The Hunt "Merry Eve's Eve, Sir Hadrian," a girl said brightly when he poked his head outside his room. She was just one of the giggling chambermaids who had been extending smiles and curtsies to him since the day of the first joust. After his second tilt, pages bowed and guards nodded in his direction. His third win, although as clean as the others, had been the worst, as it brought the attention of every knight and noble in the palace. After each joust, he had his choice of sitting in his dormitory or going to the Great Hall. Preferring to be alone, Hadrian usually chose his room.
That morning, like most days, Hadrian found himself wandering the palace hallways. He had seen Albert from a distance on a few occasions, but neither attempted to speak with the other, and there had been no sign of Royce. Crossing through the Grand Foyer, he paused. The staircase spiraled upward, adorned in fanciful candles and painted wood ornaments. Somewhere four flights up, the girl he had known as Thrace was probably still asleep in her bed. He put his foot on the first step.
"Sir Hadrian?" a man he did not recognize asked. "Great joust yesterday. You really gave Louden a hit he'll not soon forget. I heard the crack even in the high stands. They say Louden will need a new breastplate, and you gave him two broken ribs to boot! What a hit. What a hit, I say. You know, I lost a bundle betting against you the first three jousts, but since then I've won everything back. I'm sticking with you for the final. You've made a believer out of me. Say, where you headed?"
Hadrian quickly drew back his foot. "Nowhere. Just stretching my legs a bit."
"Well, just wanted to tell you to keep up the good work and let you know I'll be rooting for you."
The man exited the palace through the Grand Entrance, leaving Hadrian at the bottom of the stairs.
What am I going to do, walk into her chambers unannounced? It's been over a year since I spoke with her. Will she hate me for not trying to see her earlier? Will she remember me at all?
He looked up the staircase once more.
It's possible she's all right, isn't it? Just because no one ever sees her doesn't necessarily mean anything, does it?
Modina was the empress. They could not be treating her too badly. When she lived in Dahlgren she had been happy, and that had been a squalid, little village where people were killed nightly by a giant monster.
How much worse can living in a palace be?
He took one last look around and spotted the two shadows leaning casually near the archway to the throne room. With a sigh, Hadrian turned toward the service wing, leaving the stairway behind.
The sun was not fully up, but the kitchen was already bustling. Huge pots billowed clouds of steam so thick that the walls cried tears. Butchers hammered on cutting blocks, shouting orders. Boys ran with buckets, shouting back. Girls scrubbed cutlery, pans, and bowls. The smells were strong and varied. Some were wonderful, such as baked bread, but others were sulfurous and vile. Unlike the rest of the palace, no holiday decoration adorned the walls or tables. Here, behind the scenes, the signs of Wintertide were reduced to cooling trays of candied apples and snowflake-shaped cookies.
Hadrian stepped into the scullery, fascinated by the activity. As soon as he entered, heads turned, work slowed, and then everything came to a stop. The room grew so quiet that the only sounds were the bubbling pots, the crackling fires, and water dripping from a wet ladle. All the staff stared at him as if he had two heads or three arms.
Hadrian took a seat on one of the stools surrounding an open table. The modest area appeared to be the place where the kitchen staff ate their own meals. He tried to look casual and relaxed, but it was impossible with all the attention.
"What's all this now?" boomed a voice belonging to a large, beefy cook with a thick beard and eyes wreathed in cheerful wrinkles. Spotting Hadrian, those eyes narrowed abruptly. He revealed-if only for a moment-that he had another side, the same way a playful dog might suddenly growl at an intruder.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asked, approaching Hadrian with a meat cleaver in one hand.
"I don't mean any harm. I was just hoping to find some food."
The cook looked him over closely. "Are you a knight, sir?"
Hadrian nodded.
"Up early, I see. I'll have whatever you want brought to the Great Hall."
"Actually, I'd rather eat here. Is that okay?"
"I'm sorry?" the cook said, confused. "If you don't mind me asking, why would a fine nobleman like yourself want to eat in a hot, dirty kitchen surrounded by the clang of pots and the gibbering of maids?"
"I just feel more comfortable here," Hadrian said. "I think a man ought to be at ease when eating. Of course, if it's a problem…" He stood.
"You're, Sir Hadrian, aren't you? I haven't found the time to see the jousts, but as you can see, most of my staff has. You're quite the celebrity. I've heard all kinds of stories about you and your recent change in fortune. Are any of them true?"
"Well, I can't say about the stories, but my name is Hadrian."
"Nice to meet you. Name's Ibis Thinly. Have a seat, sir. I'll fix you right up."
He hurried away, scolding his crew to return to work. Many continued to glance over at Hadrian, stealing looks when they felt the head cook could not see. In a short while, Ibis returned with a plate of chicken, fried eggs, biscuits, and a mug of dark beer. The chicken was so hot that it hurt Hadrian's fingers, and the biscuits steamed when he pulled them open.
"I appreciate this," Hadrian told Ibis, taking a bite of biscuit.
Ibis gave him a surprised look and then chuckled. "By Mar! Thanking a cook for food! Them stories are true, aren't they?"
Hadrian shrugged. "I guess I have a hard time remembering that I'm noble. When I was a commoner, I always knew what noble meant but now, not so much."
The cook smiled. "Lady Amilia has the same problem. I gotta say it's nice to see decent folk getting ahead in this world. The news is you've ruled the field at Highcourt. Beat every knight who rode against you. I even heard you opened the tournament by tilting against Sir Murthas without a helm!"
Hadrian nodded with a mouth full of chicken, which he shifted from side to side, trying to avoid a burnt tongue.
"When a man does that," Ibis went on, "and comes from the salt like the rest of us, he wins favor among the lower classes. Yes, indeed. Those of us with dirty faces and sweaty backs get quite a thrill from one such as you, sir."
Hadrian did not know how to respond and contented himself with swallowing his chicken. He had ridden to the sound of roaring crowds every time he competed, but Hadrian was not there for applause. His task was dark, secret, and not worthy of praise. He had unsaddled five knights and, by the rules of the contest, owned their mounts. Hadrian declined that privilege. He had no need for the horses, but it was more than just that-he did not deserve them. All he wanted was the lives of Arista and Gaunt. In his mind, the whole affair was tainted. Taking anything else from his victories-even the pleasure of success-would be wrong. Nevertheless, the crowds cheered each time he refused his right to a mount, believing him humble and chivalrous instead of what he was-a murderer in waiting.
