She sighed. Her shoulders drooped. Could it have gone any worse? She turned and walked out, listening to her beautiful dress rustling.
She stepped outside the castle gate and looked down at the city. Deep baked ruts scarred the uneven dirt roads, so rough and littered with rocks they appeared as dry riverbeds. Sun bleached the tight rows of similarly framed wooden buildings to a pale gray. Most of the residents wore drab colors, clothes made of undyed wool or linen. Dozens of people with weary faces sat on corners or wandered about aimlessly with hands out. They appeared invisible to those walking by. It was Arista’s first visit to Glamrendor, the capital of Dunmore. She shook her head and muttered softly, “We have seen you too.”
Despite the meager offerings, the city was bustling, but she suspected few of those rushing by were locals. It was easy to tell the difference. Those from out of town wore shoes. Wagons, carriages, coaches, and horses flowed through the center of the capital that morning, all heading east. The church opened the contest to all comers, common and noble alike. It was their shot at glory, wealth, and fame.
Her own coach waited, flying the Melengar falcon, and Hilfred stood holding the door. Bernice sat inside with a tray of sweets on her lap and a smile on her lips. “How did it go, my dear? Were you impressive?”
“No, I wasn’t impressive, but we are also not at war, so I should thank Maribor for that kindness.” She sat opposite Bernice making certain to pull the full length of her gown inside the door before Hilfred closed it.
“Have a gingerbread man?” Bernice asked holding up the tray with a look of pity that included pushing out her lower lip. “He is bound to steal the pain away.”
“Where is Sauly?” She asked eyeing the man-shaped cookies.
“He said he had some things to speak to the archbishop about and would ride in his grace’s coach. He hoped you did not mind.”
Arista did not mind and only wished Bernice had joined him. She was tired of the constant company and missed the solitude of her tower. She took a cookie and felt the carriage rock as Hilfred climbed up with the driver. The coach lurched and they were off, bouncing over the rutted road.
“These are stale,” Arista said with a mouthful of gingerbread that was hard and sandy.
Bernice looked horrified. “I’m so sorry.”
“Where did you get them?”
“A little bakery up—” she started to point out the window, but the movement of the carriage confused her. She looked around then gave up and put her hand down again. “Oh, I don’t know now, but it was a very nice shop and I thought you might need—you know—something to help you feel better after the meeting.”
“Need them?”
Bernice nodded her head with a forced smile and reaching out she patted the princess’ hand and said, “It’s not your fault dear. It really isn’t fair of his majesty to put you in this position.”
“I should stay in Medford and receive suitors,” Arista guessed.
“Exactly. This just isn’t right.”
“Neither is this cookie.” She placed the gingerbread man back on the tray minus the leg she had bitten off. She then sat raking her tongue across her upper teeth like a cat with hair in its mouth.
“At least his Royal Majesty must have been impressed by how you looked,” Bernice said, eyeing her with pride. “You’re beautiful.”
Arista gave her a side-long glance. “The dress is beautiful.”
“Of course, it is but—”
“Oh dear Maribor!” Arista cut her off as she glanced out the window. “How many are there now? It will be like traveling with an army.”
As the carriage reached the end of town, she saw the masses. There could be as many as three-hundred men standing behind the banners of the Nyphron Church. They all waited in a single line, but they could not have been more different—the muscular, scrawny, tall, and short. All ranks were represented: knights, soldiers, nobles, and peasants. Some wore armor, some silk, others linen or wool. They sat on chargers, draft horses, ponies, mules, or inside coaches, open-air carriages, wagons, or buckboards. They appeared a strange and unlikely assortment, but each bore the same smile of expectation and excitement, all eyes looking east.
Arista’s first official session as ambassador was finished. As bad as it was, it was over. With Sauly gone, she could shelve thoughts of church and state, guilt and blame. Stress that had smothered her for days evaporated and at last she was able to feel the growing excitement that bubbled all around her.
From everywhere people rushed to join the growing train. Some arrived with nothing but a small linen bag tucked under one arm, while others led their own personal train of packhorses.
There were those who commanded multiple wagons loaded with tents, food, and clothes. One well-dressed merchant carried velvet upholstered chairs and a canopy bed on top of a wagon.
A loud banging hammered the roof of the coach, shocking both of them. Gingerbread men flew. “Oh dear!” Bernice gasped. A moment later Mauvin Pickering’s head appeared in the window, looking down and inside from the back of his horse so that his dark hair hung wildly.
“So how did it go?” he grinned mischievously. “Do I need to prepare for war?”
Arista scowled.
“That good, huh?” Mauvin went on heedless of the commotion he had caused. “We’ll talk later. I have to find Fanen before he starts dueling someone. Hiya Hilfred. This is going to be great. When was the last time we were all camping together? See ya.”
Bernice was fanning herself with both hands, her eyes staring up at the roof of the coach, her mouth slack. Seeing her and the little army of gingerbread men scattered on the benches, in the curtains, on the floor, and in her lap, Arista could not help but smile.
“You were right, Bernice. The cookies did cheer me up.”
———