Nara storms out of the town hall.
Objects fly out of the portal one after another. An axe clatters on the pavement, sacks, tools, bundles and crates. It does not stop.
She makes a quick decision and begins to move everything away from the portal before it gets blocked. She grabs what she can grab and drags it to the side. The portal continues to spit things out, she makes every effort to ensure nothing blocks the portal for long.
When it stops, she stands in the middle of the marketplace, leaning against a crate and breathing heavily. Around her lies half the marketplace full. Sacks, crates, baskets, individual tools and more.
She breathes out. “Well then. I have nothing else to do!”
The first heavy sack of wheat makes her clench her teeth immediately. She drags it backward through the tavern, step by step down the cellar stairs. By the second sack her arms are already burning. By the third she takes an involuntary break, her back against the house wall, air whistling through her teeth.
“Seventeen years as a princess leave traces.” Her already flushed face perfectly expresses her raw anger at herself. “You were very farsighted, Nara. I need a better plan than brute force. Set priorities.”
Pickaxe, shovel, hammer and more tools, all individual and heavy. “Okay, I will move you to the side for now.” She begins to pick up the tools one by one and lean them against the tavern wall.
“Now for you,” she stands before two large crates, hands on her hips. She opens the first crate and finds all manner of fruit and vegetables. She takes out an apple and bites into it. She chews and thinks. “I will not get you down the stairs in whole pieces.” She opens the next crate and out come some hastily thrown books, a small leather pouch, two waterskins, something long wrapped in linen and a letter with a royal seal. “I knew it!” she mutters and quickly stuffs the letter in her pocket, then takes a long drink from the waterskin.
“Okay plan: the books and everything else from this crate, I can lay on the table in the tavern. Once the crate is empty, I can hopefully carry it down the stairs so I can then transfer the contents of the vegetable crate piece by piece without having to drag the whole crate. Yes, that is what I will do. Child’s play.”
She looks up at the sky. “And I should hurry.” Dark clouds gather on the horizon and the temperature has noticeably dropped.
When the last sack of onions is stored in the cellar, she sits on the top step, her arms numb and her legs trembling. Outside the first drops are falling. She sighs as she remembers the tools leaning against the house wall outside.
She stands in silence and begins to move the tools into the tavern. After her work is done, she collapses on a chair, her limbs heavy as lead. Then the letter occurs to her. She pulls it from her pocket and begins to read it.
My daughter,
Forgive me. The veto was all I could do and it was not enough. I bear the sole responsibility for this.
I have sent you what I could gather in the short time available. More will follow as soon as I am able. I cannot tell you when, however. Continue to stay as close to the portal as you can for as long as you can. Should that not be possible, try once a month to return to the portal and leave a sign of where you have gone.
Among the books you will find everything I could gather about Arthengard. No one really knows what awaits you there, much was lost in the great flight. Be careful.
The sword is a family heirloom and has gathered dust in the treasure chamber for generations. It is better kept in your hands, even though I hope you will never have to use it.
Your gesture at the portal crossing, by the way, sent the Cardinal into a rage and the people into turmoil. I do not yet know what consequences that will have, but I will do everything to protect the people.
Do not give up hope.
In love, your father
She fully unwraps the linen wrapping and lays the sword before her on the table.
It is a short sword. The sheath of black ebony, so dark it almost seems unnatural, with red ornaments that wind like tendrils from the tip to the handle. She turns the sheath in her hands. No crack, no wear and not even a scratch. As if someone had just taken it from the workshop yesterday.
A barely perceptible but pleasant feeling emanates from the sword.
She draws the sword from its sheath. The blade is just as flawless as the sheath, the metal dark with a faint gleam. No notches, no spots. The edge is sharp, she notices when she carefully holds her thumb against it. Along the flat side of the blade run runes, finely engraved and even, from the base of the handle almost to the tip. She runs her finger over them. The engravings are very finely crafted.
Then she notices it. The runes glow with a faint blue light.
She holds the blade into the light. No doubt, a muted, quiet blue emanates from the runes. She fastens the sheath around her waist and sheathes the sword.
Startled, she puts her hand on her neck, a chill runs down her spine. As she examines her hand, she notices it is wet. She looks up and another drop falls directly in her face. Then another. With a groan she rises from her chair and finds three barrels behind the counter that still seem sealed.
Nara looks around, the roof seems to have only two leaky spots. “Good, then I will put the last barrel outside, that should hopefully also solve my drinking water problem.” After her work is done, she searches in her new leather pouch for flint and tinder. “Perfect, now I just need some firewood,” which is quickly found. Two broken chairs and a table have to sacrifice themselves, but after half an hour a small fire is kindled in the fireplace and a small camp is prepared. The rain has meanwhile picked up speed. Nara grabs the top book from the stack and makes herself comfortable before the fireplace. She opens it.
Chronicle of the House of Arthengard, Volume III.
She flips through the first pages. Birth dates, marriage dates, court festivals. A lengthy eulogy of a prince whose name she has already forgotten after two sentences.
“Riveting,” she mutters.
She flips further. A detailed description of a harvest festival. Then a diplomatic reception. Then a list of the foods served there.
Her eyes grow heavy. The book slides from her hands and falls gently to the floor.
A thunder clap tears her from sleep.
She jolts awake, her heart hammering. The fire has burned down, only embers remain. Outside the rain beats against the shutters and another thunder clap rolls over the city. She stands, steps to the window and peeks out through a crack. The marketplace is flooded.
She leans her forehead against the wood.
“Well, great.”