The hair on the back of my neck rises in response, and I wait. Soon a train of open wagons stacked with man-size cages comes into view. Though we’re far from the road, odors of blood, excrement, infection, and sweat drift toward us on the wind. I pull my collar over my nose and fight the urge to gag. It’s impossible to look away from the wretched people inside—men, women, and children. Their clothes are torn and dirty. Some sport partially bandaged wounds. Others lie curled on the cage floors, staring out through the bars with listless eyes. Occasionally one of the train’s armed escorts cracks a whip and shouts a command I can’t hear. Some of the prisoners shift in response, though others seem incapable of moving.

It’s an imperial slave caravan.

I can’t help but wonder…who are these people? What was their crime? Were they accused of harboring rebels? Did they greet an emissary of the empire without the proper amount of respect? I imagine Leora and Alia in those carts, my mother and father. It’s suddenly starkly clear to me what we face if we fail.

“Last chance to turn around,” says Dineas. Though his voice has its usual edge, there’s a hint of compassion in his eyes.

The slave train crawls into the city. I take a breath to collect myself.

“I imagine my people in these cages too,” he says. “Every time.”

I can feel Dineas’s eyes on me as I walk away. The soldiers at the gate nudge each other as I approach. More than one loosens his sword from its sheath. You have the right to travel these roads, Zivah. You’ve been given permission. Of course, that permission did me no good the last time.

I take the final few steps. “I’m a rosemarked traveler claiming an audience with Commander Arxa in the city,” I say. Carefully, I part my veil and lay the invitation on the ground in front of me. Then I back away.

The soldiers exchange glances. Finally, one jerks his head toward another who I’d guess is the lowest ranked. That man adjusts his armor and takes cautious steps toward the invitation. He looks it over from a distance of a few paces. I feel like an open wound, an unwanted scab.

“I’ll inquire of Commander Arxa,” the soldier says.

“Thank you, sirs.”

The man is gone a long time, and gradually, the remaining soldiers forget about me and go about their duties. I find a large rock and sit down, grateful for the shade my veil offers and trying not to think about what would happen if the soldier cannot find Arxa. What if the commander has changed his mind or forgotten about me? I don’t know if Arxa is the kind of man to hold to his word.