22. Loran
22
LORAN
Snow fell on the westward road. Loran had only a cape covering her leather armor and Wurmath hitched to her side as she walked for days. She did not rush, nor did she tarry. Whenever she stopped to eat or rest her legs, though, she would ask herself if she truly needed the break or if she was giving in to fear and deliberately prolonging her journey.
As she left Dehan Forest to enter Arland, the scenery became more familiar. The horizon was faint through the falling snow. East, west, and south, there was not a single hill or mountain in sight, just scattered copses and groves on the plains. North, there was always the huge volcano, a faint plume of smoke whispering from its mouth. And here and there, in every direction, hamlets and villages, peaceful farming communities.
The highway laid down by the Empire followed the Finvera Pass to enter Lontaria from the south, first passing through Kamori, and veered west from the gates of Kamori’s capital, Karadis, toward Arland. It ran through her homeland and along the black cliffs overlooking the Great West Sea toward the north before twisting again midway through Ledon and going toward the shores.
This road also led to the fortress where the Twenty-Fifth Legion’s Arland detachment was stationed.
Bringing her waterskin from her belt to her lips, Loran took half a mouthful of the cold water inside. Beside the road was a stream fringed with ice. Kneeling, she knocked the ice loose with her gloved fist until the babbling of the water came through, then dipped the canteen into the freezing water. Tiny fish darted away from her hand.
She sat and stared into the flowing water, listening for the footsteps of the people who had been following her for the past hour or so.
“What do you want?” she shouted over her shoulder.
The footsteps paused. She turned her head to find a cluster of people, perhaps ten. They stopped, maintaining the distance between them and her. While they were mostly dressed in the typical winter garb of farmers, one woman, perhaps over fifty years of age, stood out. Her clothes were of high quality, but they were torn and stained in places. Her hands were tied in front of her, and the clothes she wore weren’t suitable for winter. She was shivering. Loran saw no t’laran adorning the woman’s bare neck, signifying her to be an outlander, probably an Imperial.
Were the rest bandits? Loran stood, brushing off the snow and dirt, and walked up to the crowd.
“What is it that you want?” she asked again.
The group exchanged glances before a man near the front replied.
“Are you… You don’t happen to be… Are you the princess?”
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.”
Wilfrid lowered her head again and said, “We are aware you are much occupied with ridding our lands of enemies. I have come here as well with my weapon to join you in the fight.” The staff at her side, no doubt. “But this woman’s crime is very clear, and if you would delay for only a moment for the sake of justice for our village…”
Loran sighed.
“I am not on my way to fight. I am on my way to surrender. By killing the prefect and the legionaries, I have placed Arland in peril.”
“What?” Wilfrid shouted, her eyes wide. A murmur rose among the gathered people. “How can this be! If you go, they will kill you. And the Empire will return!”
“The Empire will return whether I am here or not. The Twenty-Fifth Legion’s main body is arriving as we speak. As long as I am alive, Arland will be in danger.”
Some slumped their shoulders in disappointment, others burst into tears. Still others made fists, anger in their eyes.
Metela, from the ground, looked up at the others and slowly got to her feet. Proving her shivering before was from fear and not cold, her manner was now calm.
“Look here. I have done wrong. But the Empire is returning, and should an Imperial heartlander such as I be harmed, what would come of all of you? I will compensate Esmund’s family well. Let us return to the village now and we shall consider the past few days forgotten.”
Her words were careful, but there was a note of confidence in her voice. Even scum who would murder another for their wealth held their heads high when they expected power and authority to be on their side. Loran’s anger made her head spin, but there was no other way. She nodded.
The man holding Metela’s rope reluctantly untied her. Metela patted the man on the shoulder and began walking back to the village with two others. But the rest of the villagers did not turn away.
Not wanting to see the back of Metela, Loran turned toward her destination once more.
“The day is cold. Please go back home.”
“No!” shouted Wilfrid.
“There is nothing to be done,” said Loran, calmly.
“I shall at least remain to see you on your way.” Wilfrid’s tone was equal parts stubbornness and disappointment. Loran was not cruel enough to drive the people away from her. They did not seem like they would go, regardless.
She turned to Wilfrid and said, “Then do so.”
Wilfrid got to her feet, and four people came forward to stand with her. They held their farming implements like spears.
“We shall also see you on your way.”
Two others standing behind them holding rakes gave each other a look, bowed deeply to Loran, and headed off in the opposite direction from the other leaving villagers, crossing the stepping stones of the stream.
“Where are they going?”
“They are from a different village,” said Wilfrid, “and they were the ones who came to us saying the princess was passing through. They are returning to their village now.”
And once they did, no doubt they would spread the word that the self-styled princess who had killed the prefect was now on her way to surrender to the Empire. That it had all been a pointless mess, from beginning to end. How disappointed they would be, and everyone in Kingsworth… Loran gritted her teeth.
The five who had not gone back stood by, their faces immobile and serious. The fortress was two more days away. Loran began to walk once more. Heavy footsteps followed her.