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Idisio stared into the darkness of a room gone quiet but for late-night insect noise and tried to think it all through. He didn't get far before the darkness crawled inside him and swallowed him into sleep.

His feet didn't hurt. The throbbing, aching pain of the previous two days was completely gone. His muscles still protested the unaccustomed exercise of riding, but his feet, unswollen and unblistered, slid back into the hard black boots without complaint.

Azni gave Idisio a jar of salve. “For next time Cafad works you too hard,” she said with a smile, and pressed another onto Idisio's master with an admonition not to waste them. Scratha treated the small earthenware jar with a respect that told Idisio it was a precious gift; as if his miraculously healed feet weren't evidence enough of that.

His horse remained placid and obedient now. It snorted and shied occasionally when a sand-grouse or tizzy-lizard darted out from underfoot. Idisio, more comfortable with riding every mile that passed, held his seat and patted the side of the beast's neck until it calmed again. He noticed that his master's horse hadn't even made that slight twitch of reaction, plodding along uninterested in bird or lizard.

“He's a good rider,” Azni had told Idisio the previous night. “Better than perhaps he even realizes. He's got a gift with animals. But he's impatient with anyone who doesn't grasp a skill as quickly as he does. If it comes natural to him, then it should be easy for all; if it's hard for him, then it doesn't need doing by anyone.”

Scratha turned abruptly in the saddle and stared at him. “Where do I begin?”
“Pardon?” Idisio blinked, startled.
Scratha waved impatiently for Idisio to move forward beside him.
“Where do I start?” he repeated once the two horses were abreast.
“I don't understand,” Idisio said, completely bewildered. His master's dark eyes bored into him as if expecting a better answer.
“With this stupid history!” Scratha said. “What do I write about? What do I even call it? When do I start? It's all nonsense.” He stared ahead, brooding and dark.
Idisio drew a breath slowly, holding back a grin. “You could start with Lady Azni.”
“No,” Scratha said immediately. “She's not to be mentioned at all. I want her left alone.”
“Then start with the first village we come to.”
Scratha pulled his horse to a halt and sat still. “But what do I
say
?”
“I don't know, my . . . Master,” Idisio said. “I can't even read.”
Scratha stared at him for a long moment, then said, “I'll have to fix that. I'll need you to be able to read soon.”
Idisio nodded, speechless. He'd always wanted to learn to read, but it was a hard skill to pick up in the streets, where reading meant time away from making money for survival. He'd always been told most lords preferred their servants illiterate.
“I'd like that,” he said.
“We'll start tonight,” Scratha said. “And you have the right idea. We'll start with the first village. There's one just outside Bright Bay, isn't there? By the marshes?”
“Ye-e-ess,” Idisio said reluctantly, “but—”
“Then we start there.” Scratha shook the reins, turned the horse’s head more south than east, and nudged into a trot.

White sand, blown over the wide paving stones of the King's Road by the ever-present sea breeze, scraped under the horses' hooves. Alyea treasured the sound. The road and the alabaster sands of the coast both petered out at roughly the same time; once that grating
shiss
stopped, she would be in alien territory, completely dependent on the handful of advisors and guardsmen who had been sent with her. The advisors rode horses of a bloodline second only to the News-Riders' mounts; the guards walked behind.

“You need to strike a delicate balance between appearing lazy and appearing hasty,” the bony old man riding beside her said. “Both can get you killed; both
will
lose you respect. Four days to reach Water's End. No more hurrying than that, no less easy a pace than that. Three way-stops and we'll be in Water's End midday on the fourth.”

