing the garment, he turned the tunic around. "Is that better?"

  Nimbus struggled to suppress a laugh, holding a lace handkerchief to his lips. The boy was not so restrained and snorted, then laughed out loud. This made Nimbus lose his own battle, and finally Hadrian found himself laughing as well.

  "I'm sorry. That was most inappropriate of me," Nimbus apologized, getting a hold of himself. "I beg your forgiveness."

  "It's no problem. Just tell me what I'm doing wrong."

  "Well, to start with, that particular garment is used only for sparring, and no self-respecting knight would wear such a thing at court."

  Hadrian shrugged. "Oh, okay, good to know. It was the only thing I saw. Any ideas?"

  Nimbus walked to a drape behind the bunk, and flung it aside, revealing an open wardrobe filled with tunics, jackets, coats, capes, jerkins, gambesons, vests, doublets, baldrics, belts, breeches, shirts, hose, boots, and shoes.

  Hadrian looked at the wardrobe and frowned. "So how was I supposed to know all that was there?"

  "Why don't we begin by getting you properly dressed?" Nimbus suggested and motioned for Hadrian to pick something.

  He reached toward a pair of wool pants, but a cough from Nimbus stopped him.

  "No?" Hadrian asked.

  Nimbus shook his head.

  "Okay, what do you think I should be wearing?"

  Nimbus considered the wardrobe for several minutes, picking out various pieces, comparing them, putting one back, and then choosing another. He finally selected a white shirt, gold doublet, purple hose, and shiny black shoes with brass buckles. He laid them out on the bunk.

  "You're joking," Hadrian said, staring at the array. "That's your best choice? I'm not sure gold and purple are for me. Besides, what's wrong with the wool pants?"

  "Those are for hunting and, like the tabard, not appropriate for dress at court. Gold and purple complement each other. They announce you are a man that makes no excuses."

  Hadrian held up the clothes with a grimace. "They're loud. Disturbingly loud."

  "They exude refinement and grace," Nimbus corrected. "Qualities, if you don't mind me saying, from which you could benefit. I know knights in the field dress in order to bully rabble-rousers and brigands, and under such circumstances, it's appropriate to select garments based on certain utilitarian qualities." He took an appraising look at Hadrian's attire. "But you are at the palace now, competing with a higher class of…thug. A strong arm and loud voice will not be enough. You need to sell yourself to the knights you wish to intimidate, to the ladies you wish to bed, to the lords you wish to impress, and to the commoners who will chant your name during the competitions. This last group is particularly important, as it will raise your stature with the others.

  "A knight skilled in combat may stay alive, but it is the one skilled in persuasion that wins the king's daughter for his wife and retires to a vast estate. Truly successful knights can obtain multiple fiefs and enter their twilight years as wealthy as any count or earl."

  Nimbus lowered his voice. "Regent Saldur mentioned that you might be a bit rough around the edges." He paused briefly. "I think we can both agree I've not been misled. It may take some doing to refine your mannerisms. So, in t
he meantime, I plan to overcompensate with clothing. We'll blind everyone with dazzle, so they won't see the dirt on your face."

  Hadrian reached for his cheek.

  "That was a metaphor," Nimbus informed him. "Although now that I look at you, a bath is certainly in order."

  "Bath? It's freezing outside. You're supposed to groom me, not kill me."

  "You may be surprised to discover that in civilized society we bathe indoors with heated water. You might even find it enjoyable." Turning to the boy, Nimbus ordered, "Renwick, run and fetch the tub and get some others to help carry buckets. We'll also need a bristle brush, soap, oils, and-oh yes-scissors."

  The lad ran off and quickly returned with a small army of boys carrying a wooden tub. They left and returned with buckets of hot water. After preparing the bath, all the boys left except Renwick. He dutifully stood beside the door, ready for further requests.

  Hadrian undressed and tested the water with a hesitant foot.

  "Are you versed in the basic concept of bathing? Or do you need me to instruct you?" Nimbus asked.

  Hadrian scowled at him. "I think I can handle it," he said, settling into the water. The tub overflowed and created a soapy mess. He grimaced. "Sorry about that."

  Nimbus said nothing and turned away to give Hadrian a modicum of privacy.

  The hot bath was wonderful. Hadrian had been assigned an interior chamber selected, no doubt, for its lack of windows. There was a simple bed, two wooden stools, a modest table, but no fireplace, which left the chamber chilly. If desperate, there was a large hearth in the common room at the end of the hall that also sported carpets and a chess set, but despite the cold Hadrian preferred to remain in the isolation of his private room. Having not felt comfortably warm in days, Hadrian sank lower to submerge as much of himself as possible.

  "Are these yours?" Nimbus asked, noticing Hadrian's weapons resting in the corner of the room.

  "Yes, and I know they're worn and dirty just like me."

  Nimbus lifted the spadone still encased in the leather baldric with a noticeable degree of reverence. Turning it over gingerly, he ran his fingertips along the hilt, grip, and pommel. "This is very old," he said almost to himself. "Wrong sheath though." He laid the sword across the foot of the bed.

  "I thought you were a courtier. What do you know about swords?"

  "You'll learn that there are many weapons at court. Survival in the maelstrom of the body politic requires being able to size up another by what little they reveal to you."

  Hadrian shrugged. "It's the same in combat."

  "Court is combat," Nimbus said. "Only the skills and setting differ."

  "So, how would you size me up?"

  "Regent Saldur told me your background is completely confidential and that divulging anything would result in my-not too painless-demise. The only information he provided was that you were recently knighted. He refrained from any detail about your station or ancestry. The regent merely mentioned you were lacking refinement and instructed me to ensure you fit seamlessly into the Wintertide festivities."

  Hadrian kept an unwavering stare on the tutor. "You didn't answer the question."

