Chapter 13 - Things are getting serious.

A week has passed and the days have found their rhythm. Nara sits in the tavern with the brown stone bearing the red-glowing rune in front of her on the table. She turns it slowly between her fingers and holds it to the light, as though the meaning of the engraving might reveal itself if only she stared long enough. But the stone remains silent, and the rune glows faintly, as if amused by her ignorance. She needs access to the library beneath the castle, this becomes clearer to her with each passing day. Whatever this stone is, the answer does not lie in her father’s books.
From the kitchen comes the clatter of pots and Garreth hums a melody that he apparently considers singing. In the back courtyard she hears the rhythmic sounds of Cerena’s sword practice. After breakfast, everyone will work on erecting the palisade at the first breach in the city wall. The materials are ready and the guards have already discussed the plan in detail.
A bright flash of light tears Nara from her thoughts, and when she glances through the window she understands why. The portal pulses brightly, as brightly as it did the last time she saw it, when Cerena arrived.
“Cerena,” she calls out, and adjusts the sword at her hip. She is already at the door when Cerena comes through the back entrance into the main room. Both are at the marketplace before the first figures have even oriented themselves in the portal’s light.
The portal blazes and spits people out. One after another they stumble over the step, some catch themselves, some fall to their knees. Children cling to parents, a woman cries out briefly. In less than a minute, nearly ten people stand on the marketplace, huddled together and rigid with fear. They stand in a world they know only from horror stories. None of them dares to move away from the portal.
Cerena takes charge immediately. “Away from the portal, make room for those coming through,” she calls out, and her voice cuts through the panic. She directs the newcomers with clear gestures to the side, away from the portal’s exit, until the last flicker dies and nearly twenty civilians stand on the marketplace.
A few guards arrive on the marketplace shortly after. Garreth remains in the kitchen.
Nara steps forward before the group. She sees the faces, exhausted and frightened, adults clinging to each other, children crying silently. These people were thrust through the portal, probably as a warning, and they expect death here.
Then someone recognizes her. A murmur runs through the group and Nara sees how the faces change. “The princess,” someone whispers, and the whisper spreads. A man drops to his knees first. Then the next, until they all kneel.
“Stand up,” Nara says. “Please stand up. Here, ranks are nothing but sound and smoke.”
As the newcomers slowly rise, Nara’s gaze catches a movement at the edge of the group. A woman trying to hide behind the back of a larger man, her head lowered, her shoulders drawn in. She gently pulls the man beside her, who can barely stand, backward with her.
Nara recognizes her anyway: Elsa, her former lady’s maid.
She stands at the edge of the group, her head still lowered, one hand on the arm of the man beside her. His face is gaunt and his posture is that of someone who has had something fundamental taken from him. He leans on Elsa and his limbs are bandaged and swollen.
Nara sees Elsa’s face and in that same second she sees the same face in another place.
In the cathedral during the trial, while the judge sits on his podium. Elsa stands before the court in a simple dress, her hands clasped together. Her testimony is precise and her voice clear, except for a barely perceptible tremor that only someone who has known Elsa’s voice since childhood would hear. “Princess Nara called the story of the glorious escape nonsense on multiple occasions and mocked the church representatives in my presence.” Her gaze goes toward the judge, into the crowd, but never toward Nara.
Then another image. Nara is ten years old and has scraped her knee climbing on the roof of the west wing. Elsa sits beside her on the bed and applies a bandage, calm and assured. “This will scar,” Elsa says, and there is no reproach in her voice, only warmth. Nara had not complained, had not cried, had simply sat still and let Elsa work. A peculiar child, she had heard the servants whisper. Too quiet for her age, too calculated.
And then Nara is thirteen and has indirectly called the archbishop’s son a fool in front of the assembled court. It had not been an impulsive decision but a calculated one, because the boy had been tormenting one of the servants for weeks and no one did anything about it. The entire palace is in upheaval and everyone turns away except Elsa, who only sighs and says, “That was not wise, little one.”
Elsa stands at the edge of the group and is still trying to make herself invisible, but Nara sees only her. Her face is gray with exhaustion. Beside her is the man with the bandaged limbs. Nara looks from him to Elsa and back, and in this moment she understands what happened. Once again the church has proven how unscrupulous it is. To extort a false testimony, a family member is kidnapped and tortured, and then both are simply thrown away to cover the tracks.
Nara walks forward steadily and calmly until she stands before Elsa. Elsa’s eyes widen and Nara sees the fear in them, the shame, the expectation of anger or cold rejection.
“I’m sorry,” Elsa whispers. Her voice trembles. “Nara, I’m so incredibly sorry. I had no choice, they took Hendric…”
Nara wraps her arms around her and holds her tight.
Elsa weeps. Quietly and deeply, her face buried in Nara’s shoulder. These are the tears of a woman who testified against the child she raised in court because her husband was taken as a hostage and she saw no other way. And now that child stands before her and embraces her without a single question.
“I know,” Nara whispers. “It’s all right.”
Hendric stands beside them and watches. His gaze is still and waiting. He knows Nara only in passing, and he knows only that his wife came to misfortune because of this woman. Nara feels his gaze, but she does not let go of Elsa.
Eventually, as the tears subside, Nara helps Elsa to her feet. She wipes the tears from her face with her sleeve, a gesture so familiar that Nara only understands afterward where it comes from. Elsa had done this for her when she was a child.
“Come with me,” she says. “There is something to eat.”
Everyone to the tavern. Garreth has cooked for twelve and now there are over thirty, but he improvises without complaint. The stew is stretched, the portions smaller, but warm and sufficient for everyone. The tables are pushed together and it gets crowded.
The newcomers eat in silence. Some look around and Nara sees how their gazes linger on the details. The clean tavern, the burning fireplace, the flowers in clay pots on the counter. This is not the Arthengard from the children’s stories. The tension in their faces does not disappear, but it changes. From mortal fear to confusion is progress.
While the newcomers eat, Nara retrieves the citizen register and sits down with each family in turn.
The blacksmith is called Matthew. He gives short, curt answers as if every word has a price. “Blacksmith. Forty years. Can make anything to do with metal.” His wife Mara fills in everything he forgets or considers not worth mentioning, which in Matthew’s case is almost everything not directly related to hammers and anvils. Their sons Tom and Bill sit beside them. Tom answers Nara’s questions calmly and precisely, Bill becomes impatient and provides too many details at once until Tom gives him a look that reins him in.
The farmer is called Willem. He talks a lot and it takes a while before Nara can filter the useful information from his stream of words. His wife Berta ends the interview for him. “He’s a farmer and talks too much. Next question.” Willem closes his mouth and Nara has to suppress a grin. Their daughter and son sit beside them, and the daughter rolls her eyes, a gesture that reveals she has known this game between her parents for years.
Hendric speaks quietly and slowly, choosing his words carefully as though every single word must earn its place before he speaks it. “I’m a carpenter and can theoretically work with wood.” He glances briefly at his bandaged hands and then back at Nara. There is no bitterness in his gaze, only a quiet statement. Elsa sits beside him and her hand remains on his arm the whole time.
Nara writes, listens, and observes. A blacksmith, a carpenter, a farmer. The three sets of skills she desperately needs. Now they sit before her eating stew.