The terrain levels out as I come closer to the road. An imperial messenger rides by toward the capital, kicking up a cloud of dust. Three women make their way more slowly in his wake. Their dark embroidered gowns give them the look of priestesses. One of the women looks in my direction, and then stops abruptly and puts a hand on her companion’s shoulder. The entire group stops to stare at me.

Now I’m glad for the veil, so I do not have to face them. I step onto the road ahead of them and walk along the edge. A short while later, they hurry past, single file, clinging to the other side of the road.

The other travelers I encounter behave the same way. Although my veil is meant to separate me from the world, the empty space around me is the real partition. After an hour of walking, I’ve encountered more fearful and suspicious glances than I’ve had in all the months I was rosemarked in my home village. In Dara, people knew me first as Zivah, and second as a diseased person. On this road though, I am nothing but a carrier of death.

Ahead of me, the first watchtower rises up. I see the soldiers’ conical hats at the top of the tower. Two others guard the road below. As I approach, one soldier points his spear at me.

“Rosemarked, who gives you right to walk this road?”

I part my veil and hold out Arxa’s invitation, with his seal embedded in the clay. “Commander Arxa of Sehmar City.”

The soldier squints suspiciously at my letter, but he makes no move to step closer. Then he shrugs and waves me on. “Keep your distance,” he says.

A dozen steps later something hits my pack and knocks me forward. A rock rolls to rest at my feet as another one flies past my head. I turn around. A group of young men stand clustered together, jeering at me.

“This road’s not for plague carriers,” one says. “Get off.”

Heat rushes through me as other travelers slow down to see the spectacle. I scan their faces through my veil and don’t see a shred of compassion. There’s no sign of Dineas, and I’m relieved he’s not here to witness this. Shaking, I step off the road and onto the uneven dirt on the side.

A rock glances off my elbow. I stumble in surprise and cradle my throbbing arm. The young men are following me.

“Not fast enough,” one says.

I glance desperately up toward the watchtower, but the soldiers just look on.

A man with dust on his face pitches another rock in my direction. It brushes my veil, pushing my hat crooked.

“Spilling my blood only puts you in danger,” I shout.