Feast of Nobles The fourteen-day-long Wintertide festival officially began with the Feast of Nobles in the palace's Great Hall. Twenty-seven colorful banners hung from the ceiling, each with the emblem of a noble house of Avryn. Five were noticeably absent, leaving gaps in the procession, including the blue tower on the white field of House Lanaklin of Glouston, the red diamond on the black field of House Hestle of Bernum, the white lily on the green field of House Exeter of Hanlin, the gold sword on the green field of House Pickering of Galilin, and the gold-crowned falcon on the red field of House Essendon of Melengar. In times of peace, the hall welcomed all thirty-two families in celebration. The gaps in the line of banners were a reminder of the costs of war.
The palace shimmered with the decorations of the holiday season. Wreaths and strings of garland festooned the walls and framed the windows. Elaborate chandeliers, draped in red and gold streamers, spilled light across polished marble floors. Four large stone hearths filled the Great Hall with a warm orange glow. And rows of tall arched windows gowned in snowflake-embroidered curtains let in the last light of the setting sun.
On a dais at the far end of the room, the head table ran along the interior wall. Like rays from the sun, three longer tables extended out from it, trimmed with fanciful centerpieces woven from holly branches and accentuated with pinecones.
As many as fifty nobles already filled the hall, each dressed in his or her finest garments. Some stood in groups speaking in lordly voices, others gathered in shadowed corners whispering in hushed tones, but the majority sat conversing at the tables.
"They look pretty, don't they?" Nimbus whispered to Hadrian. "So do snakes in the right light. Treat them the same way. Keep your distance, watch their eyes, and back away if you rattle them. Do that, and you might survive."
Nimbus looked him over one last time and brushed something off Hadrian's shoulder. He wore the gold and purple outfit-and felt ridiculous.
"I wish I had my swords. Not only do I look silly, but I feel naked."
"You have your pretty jeweled dagger," Nimbus said, smiling. "This is a feast, not a tavern. A knight does not go armed before his liege. It's not only considered rude, it also suggests treason. We don't want that now, do we? Just keep your wits about you and try not to say much. The more you talk, the more ammunition you provide. And remember what I told you about table manners."
"You're not coming?" Hadrian asked, suddenly concerned.
"I will be seated with Lady Amilia at the head table. If you get in trouble, look for me. I'll do what I can. Now remember, you're at the third table, left side, fourth chair from the end. Good luck."
Nimbus slipped away and Hadrian stepped into the hall. The instant he did he regretted it, realizing he was not certain which side was left, what table was third, or which end he should count from. Heads turned at his entrance, and the looks on their faces brought back memories of the aftermath of the Battle of Ramar. On that day, carrion birds had feasted on the bodies as Hadrian walked through the battlefield. Hoping to drive the vultures off, he had shot and killed one of them with an arrow. To his revulsion, the other birds descended on the fresher remains of their fallen comrade. The birds had cocked their heads and looked at him as if to say he had no business being there. Hadrian saw the same look in the eyes of the nobles around him now.
"And who might you be, good sir?" a lady said from somewhere off to Hadrian's right.
In his single-minded effort to find his seat, and with all the chatter in the room, he paid no attention.
"It is rude to ignore a lady when she speaks to you," a man said. His voice was sharp and impossible to ignore.
Hadrian turned to see a young man and woman glaring at him. They looked to be twins, as each had blond hair and dazzling blue eyes.
"It is also dangerous," the man went on, "when she is a princess of the honorable Kingdom of Alburn."
"Um…ah…forgiv-" Hadrian started to say when the man cut him off.
"There you have it. The cause for the slight is that the knight has no tongue! You are a knight, are you not? Please tell me you are. Please tell me you were some bucolic farmer that a drunken lord jokingly dubbed after you chased a squirrel from his manor. I couldn't stand it if you were another illegitimate son of an earl or duke, who crawled from an alehouse attempting to claim true nobility."
"Let the man try to speak," the lady said. "Surely he suffers from a malady that prevents his mind from forming words properly. It's nothing to make light of, dear brother. It is a true sickness. Perhaps he contracted it from suffering on the battlefield. I am told that placing pebbles in the mouth often helps. Would you care for some, good sir?"
