“My mother was terrified. She said there was blood everywhere, and the poor woman and her baby … But she summoned the courage to slip out of the wardrobe. She remembered the second child and knew it would die if she didn’t do something. She picked up a knife and delivered it.
“From the window she saw the husband die, and the street was filled with a dozen bodies. A swordsman covered in blood was killing everyone. She didn’t know what was happening. She was terrified and certain he would kill her too. With the second child in her arms, she took the necklace from the dead baby and fled. She pretended the baby was hers and never told anyone what really happened until the night she died—when she told me.”
“Why did she take the necklace?”
“She said it was because the father meant it for his child.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
She shrugged. “Look at it.” She pointed at his amulet. “It’s made of silver. My mother was a very poor woman. But it’s not like she sold it. In the end, she did give it to him.”
“What’s your brother’s name?”
She looked puzzled. “I thought you knew. I mean, you were with the Nationalists, weren’t you?”
“How would being with—”
“My brother is the leader of the Nationalist army.”
“Oh.” Hadrian’s hopes sank. “Your brother is Commander Parker?”
“No, no, my name is Miranda Gaunt. My brother is Degan.”
She had not fought or taken blows, but Arista felt battered and beaten. She sat in what until that morning had been the viceroy’s office. A huge, gaudy chamber, it contained all that had survived the burning of the old royal palace. Night had fallen, heralding a close to the longest day she could recall. Memories of that morning were already distant, from another year, another life.
Outside, the flicker of bonfires bloomed in the square, where they had sentenced Emery to die. Die he did, but his dream survived, his promise fulfilled. She could hear the citizens of Ratibor singing and saw their shadows dance. They toasted Emery with mugs of beer and celebrated his victory with lambs on spits. A decidedly different gathering than the one the sheriff had planned.
Inside, Arista sat with a dozen men with concerned faces.
“We insist you take the crown of Rhenydd,” Dr. Gerand repeated, his voice carrying over the others.
“I agree,” Perin said. Since the battle, the big grocer, who had been designated to lead the failed left flank and was wounded in the fight, had become a figure of legend. He found himself thrust into the ad hoc city council, hastily composed of the city’s most revered surviving citizens.
Several other heads nodded. She did not know them but guessed they owned large farms or businesses—commoners all. None of the former nobility remained after the imperial takeover and all the Imperialists were either dead or imprisoned. Viceroy Androus, evicted from his office, was relocated to a prison cell along with the city guards who had surrendered. A handful of other city officials and Laven, the man who had argued with Emery in the Gnome, waited to stand trial for crimes against the citizenry.
After the battle had ended, Arista had helped organize the treatment of the wounded. People kept returning to her, asking what to do next. She directed them to bury the bodies of those without families outside the city. There was a brief ceremony presided over by Monsignor Bartholomew.
The wounded and dying overwhelmed the armory, and makeshift hospitals were created in the Dunlaps’ barn and rooms commandeered at the Gnome. People also volunteered their private homes, particularly those with beds recently made empty. With the work of cleaning up the dead and wounded under way, the question of what to do with the viceroy and the other imperial supporters arose, along with a dozen other inquiries. Arista suggested they form a council to decide what should be done. They did, and their first official act was to summon her to the viceroy’s old office.
The decision was unanimous. The council had voted to appoint Arista ruling queen of the kingdom of Rhenydd.
“There is no one else here of noble blood,” Perin said. He wore a bloodstained bandage around his head. “No one else who even knows how to govern.”
“But Emery envisioned a republic,” Arista told them. “A self-determining government, like they have in Delgos. This was his dream—the reason he fought, the reason he died.”
“But we don’t know how to do that,” Dr. Gerand said. “We need experience and you have it.”
“He’s right.” Perin spoke up again. “Perhaps in a few months we could hold elections, but Sir Breckton and his army are still on their way. We need action. We need the kind of leadership that won us this city, or come tomorrow, we’ll lose it again.”
Arista sighed and looked over at Hadrian, who sat near the window. As commander of the Nationalist army, he had also received an invitation.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I’m no politician.”