Back in bed,” the man shouted. “Back in bed this instant!” Arista was wandering the hallway of the manor house, as much to get to know her surroundings as to evade Bernice, who was insisting she take a nap. Initially she thought the yelling was directed at her, and while she put up with Bernice and her pampering, she was certainly not about to allow anyone to address her in such a manner as this brassy fellow seemed to be doing. She was no longer in her native kingdom of Melengar, where she was princess of the realm, but she was still a princess and an ambassador and no one had the right to speak to her like that.
With a fury in her countenance, she marched forward and, turning a corner, spotted a middle-aged man and a young girl. The girl was dressed only in her nightgown, her face battered and bruised. He held her wrist, attempting to drag her into a bedroom.
“Unhand her!” Arista ordered. “Hilfred! Guards!”
The man and girl both looked at her, bewildered.
Hilfred raced around the corner and in an instant stood with sword drawn between his princess and the source of her anger.
“I said get your filthy hands off her this instant, or I’ll have them removed at the wrists.”
“But I—” the man began.
From the other direction, two imperial guards arrived. “Milady?” the guards greeted her.
Hilfred said nothing but merely pointed his sword at the man’s throat.
“Take this wretch into custody,” Arista ordered. “He’s forcing himself on this girl.”
“No, no, please,” the girl protested. “It was my fault. I—”
“It is not your fault.” Arista looked at her with pity. “And you needn’t be afraid. I can see to it that he never bothers you, or anyone, again.”
“Oh dear Maribor, protect me,” the man prayed.
“Oh no, you don’t understand,” the girl said. “He wasn’t hurting me. He was trying to help me.”
“How’s that?”
“I had an accident.” She pointed to the bruises on her face. “Deacon Tomas was taking care of me, but I was feeling better today and wanted to get up and walk, but he thought it best if I stay in bed another day. He is really only trying to look out for me. Please don’t hurt him. He’s been so kind.”
“You know this man?” Arista asked the guards.
“He was cleared for entrance by the archbishop as the deacon of this village, my lady, and he was indeed attending to this girl, who is known as Thrace.” Tomas, with his eyes wide with fear and Hilfred’s sword steady at his throat, nodded as best he could and attempted a friendly though strained smile.
“Well,” Arista said, pursing her lips, “my mistake, then.” She looked at the guards. “Go back about your business.”
“Princess.” The guards bowed briskly, turned, and walked back the way they had come.
Hilfred slowly sheathed his sword.
She looked back at the two. “My apologies, it’s just that—that—well, never mind.” She turned away, embarrassed.
“Oh no, Your Highness,” Thrace said, attempting as best she could to curtsy. “Thank you so much for coming to my aid, even if I didn’t actually need it. It is good to know that someone as great as you would bother to help a poor farmer’s daughter.” Thrace looked at her in awe. “I’ve never met a princess before. I’ve never even seen one.”
“I hope I’m not too much of a disappointment, then.” Thrace was about to speak again but Arista beat her to it. “What happened to you?” She gestured at her face.
Thrace reached up, running her fingers over her forehead. “Is it that bad?”
“It was the Gilarabrywn, Your Highness,” Tomas explained. “Thrace and her father, Theron, were the only two to ever survive a Gilarabrywn attack. Now please, my dear girl, please get back in bed.”
“But really, I am feeling much better.”
“Let her walk with me a bit, Deacon,” Arista said, softening her tone. “If she feels worse, I’ll get her back to bed.”
Tomas nodded and bowed.
Arista took Thrace by the arm and led her up the hallway, Hilfred walking a few steps behind. They could not travel far, only thirty yards or so; the manor house was not a real castle. It was built from great rough-cut beams—some with the bark still on—and she guessed there were only about eight bedrooms. In addition, there were a parlor, an office, and the great hall, with a high ceiling and mounted heads of deer and bears. It reminded Arista of a cruder, smaller version of King Roswort’s residence. The floor was made of wide pine planks, and the outer walls were thick logs. Nailed along them were iron lanterns holding flickering candles that cast semicircles of quivering light, for even though it was midafternoon, the interior of the manor was dark as a cave.
“You’re so kind,” the girl told her. “The others treat me … as if I don’t belong here.”