"I don't need any pebbles, thank you," Hadrian replied coolly.
"Well, you certainly need something. I mean you are afflicted, aren't you? Why else would you completely ignore me like that? Or do you delight in insulting a lady, whose only offense is to ask your name?"
"I didn't-I mean I wasn't-"
"Oh dear, there he goes again," she said with a pitiful look. "Please send a servant to fetch some pebbles at once."
"I dare say," her brother began, "I don't think we have time for the pebbles. Perhaps he can simply suck on one or two of these pinecones. Would that help, do you think?"
"He doesn't have a speech problem," Sir Murthas said as he approached, thumbs hooked in his belt and a wide grin on his face.
"No?" the prince and princess asked together.
"No, indeed, he's merely ignorant. He has his own tutor, you know. When I first met Sir Hadrian-that is the lout's name, by the way-he was in the middle of a bathing lesson. Can you imagine? The poor clod doesn't even know how to wash."
"Oh, now that is troubling." The princess began cooling herself with a collapsible fan.
"Indeed. So at a loss was he at the complexities of bathing that he threw his washcloth at Sir Elgar!"
"Such rude behavior is inherent in him, then?" she asked.
"Listen I-" Hadrian started, only to be cut off again.
"Careful, Beatrice," Murthas said. "You're agitating him. He might spit or drool on you. If he's that uncouth, who knows what degradations he's capable of. I'll lay money that he'll wet himself next."
Hadrian was taking a step toward Murthas when he saw Nimbus rushing toward them.
"Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas, a wonderful Wintertide to you all!"
They turned to see the tutor, his arms were spread wide, a joyous smile beamed across his face. "I see you've met our distinguished guest, Sir Hadrian. I am certain he is far too modest to tell the tale of his recent knighting on the field of battle. A shame, as it is a wonderful and exciting story. Prince Rudolf, I know you'd enjoy hearing it, and in return you can tell of your own heroic battles. Oh, I am sorry, I forgot-you've never actually seen a real battle, have you?"
The prince stiffened.
"And you, Sir Murthas, I can't recall-please tell us-where you were while the empress's armies fought for their lives? Surely, you can relate your exploits of the last year and how you fared while other goodly knights died for the cause of Her Eminence's honor?"
Murthas opened his mouth, but Nimbus was quicker. Turning to the woman he went on, "And, My Lady, I want to assure you that you needn't take offense at Sir Hadrian's slight. It is little wonder that he ignored you. For he knows, as we all do, that no honorable lady would ever be so bold as to speak first to a strange man in the same manner as a common whore selling her wares on the street."
All three of them stared speechless at the tutor.
"If you're still looking for your seat, Sir Hadrian, it's this way," Nimbus said, hauling him along. "Once again, a glorious Wintertide to you all!"
Nimbus directed him to a chair at the end of a table, which so far remained empty.
"Whoa," Hadrian said in awe. "You just called those men cowards and the princess a whore."
"Yes," he said, "but I did so very politely." He winked. "Now, please do try to stay out of trouble. Sit here and smile. I have to go." Nimbus slipped back through the crowd, waving to people as he went.
Once more, Hadrian felt adrift amidst a sea of eggshells. He looked back and saw the princess and Murthas pointing in his direction and laughing. Not far away he noted two men watching him. Arms folded, they leaned against a pillar wrapped in red ribbons. The men were conspicuous in that they were the only guests wearing swords. Hadrian recognized the pair, as he had seen them often. They were always standing in the dark, across a room, or just outside a doorway-his own personal shadows.
Hadrian turned away and carefully took his seat. Tugging at his clothes, he tried to remember everything Nimbus had taught him: sit up straight, do not fidget, always smile, never start a conversation, do not try anything you are unfamiliar with, and avoid eye contact unless cornered into a conversation. If forced into an introduction, he was supposed to bow rather than shake hands with men. If a lady held out her hand, he should take it and gently kiss its back. Nimbus had advised him to keep several excuses at the ready to escape conversations and to avoid groups of three or more. The most important thing was to appear relaxed and never draw attention to himself.