Lord Eredion Sessin had said something similar about respect, during their meeting with the king two nights ago.
“The desert holds its own time,” he'd told her. “You're good at the northern courtesies, but those won't do you any good in the south. We're a slow folk, but far from stupid; in the time northerns rattle off five wrong answers to a question, we've thought through twenty and only say the right response. Hurrying won't gain you any respect, so learn to slow down.” Shortly afterward, he'd been called away and hadn't been able to speak with her again before she left. Now she depended on Chac for the information she'd expected to get from Lord Sessin.
Chac had always been something of an enigma. He'd been close to Oruen, helping plot the overthrow of the former king, but beyond that she knew little about him; he lived just outside the Seventeen Gates, had no family, held no status she could determine, and refused all formal recognition or invitations from anyone with noble blood. But Oruen had seen fit to send Chac, along with Micru, to accompany her south, so apparently part of the old man's mysterious past included knowledge of the southlands.
She looked sideways, studying his leathery, sun-wrinkled face for a moment, then said, “When were you last in the desert, Chac? The true desert.”
“Years,” he said, his gaze on the distant arc of the Crescent Mountains to the southwest. “Many, many years. I used to go once a year on a desert walk to clear the sludge of the city out of my veins.”
“And to look for the wife that ran away,” Micru said from Alyea's other side.
Chac's thin lips drew back from his teeth. He stared straight ahead, his hands crushing the thick leather reins, and said nothing. Alyea repressed a sigh; why Oruen had sent two men who so fiercely hated each other she couldn't understand, but the animosity had been made clear before they even passed through the southern gates of Bright Bay.
“Why did you stop going on desert walks, Chac?” she said, shooting Micru a sharp, repressive glare.
For a moment, she thought Chac might refuse to answer, too aggravated by Micru's repeated barbs to talk any longer, but at last he said, “Ninnic. That stupid Travelers' Law made it impossible. I couldn't afford the taxes; they were doubled on the south gates.”
“And the guards paid more attention to who went in and out,” Micru noted, not turning his gaze from the near-sleepy examination of the terrain ahead. Chac seemed unoffended by that comment, so either it had missed its mark or it actually hadn't been intended as an insult.
Alyea shook her head. “Gods preserve us from those days ever coming again,” she muttered, not aware she'd spoken aloud until Chac answered.
“Asking the gods to save us from that madness,” the old man said, “ignores the fact that the gods permitted it to happen in the first place.”
“The gods do as the gods do,” Micru said. “Anger at the gods is foolish and a waste of time.
You
ought to know that by now, Chacerly.”
Chac stiffened, a dangerous light in his eyes.
Alyea said sharply, “Stop it, both of you! We're barely clear of Bright Bay. If you're going to act like squabbling children the whole way, I'll turn around right now and ask Oruen to pick new advisors for me.”
They both turned to look at her, visibly astonished. Micru's dark eyes narrowed slightly, while Chac's almost disappeared in the wrinkles of his squint; she wondered if she'd gone too far. Sworn to protect her or not, angering one of the Hidden was stupid, and she suspected Chac could get thoroughly nasty as well.
After exchanging a brief, calculating glare in which hostilities were wordlessly suspended but not forgotten, both men turned their attention stiffly forward and fell silent. Alyea let out a long breath and wished, uselessly, that horses could grow wings and fly them all direct to Scratha Fortress.

Alyea stood on the edge of a steep drop and stared at the vast spread of the Goldensea, far below and to the west. The sun had melted into a bronze-gold puddle on the water. Small dots were moving towards the coast: probably fishing boats bringing in the day's catch. The air, darkening towards dusk, felt clear and sharp in her nose.

The erratically climbing path had already taken them higher above sea level than she'd ever been before. Sand colors had gradually shifted to white, then grey, then changed entirely to pale brown rock; the stench of a busy coastal city gave way to the sweet, thick, and earthy tones of scrub-sage and clay dust. The transformations created an entirely new landscape, one she needed to stand still and adjust to. When Chacerly went to direct the lodging arrangements in the way-stop behind her, she took the opportunity to move to a nearby overlook spot.

From the coastal lowlands of Bright Bay, the Horn climbed sharply to a near-mountain height. Jagged cliffs rose on one side of the trail; a steep drop lay on the other—and which side was the cliff might shift with no apparent transition.

Court sages liked to argue over whether the Horn was a natural place or an aberration created by the gods. It rose too high, too sharply, and the weather patterns were all wrong, said one side, while the other argued it was proof that nature was far more complex than mankind's limited mind could understand.

