Chapter 3
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!”

“Calm down, Archie,” Saldur said.

“Stop calling me that. My name is Archibald!” Spit flew from his lips. “You’re both so smug and arrogant, but I’m no pawn. One word from me and Breckton will turn his army and march on Aquesta.” The earl pointed toward the still open door. “They’re loyal to him you know—every last one of the miserable cretins. They will do whatever he says, and as you can see, he worships me.”

He clenched his fists and advanced, maddened that his soft heels did not have the same audible impact as Breckton’s.

“I could get King Alric to throw his support behind me as well. I could return his precious Melengar in exchange for the rest of Avryn. I could beat you at your own little game. I’d have the Northern Imperial Army in my right hand and what remains of the Royalists in my left. I could crush both of you in less than a month. So don’t tell me to calm down, Sauly! I’ve had it with your condescending tone and your holier-than-thou attitude. You’re as much a worm as Ethelred. You’re both in this together, weaving your webs and plotting against me. You just may have caught your own selves in your sticky trap this time!”

He headed for the door.

“Archi—I mean Archibald!” Ethelred called after him.

The earl did not pause as he swept past Chancellor Biddings, who was just outside the throne room and gave the earl a concerned look. Servants scattered before Archibald as he marched in a fury through the doorway to the inner ward. Bursting into the brilliant sunshine reflected by the courtyard’s snow, he discovered he was unsure where to go from there. After a few moments, Archibald decided that it did not matter. It felt good to just move, to burn off energy, to get away. He considered calling for his horse. A long ride over hard ground seemed like just the thing he needed, but it was cold out. Archibald did not want to end up miles from shelter freezing, tired, and hungry. Instead, he settled for pacing back and forth, creating a shallow trench in the new snow.

Frustration turned to pleasure as he recalled his little speech. He liked the look it put on both of their faces. They had not expected such a bold response from him. The delight ate up most of the burning anger and the pacing dissipated the rest. Taking a seat on an upturned bucket, he stomped the snow from his boots.

Would Breckton turn his forces against Aquesta? Could I become the new emperor and have Modina for my own with just a single order?

The answer formed almost as quickly as the question. The thought was an appealing dream but nothing more. Breckton would never agree and would refuse the order. For all the knight’s loyal bravado, everything that man did was subservient to some inscrutable code.

The entire House of Belstrad had been that way. Archibald recalled his father complaining about their ethics. The Ballentynes believed that knights should take orders without question in exchange for wealth and power. The Belstrads believed differently. They clung to an outdated ideal that the ruler—appointed by Maribor—must act within His will to earn a knight’s loyalty. Archibald was certain Breckton would not consider civil war to be Maribor’s will. Apparently, nothing Archibald ever really wanted fit that category.

Still, he had rocked the regents on their heels, and they would treat him better. He would finally have respect now that they realized just how important he was. The regents would have no clue that he could not deliver his threats, so they would try to placate him with a larger prize. In the end, Archibald would have Melengar and perhaps more.