Minstrels played lutes somewhere near the front of the room, but he could not see them through the sea of people who moved and shifted as if caught in an unseen current. Every so often, insincere laughter burst out. Snide conversations drifted to and fro. The ladies were much better at it than the men. "Oh, my dear, I simply love that dress!" A woman's high lilting voice floated from somewhere in the crowd. "I imagine it is insanely comfortable, given that it is so simple. Mine, on the other hand, with all this elaborate embroidery is nearly impossible to sit in."
"I'm sure you are correct," another lady replied. "But discomfort is such a small sacrifice for a dress that so masterfully masks a lady's physical flaws and imperfections by the sheer complexity of its spacious design."
Trying to follow the feints and parries in the conversations around him gave Hadrian a headache. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the clash of steel. He was pleased to see that Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas took seats at another table. Across from Hadrian, a man wearing a simple monk's robe took a seat. He looked even more out of place than Hadrian. They nodded silently to one another. Still, the chairs flanking him remained vacant.
At the head table, Ethelred sat beside a massive, empty throne. Kings and their queens filled out the rest of the table, and at one end Nimbus was seated next to Lady Amilia. She sat quietly in a stunning blue dress, her head slightly bowed.
The music stopped.
"Your attention, please!" shouted a fat man in a bright-yellow robe. He held a brass-tipped staff, which he hammered on the stone floor. The sound penetrated the crowd like cracks of thunder and stifled the drone of conversations. "Please take your seats, the feast is about to begin."
The room filled with the sounds of dragging chairs as the nobility of Avryn settled at their tables. A large man with a gray beard was to the monk's left. To his right, dressed in a pale blue doublet, sat none other than Sir Breckton. The resemblance to Wesley was unmistakable. The knight stood and bowed as a large woman with a massive smile sat down on Hadrian's left. The sight of Genevieve Hargrave of Rochelle was a welcome one.
"Forgive me, good sir," she implored as she struggled into her chair. "Clearly they were expecting a dainty princess to sit here rather than a full-grown duchess! No doubt you were hoping for the same." She winked at him.
Hadrian knew a response was expected and decided to take a safe approach.
"I was hoping not to spill anything on myself. I didn't think beyond that."
"Oh dear, now that is a first." She looked across the table at the knight. "I dare say, Sir Breckton, you may have competition this evening."
"How is that, My Lady?" he asked.
"This fellow beside me shows all the signs of matching your humble virtue."
"Then I am honored to sit at the same table as he and even more pleased to have you as my view."
"I pity all princesses this evening, for surely I am the luckiest of ladies to be seated with the two of you. What is your name, goodly sir?" she asked Hadrian.
Still seated, Hadrian realized his error. Like Breckton, he should have stood at Genny's approach. Rising awkwardly, he fumbled a bow. "I am-Sir Hadrian," he said, watching for a raised hand. When she lifted it, he felt foolish but placed a light kiss on its back before sitting down. He expected laughter from the others but no one seemed to notice.
"I am Genevieve, the Duchess of Rochelle."
"Pleased to meet you," Hadrian replied.
"Surely you know Sir Breckton?" the duchess asked.
"Not personally."
"He is the General of the Northern Imperial Army and favored champion of this week's tournament."
"Favored by whom, My Lady?" Sir Elgar asked, dragging out the seat next to Breckton and sitting with all the elegance of an elephant. "I believe Maribor favors my talents in this year's competition."
"You might like to think that, Sir Elgar, but I suspect your boasting skills are more honed than your riding prowess after so many years of endless practice," the duchess returned, causing the monk to chuckle.
"No disrespect to her ladyship," Breckton said in cold seriousness, "but Sir Elgar is correct in that only Maribor will judge the victor of this tournament, and no one yet knows the favor of His choice."
"Do not speak on my behalf," Elgar growled. "I don't need your charity, nor will I be the foundation for your tower of virtue. Spare us your monk's tongue."
"Don't be too quick to shun charity or silence a monk," the robed man across from Hadrian said softly. "Or how else will you know the will of God?"
