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of them greater than the warm, grateful smiles now bestowed on him by the king and prince. King Tafari even went so far as to reach across the table and briefly lay his hand over Volos’s. “Good man,” he said, squeezing firmly.
    When he took back his hand, he wrapped it around the stem of his wine glass and stared into the ruby liquid as he spoke. “The queen has told us where she believes Berhanu is being held. She’s granted us permission to send a single man to attempt to rescue him. And she has pledged that if Berhanu is freed, she will listen most carefully to our entreaties.”
    As simple as he was, Volos understood what this meant: it wasn’t only Berhanu’s life that hung in the balance, but also the lives of the thousands of men and women who would suffer if Mudedye went to war with Wedeyta. “Why only one person, Your Majesty? I see why she wouldn’t allow an entire company of soldiers, but surely a small squadron would work, or—”
    “Only one,” Prince Chidehu interrupted. “So that if he is caught, both sides can claim he was merely an aberration. A man defying orders. A larger group— even two or three— looks much more like something planned.”
    Volos nodded. “When will I leave, sirs?”
    Prince Chidehu held up a hand. “You understand that… that the likelihood is high that you will be killed.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And if you are taken alive, we will not send anyone to rescue you. We cannot. If asked, we will claim you acted without orders.”
    An echo of pain— years old— resonated in Volos’s body. “I won’t be taken alive.” He’d die by his own hand first.
    “Very well,” said King Tafari solemnly. “And if you are successful, our gratitude will be… very generous.”
    Would the king be incredulous if Volos told him he needed no incentives or rewards to take on this task? In truth, Volos would have attempted to rescue Berhanu even had the king expressly forbidden him to do so.
    He didn’t drink any more wine. And although the hour was very late and he’d had only an hour or two of sleep, he was no longer tired. For the first time in years, he felt a sense of purpose— suicidal as it may have been. After a few final arrangements were made, he bowed to the king and prince and hurried to the dormitory to pack his things.
    ****

Chapter Three
    Although it had been some time since Volos had traveled far from the castle and he’d very rarely had the benefit of a carriage, he didn’t enjoy the trip to the border. The road was rutted, and the carriage progressed with jerky rattles. His fellow passengers— two women, a man, and a young child— filled the small space with the reek of their perfumes and stared at him distrustfully the entire way. But the worst part was the slow speed of the journey. Yes, they were going faster than if Volos had been walking, and with fewer stops to rest. But it wasn’t fast enough. He wished he were a horseman, riding a steed at full gallop the whole way. No, he wished he could fly .
    But all he could do was sit, jolting from side to side, trying to distract himself from thoughts of death.
    They spent the night at an inn near a busy crossroads. The food was bad and overpriced, but at least his pallet on the floor was no more uncomfortable than his usual cot, and the shared sleeping quarters had a familiar feel. The innkeeper’s daughter flirted with him, as did a handsome middle-aged man who was journeying in the opposite direction. But Volos turned them both down and slept with nothing at his side but his pack and sword.
    Shortly after dawn, the travelers ate a breakfast of sausages and bread and then set out again on the road. Volos hadn’t managed to wash more than his face and hands, and he felt grimy. His unfamiliar civilian clothes chafed. And the toddler was fussy all day, alternately whining and crying or throwing her food on the floor.
    During the war, Volos and his fellow soldiers had complained about marching endless miles.