Soon enough, she found herself on the little lane that the map told her led to Squire Lesley’s country manor, and when she saw it, she felt a pang of nostalgia and even some grief, because it was a miniature version of her old home. Not as many stories, and not as broad, but it was of the same weathered stone that fit into the landscape, and just as surrounded by beautiful trees and flowering bushes and a low stone wall with a gatehouse. Even the scent of the air was familiar, old-fashioned roses and sweetbush, cut grass and a hint of cypress.

Old-fashioned. When we’ve left Valdemar, will that term even make sense any more? We might never see these flowers and birds again, and have only memories of them. We don’t even know if we’ll be safe there. Even enjoying a day might fade into a memory. We might live in fear of disease, or monsters, or—or just loneliness. The Empire may be awful for us, but even so it gives a sense of being part of something. We could end up somewhere that will offer even less mercy. Nothing to fall back upon, no resources or Healing. What will that do to us? Even now, I’m in safe enough surroundings, with beauty all around, and the thought scares me. How much harder will bravery be when we’re actually there? Surrounded by that much unknown?

This was not the first time she’d had similar thoughts. How would this strike those for whom it would be sudden news?

In a way, the Empire has done us a favor in that regard. It isn’t outright slavery—here in Valdemar, at least, thank gods big and little—but the way the Empire has taught them all, every soul is obedient to those above them in rank, and “belongs” to them, in the sense that a horse is part of a herd, a leader guides the herd, and someone commands the leader. A farmer is part of the farm, not a person who works a farm. Bless them, the commoners will have less conflict about leaving, if their Lords tell them to. And some—well, some will have intense trouble with the fact they’ll be given a choice. But Kordas has been adamant that everyone will have that choice, to go or to stay, even if it makes some Valdemarans just shudder in anxiety. Some of them, I know, won’t want that choice.

Delia rode up to the front door, and before she had gotten there, a servant stepped out of the gatehouse and waved her hat.

“Lady Isla Valdemar’s sister Fidelia, sent by Lady Isla, to see Squire Lesley,” she said, before the servant could ask her name or her business.

“Is it urgent, my lady?” the servant asked. Mindful of the fact that she might be being scryed, she shook her head.

“Not urgent, but important,” she answered.