Michael Sullivan: Wintertide

Amilia did not recognize him, but there were so many new faces at the palace these days. He was tall and stood straight with his shoulders squared. His face was closely shaved and his hair neatly trimmed. Based on his bearing and clothing, he was undoubtedly a noble. He was dressed well, but unlike many of the Wintertide guests, his outfit was subdued.

"It's just that I am a bit confused," he said, looking around.

"Are you lost?" she asked.

He nodded. "I know my way in forests and fields. I can pinpoint my whereabouts by the use of moon and stars, but for the life of me, I am a total imbecile when trapped within walls of stone."

"That's okay; I used to get lost in here all the time. Where are you going?"

"I've been staying in the knights' wing at my lord's request, but I stepped outside for a walk and can't find my way back to my quarters."

"You're a soldier then?"

"Yes, forgive me. My stupidity is without end." He stepped back and bowed formally. "Sir Breckton of Chadwick, son of Lord Belstrad, at your service, My Lady."

"Oh! You're Sir Breckton?"

Appearances never impressed Amilia, but Breckton was perfect. He was exactly what she expected a knight should be: handsome, refined, strong, and just as Lady Genevieve had described-dashing. For the first time since coming to the palace, she wished she were pretty.

"Indeed, I am. You've heard of me then…For good or ill?"

"Good, most certainly. Why just-" She stopped herself and felt her face blush.

Concern furrowed his brow. "Have I done something to make you uncomfortable? I am terribly sorry if I-"

"No, no, not at all. I'm just being silly. To be honest, I never heard of you until today, and then…"

"Then?"

"It's embarrassing," she admitted, feeling even more flustered by his attention.

The knight's expression turned serious. "My Lady, if someone has dishonored me, or harmed you through the use of my name-"

"Oh, no! Nothing as terrible as all that. It was the Duchess of Rochelle, and she said…"

"Yes?"

Amilia cringed. "She said I should ask you to carry my favor in the joust."

"Oh, I see." He looked relieved. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I am not-"

"I know. I know," she interrupted, preferring not to hear the words. "I would have told her so myself if she ever stopped talking-the woman is a whirlwind. The idea of a knight-any knight-carrying my favor is absurd."

Sir Breckton appeared puzzled. "Why is that?"

"Look at me!" She took a step back, so he could get a full view. "I'm not pretty, and as we both now know, I'm the opposite of graceful. I'm not of noble blood, having been born a poor carriage-maker's daughter. I don't think I could hope for the huntsman's dog to sit beside me at the feast, much less have a renowned knight such as you riding on my behalf."

Breckton's eyebrows rose abruptly. "Carriage-maker's daughter? You are her? The Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale?"

"Oh yes, I'm sorry." She placed her hand to her forehead and rolled her eyes. "See, I have all the etiquette of a mule. Yes, I am Amilia."

Breckton studied her for a long moment. At last he spoke, "You're the maid who saved the empress?"

"Disappointing, I know." She waited for him to laugh and insist she could not possibly be the Chosen of Maribor. While Modina's public declaration helped protect Amilia, it also made her uncomfortable. For a girl who had spent her whole life trying to hide from attention, being famous was difficult. Worse yet, she was a fraud. The story about a divine intervention selecting her to save the empress was a lie, a political fabrication-Saldur's way of manipulating the situation to his advantage.

To her surprise, the knight did not laugh. He merely asked, "And you think no knight will carry your favor because you are of common blood?"

"Well, that and about a dozen other reasons. I hear the whispers sometimes."

Sir Breckton dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Please, Lady Amilia, I beseech you. Give me the honor of carrying your token in the joust."

She just stood there.

The knight looked up. "I've offended you, haven't I? I am too bold! Forgive my impudence. I had no intention to participate, as I deem such contests the unnecessary endangerment of good men's lives for vanity and foolish entertainment. Now, however, after meeting you, I realize I must compete, for more is at stake. The honor of any lady should be defended and you are no ordinary lady, but rather the Chosen of Maribor. For you, I would slay a thousand men to bring justice to those blackguards who would soil your good name! My sword and lance are yours, dear lady, if you will but grant me your favor."

Dumbstruck, Amilia did not realize she had agreed until after walking away. She was numb and could not stop smiling for the rest of her trip up the stairs.

Reaching Modina's room, Amilia's spirits were still soaring. It had been a good day, perhaps the best of her life. She had discovered her family was alive and thriving. The wedding was proceeding under the command of an experienced and gracious man. And a handsome knight had knelt before her and asked for her token. Amilia grasped the latch, excited to share the good news with Modina, but all was forgotten the moment the door swung open.

As usual, Modina sat before the window, dressed in her thin, white nightgown, staring out at the brilliance of the snow in the moonlight. Next to her was a full-length, intricately-carved oval mirror mounted with brass fittings on a beautiful wooden swivel.

"Where did that come from?" Amilia asked, shocked.

The empress did not answer.

"How did it get here?"

Modina glanced at the mirror. "It's pretty, isn't it? A pity they brought such a nice one. I suppose they wanted to please me."

Amilia approached the mirror and ran her fingers along the polished edge. "How long have you had it?"

"They brought it in this morning."

"I'm surprised it survived the day." Amilia turned her back on the mirror to face the empress.

"I'm in no hurry, Amilia. I still have some weeks yet."

"So you've decided to wait for your wedding?"

"Yes. At first I didn't think it would matter, but then I realized it could reflect badly on you. If I wait, it will appear to be Ethelred's fault. Everyone will assume I couldn't stand the thought of him touching me."

"Is that the reason?"

"No, I have no feelings about him or anything. Well, except for you. But you'll be all right." Modina turned to look at Amilia. "I can't even cry any more. I never even wept when they captured Arista…not a single tear. I watched the whole thing from this window. I saw Saldur and the seret go in and knew what that meant. They came back out, but she never has. She's down there right now in that horrible dark place. Just like I once was. When she was here, I had a purpose, but now there is nothing left. It's time for this ghost to fade away. I have served the regents' purpose by helping them build the Empire. I've given you a better life, and not even Saldur will harm you now. I tried to help Arista, but I failed. Now it's time for me to leave."

Amilia knelt down next to Modina, gently drew back the hair from her face, and kissed her cheek. "Don't speak that way. You were happy once, weren't you? You can be again."

Modina shook her head. "A girl named Thrace was happy. She lived with the family she loved in a small village near a river. Surrounded by friends, she played in the woods and fields. That girl believed in a better tomorrow. She looked forward to gifts Maribor would bring. Only instead of gifts, He sent darkness and horror."

"Modina, there is always room for hope. Please, you must believe."

"There was one day, when you were getting the clerk to order some cloth, that I saw a man from my past. He was hope. He saved Thrace once. For a moment, one very brief moment, I thought he had come to save me, too, only he didn't. When he walked away, I knew he was just a memory from a time when I was alive."