"It's just you and Breckton now, isn't it?" Ibis asked.
Hadrian nodded gloomily. "We tilt tomorrow. There's some sort of hunt today."
"Oh yes, the hawking. I'll be roasting plenty of game birds for tonight's feast. Say, aren't you going?"
"Just here for the joust," Hadrian managed to say even though his mouth was full again.
Ibis bent his head to get a better look. "For a new knight on the verge of winning the Wintertide Highcourt Tournament, you don't seem very happy. It's not the food, I hope."
Hadrian shook his head. "Food's great. Kinda hoping you'll let me eat my midday meal here, too."
"You're welcome any time. Ha! Listen to me sounding like an innkeeper or castle lord. I'm just a cook." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Sure, these mongrels quiver at my voice, but you're a knight. You can go wherever you please. Still…if my food has placed you in a charitable mood, I would ask one favor."
"What's that?"
"Lady Amilia holds a special place in my heart. She's like a daughter to me. A sweet, sweet lass, and it seems she's recently taken a liking to Sir Breckton. He's good, mind you, a fine lancer, but from what I've heard you're likely to beat him. Now, I'm not saying anything against you, someone of my station would be a fool to even insinuate such a thing, but…"
"But?"
"Well, some knights try to inflict as much damage as they can, taking aim at a visor and such. If something were to happen to Breckton…Well, I just don't want Amilia to get hurt. She's never had much, you see. Comes from a poor family and has worked hard all her life. Even now that bas-I mean Regent Saldur-keeps her slaving night and day. But even so, she's been happy lately, and I'd like to see that continue."
Hadrian kept his eyes on his plate, concentrating on mopping up yolk with a crust of bread.
"So anyway, if at all possible, it'd be real nice if you went a bit easy on Breckton. So he doesn't get hurt, I mean. I know a'course that you can't always help it. Dear Maribor, I know that. But I can tell by talking with you that you're a decent fellow. Ha! I don't even know why I brought it up. You'll do the right thing. I can tell. Here, let me get you some more beer."
Ibis Thinly walked away, taking Hadrian's mug and appetite with him.
In many ways Amilia felt like a child that Saldur had brought into the world that day in the kitchen when he elevated her to the rank of Lady. Now she was little more than a toddler, still trying to master simple tasks and often making mistakes. No one said anything. No one pointed and laughed, but there were knowing looks and partially hidden smiles. She felt out of her element when trying to navigate the numerous traps and hazards of courtly life without a map.
When addressed as "My Lady" by a finely dressed noble, Amilia felt uncomfortable. Seeing a guard snap to attention at her passing was strange. Especially since those same soldiers had grinned lewdly at her little more than a year ago. Amilia was certain the guards still leered and the nobles still laughed, but now they did so behind polite eyes. She believed the only means of banishing the silent snickers was to fit in. If Amilia did not stumble as she walked, spill a glass of wine, speak too loudly, wear the wrong color, laugh when she should remain quiet, or remain quiet when she should laugh, then they might forget she used to scrub their dishes. Any time Amilia interacted with the nobility was an ordeal, but when she did so in an unfamiliar setting, she became ill. For this reason, Amilia avoided eating anything the morning of the hawking.
The whole court embarked on the daylong event. Knights, nobles, ladies, and servants all rode out together to the forest and field for the great hunt. Dogs trotted in their wake. Amilia had never sat on a horse before. She had never ridden a pony, mule, or even an ox, but that day she found herself precariously balanced atop a massive white charger. She wore the beautiful white gown and matching cape Lady Genevieve had provided her, which by no accident, perfectly matched her horse's coat. Her right leg was hooked between two horns of the saddle and her left foot rested on a planchette. Sitting this way made staying on the animal's back a demanding enterprise. Each jerk and turn set her heart pounding and her hands grasping for the charger's braided mane. On several occasions, she nearly toppled backward. If she were to fall, Amilia imagined she would wind up hanging by her trapped leg, skirt over her head, while the horse pranced proudly about. The thought terrified her so much that she barely breathed and sat rigid with her eyes fixed on the ground below. For the two-hour ride into the wilderness, Amilia did not speak a word. She only dared to look up when the huntsman called for the party's attention.
They emerged from the shade of a forest into the light of a field. Tall, brown rushes jutted from beneath the snow's cover. The flicker of morning sunlight reflected off moving water where a river cut the landscape. Lacking any wind, the world was oddly quiet. The huntsman directed them to line up by spreading out along the edge of the forest and facing the marsh.
Amilia was pleased to arrive at what she hoped was their destination and proud of how she managed to direct her horse without delay or mishap. Finally at a standstill, she allowed herself a breath of relief only to see the falconer approaching.
"What bird will you be using today, milady?" he asked, looking up at her from within his red coif. His hands were encased in thick gloves.
She swallowed. "Ah…what would you suggest?"
The falconer appeared surprised, and Amilia felt as if she had done something wrong.
"Well, My Lady, there are many birds but no set regulation. Tradition usually reserves the gyrfalcon for a king, a falcon for a prince or duke, the peregrine for an earl, a bastard hawk for a baron, a saker for a knight, a goshawk for a noble, tercel for a poor man, sparrow hawk for a priest, kestrel for a servant, and a merlin for a lady, but in practice it is more a matter of-"
"She will be using Murderess," the Duchess of Rochelle announced, trotting up beside them.
"Of course, Your Ladyship." The falconer bowed his head and made a quick motion with his hand. A servant raced up with a huge, hooded bird held on his fist. "Your gauntlet, milady," the falconer said, holding out a rough elk-hide glove.
"You'll want to put that on your left hand, darling," the duchess said with a reassuring smile and mischievous glint in her eyes.
Amilia felt her heart flutter as she took the glove and pulled it on.
"Hold your hand up, dear. Out away from your face," Lady Genevieve instructed.
The falconer took the raptor from the servant and carried it over. The hawk was magnificent and blinded by a leather hood with a short decorative plume. While being transferred to Amilia, Murderess spread her massive wings and flapped twice as her powerful talons took hold of the glove. The hawk was lighter than expected and Amilia had no trouble holding her up. Still, Amilia's fear of falling was replaced by her fear of the bird. She watched in terror as the falconer wrapped the jess around her wrist, tethering her to the hawk.
"Beautiful bird," Amilia heard a voice say.
"Yes, it is," she replied. Looking over to see Sir Breckton taking station on her left, Amilia thought she might faint.
