Chapter 18
Wintertide

In the darkness of the prison, Amilia lay cradled in Breckton’s arms, pondering the incomprehensible—how it was possible to simultaneously drown in both bliss and fear.

“Look,” Sir Breckton whispered.

Amilia raised her head and saw a weak light leaking around the last cell’s door. In the pale glow, the figures in the prison appeared ghostly faint, devoid of all color. Princess Arista, Sir Hadrian, and Degan Gaunt lay in the corridor, upon a communal bed built from straw gathered from all the cells. The three looked like corpses awaiting graves. Sir Hadrian’s torso was wrapped in makeshift bandages stained frighteningly red. The princess was so thin that she no longer looked like herself, but Degan Gaunt was the worst of all. He appeared to be little more than skin stretched over bone. If not for his shallow breathing, he could have been a cadaver, several days dead.

During the night, a man had broken into the prison in an attempt to free them. He opened the doors to the cells, but the plan to escape had failed. Now the man prowled around the prison.

“It’s morning,” Sir Breckton said. “It’s Wintertide.”

Realizing the light indicated a new day, Amilia began to cry. Breckton did not ask why. He simply pulled her close. From time to time the knight patted her arm and stroked her hair in a manner she could hardly have thought possible less than a day before.

“You’ll be all right,” he reassured her with surprising conviction. “As soon as the empress discovers the treachery of the regents, I am certain nothing will stop her from saving you.”

Amilia pressed her quivering lips tightly together. She gripped the knight’s arm and squeezed it.

“Modina is also a prisoner,” Arista stated.

Amilia had thought the princess was sleeping. Looking over, she saw Arista’s eyes were open and her head was tilted just enough to see them.

“They use her as a puppet. Saldur and Ethelred run everything.”

“So she’s a complete fabrication? It was all just a ruse? Even that story about slaying Rufus’s Bane?” Breckton asked her.

“That was real,” Arista replied. “I was there.”

“You were there?” Amilia asked.

Arista started to speak, then coughed. She took a moment then drew in a wavering breath. “Yes. She was different then—strong, unwavering. Just a girl, but one determined to save her father and daunted by nothing. I watched her pick up a bit of broken glass to use as a weapon against an invincible monster the size of a house.”

“There now, My Lady,” Breckton said. “If the empress can do that I am certain—”

“She can’t save us!” Amilia sobbed. “She’s dead!”

Breckton looked at her, stunned.

She pointed at the light under the door. “It’s Wintertide. Modina killed herself at sunrise.” She wiped her face. “The empress died in her room, in front of her window, watching the sun rise.”

“But…why?” he asked.

“She didn’t want to marry Ethelred. She didn’t want to live. She didn’t have a reason to go on. She…she…” Overcome with emotion, Amilia rose and moved down the corridor. Breckton followed after.