"Pardon me, good monk, I was not speaking against you but rather rebuking the preaching of this secular would-be priest."
"Wherever the word of Maribor is spoken, I pray thee listen."
A squat, teardrop-shaped man claimed the chair beside the duchess. He kissed her cheek and called her dearest. Hadrian had never met Leopold before, but from all Albert had told him, his identity was obvious. Sir Gilbert took the empty chair next to Elgar.
No one sat to Hadrian's right, and he hoped it would remain that way. With the duchess protecting one flank, if no one took the seat at the other, he only had to worry about a frontal assault. While Hadrian pondered this, another friendly face appeared.
"Good Wintertide, all!" Albert Winslow greeted those at the table with an elegant flourish that made Hadrian envious. He was certain Albert saw him, but the viscount displayed no indication of recognition.
"Albert!" The duchess beamed. "How wonderful to have you at our table."
"Ah, Lady Genevieve and Duke Leopold. I had no idea I ranked so highly on Her Eminence's list that I should be given the honor of dining with such esteemed personages."
Albert immediately stepped to Genny, bowed, and kissed her hand with effortless grace and style.
"Allow me to introduce Sir Hadrian," the lady said. "He appears to be a wonderful fellow."
"Is he?" Albert mused. "And a knight, you say?"
"That is yet to be determined," Sir Elgar challenged. "He claims a Sir before his name, but I've never heard of him before. Has anyone?"
"Generosity of spirit precludes judging a man ill before cause is given," Sir Breckton said. "As a knight of virtue, I am certain you know this, Sir Elgar."
"Once more, I need no instruction from you. I, for one, would like to know from whence Sir Hadrian hails and how he won his spurs."
All eyes turned to Hadrian.
He tried to remember the details drilled into him without looking like he was struggling. "I come from…Barmore. I was knighted by Lord Dermont for my service in the Battle of Ratibor."
"Really?" Sir Gilbert said in a syrupy voice. "I wasn't aware of that victory. I was under the impression the battle was lost and Lord Dermont killed. For what were you knighted, and how, pray tell, did his lordship do this? Did his spirit fly overhead dubbing you with an ethereal sword saying, 'Rise up good knight. Go forth and lose more battles in the name of the Empire, the empress, and the Lord God Maribor'?"
Hadrian felt his stomach churn. Albert looked at him with tense eyes, clearly unable to help. Even the duchess remained silent.
"Good evening, gentlemen and lady." From behind him, the voice of Regent Saldur broke the tension and Hadrian felt the regent's hand on his shoulder.
Accompanying him was Archibald Ballentyne, the Earl of Chadwick, who took the seat to Hadrian's right. Everyone at the table nodded reverently to the regent.
"I was just showing the earl to his seat, but I couldn't help overhearing your discussion concerning Sir Hadrian of Barmore here. You see, it was the empress herself who insisted he attend this festival. I ask him to grant me the guilty pleasure of responding to this honorable inquiry by Sir Gilbert. What do you say, Sir Hadrian"
"Sure," he replied stiffly.
"Thank you," Saldur said, and clearing his throat continued, "Sir Gilbert is correct in that Lord Dermont was lost that day, but reports from his closest aides brought back the tale. Three days of rain made a mounted charge impossible, and the sheer number of the unstoppable Nationalist horde convinced Lord Dermont of the futility of engagement. Overcome with grief, he retreated to his tent in resignation.
"Without Lord Dermont to lead them, the Imperial Army floundered when the attack came. It was Sir Hadrian-then Captain Hadrian of the Fifth Imperial Mounted Guard-who roused the men and set them to ranks. He raised the banner and led them forth. At first, only a handful of soldiers responded. Indeed, only those who served with him answered his call, for they alone knew firsthand his mettle. Ignoring his meager numbers, he trusted in Maribor and called the charge."
Hadrian looked down and fidgeted with an uncooperative toggle on his tunic as the others sat enthralled.
"Although it was suicide, Captain Hadrian rode at the head of the troop into the fen field. His horse threw mud and slop, and a magnificent rainbow burst forth from the spray as he galloped across a stretch of standing water. He drove at the heart of the enemy with no thought of his own safety."