"It's the Duchess of Rochelle's. She-" Amilia turned. The duchess had moved off, abandoning her. Panic made her stomach lurch. As friendly as Lady Genevieve was, Amilia was starting to suspect the woman enjoyed tormenting her.
Amilia tried to calm herself as she sat face-to-face with the one man in the entire world she wanted to impress. With one hand holding the bird and the other locked on to the horse's reins, she realized the cold was causing her nose to run. She could not imagine the day getting any worse. Then, as if the gods had heard her thoughts, they answered using the huntsman's voice.
"Everyone! Ride forward!"
Oh dear Maribor!
Her horse tripped on the rough, frost-heaved ground, throwing her off balance. The sudden jolt also startled Murderess, who threw out her great wings to save herself by flying. Tethered to Amilia's wrist, the hawk pulled on her arm. She might have stayed in the saddle-if not for the bird's insistence on dragging her backward.
Amilia cried out as she fell over the rump of the horse, her nightmare becoming reality. Yet, before she cleared the saddle, she stopped. Sir Breckton had caught her around the waist. Though he wore no armor, his arm felt like a band of steel-solid and unmovable. Gently, he drew her upright. The bird flapped twice more then settled down and gripped Amilia's glove again.
Breckton did not say a word. He held Amilia steady until she reseated herself on the saddle and placed her foot on the planchette. Horrified and flushed with humiliation, she refused to look at him.
Why did that have to happen in front of him!
She did not want to see his face and find the same condescending smirk she had seen on so many others. On the verge of tears, she wanted desperately to be back at the palace, back in the kitchen, back cleaning pots. At that moment she preferred the thought of facing Edith Mon-or even her vengeful ghost-to enduring the humiliation of facing Sir Breckton. Feeling tears gathering, she clenched her jaw and breathed deeply in an effort to hold them back.
"Does it have a name?"
Sir Breckton's words were so unexpected that Amilia replayed them twice before understanding the question.
"Murderess," she replied, thanking Maribor that her voice did not crack.
"That seems…appropriate." There was a pause before he continued. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
"Yes." She tasked her brain to think of something to add, but it came back with nothing.
Why is he talking like that? Why is he asking about the weather?
The knight sighed heavily.
Looking up at him, she found he was not smirking but appeared pained. His eyes accidentally met hers while she studied his face and he instantly looked away. His fingers drummed a marching cadence on his saddle horn.
"Cold though," he said and quickly added, "could be warmer, don't you think?"
"Yes," she said again, realizing she must sound like an idiot with all her one-word answers. She wanted to say more. She wanted to be witty and clever, but her brain was as frozen as the ground.
Amilia caught him glancing at her again. This time he shook his head and sighed once more.
"What?" she asked fearfully.
"I don't know how you do it," he said.
The genuine admiration in his eyes only baffled her further.
"You ride a warhorse sidesaddle over rough ground with a huge hawk perched on your arm and are still managing to make me feel like a squire in a fencing match. My Lady, you are a marvel beyond reckoning. I am in awe."
Amilia stared at him until she realized she was staring at him. In her mind, she ordered her eyes to look away, but they refused. She had no words to reply, which hardly mattered as Amilia had no air in her body with which to speak. Breathing seemed unimportant at that moment. Forcing herself to take a breath, Amilia discovered she was smiling. A second later, she knew Sir Breckton noticed as well as he abruptly stopped drumming and sat straighter.
"Milady," said the falconer's servant, "it's time to release your bird."
Amilia looked at the raptor, wondering just how she was going to do that.
"May I help?" Sir Breckton asked. Reaching over, he removed Murderess's hood and unwound her tether.
With a motion of his own arm, the servant indicated that she should thrust her hand up. Amilia did so, and Murderess spread her great wings, pushed down, and took to the sky. The raptor climbed higher and higher yet remained circling directly overhead. As she watched the goshawk, Amilia noticed Breckton looking at her.
"Don't you have a bird?" she asked.
"No. I did not expect to be hawking. Truth be told, I haven't hunted in years. I'd forgotten the joy of it-until now."
"So you know how?"
"Oh yes. Of course. I used to hunt the fields of Chadwick as a lad. My father, my brother Wesley, and I would spend whole weeks chasing fowl from their nests and rodents from their burrows."
"Would you think ill of me if I told you this was my first time?"
Breckton's face turned serious, which frightened her until he said, "My Lady, be assured that should I live so long as to see the day that the sun does not rise, the rivers do not flow, and the winds do not blow, I would never think ill of you."
She tried to hide another smile. Once more she failed, and once more, Sir Breckton noticed.
"Perhaps you can help me as I am befuddled by all of this," Amilia said, gesturing at their surroundings.
"It is a simple thing. The birds are waiting-on, that is to say, hovering overhead until the attack. Much the way soldiers stand in line preparing for battle. The enemies are a crafty bunch. They lay hiding before us in the field between the river and ourselves. With the line made by the horses, the huntsman has ensured that the prey will not come this way, which, of course, they would try to do-to reach the safety of the trees-were we not here."
"But how will we find these hidden enemies?"
"They need to be drawn out, or in this case flushed out. See there? The huntsman has gathered the dogs."
Amilia looked ahead as a crowd of eager dogs moved forward led by a dozen boys from the palace. After they were turned loose, the hounds disappeared into the undergrowth. Only their raised tails appeared, here and there, above the bent rushes as they dashed into the snowy field without a bark or yelp.
With a blue flag, the huntsman signaled to the falconer, who in turn waved to the riders. He indicated they should move slowly toward the river. With her bird gone, Amilia found it easier to control her horse and advanced along with the rest. Everyone was silent as they crept forward. Amilia felt excited, although she had no idea what was about to happen.
The falconer raised a hand and the riders stopped their horses. Looking up, Amilia saw the birds had matched their movement across the field. The falconer waved a red flag and the huntsman blew a whistle, which sent the dogs bursting forth. Immediately, the field exploded with birds. Loud thumping sounds erupted as quail broke from cover, racing skyward. In their efforts to evade the monstrous dogs, they never saw the death awaiting them in the sky. Hawks swooped down out of the sun, slamming into their targets and bearing them to the ground. One bore its prey all the way to the river, where both hawk and quail hit the water.
"That was Murderess!" Amilia shouted, horrified. Her mind filled with the realization that she had killed Lady Genevieve's prized bird. Without thinking, she kicked her horse, which leapt forward. She galloped across the field and as she neared the river, spotted a dog swimming out into the icy water. Another quickly followed in its wake. Two birds flapped desperately on the surface, kicking up a white spray.
