Michael Sullivan: The emerald storm

Renquist stiffened at the suggestion. "Gaunt's capture makes taking Aquesta all the more difficult. I need time to gather information and I'm waiting for reinforcements and supplies from Delgos. Attacking the capital won't be like taking Vernes or Ratibor. Aquesta is a Warric city and the seat of the empire. The Imperialists will fight to the last man to defend their empress. No. We need to stay here until I'm fully prepared."

"Wait if you must, but not here," she replied firmly.

"What if I refuse?" His eyes narrowed.

Arista put the parchments she was holding on the desk but said nothing.

"My army conquered this city," he told her pointedly. "You hold authority only because I allow it. I needn't take orders from you. You are not a princess here, and I am not your serf. My responsibility is to my men, not to this city and certainly not to you."

Arista slowly rose.

"I am the mayor pro tem of this city," she said, her voice growing in authority, "appointed by the people. Furthermore, I am steward and acting administrator of all of Rhenydd, again by the consent of the people. You and your army are here by my leave."

"You are a princess of Melengar and a foreigner! At least I was born in Rhenydd."

"Regardless of your personal feelings toward me, you will respect the authority of this office and do as I say."

"And if I don't?" he asked coldly.

Renquist's reaction did not surprise Arista. He was a career soldier who served with King Urith, as well as the Imperial Army, before joining the rebel Nationalists when Kilnar fell. When Gaunt disappeared, Hadrian appointed him commander in chief, a position far higher in rank than Renquist could ever have hoped for. Renquist was finally realizing the power he possessed and starting to assert himself. She had hoped he would demonstrate the same spirit Emery had shown but Renquist was not a commoner with the heart of a nobleman. If she did not take action now, Arista would face a military overthrow.

"This city just liberated itself from one tyrant, and I won't allow it to fall under the heel of another. If you refuse to obey me, I'll replace you as commander."

"And howo d you do that?"

Arista revealed a faint smile. "Think hard…I'm sure you can figure it out."

Renquist continued to stare at her, then his eyes widened in realization and fear flashed across his face.

"Yes," she told him, "the rumors about me are true. Now take your army out of the city before I feel a need to prove it. You have just one day to remove them. Scouts found a suitable valley to the north. I suggest you camp where the river crosses the road. It is far enough away to prevent further trouble. There is plenty of water, fish, and wood for fires. By heading north, your men will feel they are progressing toward the goal of Aquesta, thus helping morale."

"Don't tell me how to run my army," he snapped, although not as loudly, nor as confidently as before.

"My apologies," she said, with a bow of her head. "It was only a suggestion. The order to leave the city, however, is not. Good evening to you, sir."

Renquist hesitated, his breath labored, his hands balled into fists.

"I said good evening, sir."

He muttered a curse and left, slamming the door behind him.

Exhausted, Arista slumped in her chair.

Why does everything have to be so hard?

Everyone wanted something from her now: food, shelter, assurances that everything would be all right. The citizens looked at her and saw hope, but Arista could see little herself. Plagued by endless problems and surrounded by people, she felt oddly alone.

There was not a single person in Ratibor whom she had known for longer than a month, and she longed for a familiar face. Arista missed Hilfred. After suffering burns in her service over two years ago, her once ever-present bodyguard had left without a word. She also missed her brother, Alric, and hoped he could forgive her for disobeying him. Perhaps her success in taking Ratibor would lessen his anger. Most of all, Arista missed Royce and Hadrian, a common thief and a rogue swordsman. To them, she was nothing more than a wealthy patron, but to her, they were nothing less than her closest friends.

Arista laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes.

Just a few minutes catnap, she told herself. Then I will get up and figure out how to deal with the shortage of grain and look into the reports of the mistreatment of prisoners.

Since her appointment, a hundred issues demanded her attention such as who was entitled to harvest the fields of the farmers lost in battle. With food in short supply and harsh autumn weather threatening, she needed a quick solution. At least these problems saved her from thinking about her own loss. Like everyone in town, Arista remained haunted by the Battle of Ratibor. She bore no visible injury-her pain came from a memory, a face seen at night when her heart ached as if pierced. It would never fully heal. There would always be a wound, a deformity, a noticeable scare for the rest of her life.

When she finally fell asleep, thoughts of Emery, held at bay during her waking hours, invaded her dreams. He appeared, as always, sitting at the foot of the bed, bathed in moonlight. Her breath shortened in anticipation of the kiss as he leaned forward, a smile across his lips. Abruptly he stiffened, and a drop of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth-a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. She tried to cry out but could not make a sound. The dream had always been the same, but this time Emery spoke. "There's no time left," he told her, his face intent and urgent. "It's up to you now."

She struggled to ask what he meant, when- "Your Highness." She felt a gentle hand jostle her shoulder.

Opening her eyes, Arista saw Orrin Flatly. The city scribe, who once kept track of the punishment of rebels in the Central Square, had volunteered to be her secretary. His cold efficiency had given her pause but she relented, realizing there was no crime in doing one's job well. Her decsion proved sound and he had turned out to be a loyal, diligent worker. Still, waking to his expressionless face disturbed her.

"What is it?" she asked, wiping her eyes and feeling for tears that should have been there.

"Someone is here to see you. I explained you were occupied, but he insists. He is very…" Orrin shifted uncomfortably, "hard to ignore."

"Who is he?"

"He refused to give his name, but said you knew him, and claims his business is of utmost importance and he must speak to you immediately."

"Okay." Arista nodded drowsily. "Give me a moment and then send him in."

Orrin left, and in his absence she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress to ensure her appearance was at least marginally presentable. Having lived the life of a commoner for so long, what Arista deemed acceptable had reached an appallingly low level.

To replace her bloodstained gown she borrowed a frock from Mrs. Dunlap. Despite a seamstress's attempt to alter it, the garment remained a poor fit. Designed for an elderly matron, with a tall, stiff collar and heavy stays, the dress was not at all flattering. Checking her hair in a mirror, she wondered where the Princess of Melengar had gone and if she would ever return.

While she inspected herself the door opened. "How may I help-"

Esrahaddon stood in the doorway, wearing the same flowing robe whose color Arista could never determine. His arms, as always, were lost in its shimmering folds. His beard was longer and gray streaked his hair, making him appear older than she remembered. She had not seen the wizard since that morning on the bank of the Nidwalden River, when he admitted to orchestrating her father's death.

"What are you doing here?" she asked her warm tone icing over.

"I am pleased to see you as well, Your Highness."