Alyea closed her eyes and breathed deeply, then looked out at the ocean. That water had always been close enough to dip her toes into, with less than an hour's walk; now it was close to a day's walk, if a path so short could be found across the broken ground of the Horn.

Soon it would be farther yet, and after that, gone from sight. The land past the Horn widened into another vast continent, and her path lay straight down the center. Scratha Fortress sat deep in the sands of the true desert, a ten-day ride from the east coast, easily three times that to the west coast. To the south would be only more sand, and beyond that, the forbidden Haunted Lands and southern jungles.

She shivered. The breeze swirling up to her felt cold, misty, and unpleasant compared to the warm evening sea breezes common in Bright Bay this time of year. She turned away and headed for the inn. Way-stops in the Horn were the only places for merchants and travelers to pause overnight. At this one, indoor rooms and stables proper were reserved for important people; commoners pitched their bedrolls and sheltered their mounts in low-walled enclosures covered by heavy, waterproof canvas tents. In deference to her noble blood, Alyea had a room indoors. Chac had told her to keep her status as king's representative quiet for the moment, out of concern that someone might try to challenge her holding of Scratha Fortress before she took actual possession of the land.

She couldn't see that happening, but had to defer to Chac's judgement. Not for the first time, she wished she'd had a chance to talk with Eredion Sessin about protocols and courtesies; he'd seemed much easier to talk to than the sour old man. Certainly
friendlier
. Chac had barely said two words since her morning rebuke.

