Should she say yes? That the princess of Arland was walking down a road alone to surrender to the Empire?
“Maybe it’s not her,” said a woman in the crowd. The woman in the expensive, dirty clothes said nothing. She still shivered, whether from cold or fear. The other end of the rope that kept her bound was held by the man who had asked Loran who she was.
“I am,” she finally replied. “What business do you have with me?”
“It’s her… she says it’s her,” the man holding the rope stammered.
“Should we kneel?” another man said, looking around as if seeking advice from others.
Twenty years had passed since the last king of Arland had been killed, and these were simple peasants who would not know the ways of the court. In reality, Loran was no different.
“Do not trouble yourselves,” she said, “but why have you tied up this woman?”
A tall young woman stepped forward and pressed the end of the staff she carried into the prisoner’s shoulder until the tied woman fell to her knees. Then she too knelt before Loran and lowered her head before speaking.
“We farm the lands here in the village of Azaley. We’ve been holding this criminal so the princess could pass judgment on her for us, and we happened to hear that someone who resembled the princess was passing through.”
“She is a criminal?”
“Her name is Metela. An Imperial landowner in these parts, who had Esmund from our village beaten to death while she was trying to steal his land. Raise your head, woman.”
Metela did as she was told. Her skin was pale but flushed, her name an Imperial one.
But why me,Loran almost said. They were in the middle of the road, hardly an appropriate place to hold a trial. And she was on her way to surrender to the Empire, most likely to be hanged somewhere in a few days. She had no right to preside over a trial, if she ever had. But it felt wrong to just send these people away when they had sought her out.
“What is your name?” she said to the woman with the staff.
“I am Wilfrid, Princess.”
Loran turned to Metela. “Is what Wilfrid said true?”
“I hadn’t meant to kill him,” she answered listlessly, “I paid the fine and my servant was sent to the quarries—”
“But here you are, still alive and rich!” Wilfrid struck the back of Metela’s head with her large hand.
“Do not strike her, if it is a trial you wish from me,” said Loran.
The tall woman lowered her head once more.
“But I’ve already had a trial…” Metela sobbed.
“A trial you bribed the prefect for!” shouted someone from the back. A thrown stone hit her. Metela screamed as if she’d been pierced with a sword, collapsing forward.
Loran raised her hand.
“Everyone, please be silent.”
A conundrum. The prefect was burned alive, the main contingent of the Twenty-Fifth had not arrived yet, and until they did,the advance detachment was holed up in the fortress. There was no one to represent the Empire in Arland. This had happened only very recently, but the people were already drunk with liberation.
They couldn’t be blamed. This very liberation was what they had craved for so long, none more so than Loran herself. But her rash actions had turned those hopes into a fleeting daydream.
“I am sorry. But I cannot hold a trial.”
Wilfrid looked up. Surprise was writ on her face.
“Why… why not?”
Loran spoke as gravely as possible. “I am on my way to the legion fortress.”
