Normally, she smelled Verlia Moat and its corrals before she saw the village, but the wind was blowing up from behind her. A steady rain drowned out the telltale blat of goats and sheep that usually welcomed her from a distance. No one was out chopping wood in this weather. So, when the trail swung around Hat Rock to the overlook where the path split, she was surprised to find people standing out in the rain by the holystone post that marked the turnoff to the village. They wore their festival clothes, and all were drenched and shivering. Yet their expressions glowed with excitement. They dropped to their knees onto the wet ground the instant the prince came into sight. Upland villages had no interlocutors; those were a heartland affectation reserved for the palace and the Manor-born. So it was the archon herself who spoke to Luviara.

Would His Exalted Highness not pause for a cup of hot cider in the shelter of the village’s market hall? The village archon’s house was modest, but she would honor the prince with a feast if he cared to stay overnight, or until the weather cleared. The village’s hillside terraces were visible from the overlook, and it seemed every person who lived there had crowded onto the central terrace, in the rain, to greet him, their tiny figures washed by the storm, beneath the gloomy sky.

The prince said nothing as he listened to the archon speaking to Luviara. She supposed he didn’t dare. His wardens knew Prince Gevulin far better than he did. Elen had been shuffled off the path about twenty paces along. From this distance, she could only watch helplessly, could offer no clue to the haunt, not that she had a clue to offer and anyway, she wasn’t about to shout.

Simo broke in before Luviara could reply. “I am the warden captain attending His Exalted Highness. We are on urgent palace business and cannot delay.”

“But all our people have come out to honor the prince,” said the archon with a helpless gesture toward the terraces. “They will never have another chance like this, Your Worthiness. I beg you to consider their humble service and dedication to the emperor.”

“We must go on,” said Simo curtly. “Luviara, give the archon a token of the prince’s esteem.”

The theurgist dug into a pouch and handed coins to the archon. “It is decided. I pray you, Worthy Archon, do not argue further.”

The woman looked ready to weep, although she took the coin. Behind her, one of her companions spoke to a youth wearing the dirty-white headband of a local runner, not the same boy who had left Sfendia Moat this morning. The runner clasped hands to heart with a bow, then ran off down the main path, ahead of them.

“Deputy Courier! Let us go!” snapped Simo with an impatient wave.