"We aren't stopping here, are we?" Ilya called from behind him. "We're still half a day or more from Napolanva!"
"We are stopping," Mikhail growled. "The Princess is recovering from frost bite and other injuries. She is still weak."
Prince Mikhail signaled the carriage driver as he turned his horse from the Southern Road toward the column of smoke rising above the trees. There was no sign to announce it, but just off the road was a well-known tavern which he had visited once before.
To be clear, he hadn't planned on stopping before reaching Napolanva, but the snow had been falling for hours, slowing their speed. The Princess was likely quite chilled by this point, and this specific tavern... well, she could refresh her foot warmer with fresh coals and eat something hot, but there was something at the Drail Tavern that might warm the coldness in her eyes as well.
A short ride through a tunnel of pine trees brought them to a wide clearing where a squat stone tavern with a wood shingled roof and several chimneys pouring smoke welcomed travelers with a path lined by colored glass lanterns.
Mikhail dismounted and threw his reins to the tavern's master of horse. Ilya was quick to follow. A look of understanding spread across his aide's face.
"I remember this place," Ilya grinned. "I think I understand now why-"
"Go in and see if you get us a private table," Prince Mikhail interrupted. "The Princess will need hot coals for her foot warmer as well."
He watched as Ilya disappeared inside and then walked toward the approaching carriage. Not waiting for the driver to jump down, the Prince kicked the plate on the moveable steps so that they fell down and wrenched open the door.
The Princess leaned forward to see who it was, and he saw that she had the lap blanket pulled up to her shoulders and that she seemed to be shivering. He should not have listened to her and allowed her to ride alone. What did it matter that she was angry with him? What could she do to stop him from riding with her if he so chose? The worst she could do was sulk. He was certainly used to that.
"Have we ar-r-rived?" she asked, doing her best to keep her teeth from chattering.
"We are stopping for warmth and rest. Come down," he ordered.
She nodded and stood on unsteady legs that seemed ready to collapse but ignored the hand he proffered to help her down the steps. Irritated, the Prince took a step back and waited as she slowly descended and then stood and glanced around, squinting against the blinding glare of sunlight reflected across the open field of snow.
"Is that..?" she took a few faltering steps toward the tavern and stopped, shaking her head as though answering her own question.
He knew what she wanted to ask without her saying the words. The wood shingle roof of the tavern was not a common feature found in the Empire. It was done in a style that Vezdans favored before the war left building material in short supply. She had recognized it but dismissed it as coincidence in almost the same instant. He almost smiled to himself.
"Come," he said, and when he placed a supportive hand beneath her arm, she did not pull away. She appeared to be mesmerized by the building, which continually belched thick wood smoke from its numerous chimneys, and as they came closer, one could see that the windows were fogged from the heat within. Even on legs that were cramped and cold, the Princess began to limp a bit faster, eager to be inside.
He held the door for her, and she closed her eyes and smiled at the wave of heat that washed over them from inside.
"Oh that heat feels absolutely wonderful, doesn't it?" she asked, flashing him an excited grin as she hurried inside. His heart skipped a beat to see the way her blue-green eyes sparkled when she was happy.
Once inside, she stopped short and gave a sharp gasp. Her hand flying to cover her mouth in shock. In the entryway of the Tavern, in a position of honor upon the wall, was a large full-length painting of the late Queen Ora. Done in very realistic style, the Ora of the painting, with her regal posture and wide, sympathetic brown eyes, looked as though she would step from the frame at any moment and greet them.
"What... what... is this? Why would they...?" the Princess cried, her voice breaking.
"Oh, I see you've noticed the painting," Ilya called, approaching them from a room beyond the entry. He shrugged off his heavy cloak and hung it on the wall, before bowing his head in greeting to the girl. "The tavern owners are very partial to the late Queen Ora, after all. They consider her something of a lucky charm, or possibly a saint," he chuckled.
"Why?" the Princess asked cautiously.
"Because the owners are Vezdan... or they WERE Vezdans rather. They were both former slaves who were able to earn their freedom under Queen Ora's law," Ilya explained.
"Queen Ora's law?" the Princess repeated, glancing quickly to Prince Mikhail for confirmation.
"Yes, well... I think its actual name is something long and boring like: Legal Status of Long-term Enslaved Foreign Peoples, 1495.1, section 12, the people call it Queen Ora's Law though," Ilya clarified.
"Why? What is this law?" the Princess demanded, impatient now, though her eyes returned to the painting.