Saldur's voice grew in volume and intensity. His tone and cadence assumed the melodramatic delivery of a church sermon. A few nobles at the other tables turned to listen as he continued.
"His courageous charge unnerved the Nationalist foot soldiers, who fell back in fear. Onward he plunged, splitting their ranks until at last his mount became overwhelmed by the soft earth and fell. Wielding sword and shield, he got to his feet and continued to drive forward. Clashing against steel, he cried out the name of the empress, 'For Modina! Modina! Modina Novronian!'"
Saldur paused and Hadrian looked up to see every eye at the table shifting back and forth between the regent and himself.
"Finally, shamed by the bravery of this one lone captain, the rest of the Imperial Army rallied. They cried to Maribor for forgiveness even as they drew sword and spear and rushed to follow. Before reinforcements could reach him, Hadrian was wounded and driven into the mud. Some of his men bore him from the field and took him to the tent of Lord Dermont. There they told the tale of his bravery and Lord Dermont swore by Maribor to honor Hadrian's sacrifice. He proclaimed his intent to knight the valiant captain.
"'Nay, Lord!' cried Captain Hadrian even as he lay wounded and bleeding. 'Knight me not for I am unworthy. I have failed.' Lord Dermont clutched his blade and was heard to say, 'You are more worthy of the noble title of knight-valiant than I am of the title of man!' And with that, Lord Dermont dubbed him Sir Hadrian."
"Oh my!" the duchess gasped.
With everyone staring at him, Hadrian felt hot, awkward, and more naked than when Elgar had interrupted his bath.
"Lord Dermont called for his own horse and thanked Sir Hadrian for the chance to redeem his honor before Maribor. He led his personal retinue into the fight, where he and all but a few of his men perished on the pikes of the Nationalists.
"Sir Hadrian tried to return to the battle despite his wounds, but fell unconscious before reaching the field. After the Nationalists' victory, they left him for dead and only providence spared his life. He awoke covered in mud. Desperate for food and water, he crawled into the forest where he came upon a small hovel. There he was fed and tended to by a mysterious man. Sir Hadrian rested there for six days, and on the seventh, the man brought forth a horse and told Sir Hadrian to take it, ride to Aquesta, and present himself to the court. After he handed over the reins, thunder cracked and a single white feather fell from a clear blue sky. The man caught the feather before it reached the ground, a broad smile across his face. And with that, the man disappeared.
"Now, gentlemen and ladies." Saldur paused to look each of them in the eye. "I tell you truthfully that two days before Sir Hadrian arrived, the empress came to me and said, 'A knight riding a white horse will come to the palace. Admit him and honor him, for he shall be the greatest knight of the New Empire.' Sir Hadrian has been here, recuperating from his wounds, ever since. Today he is fully recovered and sits before you all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must take my seat, as the feast is about to begin." Saldur bowed and left them.
No one said a word for some time. Everyone stared at Hadrian in wonder, including Albert, whose mouth hung agape.
It was the duchess who finally found words to sum up their collective thoughts. "Well, aren't you just an astonishment topped with surprises?"
Dinner was served in a fashion that Hadrian had never seen before. Fifty servants moving in concert delivered steaming plates of exotic victuals in elaborate presentations. Two peacocks were posed on large platters. One peered up as if surprised while the other's head curled under its wings as if sleeping. Each was surrounded by an array of succulent, carved meat. Ducks, geese, quail, turtledoves, and partridges were displayed in similar fashion, and one pure-white trumpeter swan reared up with its wings outstretched as if about to take flight. Rings of nuts, berries, and herbs surrounded glazed slabs of lean venison, dark boar, and marbled beef. Breads of various shades, from snow-white to nearly black, lay in heaping piles. Massive wedges of cheese, cakes of butter, seven different types of fish, oysters steamed in almond milk, meat pies, custard tarts, and pastries drizzled with honey covered every inch of the table. Stewards and their many assistants served endless streams of wine, beer, ale, and mead.
