Michael Sullivan - Wintertide

"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.