The woman and the boy held one lit candle each up in front of them. Madia realized they could see her much better than she could see them. She got slowly to her feet, straining to gather detail. They were dressed in the simplest of clothes, nearly the same dresses, shirts and pants worn by beggars in Kamrit. The man had an ax in his hands, held at the ready.
“Had enough of our bread?” the woman said in a strong voice with a cold, even tone.
“Who are you?” the man asked in a deep, rough voice that was less taciturn. He looked to be in his thirties, and he still had several teeth. His breath smelled heavily of ale.
Madia opened her mouth, but the answer caught in her throat. Her instinct was to inform them of their place, tell them she was the royal princess of Ariman and was owed the service and allegiance of every soul in these lands, then tell them her bidding after that. But she still did not know who in Kamrit had sent the lone knight to attack her, or what he had wanted, or why Lord Ivran's men had killed the girl who wore her clothing—she didn't know who might have good reason to help her enemies by turning her over to them. How would these people react to the truth, she wondered, if they chose to believe her at all? . . .
The man looked at his wife and shook his head. “She's a thief, that's all! A stinkin' thief. We can take her up to the manor and let the lord deal with her.”
“No!” Madia said, nearly startling herself with the outburst. “No, you can't do that.”
“You see?” the man said. “She is a thief, wanted by the king's men, sure. Out with you, to the manor! I'll not have your likes in my house.”
“Please,” Madia said, finding the word somewhere. She tried to think of something appropriate—not the truth, certainly, but a lie, which was something she had a good deal more experience with.
“I am wanted for something I did not do. You must believe me.”
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Kamrit,” she said, having no idea what else to say.
“What are you charged with?” the woman asked.
Madia searched her tired mind for lucid thoughts. These were ignorant folk, of course, so anything simple would do, and she had concocted the most s
“Had enough of our bread?” the woman said in a strong voice with a cold, even tone.
“Who are you?” the man asked in a deep, rough voice that was less taciturn. He looked to be in his thirties, and he still had several teeth. His breath smelled heavily of ale.
Madia opened her mouth, but the answer caught in her throat. Her instinct was to inform them of their place, tell them she was the royal princess of Ariman and was owed the service and allegiance of every soul in these lands, then tell them her bidding after that. But she still did not know who in Kamrit had sent the lone knight to attack her, or what he had wanted, or why Lord Ivran's men had killed the girl who wore her clothing—she didn't know who might have good reason to help her enemies by turning her over to them. How would these people react to the truth, she wondered, if they chose to believe her at all? . . .
The man looked at his wife and shook his head. “She's a thief, that's all! A stinkin' thief. We can take her up to the manor and let the lord deal with her.”
“No!” Madia said, nearly startling herself with the outburst. “No, you can't do that.”
“You see?” the man said. “She is a thief, wanted by the king's men, sure. Out with you, to the manor! I'll not have your likes in my house.”
“Please,” Madia said, finding the word somewhere. She tried to think of something appropriate—not the truth, certainly, but a lie, which was something she had a good deal more experience with.
“I am wanted for something I did not do. You must believe me.”
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Kamrit,” she said, having no idea what else to say.
“What are you charged with?” the woman asked.
Madia searched her tired mind for lucid thoughts. These were ignorant folk, of course, so anything simple would do, and she had concocted the most s