“Hurry,” he said as she approached. “The evening meal's almost ready. Go clean up.”
She was tired from the long day, sore from the miles on horseback, and wanted nothing more than to sit in quiet to brood. “Can't I eat in my room?”
“No,” he said. “Get moving.” He followed her into the inn, caught up to her shoulder where the narrow passage widened just enough, and said in a low voice, “One thing I'll tell you again is that you
ought
to have brought maidservants.”
“I don't like servants,” she said. “All they ever did was spy and tattle, and the ones that didn't were hurt for it. I'd rather take care of myself.”
He grunted. “It looks bad. One woman with all these men. Not even women in the guards. I don't like it.”
“I'll be fine,” she said, pushing the door to her room open, and shut it in his face before he could argue further.
It didn't take her long to strip out of the dusty leggings and tunic, sponge off road grime, and slip into a dress. Managing without servants had given her a certain impatience for lingering over simple tasks like dressing.
She turned, examining herself in the long mirror. The fabric hugged her narrow shoulders and arms just enough to show line, not bone; the squared scoop of the neck showed her collarbones but nothing lower. A thick band of gold and silver thread brocade wound around the waist, and the skirt hung long and fully pleated. Thin red and gold shoes, little more than slippers heavily worked with a brocade that matched the waist pattern, and a long, thin gold chain with a single hematite marble finished the outfit. Her hair she left loose and brushed out carefully until it lay in a silky cape over her shoulders and back.
Satisfied both by her appearance and how quickly she'd managed it, although her mother would have been horrified at her “unseemly haste”, she gave the mirror one last warm smile, practicing the expression, then turned to the door.
Chac, waiting outside, looked her over critically as she stepped out of the room. After a moment, he nodded and produced a thin beaded bracelet.
“Right hand,” he said, and fastened the string of beads around her wrist. “Don't take it off.”
It seemed simple enough; small, round pieces of some dark green gemstone interspersed with squared off, unevenly sized pieces of thick white shell, threaded on a thin golden wire.
“What does it mean?”
“It means you're wearing a bracelet,” he said, his expression closed and hard. “It means you're not a servant. Now mind you don't toss and flutter like you're the prettiest in the room. You'll get yourself a name you won't like later on.”
“I don't,” she started, indignant.
“I've
seen
you do it,” he cut her off. “Quiet. Modest. Eyes down. And use your ears and eyes before your mouth.”
“It's only a way-stop,” she protested.
“No such thing as
only
,” he said. “Not anywhere south of Bright Bay.
Everything
is important, here, and everyone could be. Pay attention.”
“All right,” Alyea said, feeling thoroughly rebuked. Trying to move in a properly humble manner, she followed the old man down the inn passage. “What should I be looking
for
?”
He waited until they'd left the narrow corridor and emerged into the open air before speaking again. As they walked across the rough ground towards the dining hall, she regretted her choice of thin slippers. Even the raked-out sandy path, lit now with pole lanterns to either side, held numerous pebbles and sharp rocks. She stepped with care and tried to divide her attention between Chacerly's quick, low voice and the path ahead.
“Deiq of Stass is here,” the old man said. “He's a big man, big and dark.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Alyea said, her heart sinking.
“You know him?”
“I don't think we've been introduced, but I've seen him in court now and again. He always made me uneasy.”
“With good reason. Stay away from him.” Chac seemed about to say more, then shook his head, his lips pressed tight. “Just . . . just stay away from him,” he finished at last. “And don't make him angry.”
“Gladly,” Alyea said fervently. Deiq's dark stare always seemed to be sizing up everyone around him for their value to his own personal amusement; she had no interest in speaking with him or drawing his attention in any way.
“He's the only one of real status I've seen—not rank, he's no noble, but he has influence.” The old man grimaced and changed the subject. “Remember that you have to earn respect. Your family blood means much less here than it did in Bright Bay. Stay quiet until you're spoken to.”
“And if nobody speaks to me?”
“Then you enjoy a meal in silence for once in your life. It won't kill you.”
Alyea snorted, annoyed at Chac's brusque reply, but they entered the dining hall without a single suitable retort coming to her mind.
The dining hall was a long, low building with five bench-seat tables. The center table, set with silver salt-cellars and a thickly embroidered, linen table-covering, was obviously for the most important guests; the outer tables, by similar indications, sat successively less worthy folk. Guards and servants were placed at the outermost tables, which had only bare wood and small, rough wooden bowls of coarse salt. Chac steered her to the center table, close to the door; after a quick, assessing glance up the mostly empty table, he said, “Sit at the end here, my lady. I'll take a table over.”
She settled obediently on the wide, wooden bench just as a deep, brassy note from a hidden gong filled the air: once, twice, a third time. People began to stream into the room and sort themselves out into seats; Alyea noted several subtle clashes over the seats at the center and flanking tables by newcomers. There were few enough people and more than enough seats, however, so the disputes faded away with little more than an evil glare here and there.
Alyea recognized a few faces, high-blood merchants and low-end nobles who had swirled through Bright Bay her whole life. One or two, catching sight of her, smiled and nodded brief greeting; she returned the amiable gesture in kind.
