The Princess They Called a Saint

“And thus! By Princess Alaja’s swift and brilliant judgment, the Batani army under her command swept across the kingdom like a breaking storm, liberating city after city! Then, entrusting her forces to her loyal retainer, Baron Raul, Her Highness struck toward our capital of Bilha itself. There she shattered the armies of Q, drove them from our homeland, and ended the long torment they had inflicted upon our people!”

The storyteller’s voice rang through the theater with such force that it seemed capable of shaking the walls of a castle.

The applause that followed was thunderous.

This was the great theater of Bilha, capital of the Kingdom of Batani. Every winter, it became the stage for a ritual known to every citizen of the realm. The war against Q, fought during the founding days of the kingdom, was reenacted through actors, musicians, and storytellers, drawing crowds from distant towns and mountain villages alike.

So many came to watch that the performance lasted an entire week.

It was held slightly after the busiest farming season, and for many peasants, it was one of the few respectable entertainments the year allowed them. Even in the cold, they came. Wrapped in heavy cloaks, stamping snow from their boots, they filled the city’s inns, taverns, and theaters to hear once more how the Holy Princess had saved Batani.

On one such evening, a man entered a tavern crowded with travelers.

He appeared to be in his thirties, with a broad frame and the weathered look of someone accustomed to the road. After surveying the room, he approached the master behind the counter.

“Master, may I ask you something?”

“Hm? What is it?” The tavern master looked him over. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No. I am traveling through Batani.”

“Is that so? And what does a traveler need from me?”

“I study archaeology as I travel. I came to this country because I wished to learn more about your Holy Princess — Princess Alaja.”

The tavern master had only just opened his mouth when a bearded man at the counter, who looked rather like a mountain bandit in civilian clothing, turned sharply toward them.

“Did you say Princess Alaja, lad?”

“I did.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place!” the bearded man declared, thumping his cup onto the counter. “Leave it to me. I may not look it, but when it comes to history, I know a thing or two.”

“Don’t listen to him!” another man barked from farther down the counter. “His knowledge is all festival gossip and half-remembered theater lines. Brother, take my advice. When it comes to Her Highness Princess Alaja, there’s no man in this tavern who knows more than I do.”

“What did you say, you sack of stale flour?”

“You heard me.”

The two men rose half from their stools, glaring across the counter as though they might come to blows in the middle of the tavern.

The master sighed and wiped a cup with a rag.

“As you can see, traveler, there isn’t a soul in this tavern who doesn’t know of Princess Alaja. No, in Bilha, even children know her story. If you like, I can tell you how to get to the theater.”

“I appreciate that,” the traveler said with a faint, awkward smile, “but that is not quite what I meant.”

The sheer enthusiasm surrounding him was almost enough to overwhelm him.

“In truth, I already have someone in mind. I heard that a certain man sometimes comes to this tavern, and I wished to ask after him.”

“A certain man?”

“An old man named Flinch. I was told he walks with an orach staff and bears a scar on his shoulder. Do you know him?”

At the mention of the name, the tavern master’s expression darkened.

So did the faces of the men at the counter.

For a moment, the traveler feared he had arrived too late.

That fear vanished a heartbeat later.

“So you’re the madman who wants to meet me?”

The voice came from behind him.

Startled, the traveler turned.

An old man stood there wearing, despite the winter cold, only a ragged outer garment that looked more like a torn blanket than clothing. His beard grew wild across his face. One shoulder bore the mark of an old burn, and in one hand he leaned upon a staff of orach wood.

“The orach staff. The scar on your shoulder…” the traveler said. “Then you must be—”

“I am Flinch.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “And I heard something about Princess Alaja. I assume my ears are failing me?”

“No. I came because I was told you were the best person to ask. Will you speak with me?”

“Whoever told you that was a fool.”

Flinch spat the words like something bitter, then pointed toward a table at the back of the tavern.

“Master. The usual for me. I’ll be telling this milk-smelling boy an old story.”

The tavern master nodded.

“And you, traveler? Drinking anything?”

“The same as Master Flinch, please.”

By the time the traveler finished ordering, Flinch had already reached the table at the back. For a man with a bad leg, he moved with surprising speed.

The traveler hurried after him, weaving between stools, tables, elbows, and cups.

Once seated, the old man grunted.

“I am Flinch Rozan.”

“My name is Gilles,” the traveler replied. “I was born in the village of Garon.”

“The mountains, then.” Flinch looked at him with a little more interest. “That’s a long road to Bilha.”

“It was worth the journey if I could meet you.”

Gilles reached into his coat and placed a small paper-wrapped bundle on the table.

“I was entrusted with this.”

Flinch stared at it.

“What is it?”

“A lock of Princess Alaja’s hair.”

The old man’s expression did not change, but the room around them seemed to grow quieter.

“In my village,” Gilles continued, “there is a legend that Princess Alaja visited Garon after her final battle. My grandmother believed it. She told me this was proof — a lock of her hair.”

“And why bring it to me?”

“If it is genuine, then I believe you are the one who should have it. My grandmother believed the same. After all, you are the great-grandson of Raul Rozan, Princess Alaja’s foremost retainer.”

Flinch said nothing.

“I heard that from my grandmother as well,” Gilles added. “Please. Tell me what you know.”

Flinch did not answer.

He only stared at the small paper bundle lying on the table between them.

The silence stretched so long that Gilles finally opened his mouth.

“Master Flin—”

“Did you speak to them?”

The old man’s question came suddenly.

Gilles blinked.

“Them?”

“The men at the counter. If all you want is the Princess Alaja people talk about in this country, they’ll do well enough.”

“But I want to hear it from you. Baron Raul rode beside Princess Alaja. And if anyone still living knows what Raul truly passed down, it must be you. Am I wrong?”

Flinch leaned back.

“I swore I’d never speak of it again.”

His reluctance was so heavy that Gilles could not help but feel uneasy.

“Why are you so determined to remain silent about Princess Alaja?”

“Because the last time I repeated what my grandfather told me about Her Highness, I was arrested and stripped of my noble rank.”

Gilles stiffened.

“For irreverence,” Flinch said.

The old man reached forward and drew the paper bundle toward himself.

“Since then, I decided never again to speak of what the old man told me.”

“But…”

“But you,” Flinch said, looking down at the bundle, “have brought Her Highness back to Bilha.”

Gilles did not understand at first.

“For two hundred years,” Flinch murmured, “she could not return to this city. And now you have carried her home.”

“Then…”

Flinch gave a cracked, bitter smile.

“If I keep silent now, perhaps that would be the real irreverence.”

At that moment, the tavern master arrived with Flinch’s “usual.”

Two glasses were placed on the table.

The drink was called a Maria Theresa — a cocktail with a surprisingly strong scent of tequila.

Flinch took one of the glasses and lifted it.

“Well then, mountain boy.”

His eyes, cloudy with age but still sharp, fixed on Gilles.

“You asked about Princess Alaja. I’ll tell you about her.”

He drank.

“But not the saint in the theater.”