Michael Sullivan - Wintertide

"You awake?" Royce asked, sitting down next to Hadrian.

"Am now. What's up?"

"How you feeling?"

"I've had better days. What have you come up with? And it better be good because I already told Arista how brilliant you are."

"How's she doing?" Royce asked.

Hadrian looked at the princess, who remained asleep, her head still resting against him.

"She asked me to kill her."

"I'll take that as not well."

"So? What have you found out?" Hadrian asked.

"It's not good. I've been over every inch of this dungeon three times now. The walls are solid and thick. There are no cracks or worn areas. Even with Magnus doing the digging with his special chisels, it had taken over a week to dig in. No telling how long it would take to tunnel out. I found some stairs leading up to what I assume is the entrance, but there's no lock. Heck there isn't even a door. The stairway just ends at the stone ceiling. I still don't know what to make of that."

"It's a gemlock. Like Gutaria. A seret in the North Tower has a sword with an emerald in the hilt."

"That would explain it. The door I came through won't budge. It's not locked, so it must be jammed somehow. It's probably our best chance at getting out. It's made of wood, so feasibly we could try to burn it down. It's pretty thick, though, so I'm not sure I can get it to catch even by using the straw and oil from the lantern. And the smoke-if it doesn't kill us first-could signal our escape and guards would be waiting at the top."

"Arista and Gaunt can't climb out through a well," Hadrian pointed out.

"Yeah, but that's just one of the problems. I'm positive the rope isn't there anymore. I'm not sure if they grabbed Magnus or if he's responsible. Either way, anyone bothering to spike the door would take the rope, too."

"So where does that leave us?"

Royce shrugged. "The best I can come up with is to wait for dark and then try to burn down the door. Maybe no one will see the smoke. Maybe we won't suffocate before we can break it down. Maybe I can slip out unnoticed. Maybe I can kill the guards. Maybe I can rig a way to pull you out of the well."

"That's a lot of maybes."

"No kidding. But you asked." Royce sighed. "You got anything?"

"What about Arista?" Hadrian looked down at her sleeping face again, which he held cradled with his good arm. "She's weak but maybe-"

Royce shook his head. "There are runes all over the walls. Just like the ones in the prison Esrahaddon was in. If she could do anything, I'm pretty sure she would have by now."

"Albert?"

"If he has half a brain, he'll lie low. At this point he can't do anything but draw attention to himself."

"What about the deal Merrick offered?"

"How do you know about that?" Royce asked, surprised.

"He told me."

"You two talked?"

"We played chess."

Royce shrugged. "There's no deal. He'd already told me what I wanted to know."

They sat side by side in silence awhile. Finally Hadrian said, "I doubt this is any consolation, but I do appreciate you coming. I know you wouldn't be here if it weren't for me."

"Don't you ever get tired of saying that?"

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure this will be the last time. At least I finally got to Gaunt. Some bodyguard I turned out to be. He's nearly dead."

Royce glanced over. "So that's the Heir of Novron, eh? I sort of expected more, you know? Scars maybe, or an eye patch-something interesting-distinctive."

"Yeah, a peg leg, maybe."

"Exactly."

They sat together in the dim light. Royce was conserving the lantern oil. Eventually Breckton and Amilia returned and sat beside Arista. Lady Amilia's eyes were red and puffy. She placed her head on Breckton's shoulder, and he nodded a greeting to Hadrian and Royce.

"Royce, this is Sir Breckton Belstrad," Hadrian introduced them.

"Yeah, I recognized him when I opened the door. For a moment, I thought it was Wesley looking back at me."

"Wesley? You've met my brother?"

Hadrian said, "We both have. I'm sorry I couldn't say anything at the feast. Royce and I served with him on the Emerald Storm. Your brother had taken command after the captain was killed. I've followed many officers over the years, but I can truthfully say I never served under a more worthy and honorable man. If it wasn't for Wesley's bravery in battle, Royce and I both would have died in Calis. He made a sacrificial charge so others would live."

Royce nodded in agreement.

"You never cease to amaze me, Sir Hadrian. If that is indeed true, then I thank you. Between the two of us, Wesley was always the better man. I only hope I shall meet my end half as well as he did."

Saldur fumed as he started up the stairs to the fifth floor. It was past midday and they should have left for the cathedral hours ago. The Patriarch himself was waiting to perform the ceremony.

As far back as Saldur could recall, which was a good many years, the Patriarch had never left his chambers in Ervanon. Those wishing to see him, to seek his council or blessing, had to travel to the Crown Tower. Even then, he only accepted audiences on rare occasions. The Patriarch had a reputation for refusing great nobles and even kings. Even the highest-ranking members of the church never saw him. Saldur had been Bishop of Medford for nearly ten years without ever meeting the man. As far as the regent knew, even Galien, the former Archbishop of Ghent, who lived with the Patriarch in the Crown Tower, never had a face-to-face meeting. The fact that the sentinels made frequent visits to the tower was common knowledge, but Saldur doubted if any actually stood in his presence.

The fact that the Patriarch had left the Crown Tower for this auspicious occasion was a personal triumph for Saldur. He genuinely looked forward to meeting the great leader of the Nyphron Church-his spiritual father. The wedding was supposed to be a wondrous and moving event, a lavish production complete with a full orchestra and the release of hundreds of white doves. This day was the accumulation of years of careful planning, dating back to that fateful night in Dahlgren when the plan to elevate Lord Rufus to emperor had failed.

At that time, Deacon Tomas had been raving like a lunatic. He claimed to witness the miracle of a young girl named Thrace killing the Gilarabrywn. Seeing as how Saldur himself had proclaimed that only the true Heir of Novron could slay that beast, the deacon's claim was perceived as a problem. Sentinel Luis Guy planned to erase the incident by killing both the deacon and the girl, but Saldur saw other possibilities.

The Patriarch had wanted to name Saldur as the next Archbishop of Ghent to take the place of Galien, who had died in the Gilarabrywn's attack. The position was the highest in the church hierarchy, just below the Patriarch himself. The offer was tempting, but Saldur knew the time had arrived for him to take the reins of shaping a New Empire. He abandoned his holy vestments and donned the mantle of politics-something no officer of the church had done since the days of Patriarch Venlin.

Saldur weathered the condemnation of kings and bishops in his battle against ignorance and tradition. He pressured, cajoled, and murdered to reach his goal of a strong, unified Empire that could change the world for the better. With his guidance, the glory of the Old Empire would rise once more. To the feeble minds of Ethelred and his ilk, that just meant one man on one throne. To Saldur it meant civilization. All that once was would be again. Wintertide marked the culmination of all his efforts and years of struggle. This was the last uphill battle and it was proving to be a challenge.

Saldur had expected the peasants to tire themselves out overnight, but their fury seemed to have increased. He was irked that the city, which had been quiet and orderly for years, chose this moment to rampage. In the past, people had been taxed penniless, starved to provide banquets for kings, and had their children taken to fight in wars. Despite all this, they had never revolted. The fact that they did so now was strange, but moreover, it was embarrassing.