Just before Amilia charged headlong into the river, Breckton caught her horse by the bit and pulled them both to a halt.
"Wait!"
"But the bird!" was all Amilia could say. Her eyes locked on the splashing.
"It's all right," he assured her. "Watch."
The first dog reached Murderess and, without hesitation, took the hawk in its jaws. Holding the raptor up, the hound circled and swam back. At the same time, the second dog raced out to collect the downed prey. The quail struggled, but Amilia was amazed that the hawk did not fight when the dog set its teeth.
"You see," Breckton said, "dogs and birds are trained to trust and protect one another. Just like soldiers."
The hound climbed out of the water still holding the hawk. Both Amilia and Breckton dismounted as the dog brought the bird to them. Gently, the animal opened his jaws and Murderess hopped onto Amilia's fist once more. She stretched out her wings and snapped them, spraying water.
"She's all right!" she said amazed.
A boy ran up to her, holding out a dead bird by a string tied around its feet. "Your quail, milady."
When Hadrian returned later that day, Ibis Thinly was waiting with more than just a plate. The entire table was laden with a variety of meats, cheeses, and breads. The scullery had been cleaned such that extra sacks were removed, shelves dusted, and the floor mopped. The table was set with fresh candles, and a larger, cushioned chair replaced the little stool. He guessed not all of this was strictly Ibis's doing. Apparently, word of his visit had spread. Twice as many servants populated the kitchen as had that morning-most standing idle.
Ibis did not speak to Hadrian this time. The cook was feverishly busy dealing with the flood of game brought in by nobles returning from the hunt. Already maids were plucking away at quail, pheasant, and duck from a long line of beheaded birds that was strung around the room like a garland. With so much to process, even Ibis himself skinned rabbits and squirrels. Despite his obvious urgency, the cook immediately stopped working when Amilia arrived.
"Ibis! Look! I got two!" she shouted, holding the birds above her head. She entered the kitchen dressed in a lovely white gown and matching fur cape.
"Bring them here, lass. Let me see these treasures."
Hadrian had seen Lady Amilia from a distance at each of the feasts, but this was the first time he saw her up close since posing as a courier. She was prettier than he remembered. Her clothes were certainly better. Whether it was the spring in her step or the flush in her cheeks brought on by the cold, she appeared more alive.
"These are clearly the pick of the lot," Ibis said after inspecting her trophies.
"They're scrawny and small, but they're mine!" She followed the declaration with a carefree, happy laugh.
"Can I infer from your mood that you did not hunt alone?"
Amilia said nothing and merely smiled. Clasping her hands behind her back, she sashayed about the kitchen, swinging her skirt.
"Come now, girl. Don't toy with me."
She laughed again, spun around, and announced, "He was at my side almost the whole day. A perfect gentleman, I might add and I think…" She hesitated.
"Think what? Out with it, lass."
"I think he may fancy me."
"Bah! Of course he fancies you. But what did the man say? Did he speak plainly? Did he spout verse? Did he kiss you right there on the field?"
"Kiss me? He's far too proper for such vulgarity, but he was very nervous…silly even. And he couldn't seem to take his eyes off me!"
"Silly? Sir Breckton? Ah, lass, you've got him hooked. You have. A fine catch I must say, a fine catch indeed."
Amilia could not contain herself and laughed again this time throwing back her head in elation and twirling her gown. Doing so, she caught sight of Hadrian and halted.
"Sorry, I'm just having a late lunch," he said. "I'll be gone in a minute."
"Oh, no. You don't have to leave. It's just that I didn't see you. Other than the staff, I'm the only one who ever comes down here-or so I thought."
"It's more comfortable than the hall," Hadrian said. "I spend my days tilting with the knights. I don't feel like competing with them at meals, too."
She walked over, looking puzzled. "You don't talk like a knight."
"That's Sir Hadrian," Ibis informed Amilia.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You helped Sir Breckton and my poor Nimbus when they were attacked. That was very kind. You're also the one who rode in the tournament without a helm. You've-you've unseated every opponent on the first pass and haven't had a single lance broken on your shield. You're…very good, aren't you?"
"And he's riding against Sir Breckton tomorrow for the championship," Ibis reminded her.
"That's right!" She gasped, raising a hand to her lips. "Have you ever been unseated?"
Hadrian shrugged self-consciously. "Not since I've been a knight."
"Oh, I wasn't-I didn't mean to-I just wondered if it hurt terribly. I guess it can't feel good. Even with all that armor and padding, being driven from a galloping horse by a pole must not be pleasant." Her eyes grew troubled. "But all the other knights are fine, aren't they? I saw Sir Murthas and Sir Elgar on the hawking just today. They were trotting and laughing, so I'm certain everything will be all right no matter who wins.
"I know tomorrow is the final tilt and winning the tournament is a great honor. I understand the desire to prove yourself to those who look down on you. But I ask you to consider that Sir Breckton is a good man-a very good man. He would never hurt you if he could help it. I hope you feel the same." She struggled to smile at Hadrian.
He put down the bread he was eating as a sickening sensation churned his stomach. Hadrian had to stop eating in the kitchen.
The acrobats rapidly assembled their human pyramid. Vaulting one at a time into the air, they somersaulted before landing feetfirst on the shoulders of the one below. One after another they flew, continuing to build the formation until the final man reached up and touched the ceiling of the Great Hall. Despite the danger involved in the exciting performance, Amilia was not watching. She had seen the act before at the audition and rehearsals. Her eyes were on the audience. As Wintertide neared, the entertainment at each feast became grander and more extravagant.
Amilia held her breath until the hall erupted in applause.
They liked it!
Looking for Viscount Winslow, she spotted him clapping, his hands above his head. The two exchanged wide grins.
"I thought I would die from stress toward the end," Nimbus whispered from the seat next to Amilia. The bruises on the tutor's face were mostly gone and the annoying whistling sound had finally left his nose.
"Yes, that was indeed excellent," said King Roswort of Dunmore.
At each feast, Nimbus always sat to Amilia's left and the queen and king sat to her right.
King Roswort was huge. He made the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle appear petite. His squat, portly build was mimicked-in miniature-in his face, which sagged under its own weight. Amilia imagined that even if he were thin, King Roswort would still sag like an old riding horse. His wife Freda, while no reed herself, was thin by comparison. She was dry and brittle both in looks and manner. The couple was thankfully quiet most of the time, at least until their third glass of wine. Amilia lost count that evening but assumed number three had arrived and perhaps already gone.