  Nimbus smiled at him. "You really want to know, don't you? You aren't toying with me?"

  Hadrian nodded.

  The tutor turned to the page. "Renwick?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Fetch Sir Hadrian a cup of wine from the steward in the kitchen."

  "There's wine in the common room, sir, and it's closer."

  Nimbus gave him a stern look. "I want some privacy, Renwick."

  "Oh, I see. Of course, sir."

  "Very well then," Nimbus said after the boy left. He pursed his lips and tapped them several times with his index finger before continuing. "The truth of the matter is that you are not a knight. You haven't even served as a squire, groom, or page. I doubt you've ever set foot in a proper castle for more than a few minutes at a time. However, and this is the important point-you are indeed noble."

  Hadrian paused in his scrubbing. "And what makes you think that?"

  "You didn't know where the wardrobe was, you've never taken a bath in winter, you shook my hand when we met, and apologized for spilling your bath water. These are most certainly not the actions of a knight raised from birth to feel and act superior to others."

  Hadrian sniffed the scented soap and discarded it.

  "Most telling, however, was the handshake itself. You offered it as a simple gesture of greeting. There was no agenda, no flattery, no insincerity. There also was no insecurity or sense that, by virtue of my clothes and mannerisms, I was your better. How odd, considering, as I now know, you were not raised a noble." Nimbus looked back at the sword resting on the bed. "It's an heirloom, isn't it?"

  Picking up a bottle of oil, Hadrian pulled the cork and deemed it acceptable. He added a bit to the bristles of the brush. "I got it from my father."

  The tutor ran his hand along the sheathed blade. "This is a remarkable weapon-a knight's sword-tarnished with time and travel. You don't use it as often as the others. The bastard and short sword are tools to you, but this-ah-this is something else-something revered. It lies concealed in a paltry sheath, covered in clothes not its own. It doesn't belong there. This sword belongs to another time and place. It is part of a grand and glorious world where knights were different, loftier-virtuous. It rests in this false scabbard because the proper one has been lost, or perhaps, it waits for a quest yet to be finished. It longs for that single moment when it can shine forth in all its brilliance. When dream and destiny meet on a clear field, then and only then will it find its purpose. When it faces that honorable cause-that one worthy and desperate challenge for which it was forged and on which so much depends-it will find peace in the crucible of struggle. For good or ill, it will ring true or break. But the wandering, the waiting, the hiding will at last be over. This sword waits for the day when it can save the kingdom and win the lady."

  Hadrian sat staring, not realizing that he had dropped his brush.

  Nimbus appeared to take no notice of Hadrian's reaction and took a seat on the bunk with a satisfied smile across his face. "Now, while I have your attention, shall we address the task to which I was assigned?"

  Hadrian nodded.

  "To help me judge where to start, can you tell me what you already know about chivalry?" Nimbus asked.

  "It's a code of conduct for knights," Hadrian replied, searching the bottom of the tub for the lost brush.

  "Yes-well you are essentially correct. What do you know of its principles?"

  "Be honorable, be brave, that sort of thing."

  "That sort of thing? Oh, I'm afraid we'll have to start with the basics. Very well, please pay attention, and don't forget to scrub the bottoms of your feet."

  Hadrian frowned but lifted a foot.

  "The knightly virtues derive themselves from a standard of ethics passed down from the original Empire. There are eight such virtues. The first is proficiency. It is the easiest to achieve as it merely means skill at arms and can be obtained through practice and observation. Judging from the wear on your weapons, I trust you have a solid understanding of this virtue?"

  "I'm able to hold my own."

  Nimbus nodded. "Excellent. Next is courage, one of the most important virtues. Courage, however, is not so cheaply bought as by charging against overwhelming odds. It can take many forms. For instance, the bravery to choose life over death, especially if that means living with loss. Or the will to risk all for a cause too noble to let perish. Courage can even be found in surrender-if doing so will mean the survival of something too valuable to lose.

  "The third virtue of a knight is honesty. To possess honor, a man must first strive to be honest to men, to women, to children, to great and to small, to the good and to the villainous but mostly to himself. A knight does not make excuses."

  Hadrian made an extra effort to keep his eyes focused on scrubbing his feet.

  "Integrity is a virtue that comprise
s both loyalty and honor. Possessing integrity often means adhering to a pledge or principle. Loyalty to a sovereign is the mark of a goodly knight. However, integrity can also mean defending those in need who cannot help themselves. A knight should always work for the good of the king third, the betterment of the kingdom second, but always place what is right first."

  "How does a knight know what is right?" Hadrian interrupted. He put down the brush, letting his foot slip back to the bottom of the tub. "I mean…What if I'm forced to choose between two evils. Someone could get hurt no matter what I do. How do I decide?"

  "True nobility lies in the heart. You must do what you know to be right."

  "How do I know I'm not being selfish?"

  "Ah, that brings us to the next virtue-faith. Faith is not simply a belief in the tenets of the church but a belief in virtue itself. A knight does not find fault. As mentioned, a knight believes in the good of all men, including himself. He trusts in this belief. A knight is confident in the word of others, in the merits of his lord, the worth of his commands, and in his own worth."

  Hadrian nodded, though the words did not help ease his conscience.

  "Generosity is the sixth virtue. A knight should show bounteousness to all, noble and commoner alike. More important than generosity of wares is a generosity of spirit. A knight believes the best of others and always extends the benefit of doubt. A knight does not accuse. He does not assume wrongdoing. Still, a knight grants no benefit to himself and always questions if he is at fault.

  "Respect is the virtue concerning the good treatment of others. A knight is not thoughtless. He does not harm through recklessness. He seeks not to injure by lazy words or foolishness. A knight does not mimic the bad behavior of others. Instead, he sees it as an opportunity to demonstrate virtue by contrast."