The empress stood in her lavish gown. She was also adorned in the long black velvet mantle embroidered with the imperial crest, which she’d put on before presenting herself.
“This—No, it’s not possible!” Luret muttered. “It’s a trick. A trick, I say! I won’t be hoodwinked. Look at this child. She is an impostor. A fake. All of you lay down your arms and come peacefully and I will only execute the blacksmith’s son and his companion. Defy me and all of you will die!”
At that moment, the six soldiers with the crossbows began to sniffle. They blinked hard, their eyes watered, and they crinkled their noses. One by one, they began to sneeze, and then the thick sinewy skein of the crossbows snapped in loud pops, the metal bolts dropping helplessly to the dirt.
Hadrian glanced at Arista, who smiled mischievously at him.
“Before you get yourself into any more trouble,” Modina said, addressing Luret, who was now clearly concerned, “allow me to introduce the rest of my contingent. This is the princess—or rather now Queen Arista of Melengar, conqueror of Ratibor, and sorceress extraordinaire.”
“I think she prefers wizardess,” Myron whispered.
“Pardon me, wizardess. This is Royce Melborn, newly crowned king of the ancient realm of Erivan. With him, as you may have noticed, are three of his elven lords. This short gentleman is Magnus of the Children of Drome, a master of stone and earth. Beside him is Degan Gaunt, leader and hero of the Nationalists. Over here is the legendary sword master Count Pickering of Galilin. This is the Marquis of Glouston, the famed and learned monk of Maribor. And while he shouldn’t require any introduction, before you stands Hadrian Blackwater, Teshlor Knight, Guardian of the Heir of Novron, champion of the empire, and hero of the realm.
“These defenders of the empire have passed through the underworld, fought armies of goblins, crossed treacherous seas, entered and returned from the lost city of Percepliquis, and this very day halted the advance of an unstoppable army and defeated the being who long ago murdered our savior Novron the Great. They saved not only the empire but all of you as well. You owe them your lives, your respect, and your eternal gratitude.”
She paused to stare at the wide-eyed Luret. “Well, envoy, magistrate, and executor, what say you?”
Luret looked at the faces around him. He saw his men laying down their weapons. He glanced at the faces of the villagers, then kicked his horse and bolted. He did not head back up the road to the manor but rather fled out to the open fields.
“I could make him fall off the horse,” Arista mentioned, but Modina shook her head.
“Let him go.” She looked at the soldiers. “The rest of you can go as well.”
“Wait,” Hadrian said. “Lord Baldwin is imprisoned at the manor, is that right?”
The soldiers slowly nodded, their faces coated in concern.
“Go free him at once,” Modina said. “Tell him what you have seen and that I will be visiting him and his household tomorrow. In fact, tell him he will have the honor of hosting me and my court until such time as I arrange more permanent accommodations.”
They nodded, bowed, and walked backward for a dozen steps before giving up, turning, and running up the street.
“I think you made an impression,” Hadrian told her, then looked at the villagers.
They all stood like posts, staring at Modina, their mouths agape.
“Armigil, you do still brew beer, right?” Hadrian asked.
“What, Haddy?” she said, dazed, still staring at the empress.
“Beer, you know… barley, hops… It’s a drink. We could really do with a barrel about now, don’t you think?” He waved a hand in front of Dunstan. “Maybe a warm place to rest. Perhaps a bite of food?” He snapped his fingers three times. “Hello?”
“Is that really the empress?” Armigil asked.
“Yeah, so she’s gonna be able to pay you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
This snapped her out of her daze. The old woman scowled at him and shook a finger. “Ya know better than that, ya overgrown skunk! ’Ow dare ya be callin’ me inhospitable! Whether she’s the empress or a tart dragged from the gutter, ya know they both would be equally welcome to a pint and a plate in Hintindar—at least now that Uberlin ’imself is gone.” She looked at Dunstan and Arbor. “And what are ya doing standing there and gawking fer? Throw some dough in the oven. Osgar, Harbert, get over ’ere and lend a ’and with a barrel. Algar, see if’n yer wife has any more of that mince pie and tell Clipper to cut a side of salt pork from—”
“No!” Hadrian, Arista, Mauvin, and Degan shouted all at once, startling everyone. They all began to laugh.
“Please, anything but salt pork,” Hadrian added.
“Is—is mutton okay?” Abelard asked, concerned. Abelard the shearer and his wife, Gerty, had lived across the street from the Blackwaters for years. He was a thin, toothless, balding man who reminded Hadrian of a turtle, the way his head poked out of his cowl.
They all nodded enthusiastically.
“Mutton would be wonderful.”
Abelard smiled and started off.
“And bring your fiddle and tell Danny to bring his pipe!” Dunstan shouted after him. “Looks like spring came a bit early this year, eh?”
Arista was being careful, having learned her lesson before. This time she limited herself to just one mug of Armigil’s brew; even then, she felt a tad light-headed. She sat next to Hadrian on top of flour sacks piled on the wide pine of the bakery floor. The floor itself was slippery from the thin coating of flour that the girls loved playing on. Allie and Mercy slid across the floor as if it were a frozen pond, at least until enough people arrived to make a good slide impossible. Arista thought about offering to help Arbor, but she already had half a dozen women working in her cramped kitchen, and after everything, it felt too good just sitting there leaning against him, feeling Hadrian’s arm curled around her back. She smelled the sweet aroma of baking bread and roasting lamb. She listened to the gentle chatter of friendly conversations all around her and drank in the warmth and comfort. It made her wonder if this was what Alric had found within the light. She wondered if it smelled of baking bread, and remembering, she was almost certain it had.
“What are you thinking?” Hadrian asked.
“Hmm? Oh, I was hoping Alric was happy.”
“I’m sure he is.”
She nodded and Hadrian raised his mug. “To Alric,” he said.
“To Alric,” Mauvin agreed.
Everyone in the room with a glass, mug, or cup—even those who had never heard of Alric—raised drinks. Her eyes landed on Allie, who now sat between Modina and Mercy nibbling like a bird on a hunk of brown bread.
“To Wyatt and Elden,” she whispered, too quietly even for Hadrian to hear, and downed the last of her cup.