"Are the acrobats friends of yours?" the king asked, leaning around his wife to speak to Amilia.
"Mine? No, I merely hired them," she said.
"Friends of friends, then?"
She shook her head.
"But you know them?" the king pressed further.
"I met them for the first time at the auditions."
"Rossie," Freda said. "She's clearly trying to distance herself from them now that the doors of nobility are open to her. You can't blame her for that. Anyone would abandon the wretches. Leave them in the street. That's where they belong."
"But I-" Amilia began before the king cut her off.
"But, my queen, many are rising in rank. Some street merchants are as wealthy as nobles now."
"Terrible state of affairs," Freda snarled through thin, red-painted lips. "A title isn't what it used to be."
"I agree, my queen. Why, some knights have no lineage at all to speak of. They are no better than peasants with swords. All anyone needs these days is money to buy armor and a horse, and there you have it-presto-a noble. Commoners are even learning to read. Can you read, Lady Amilia?"
"Actually, I can."
"See!" The king threw his hands up. "Of course, you are in the nobility now, but I assume you learned letters before that? It's a travesty. I don't know what the world is coming to."
"At least the situation with the elves has improved," his wife put in. "You have to give Ethelred credit for reducing their numbers. Our efforts to deal with them in Dunmore have met with little success."
"Deal with them?" Amilia asked, but the monarchs continued under their own momentum.
"If they had any intelligence, they would leave on their own. How much plainer can it be that they are not welcome," the king said. "The guilds prohibit them from membership in any business, they can't obtain citizenship in any city, and the church declared them unclean enemies of Novron ages ago. Even the peasants are free to take measures against them. Still, they don't take the hint. They keep breeding and filling up slums. Hundreds die each year in church-sanctioned Cleansing Days, but they persist. Why not move on? Why not go elsewhere?"
As the king ran out of breath, the queen took over. "They are like rats, festering in every crack. Living among their kind is a curse. It's what brought down the first empire, you know. Even keeping them as slaves was a mistake. And mark my words, if we don't get rid of them all, so that not a single elf walks a civilized street or country lane, this Empire will fall to the same ruin."
"True, true, the old emperors were too soft. They thought that they could fix them-"
"Fix them!" Freda erupted. "What a ridiculous notion. You can't fix a plague. You can only run from it or wipe it out."
"I know, darling, I agree with you wholeheartedly. We have a second chance now, and Ethelred is off to a good start."
Realizing that the king and queen ran through a conversation as familiar and comfortable to them as a pair of well-worn shoes, Amilia nodded politely without really listening. She had seen elves only once in her life. When she was still living in Tarin Vale, three of them came to the village-a family-if they had such notions of kinship. Apparently content to dress in rags, they were dirty and carried small, stained bundles, which Amilia guessed were all they had. They were so thin they looked sick and walked with their heads bowed and shoulders slumped.
Children had called the elves names and villagers threw stones and shouted for them to leave. A rock struck the female's head and she cried out. Amilia did not throw any rocks, but she watched as the family was bruised and bloodied before they fled from town. At the time, she did not understand how they could be a threat. The monk who had been teaching her letters explained elves were responsible for the downfall of the Empire. They had seemed helpless, and Amilia could not help feeling sorry for them.
Roswort concluded his tirade by accusing the elves of being responsible for the drought two years before, and Amilia caught Nimbus rolling his eyes.
"You don't share their opinions?" she whispered.
"It's not my place to counter the words of a king, milady," the courtier responded politely.
"True, but I sometimes wonder just what goes on under that wig of yours. Something tells me there's more than just courtly etiquette rattling around."
Off to Amilia's right, Roswort and Freda had moved on. "…dwarves aren't much better, but at least they have skills," the king was saying. "Fine stonemasons and jewelers, I'll give them that, but niggardly as an autumn squirrel facing an early snow, the entire lot of them. They can't be trusted. Any one of them would slit your throat to steal two copper tenents. They stick to their own kind and whisper their outlawed language. Living with dwarves is like trying to domesticate a wild animal, can't ever truly be done."
The conversation died down as another performance started. This time a pair of conjurers pulled apples and oddments from their sleeves then juggled the items. When the act was over, and all the knives and goblets safely caught, Nimbus asked, "Doesn't the empress hail from your kingdom, Your Majesty?"
"Oh, yes." Roswort perked up and nearly spilled his drink. "Lived right there in Dahlgren. What a terrible mess that was. Afterward, the deacon ran about babbling his tall tales-and no one believed him. I certainly didn't. Who would have thought that the Heir of Novron would come from that tiny dust speck?"
"How is it that we never see her?" the queen asked Amilia. "She will be at the wedding, won't she?"
"Of course, Your Majesty. The empress is saving her strength for just that. She's still quite weak."
"I see," the queen replied coolly. "Surely, she is well enough by now to admit guests. Several of the ladies feel it has been most unseemly the way she has been ignoring us. I would very much like a personal audience with her before the ceremony."
"I am afraid that's really not up to me. I only follow her directions."
"How can you follow her directions on something I have just now suggested? Are you a mind reader?"
"Who would have expected Sir Hadrian to be in the finals of the tournament?" Nimbus said loudly. "I certainly didn't think a novice would be challenging for the title tomorrow. And against Sir Breckton! You must admit Lady Amilia certainly backed the right arm-and-shield there. Who are you favoring, Your Majesty?"
Roswort pursed his lips. "I find both of them disagreeable. The whole tournament has been too tame for my taste. I prefer the theatrics of Elgar and Gilbert. They know how to play to a crowd. This year's finalists are as solemn as monks, and neither has done anything other than unseat their opponents. That's bad form, if you ask me. Knights are trained for war. They should instinctually seek to kill rather than merely bust a pole on a reinforced plate. I think they should be required to use war tips. Do that, and you'll see something worth watching!"
When the last performance finished, the Lord Chamberlain rapped his brass-tipped staff on the flagstones and Ethelred stood. Conversations trailed off as the banquet hall fell silent.
"My friends," Lanis Ethelred began in his most powerful voice, "I address you as such to assure you, that even though you will soon be my loyal subjects, I will always think of you, first and foremost, as my friends. We have weathered a long hard struggle together. Centuries of darkness, hardship, barbarianism, and threats from Nationalists have plagued us. But in just two days' time, the sun will dawn on a new age. This Wintertide we celebrate the rebirth of civilization-the start of a new era. As our Lord Maribor has seen fit to bestow upon me the crown of supreme power, I will pledge to be faithful to his design and lead mankind armed with the firm hand of righteousness. I will return to traditional values in order to make the New Empire a beacon to light the world and blind our enemies."
