Roger rolled his eyes. "I don't care about you, or this poor bastard's wife, or whether every person you've hanged was innocent. The fact that you're an ignorant butcher is the reason I'm here, but not for any of the reasons you fear."

"Then why, for pity's sake?"

"Wait, and I promise you will see."

A bell later, his promise was kept.

They came from the south, as Harriot reckoned. There were around half a hundred of them, most in the dark orange tabards of the Royal Light Horse, riding boldly out of the forest and up to the gates of the castle. As they drew nearer, he saw that ten of them wore the full lord's plate of knights. There was a single unarmored fellow appareled in the Vitellian manner, complete with broad-brimmed hat. Next to him was the most singular of the riders, a slight figure in a breastplate, with short red hair. At first he thought the person a page or squire, but then, to his delight, he realized who it actually was.

I was right, he thought, trying not to feel smug.

"It appears Queen Anne herself has come to pay you a visit," he told the sacritor.

"Heresy," the sacritor muttered. "There is no Queen Anne."

"The Comven crowned her," Harriot pointed out.

"The Church does not recognize her authority," Praecum countered.

"I'll enjoy hearing you tell her that," Harriot replied. "You and your fifteen men."

"Up there," a clear feminine voice shouted. "Is one of you the sacritor of this attish?"

"I am," Praecum replied.

From his vantage, Harriot couldn't make out much about her features, but even so he felt a wintry chill, and her eyes seemed somehow dark.

"M-Majesty," the sacritor said. "If you wait but a moment, I can offer you the humble hospitality of my poor attish."

"No," the woman replied. "Wait where you are. Send someone down to show us the way up."