Anxiety welled up, as he struggled to remember Nimbus's multiple instructions on table etiquette. The list had been massive, but at that moment he could remember just two things: he was not to use the tablecloth to blow his nose, and should not pick his teeth with the knife. Following Saldur's prayer to Maribor, Hadrian's fears vanished when all the guests ripped into the bountiful food with abandon. They tore legs off pigs and heads from birds. Bits of meat and grease sprayed the table as nobles groped and pawed to taste a bite of every dish, lest they miss something that might be the talk of the feast.
Hadrian had lived most of his life on black bread, brown ale, hard cheese, salted fish, and vegetable stews. What lay before him was a new experience. He tried the peacock, which despite its beauty, was dry and not nearly as good as he expected. The venison had a wonderful hickory-smoked taste. But the best thing by far was the dish of cinnamon baked apples. All conversation stopped when the eating began. The only sounds in the hall were those of a single lute, a lone singer, and scores of chewing mouths.
"…long is the day in the summertime, long is the song which I play, I will keep your memory in my heart, till you come to me…"
The music was beautiful and strangely haunting. Its melody filled the Great Hall with a radiance that blended well with the glow of the fireplace and candles. After the setting of the sun, the windows turned to black mirrors and the mood became more intimate. Consoled with food, drink, and music, Hadrian forgot his circumstance and began to enjoy himself-until the Earl of Chadwick nudged him back to reality.
"Are you entered in the joust?" he asked. From his tone and glassy eyes, Hadrian could tell Archibald Ballentyne had started drinking long before the feast.
"Ah, yes-yes I am, sir-I mean, Your Lordship."
"Then you might be riding against my champion Sir Breckton over there." He waved a limp hand across the table. "He's also competing in the joust."
"Then I don't stand much of a chance."
"No, you don't," the earl said. "But you must do your best. There will be a crowd to please." The earl leaned over in a confidential manner. "Now tell me, was what Saldur told us true?"
"I would never dispute the word of a regent," Hadrian replied.
Archibald guffawed. "I think the phrase you were actually looking for is, never trust the word of a regent. Did you know they promised me Melengar and then just like that…" The earl attempted to snap his fingers. "…like that…" He attempted again. "…like…" He failed yet a third time. "Well, you know what I mean. They took away what they promised me. So you can see why I'm skeptical. That bit about the empress expecting you, was that true?"
"I have no idea, My Lord. How could I know?"
"So, you haven't met her? The empress, I mean?"
Hadrian paused, remembering a young girl named Thrace. "No, I haven't actually met the empress. Shouldn't she be seated up there?"
The earl scowled. "They leave the throne vacant in her honor. She never dines in public. To be honest, I've lived in this palace for half a year and have only seen her on three occasions: once in the throne room, once when she addressed the public, and once when I…well what matters is she never seems to leave her room. I often wonder whether the regents are keeping her prisoner up there. I should have her kidnapped-free the poor girl."
Archibald sat up and said, more to himself than to Hadrian, "That's what I should do, and there's just the man I need to talk to." Plucking a walnut from the centerpiece, he threw it down the table at Albert.
"Viscount Winslow," he shouted with more volume than necessary. "I haven't seen you in quite some time."
"No, indeed, Your Lordship. It has been far too long."
"Are you still in contact with those two…phantoms of the night? You know, the magicians that can make letters disappear and who are equally adept at saving doomed princesses from tower prisons?"
"I'm sorry, Your Lordship, but after what they did to you, I terminated my connection with them."
"Yes…what they did…" the earl slurred while looking into his cup, "What they did was put Braga's head in my lap! While I was sleeping no less! Did you know that? It was a most disagreeable awakening, I tell you." He trailed off, mumbling to himself.
Hadrian bit his lip.
"I had no idea. You have my sincere apology," Albert said with genuine surprise, which was lost on the earl, who had tilted his head back to take another swallow of wine.
New musicians entered and began playing a formal tune as gentlemen, including Gilbert and Elgar, took the hands of ladies and led them to the dance floor. Hadrian had no idea how to dance. Nimbus had not even tried to instruct him. The Duke and Duchess of Rochelle also left to join in. A clear line of sight opened between Hadrian and Albert.
