Michael Sullivan: Wintertide

He gently patted Arista's burning cheek. "Don't force me to do it. Tell me the traitor's name. She is guilty of treason, but the poor Barkers are innocent. They have done nothing. Simply tell me the name of this woman and you can prevent all these horrors."

Arista found it difficult to think and fought for breath as she started losing control. Her face throbbed from his blows, and she was sickened by the salty-metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Guilt conjured images of Emery and Hilfred, both of whom had died because of her. She could not bear to add the Barkers' blood to her hands. To have them suffer for her mistakes.

"I'll tell you," Arista finally said. "But in return I want your assurance nothing will happen to the Barkers."

Saldur looked sympathetic, and she could almost see the grandfatherly face from her youth. How he could make such despicable threats and then return to such a kindly expression was beyond her understanding.

"Of course, my dear, after all, I'm not a monster. Just give me what I want and none of those things will come to pass. Now, tell me…What is her name?"

Arista hesitated. Saldur lost his smile once again-her time was up. She swallowed and said, "There was someone who hid me, gave me food, and even helped to find Gaunt. She's been a true friend, so kind and selfless. I can't believe I am betraying her to you now."

"Her name?" Saldur pressed.

Tears ran from Arista's eyes as she looked up. "Her name is…is…Edith Mon."

Sir Breckton Archibald Ballentyne, the Earl of Chadwick, stared out the windows of the imperial throne room. Behind him, Saldur shuffled parchments at a table while Ethelred warmed a throne not yet his own. A handful of servants occasionally drifted in and out, as did the Imperial Chancellor who briefly spoke with one regent or the other. No one ever spoke to Archibald or asked for his counsel.

In just a few short years, Regent Saldur had risen from Bishop of Medford to the architect of the New Empire. Ethelred was about to trade his king's crown of Warric for the imperial scepter of all Avryn. Even the commoner Merrick Marius managed to secure a noble fief, wealth, and a title.

What do I have to show for all my contributions? Where is my crown? My wife? My glory?

The answers Archibald knew all too well. He would wear no crown. Ethelred would wed his wife. And as for his glory, the man who had stolen that was just entering the hall. Archibald heard the boots pounding against the polished marble floor. The sound of the man's stride was unmistakable-uncompromising, straightforward, brash.

Turning around, Archibald saw Sir Breckton Belstrad's floor-length blue cape sweeping behind the knight. Holding his helm in the crook of one arm and wearing a metal breastplate, he looked as if he were just returning from battle. Sir Breckton was tall, his shoulders broad, his chin chiseled. He was a leader of men, victorious in battle, and Archibald hated him.

"Sir Breckton, welcome to Aquesta," Ethelred called as the knight crossed the room.

Breckton ignored him, and Saldur as well, walking directly to Archibald's side where he stomped dramatically and dropped to one knee. "Your Lordship," he said.

"Yes, yes, get up." The Earl of Chadwick waved a hand at him.

"As always, I am at your service, My Lord."

"Sir Breckton?" Ethelred addressed the knight again.

Breckton showed no sign of acknowledgement and continued to speak with his liege. "You called, My Lord? What is it you wish of me?"

"Actually, I summoned you on behalf of Regent Ethelred. He wishes to speak with you."

The knight stood. "As you wish, My Lord."

Breckton turned and crossed the distance to the throne. His sword slapped against his side and his boots pounded against the stone. He stopped at the base of the steps and offered only a shallow bow.

Ethelred scowled but only briefly. "Sir Breckton, at long last. I've sent summons for you six times over the past several weeks. Have the messages not reached you?"

"They have, Your Lordship."

"But you did not respond," Ethelred said.

"No, Your Lordship."

"Why?"

"My Lord, the Earl of Chadwick commanded me to take Melengar. I was following his orders," Breckton replied.

"So the crucial demands of battle prevented you from breaking away until now." Ethelred nodded.

"No, Your Lordship. Only the fall of Drondil Fields remains and the siege is well tended. Victory is assured and does not require my attention."

"Then I don't understand. Why didn't you come when I ordered you to appear before me?"

"I do not serve you, Your Lordship. I serve the Earl of Chadwick."

Archibald's disdain for Breckton did not diminish his delight at seeing Ethelred verbally slapped.

"May I remind you, sir knight, that I will be emperor in just a few weeks?"

"You may, Your Lordship."

Ethelred looked confused. This brought a smile to Archibald's face. He enjoyed seeing someone else trying to deal with Breckton and knew exactly how the regent felt. Was Breckton granting Ethelred permission to remind the knight, or had he just insinuated the regent might not be emperor? Either way, the comment was rude yet spoken so plainly and respectfully that it appeared innocent of any ill intent. Breckton was like that-politely confounding and pointedly confusing. He had a way of making Archibald feel stupid, and that was just one of the many reasons he despised the arrogant man.

"I see this is going to continue to be an issue," Ethelred said. "It demonstrates the point of this meeting. As emperor, I will require good men to help me reign. You have proven yourself a capable leader, and as such, I want you to serve me directly. I am prepared to offer you the office and title of Grand Marshall of all Imperial Forces. In addition, I'll grant you the province of Melengar."

Archibald staggered. "Melengar is mine! Or will be when it is taken. It was promised to me."

"Yes, Archie, but times change. I need a strong man in the north, defending my border." Ethelred looked at Breckton. "I will appoint you the Marquis of Melengar. All too fitting, given that you were responsible for taking it."

"This is outrageous!" Archibald shouted, stomping his foot. "We had a deal. You have the imperial crown and Saldur has the imperial miter. What do I get? What is the reward for all my sweat and sacrifice? Without me, you wouldn't have Melengar to bestow to anyone!"

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Archie," Saldur said gently. "You must have known we could never entrust such an important realm to you. You are too young, too inexperienced, too…weak."

There was silence as Archibald fumed.

"Well?" Ethelred turned his attention back to Breckton. "Marquis of Melengar? Grand Marshall of the Imperial Host? What say you?"

Sir Breckton showed no emotion. "I serve the Earl of Chadwick, just as my father and grandfather before me. It does not appear he wishes this. If there is nothing else, I must return to my charge in Melengar." Sir Breckton pivoted sharply and strode back to Archibald, where he knelt once more.

Ethelred stared after him in shock.

"Don't leave Aquesta just yet," Archibald told the knight. "I may have need of you here."

"As you wish, My Lord." Breckton stood and briskly departed.

The hall was silent as they listened to the knight's footfalls echo and fade. Ethelred's face turned scarlet and he clenched his fists. Saldur stared after Breckton with his usual irritated glare.

"It seems you didn't take into account the man's unwavering sense of loyalty when you made your plans," Archibald railed. "But then how could you, seeing as how you obviously don't understand the meaning of the word yourself. You should have consulted me first. I would have told you what the result would be. But you couldn't do that, could you? No, because it was me you were plotting to stab in the back!"