The hall applauded.
"I hope you all enjoyed your game birds, courtesy of the hawking. Tomorrow the finalists of the joust will tilt for the honor of Best Knight. I hope you will all enjoy the contest between two such capable men. Sir Breckton, Sir Hadrian-where are you-please stand, both of you." The two knights hesitantly rose to their feet, and the audience applauded. "A toast to the elite of the New Empire!"
Ethelred, along with everyone in the hall, drank in their honor. The regent sat back down, and Amilia motioned to the musicians to take their places.
As on the previous nights, couples took to the open floor to dance. Amilia spotted Sir Breckton striding her way, dressed in a silver tunic. When he reached the head table, he bowed before her.
"Excuse me, My Lady. Might I enjoy the pleasure of your company for the dance?"
Amilia's heart beat quickly at his invitation, and she could not think clearly. Before remembering that she could not dance, she stood, walked around the table, and offered her hand.
Taking it, the knight gently led her to where pairs of dancers were forming lines. Accompanying him in such an intimate setting felt like a dream. When the first notes of music hit the air, that dream turned to a nightmare. Amilia had no idea what to do. She had watched the dances the last several evenings but not in order to learn their steps. All she could recall was that the dance started in rows, ended in rows, and at some point in the middle, the dancers touched hands and traded places several times in rapid succession. All other details were a mystery. For a moment, Amilia considered returning to the security of her chair, but to do so now would embarrass her and humiliate Breckton. Lightheaded, she hovered on the verge of fainting but managed a curtsy in response to Breckton's bow.
Nothing could save her from the pending disaster. A scene played in her mind, where she staggered, tripped, and fell. The other nobles would laugh and sneer while tears ran down her cheeks. She imagined them saying, "What possessed you to think you could be one of us?" Not even Breckton's calm gaze was able to reassure Amilia.
She shifted her weight from left to right, knowing some action would be required in a half-bar of music. If only she knew which foot to use, she might manage the first step.
Suddenly the music stopped and the entire assemblage halted.
A hush fell as conversations died, replaced by scattered gasps. Everyone stood and all eyes were transfixed as into the Great Hall strode Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Eminence, Empress Modina Novronian.
Two fifth-floor guards flanked her as they crossed the hall. The empress was dressed in the formal gown she had worn for the speech on the balcony, the luxurious mantle trailing behind her. Modina's hair was pulled under a mesh caul upon which rested the imperial crown. She walked with stunning grace and dignity-chin high, shoulders squared, back straight. As she passed through the silent crowd, she appeared ethereal, like a mythical creature slipping through trees in a forest.
Amilia blinked several times, unsure what she was actually seeing. Transfixed as the others, she could not move. The effect of Modina's appearance was astounding and reflected on every face present. No one moved and few appeared to breathe.
Reaching the front of the room, Modina walked down the length of the main table over to the imperial throne left vacant each of the previous nights. The empress paused briefly in front of her seat, raised a delicate hand, and simply said, "Continue."
There was a long pause, and then the musicians began to play once more. Saldur and Ethelred both glared at Amilia who promptly excused herself from the dance. Leaving the floor was quite understandable now, though she was sure it no longer mattered. Amilia doubted anyone, except perhaps Sir Breckton, noticed or cared.
She returned to the main table and stood behind Modina.
"Your Eminence, are you certain you are strong enough to be here? Wouldn't you like me to escort you back to your room?" she asked softly.
Modina did not look at Amilia. The empress's eyes scanned the room, taking in the revelry. "Thank you, my dear. You are so kind to inquire, but I am fine." Amilia exchanged glances with Ethelred and Saldur, both of whom looked tense and helpless.
"I think you should not be risking yourself so," Saldur told Modina. "You need to save your strength for your wedding."
"I am certain you are quite correct, Your Grace-as you always are-and I will not stay long. Still, my people deserve to see their empress. Maribor forbid that they come to suspect I don't exist at all. I am certain many couldn't distinguish me from a milkmaid. It would be a sad thing indeed if I arrived at my wedding and no one could tell the bride from the bridesmaids."
Saldur's look of bewilderment was replaced with a glare of anger.
Amilia remained behind the empress's chair unsure what to do next. Modina tapped her fingers and nodded her head in rhythm with the music while watching the dance. By contrast, Saldur and Ethelred were rigid as statues.
At the end of the song, Modina applauded and got to her feet. The moment she rose, everyone stopped once more, fixing their eyes on her.
"Sir Breckton and Sir Hadrian, please approach," the empress commanded.
Saldur shot another concerned glance at Amilia, who could do nothing but clutch the back of Modina's chair.
The two knights came forward and stood side by side before the empress. Hadrian followed Breckton's lead, bending to one knee and bowing his head.
"Tomorrow you will compete for the glory of the Empire, and Maribor will decide your fate. You are clearly both beloved by this court, but I see Sir Breckton wears the token of my secretary, Lady Amilia. This grants him an unfair advantage, but I will not ask him to refuse such a gift. Nor would I ask Lady Amilia to seek its return, as a favor once given is a sacred endorsement of faith. Instead, I will mirror her gesture by granting Sir Hadrian my token. I proclaim my faith in his skill, character, and sacred honor. I know his heart is righteous and his intentions virtuous." Modina drew out a piece of pure white cloth that Amilia recognized as part of her nightgown, and held it out.
Hadrian took the cloth.
Modina continued, "May you both find honor in the eyes of Maribor and compete as true and heroic knights."
The empress clapped her hands and the hall followed her lead, erupting in cheers and shouts. In the midst of the thunder, Modina turned to Amilia and said, "You may escort me back to my room now."
The two walked down the length of the table. As they passed the Queen of Dunmore, Freda looked stricken. "Lady Amilia, what I said earlier I-I didn't mean anything by that, I just-"
"I'm sure you meant no disrespect. Please sit, Your Majesty. You look pale," Amilia said to the queen and led Modina out of the room. Saldur watched them go, and Amilia was thankful he did not follow. She knew there would be an interrogation, but she had no idea how to explain Modina's behavior. The empress had never done anything like this before.
Neither woman said anything as they walked arm in arm to the fifth floor. The door to Modina's bedchamber stood unguarded. "Where is Gerald?" Amilia asked.
