890 ASF

When Rand asked for a hand in marriage and revealed himself Roland Craythe—known by the realm as Roland the Righteous and King of the Rivers—Sarsha did what few women would do.

She declined.

Not because she had finally made the riverlands her home. Indeed, had Roland been honest from the beginning, things may have gone differently. But he hadn’t. He’d fabricated all the details and stories of his messenger life. Roland defended these lies, claiming that he’d wanted to see his country from the eyes of the commonfolk, roaming the riverlands with a disguise and a cover story. A protection. But Sarsha had fallen in love with a messenger, not a king. And even if you believe love had nothing to do with any of it, Sarsha desired to reclaim the mantle of Lady Marwood. Not to become one of Roland’s wives.

Saying “no” to a king, however, is rarely a safe affair.

Roland asked her once more. When she refused a second time, he withdrew without another word. Several days later, he returned to Sarsha with a dark mood that simmered in his eyes and twitched on his lips. He’d asked around the local town and had learned her identity, too. She was a hypocrite, he claimed, judging him for falsehood while hiding away her own—and look how she still clung to her family’s silver necklace! Let us forget this nonsense, he said, and move on. When she was a royal wife, he would restore her lands and title to her.

It was nonsense, Sarsha agreed, and turned him down a third time.

The riverlands was not her true home, but it was more of one than what Roland offered.

I understood Sarsha’s decision a little better when my errand girl duties took me to the local village, Boulderbridge. Arlisse sent me to fetch a few things easier to buy than to make herself. She did not give me money—a fact I did not realize until I was standing in front of the village baker, having just put my hands on a loaf of bread. But when I mentioned it was for Arlisse, the baker laughed and handed me two loaves.

Similar stories for the potter and his jars of clay, the blacksmith with his nails, the tailor with his twine. Each offered their wares with the fervor of someone repaying a deep debt—not a sinister one, but one for which they are sincerely grateful. Boulderbridge, it seemed, cherished Arlisse as Sarsha’s village cherished her.

Not everyone, though. My fealty to Arlisse attracted a few scowls and suspicious glares. She had warned me of these townsfolk—people who suspected her and all riverbirds as distrustful wild women. True, not all riverbirds were (and are) selfless saints, and some had even gone mad or rogue. But more had lost their lives for imagined crimes and curses. Even with most townsfolk appreciating their work, there were—and always will be—those who believe them cousins to willow witches, or daughters of the Raven.

Perhaps that was what Roland believed after Sarsha spurned him thrice. He returned some time later and put her river hut to the torch, along with the surrounding wilds. Sarsha, luckily, was out foraging, but by the time she came home, only a field of embers and ash remained. Her townsfolk had turned up as well, drawn by the flames and outraged at the deed. Some mourned with her, offering her a place to stay, but instead Sarsha gathered what little she had left and struck out into the wilds.

She wanted to see the old crone, the one who had first taken her in. What Sarsha’s purpose was, we shall never know. When she arrived and the old crone came out to greet her, a figure stepped out of the shadows of the hut. Not the king, but one of his assassins. The figure plunged a blade into the old crone, who mouthed a scramble of words before collapsing facedown in the mud.

Sarsha screamed and fled into the wilds. How had the assassin found her? How had they hidden from the old crone? And how, Sarsha soon saw, were they able to keep up with her across the untamed riverlands? One thing, however, was certain: the assassin would eventually catch her.

Thankfully, nobody from Boulderbridge followed me back home. My hackles didn’t raise until I arrived at Arlisse’s river hut, where I noticed several things wrong at once. The door was shut. No birdsong. The outdoor cauldron frothed over its rim and onto the embers, making them hiss.

Then someone kicked me from behind, sending me tumbling to the ground. I gasped, winced, spat out grimy spittle. The hut’s door opened. I looked up to see three men emerge, dragging Arlisse out by her wrists and tufts of her hair. They’d bound her up and gagged her. Before I could call out, the man behind me kicked my ribs, sending me rolling and wheezing across the muddy earth. I turned and looked up into the eyes of my attacker.

The dusty man from the crossroads.