"As part of her marriage negotiation with the Emperor, she first asked for the immediate release of over 3000 Vezdan slaves throughout the Empire. The Emperor wasn't keen on this, as it was assumed that most slaves were not likely to return to Vezda. You have to realize that most slaves have lived so long in the Empire that they have come to see it as home, and that Vezda didn't have enough food and resources for its citizens as it was. Well, you could imagine how freeing 3000 former slaves who had not a cent to their names, nowhere to go, and little training besides might cause some degree of unrest. As a compromise, the Emperor offered to sign into law an agreement that states that once a slave works for five years, they can apply for their own purchase contract. Essentially, they can buy their own freedom--and many former slaves have," Ilya explained patiently.
"But how does a slave buy their freedom?" she asked, still staring at the image of her sister.
"Side work mostly. Selling things they make or giving up the legally required hours of rest to clean houses or cook, or for brothel workers... off the clock sort of deals sometimes," Ilya shrugged. "I believe the owner of this tavern was one of the first freed under the law, and she did it by selling her paintings."
"She must have seen Ora before... to paint something so... so lifelike... so true to form," the Princess marveled. "Why did you never tell me of this?" she demanded whirling on the Prince, "I even asked you how many girls were enslaved here and--"
"And I answered you. Just over 1500 in the capitol, although years ago there were far more," Prince Mikhail muttered.
"You mustn't accuse our Prince for answering in such a succinct way. It is... difficult... for him to speak of Queen Ora at all-- the Emperor's orders, you understand," Ilya apologized for his master.
"No, I can't say that I do understand him," the Princess frowned.
"Our table?" Prince Mikhail growled, reminding Ilya of his task. It was uncomfortable to be discussed as though one was not standing right there.
"Oh yes, of course. We've a private room, come this way Princess," Ilya instructed.
He led them through a vast dining hall with rough-hewn tables and two giant fireplaces which blazed with fire and burned logs that looked more like whole tree trunks. There were paintings covering the surface of every wall, and the Princess had to stop several times to admire figures she recognized from Vezdan legends, and even of ancestors from her own House Eosin.
Her mood was already much improved, and she walked with a more comfortable and steady gait, Prince Mikhail noted and nodded slightly to himself. There was not much he could say concerning Queen Ora, but even if his tongue was bound, he could still show her some of that truth she so desired.
"This is really... really quite... unexpected!" the Princess admitted as Ilya ushered her into a private dining room. The serving maid assigned to the room pulled out a chair and bowed to the Princess as she sat. The girl recognized them at that moment, for when she turned to glance at the men, she let out a quick, high-pitched squeak and dropped to her knees to bow deeply.
"My Prince and Lord Ilya!" she said. "An honor to serve you both!"
"Yes, yes, isn't it," Ilya agreed as he motioned for her to stand. "What is on the menu this evening?"
"Potato and chicken soup, fresh grilled planca, and the fried venison with a crisped rice and dried seaweed crust," the girl rattled off quickly.
"It's all Vezdan fare," Ilya said, glancing at the Princess. "They specialize in dishes that are traditional in Vezda, though I believe they source a great deal of the seafood from Frem-- similar climate there, you know. What is the lady partial to?"
"Just bring some of everything, except for the fish," Prince Mikhail interrupted. "And desserts as well, whatever they are."
He did not meet her eye but busied himself with cleaning his hands in the water bowl the serving girl had already laid out. The Princess had lived through the starving times. She wouldn't know which traditional dishes she favored, as venison had been hunted to near extinction in Vezda and even after the starving times, they had little besides fish and a few vegetables.
"I didn't know about this..." the Princess said as soon as the servant left to fetch their meal. She turned to face Mikhail as she continued, "about Queen Ora's law... or that she was able to negotiate for anything in marrying the Emperor. You could have told me-"
"He could not have told you," Ilya interrupted curtly.
"Why is that you can speak of it, but the Prince of the Empire can not?" the Princess demanded.
"Because we serve different masters and we are bound by different orders," Ilya replied indifferently.
"How can you serve different masters when the Emperor sits on the throne and controls..." the Princess's question faded on her lips as Ilya finished washing his hands and rolled his sleeve further up instead of down. The edges of black scrolling lines could be seen beneath his cuff. She gasped and covered her mouth, and then leaned forward as if she would examine his marks. Ilya quickly rolled his sleeve down.
"You can tell me what the marks mean!" she realized.
"Pity, but I cannot, that is one order we are both bound by," Ilya said.
The Princess glanced between them, and Mikhail knew without looking that Ilya was watching her too, just as he was, willing the girl to put the pieces together and figure out what kept their tongues stuck. She was a clever girl, after all, and he knew from years of studying her face that something was being considered behind those blue-green eyes at that moment, if only he could open his mouth and say something to tip her into the right conclusion. If only--
"Well, I must confess myself excited that I finally get to try Vezdan chicken and potato soup!" she grinned and reached for the hand washing bowl in front of her.
Mikhail allowed himself a short sigh of disappointment as Ilya slumped visibly in his chair.