"Who?" the empress replied with a blank look.
Amilia scowled. "You know very well who. Gerald. Why isn't he guarding your door? Did you send him on an errand to get him out of the way?"
"Yes, I did," the empress replied casually.
Amilia frowned. They entered the bedroom and she closed the door behind them. "Modina, what were you thinking? Why did you do that?"
"Does it matter?" the empress replied, settling onto her bed with a soft bounce.
"It matters to the regents."
"It's only two days until Ethelred comes to my bedroom and takes me to the cathedral for our marriage. I did no damage. If anything, I reassured the nobles that I exist and I'm not just a myth created by the regents. They should thank me."
"That still doesn't explain why."
"I have only a few hours left and felt like getting out. Can you begrudge me this?"
The anger melted from Amilia and she shook her head. "No."
Ever since the mirror had appeared in Modina's room, the two had avoided discussing the empress's plans for Wintertide. Amilia considered having it removed, but knew that would not matter. Modina would just find another way. The secretary's only other alternative was to tell Saldur, but the regent would imprison the empress. The ordeal had nearly destroyed Modina once, and Amilia could not be responsible for inflicting that on her again-even to save the empress's life. There seemed to be no solution. Especially considering that if their places were reversed, Amilia would probably do the same thing. She had tried to delude herself into believing that Modina would change her mind, but the empress's words and the reminder of Wintertide's approach brought her back to reality.
Amilia helped Modina out of her gown, tucked the empress into the big bed, and hugged her tightly while trying to hide her tears.
Modina patted Amilia's head. "It will be all right. I am ready now."
Hadrian trudged back to the knights' wing, carrying the white strip of cloth as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Seeing Thrace had removed one burden, but her words had replaced it with an even heavier load. He passed by the common room where a handful of knights still lingered. They handed around a bottle, taking swigs from it.
"Hadrian!" Elgar shouted. The large man stepped out into the hall, blocking his path. Elgar's face was rosy and his nose red, but his eyes were clear and focused. "Missed you at the hawking today. Come on in and join us."
"Leave me alone, Elgar, I'm in no mood tonight."
"All the more reason to come have a drink with us." The big warrior grinned cheerfully, slapping Hadrian on the back.
"I'm going to sleep." Hadrian turned away.
Elgar gripped him by the arm. "Listen, my chest still hurts from when you drove me off my saddle."
"I'm sorry about that but-"
"Sorry?" Elgar looked at him, confused. "Best clobbering I've taken in years. That's how I know you can take Breckton. I've wagered money on it. I thought you were a joke when you first showed up but after that flying lesson…Well, if you're a joke, it's not a terribly funny one."
"You're apologizing?"
Elgar laughed. "Not in your lifetime! Summersrule is only six months away, and I'll have another chance to repay in kind. But just between you and me, I'm looking forward to seeing Sir Shiny eat some dirt. Sure you won't have a drink? Send you off to bed right proper?"
Hadrian shook his head.
"All right, go get your beauty rest. I'll keep the boys as quiet as I can, even if I have to bash a few skulls. Good luck tomorrow, eh?"
Elgar returned to the common room, where at least two of the knights were trying to sing The Old Duke's Daughter and doing a terrible job of it. Hadrian continued to his room, opened the door, and froze.
"Good evening, Hadrian," Merrick Marius greeted him. He was dressed in an expensive crimson silk garnache. Around his neck, nearly at shoulder width, was a golden chain of office. Merrick sat nonchalantly at the chamber's little table, upon which sat the chessboard from the common room. All the pieces were in their proper places except for a single white pawn that was two spaces forward. "I have taken the liberty of making the first move."
The room was too small for anyone to hide in-they were alone. "What do you want?" Hadrian asked.
"I thought that was obvious. I want you to join me. It's your turn."
"I'm not interested in playing games."
"I think it is a bit presumptuous to consider this a mere game." Merrick's voice was paradoxically chilling and friendly, a mannerism Hadrian had witnessed many times before-with Royce.
Merrick's demeanor distressed him. Hadrian had learned to read a man by his tone, body language, and the look in his eye, but Merrick was impossible to peg. He appeared completely relaxed, yet he should not be. Although larger and heavier than Royce, Merrick was not a big man. He did not look like a fighter nor did he appear to be wearing any weapons. If Merrick was half as smart as Royce had suggested, he would know Hadrian could kill him. Given how he manipulated them on the Emerald Storm, which resulted in the death of Wesley Belstrad and the destruction of Tur Del Fur, Merrick should further know it was a real possibility, yet the man showed no sign of concern. It unnerved Hadrian and made him think he was missing something.
Hadrian took the seat across from Merrick and, after glancing at the board for only a moment, slid a pawn forward.
Merrick smiled with the eagerness of a small boy starting his favorite pastime. He moved another pawn, putting it in jeopardy, and Hadrian took it.
"Ah, so you accept the Queen's Gambit," Merrick said.
"Huh?"
"My opening moves. They are referred to as the Queen's Gambit. How you respond indicates acceptance or not. Your move has signaled the former."
"I just took a pawn," Hadrian said.
"You did both. Are you aware chess is known as the 'King's Game' due to its ability to teach war strategy?"
Almost without thought, Merrick brought another pawn forward.
Hadrian did not reply as he looked at the board. His father had taught him the game when he was a boy to strengthen Hadrian's understanding of tactics and planning. Danbury Blackwater had made a board and set of pieces from metal scraps. His father was the best chess player in the village. It had taken years for Hadrian to finally checkmate him.
"Of course, the game has broader implications," Merrick went on. "I've heard bishops base whole sermons on chess. They draw parallels indicating how the pieces represent the hierarchy of the classes, and the rules of movement depict an individual's duty as ordained by God."
Merrick's third pawn was in jeopardy, and Hadrian took it as well. Merrick moved his bishop, again without pause. The man's playing style disturbed Hadrian, as he expected more contemplation after taking two of his pieces.
"So you see, what you deem a simple, frivolous game is actually a mirror to the world around us and how we move in it. For example, did you know that pawns were not always allowed to move two squares at the start? That advent was the result of progress and a slipping of monarchial power. Furthermore, upon reaching the opposite side of the board, pawns used to only be promoted to the rank of councilor, which is the second weakest piece after the pawn itself."
"Speaking of pawns…We didn't appreciate you using us at Tur Del Fur," Hadrian said.
Merrick raised a hand. "Royce has already scolded me on that score."