"So, Sir Hadrian, is it?" the viscount asked, shifting down to take Lady Genevieve's vacated chair. "Is this your first time in the banquet hall?"
"Indeed, it is."
"The palace is large and has an impressive history. I'm sure that during your recent recovery you've not had an opportunity to visit much of it. If you aren't planning to dance, I'd be happy to give you a tour. There are some fine paintings and frescos on the second floor that are exquisite."
Hadrian glanced at the men still watching him.
"I'm sure they are, Viscount, but I think it might be rude to leave the feast so early. Our hosts might look poorly on me for doing so." He motioned toward the head table where Saldur and Ethelred sat. "I wouldn't want to incur their disfavor so early in the celebrations."
"I understand completely. Have you found your accommodations at the palace to your liking?"
"Yes, indeed. I have my own room in the knights' wing. Regent Saldur has been most generous, and I have nothing to complain about as far as my quarters are concerned."
"So you have reason to complain otherwise?" Albert inquired.
Carefully choosing his words, Hadrian replied, "Not a complaint really, I am merely concerned about my performance in the coming tournament. I am going to be competing against many renowned knights such as Sir Breckton here. It is extremely important that I do well in the joust. Some very distinguished people will be watching the outcome quite closely."
"You should not be so concerned," Breckton mentioned. "If you are true to the knight's code, Maribor will guide you. What others may think has no weight on the field. The truth is the truth, and you know whether you live in accord with it or not. From this you will draw your strength or weakness."
"Thank you for your kind words, but I am not merely riding for myself. A success in this tournament will change the fortunes of those I care about as well…my, ah, retinue."
Albert nodded.
Sir Breckton leaned forward. "You are that concerned about the reputation of your squires and grooms?"
"They are as dear to me as family," Hadrian responded.
"That is most admirable. I can't say I have ever met a knight so concerned with the well-being of those who serve him."
"To be honest, sir, it is mainly for their welfare that I ride. I only hope they do nothing to dishonor me, as some of them are prone to poor judgment-rash and risky behavior-usually on my behalf, of course. Still, in this instance, I prefer they would merely enjoy the holiday."
Albert gave another nod and drained the last of his wine.
Ballentyne took another drink as well. He swallowed, burped loudly, and then slouched with his elbow on the table, resting a palm against his cheek. Hadrian surmised that it would not be long before the earl passed out completely.
The monk and the gray-bearded fellow bid the table good night. The two wandered off while debating the Legend of Kile, the significance of Saldur's story, and the true nature of the man Hadrian allegedly met in the forest.
"Well, it has been a delight to dine with you all," Albert said, rising. "I am not used to such rich living, and this wine has gone to my head. I fear I will make a fool of myself should I remain, so I will retire."
The two knights bid him farewell, and Hadrian watched as Albert left the hall without looking back.
Having no one else left to converse with, Hadrian turned to Breckton. "Did your father not attend, or is he seated somewhere else?"
Breckton, whose attention was focused toward the front of the hall, took a moment to respond. "My father chose not to come. If not for the request of my lord here-" He gestured at the earl, who did not react. "I would not have attended either. Neither of us is in a mood for celebrations. We only recently learned that my younger brother Wesley died in the empress's service."
Hadrian replied in a somber voice, "I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sure he died with honor."
"Thank you, but death in service is not unexpected. It would be a comfort to know the circumstances. He died far from home serving aboard the Emerald Storm, which was lost at sea." Breckton got to his feet. "Please excuse me. I think I'll also take my leave."
"Of course, good evening to you."
He watched Breckton go. The knight had the same stride as his brother, and Hadrian had to remind himself that the two choices he faced were equally unpleasant. Even without his emotional ties, two lives were more valuable than one. Breckton was a soldier, and as he himself stated, death in service was not unexpected. Hadrian had no choice, but that fact did little to ease his conscience.
Ballentyne's head slipped off his hand, making a solid thud as it hit the table.
Hadrian sighed. Like knighthood, noble feasts were not as illustrious as he had expected.