She had to turn her back on the villagers and set out, angry at the wardens, angry at herself. The encounter had taken her by surprise. When the captain came up beside her, she gave in to a rare, reckless impulse.

“Captain, I understand that His Exalted Highness cannot rest overnight at any of these villages, but even a brief stop to take a drink of their cider and a bite of their bread—”

“It is out of the question.” His interruption was definitive. He gave her a measuring look. “Unless you’re telling me the weather will improve, and the path will get easier from here on out, and the villages will be convenient to our trail.”

“No, alas, Captain. The path is challenging even without the rain. Most of the hill villages and hamlets lie on branch trails off this main path.”

“That is extra time we cannot allow. Do not mention this again.”

He dropped back to walk beside the prince, who was looking off to the right where a pretty little waterfall dropped in a silvery line down a rocky knoll. Could she go behind Simo’s back and persuade Gesavura’alalin to act differently? But the haunt had his own hidden reasons to proceed, and he had to keep up the pretense of being the prince. What were these local people to him, anyway? Whatever it meant to be Shorn, he must feel as distant from villagers as the prince did. In a way, she didn’t want to ask because she feared she would find him as removed as the prince, even if he enjoyed sparring with her. Was it just that she didn’t want to think ill of him? If so, the fault lay with her.

But she had not accounted for the stubbornness of uplanders. The march toward her intended destination took them past three turnoffs for small communities she normally visited on her courier route. She’d given no thought to the second runner who had raced ahead. The Verlia Moat archon had sent a different message than Elen had expected.

After about an hour, they reached the next holystone post marking a branch path, this one leading to the goat-herding hamlet of Roduran Ditch. Lining either side of the path, beneath dripping trees, the entire population of Roduran Ditch had assembled. The hamlet had an official census population of sixty-three. As Elen came into view, the waiting villagers knelt. A Ditch did not have a proper archon, so their headwoman had brought an offering of a round of goat cheese. Children squirmed, forgetting to cover their faces as they stared in awe at the wardens. Even Elen had to admit that it was difficult to tell the prince apart from the other wardens without knowing how to “read” the meaning of the embroidered badges on his warden’s uniform and the arrangement of precious beads dangling from his elaborately braided hair.