"Royce-he spoke to you?"
Merrick chuckled. "Surprised I'm still alive? Royce and I have a…an understanding. To him I am like that bishop on the board-I'm right there-an easy target-and yet the cost is too high."
"I don't understand."
"You wouldn't."
"You tricked us into helping you slaughter hundreds of innocent people. Royce has killed for far less."
Merrick looked amused. "True, Royce usually requires a reason not to kill. But don't deceive yourself. He's not like you. The deaths of innocents, no matter how many, are meaningless to him. He just doesn't like being used. No, I would venture to say that only one murder has ever caused him to suffer remorse, and that is why I'm still alive. Royce feels the scales are not balanced between us. He feels he still owes me."
Merrick gestured toward himself. "Were you waiting on me? I believe it's your move."
Hadrian decided to be more daring and pulled out his queen to threaten Merrick's king. Merrick moved instantly, almost before Hadrian removed his hand, sliding his king out of harm's way.
"Now where was I," Merrick continued. "Oh yes, the evolution of chess, which changes just as the world does. Centuries ago there was no such thing as castling, and a stalemate was considered a win for the player causing it. Most telling, I think, is the changing role of the queen in the game."
Hadrian brought forward a pawn to threaten the bishop, and Merrick promptly took it. Hadrian moved his knight out and Merrick did the same.
"Originally there was no queen at all, as all the pieces were male. Instead, a piece called the king's chief minister held that position. It wasn't until much later that the female queen replaced this piece. Back then she was restricted to move only one square diagonally, which made her quite weak. It wasn't until later that she obtained the ability to move the entire length of the board in any direction and thus becoming the most powerful piece in the game-and the most coveted target to trap or kill."
Hadrian started to move his bishop but stopped when he realized that Merrick's knight was threatening his queen.
"That was an interesting speech the empress delivered at the feast, don't you think?" Merrick asked. "Why do you think she did that?"
"No idea," Hadrian replied, studying the board.
Merrick smiled at him. "I see why Royce likes you. You're not big on conversation. You two are quite the odd pairing, aren't you? Royce and I are far more similar. We each maintain a common pragmatic view of the world and those in it, but you are more an idealist and dreamer. You look like an ale drinker to me, and Royce prefers his Montemorcey."
Another quick succession of moves made Hadrian slow down his play and left him studying the board.
"Did you know I introduced him to that particular wine? That was years ago, when I brought him a case for his birthday. Well, that's not precisely correct. Royce has no idea about the actual date of his birth. Still, it could have been, so we celebrated like it was. I liberated the wine from a Vandon caravan loaded with merchandise, and we spent days drinking and debauching a tiny agrarian village that had a surprisingly large proportion of attractive maids. For those three days, Royce relaxed and we had arguably the best time of our lives. I had never seen him drunk before that. He is usually so serious-all dark and brooding, or at least he used to be."
Hadrian focused on the board.
"We were quite the team in our day. I'd plan the jobs and he'd execute them. We had a contest going where I tried to see if I could invent a challenge too difficult, but he always surprised me. His skills are legendary. Of course, back then the shackles of morality didn't weigh him down. That's your doing, I suppose. You tamed the demon, or at least think you have."
Hadrian found Merrick's conversation irritating and realized that was the point. He moved his queen to safety. Merrick innocently, almost absentmindedly, slid a pawn forward.
"It's still there though-the demon within-hiding; you can't change the nature of someone like Royce. In Calis they try to tame lions, did you know that? They take them as cubs and raise them in palaces as pets for princes. They think them safe until one day the family dogs are gone. 'Perhaps the dogs warranted it,' the love-struck prince says. 'Maybe the hounds attacked the cat or antagonized it,' he tries to assure himself as he strokes his loyal beast. The next day they find the carcass of the prince in a tree. No, my friend, you can't tame a wild animal. Eventually it will return to its true nature."
Hadrian made a series of moves that succeeded in taking the white bishop. He could not determine if Merrick was just toying with him or not nearly as good at the game as Hadrian expected.
"Does he ever speak of me?" asked Merrick.
"You sound like an abandoned mistress."
Merrick sat straighter and adjusted the front of his tunic. "You've had a chance to see Breckton joust. Is there any doubt about whether you can defeat him?"
"No."
"That's good. But now comes the important question…will you?"
"I made an agreement, didn't I? You were there."
Merrick leaned forward. "I know you-or at least your type. You're having second thoughts. You don't think it's right to kill an innocent man. You've met Breckton. He's impressive. The kind of man you want to be. You're hating yourself right now, and you hate me because you think I helped arrange it. Only I didn't. I have no part in this-well, beyond suggesting they offer you the princess. Whether you want to thank me or kill me for that, I'd just like to point out that at the time you were threatening to kill everyone in the room."
"So, if this is none of your business, then why are you here?"
"I need Royce to do another job for me-an important one, and he'll be far less inclined if you die, which you will if you don't kill Breckton. If, however, you keep your promise, everything should work out nicely. So I've come to affirm what you already know, and what Royce would tell you if he were here. You must kill Breckton. Keep in mind you will be trading the life of the most capable enemy of Melengar for its princess and the leader of the Nationalists. Together, they could revitalize the resistance. And let's not forget your legacy. This is your one chance to correct the sin of your father and bring peace to his spirit. If nothing else, don't you think you owe Danbury that much?"
"How do you know about that?"
Merrick merely smiled.
"You're a smug bastard, aren't you?" Hadrian glared at him. "But you don't know everything."
Hadrian reached out to move, but Merrick raised a hand and stopped him.
"You're about to take my rook with your bishop. After that, you will take the other with your queen. How can you not? The poor castle is completely undefended. You'll be feeling quite pleased with yourself at that point. You'll be thinking that I don't play this game anywhere near as well as you expected. What you won't realize is that while you have gained materially, you've systematically given up control of the board. You'll have more troops, but discover too late that you can't effectively mount an attack. I will sacrifice my queen. You will have no choice but to kill her. By that time, I will be perfectly positioned to reach your king. In the end, you will have taken a bishop, two rooks, and my queen, but none of this will matter. I will checkmate you on the twenty-second turn by moving my remaining bishop to king's seven." Merrick stood and moved toward the door. "You've already lost, but you lack the foresight to see it. That's your problem. I, on the other hand, do not suffer from that particular malady. I am telling you for your own good, for Royce's sake, for Arista, Gaunt, and even for your father-you must kill Sir Breckton. Good night, Hadrian."