Osmund sat on happy Banu’s back, ambling through the very picture of a lush spring morning. It was one of the loveliest sights he’d ever seen. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever been so miserable in all his life.

Cemil hated him. And for the very thing that had caught his eye about Osmund in the first place. Somehow, at some point, the rules had changed. Maybe this was the real reason Osmund hadn’t ever made any friends: the universe was simply stacked against him. And if Nuray at least was still his friend, well, if he ever made it back, he’d surely do something to make her hate him too.

Osmund didn’t want to watch soldiers and horses die. He didn’t want to be carried off by a gryphon, like in his childhood nightmares. And above all, he didn’t want to see Cemil look at him like that again.

Maybe I’ll leave, he bargained. When we stop for the night, I’ll take Banu, and just…run. In the privacy of his own thoughts, he could almost pretend to be brave enough.

“Hey! Tolmish man!” came a strangely familiar voice to Osmund’s left. He was so surprised, he forgot his determined sulking and turned to look.

The face was familiar too. It was Nienos—the first other person he’d met all those weeks ago in the bathhouse. The orc continued speaking in his spirited, amiable butchery of Osmund’s language. “How doing, huh? Long time! Hey. You come get drink in town sometime? You and Nienos?”

Sometimes, when returning soldiers were in a happy mood, they’d banter with Osmund as he took their horses, extending good-natured invitations to join them for a night on the town, which he was expected by all to refuse. Osmund didn’t know the protocol involved on a long journey like this one. “Sure,” he said dourly. “In fact, I’ll pay.” Not like he had a better use for the income he’d been accruing for his work in the governor’s mansion.

Nienos’ face lit up. “Oho! Feeling you were man worth knowing,” he crowed. “Now smile. Much too long ride to sit, frown at trees.”

Osmund felt like he couldn’t have smiled under threat of torture. He heaved a bitter sigh. “Didn’t you see what happened at the gate?” he asked gloomily. They were far enough behind Anaya to be sure Cemil wouldn’t overhear, but even the sight of his back was difficult. “I messed up. I shouldn’t even be here.”

“Ah,” Nienos said, with a sage air. “You see new side of Meskato prince. Told you, not pretty.”

The truth was, Osmund had seen many sides to Cemil by now. And he’d accepted all of them, because throughout it all, Cemil had seemed genuinely glad of Osmund’s company. Like they’d been respected friends.

“He is good man, you know,” Nienos spoke again, shrugging. “Do not be personal with it. Tough to be a prince. Many pressures. Have to inspire all the time. Better us normal people get not so much involved, huh?”

“Yeah,” Osmund muttered, ignoring the irony that only he knew about. “Anyway, I should have known this would happen. It always does. I drive people away. It’s a talent of mine.” He was starting to spiral.

“Stop, stop, relax,” Nienos coaxed, holding up his broad hands. “So many bad thoughts. Why be stuck on it? Look around.”

“At what?”

“No. Look.”

In spite of everything, Osmund did. He forced himself to take in the light peering between the leaves of chestnut trees, and the random flutterings of little birds alighting from branch to branch.

“It really is lovely out here,” he said at last. Nienos laughed.

“See why I love mercenary job?” he asked merrily. “Sure, killing messy. But world-traveling—amazing thing! Put it all down in poetry for my wife. Very bad at poetry, me. She write back and say, I send many more, she make book of it and sell. Maybe we make book money and I come home for good. Ha ha!”

Nienos’ manner was so cheery that Osmund couldn’t hold back a small grin of his own. He imagined Nienos’ wife—another orc, perhaps?—back in their shared home somewhere in Raughan, poring over his letters. Nienos’ Tolmish was nothing to go by: it was clearly a third or fourth language. Perhaps in his native tongue he was a natural-born poet.

“I’d like to read one of your poems,” Osmund offered. “If you have a Tolmish, or even Meskato translation lying around.”

“Yeah, you dream, Tolmish man,” Nienos teased him. “I never keep living if you tell others about it.”

They shared a laugh. Osmund was experiencing genuine mirth for the first time that day when he noticed Cemil turned around in the saddle ahead. They locked eyes, and Osmund’s joy turned to ice in his chest, even though the Meskato prince’s expression was unreadably neutral.

Cemil turned again. The moment was broken.

It wasn’t an easy thing, riding the rest of the day with such doubt and uncertainty swirling inside, but Nienos’ company made it at least bearable. The orc had many friends among the soldiers and scattering of mercenaries, and although he tried to get Osmund involved, it was clear that a shy stablehand just couldn’t match their raucous energy.

“So,” one soldier, a tall human woman with a long red braid halfway down her back, began as she regarded Osmund, “stable boy. You ride well. You don’t carry a weapon? Not even for self-defense?”

Osmund grimaced. “I-I suppose I’ve trained with the saber a bit, but I’m really not any good.” He wasn’t being modest. As a prince of Valcrest he’d received plenty of instruction in the sword arts, but had shown less than zero natural aptitude. A full swing without fumbling the hilt was an accomplishment.

Predictably enough, the others latched onto the first part of his sentence with no regard for the second. “A saber!” Nienos cried admiringly. “Why no sword, then? Anyone? Extra sword? Stable boy needs one!”

Osmund protested all the while as, incredibly, a saber, scabbard and belt harness and all, was tossed into his lap. “Really, I can’t use this!”

“Keep it. Cheap piece of crap anyway,” someone said in the direction it had come from.

“Can’t have you running around completely defenseless,” said another.

Osmund had to admit—he did feel slightly more impressive with a sword strapped to his hip. Even one he planned to never use.

They made camp for the night at a travelers’ crossing that the others called a “caravansary”. Osmund momentarily forgot his troubles. Much like the beauty of the countryside, the sense of awe and wonder left no room for the rest.

These towering stone walls were centuries old. They’d played host and protector to merchant caravans beyond counting, and their group would be the latest to pass into the safety of that embrace. Two or three astride, the horses and their riders filtered through the wide gateway.

Osmund sat in the saddle excitedly as they came across a cluster of camels milling around the central fountain in the open-air courtyard. He’d always wanted to get close and touch one. It seemed wise not to chance it: the merchants who owned them might think him a thief and load him full of arrows. Cemil would probably heal him, but it’d be awkward all around.

One by one, their party dismounted. This place was, in function, rather like an immense inn, with rows of stables and simple accommodations for travelers. No sooner had he thought this than a squat man with a friendly face appeared to greet them. “Şehzade Cemil! What an honor,” he cried as the prince dismounted. “Please make yourself at home. We welcome you.”

“Thank you for your welcome, sir,” Cemil said, courteously enough, but when he turned to the light and Osmund got a look at his features, they were empty of their usual warmth. He seemed unspeakably worn and tired. “There are ninety with us. We will make use of your hospitality and be gone again by morning.”

Standing beside Banu, Osmund felt a sudden arm nudging into his side and jumped. Nienos was there, grinning. “Made it here at last,” he said conspiratorially. “Do you know what that means, little Tolmish?”

Really, Osmund was sure he had no idea! He glanced at the buildings surrounding them. In one corner, he thought he saw a dining hall. In another, something that looked like the entrance to a simple bathhouse. “Food?” he guessed plaintively. “Baths?”

“Well, yes, all those things good,” Nienos agreed. “But places like this full of foreign traders. And where are foreign traders, also find good booze, not just coffee or awful Meskato beer. Bleck. Come. We make good now on your promise!”