Deiq of Stass sat high at the other end of her table, watching the room with lazy interest. Alyea managed to lean over and adjust her slipper just before his searching gaze reached her area of the table, and took her time about sitting back up. A quick glance reassured her that his attention had fixed on a plump woman at the next table over; she let out a thin sigh of relief.
She risked looking around the room herself, trying to keep her gaze casual. Micru, still in rough but clean trail clothes, had chosen a spot among the servants, laughing and joking as if he were nothing more than a low-born himself. Chacerly, at the next table, already seemed deep in conversation with the people around him, merchants by the look of them.
Wide wooden doors opened at the far end of the hall. Alyea had assumed they led outside, but a rich, savory smell filled the air as servants marched in carrying huge platters of food.
The richest dishes were brought to the center table, the simplest to the sides; roast pheasant and puff-bread on silver platters for nobles, roast chicken and black bread on wooden slabs for lesser men. The servers placed the food on plates for the more powerful, left the platters on the outer tables for the servant-classes to argue over.
Servants placed delicately-arranged helpings of white beans and feathery greens, thin slices of roast pheasant and puff-bread, small globes of creamed rice balls, and long strips of steamed black mushrooms on the silver plates. Alyea applied herself to her food silently, keeping a pleasant expression on her face. After the long day of riding, she wanted thick food, not this fluffy stuff. Hopefully Chac could get her some dark bread and cheese from the kitchens later.
“Beautiful, aren't they?” a thin voice to her left said.
Alyea turned her head, relieved that she wouldn't have to sit silent all through dinner, and smiled at the woman sitting a bit more than arm's length away. “It's all lovely.”
“The mushrooms, I mean,” the woman said. She was short and wellfed, with greying brown hair framing a contentedly round face. “I've never seen them quite so large.”
Black mushrooms from the Horn were often the size of a dinner plate and, although a delicacy, weren't all that uncommon in Bright Bay. Alyea took a closer look at the woman, noted the northern roundness to her face, the simple cut of her dress, and the lack of jewelry, and tried not to wince.
“Everything's so much larger here,” the woman went on. “It's lovely. I imagine you grow your gardens all year round, here, don't you? I wish I could. You can keep basil going all year, I imagine—am I right?” Her smile was open and innocent as she waited for an answer.
Alyea stared, taken aback. Did this woman think nobles
gardened
? “I . . . I wouldn't know.”
The woman seemed to take in Alyea's dress for the first time.
“Oh, dear,” she said, her round face flushing. She glanced around the room, seeming uncertain and flustered. “I'm sorry. Have I sat at the wrong table?”
“No,” Alyea said after a moment, ashamed of her initial, snobbish reaction. Everyone could be important, Chac had warned her; Alyea decided, a bit impishly, that those words should apply to an ignorant northern as well as anyone else in the room. Let him rebuke her for overfriendliness; she'd throw his own words back in his face.
“Are you sure? I could . . . move. . . .” The woman glanced over her shoulder, visibly reluctant to leave the good food in front of her for the lesser meals on the further tables.
“Absolutely,” Alyea assured her, flashing the warm, practiced smile. “You're fine. There's plenty of room here, no reason to move, and you've already got food on your plate. Please, stay and talk to me. I'm Alyea, of Bright Bay. You're from the northlands?”
“Well . . . yes,” the woman admitted, relaxing. “I'm Halla of Felarr.”
“What brings you all the way through the Forest and into the Horn,
s'a
Halla?” Alyea asked, interested now. Most northerns, and especially women,
didn't
travel this far, and definitely not alone, as Halla seemed to be.
The woman picked at her food uncertainly for a moment before answering.
“My son,” she said finally. “He wanted to travel to Bright Bay. I couldn't stop him, and my husband's dead five years. Rebon went off with a merchanting caravan, hired on as a clerk; he's a good boy, a smart boy.” She swallowed hard. “He never came back.”
“How long has he been gone?” Alyea asked.
“Three years,” Halla said. She stared at her plate, took a listless bite. “The merchant he worked for is dead two years back, killed in a riot in Bright Bay. I don't know where my son is. I've spent the last four months in Bright Bay, trying to find a trace of him; the only word I gathered, finally, is that he might have been seen going into the desert with a group of southerners, as a slave.”
Alyea nodded, unsurprised, and said nothing.
Halla shook her head and poked at the food on her plate.
“Everything is so strange here,” she said after a moment. “I don't know what to do. I ought to turn back now, to get home on what money I have left.” She laughed, a sharp humorless bark. “Not that I'll have much to return to. All my savings are in this venture, and I have no man to help bring in more.”
Alyea ate quietly for a time, considering, then said, “I'm headed south, and I could use a maid,
s'a
, if you've the interest in a job.”
The round face brightened. “That would be perfect,
s'a
,” Halla said. “I've been a merchant's wife for most of my life, but I've done my share of serving the wealthy. Would you take me on?”
“I will,” Alyea said.
“I'm so grateful—”
The northern woman's voice stilled as a male tenor interrupted softly, “My lady?”
Alyea turned to look up at the man standing behind her. He wore the colors of the way-stop, grey and black, and the slash embroidered on his sleeves marked him as a dining-hall servant. A bracelet on his right wrist ran through a gamut of grey hues, in three rows of precisely-matched beads.
“Yes,
s'e
?”
He bowed briefly. “
S'e
Deiq asks the favor of your presence closer to his hand.”
Startled, she glanced up the table. The big man's brooding dark gaze had fixed directly on her; not the best of manners but a clear sign that he'd take refusal of the offer poorly.
Don't make him angry
, Chac had said.