“I can’t be more conspicuous than Chief Herder.” Lysandros smiled. “I must be side by side.”
A proud but respectful man. Yuma returned his smile and dropped the reins. “You fear nothing, then. Follow me if you can!”
She lightly kicked Aston on the side, and the horse sprang into action like an arrow. She looked behind her. Kentley, the two-year-old mare carrying Lysandros, was following at a light trot, while Lysandros held on to the horn of the saddle and tried not to fall. Though by Mersehi standards the sight of a grown man trying not to fall from a saddle might look pitiful, there was nothing about Lysandros that inspired pity. Instead, the act of him riding a horse felt like a great achievement to Yuma. Yuma turned Aston’s head and stopped.
“Where are we going now?” he asked.
“That hill!”
Yuma approached to grab his reins, but Lysandros grinned and his horse shot forward. Kentley cantered toward the hill. Yuma laughed and spurred Aston to follow him at the same speed.
Kentley stopped at the top of the hill. Carefully, Lysandros dismounted. He walked forward unsteadily and stopped to admire the view before him. Yuma also dismounted and stood next to him. The Trina River, sparkling like gold in the late-afternoon sun, flowed around half of Danras before continuing on its way down the steppe. This beautiful city surrounded by log walls was surely the same one she had left behind in the spring, but it always felt like a new city when she came back from a herding.
“A magnificent place, Chief Herder’s home.”
“They say it’s the jewel of the steppe,” Yuma agreed. “We can’t reach there today, but we will tomorrow.”
“What’s the tall building in the middle of the city? Much larger than the others.”
“The Feast Hall. It’s where the Host will spend his winter. There are festivals there during the holy days, and funerals and weddings. It’s also where people gather to pray,” Yuma said, pointing forward. “Emissary, do you see the wind chimes along the eaves of the Feast Hall?”
After squinting in the direction of Danras, Lysandros gave up. “No. I can just about make out the outline of the building itself… You herders have much better eyesight than I do, I’ve learned.”
“Well, the stronger the storm, the louder the chimes ring. It is there to remind us that however hard it gets, we have the Host to protect us.”
“Yes, the Host…” Lysandros turned to the direction of the camp. Yuma’s eyes followed his gaze. A plume of smoke was rising. The Host and his helpers must be preparing dinner at the kitchen carriage.
“What do you do with the Power that prayers generate?” Lysandros asked.
Yuma had never thought about it much until now. “With the prayers? The Host guards the catacombs, I suppose… Otherwise, the Grim King would raise the dead. The kitchen carriage has some of that magic as well. The Host guards the oroxen with it.”
Lysandros nodded. His expression hardened.
Yuma asked, “Do they pray in the Empire? Do they have gods?”
“Not anymore. The people have enough Power on their own.”
She stood up straight. “It’s useful to have a helpful god, though.”
“We have our generators. Fractica!”
Yuma turned around and saw that Fractica was already standing at the foot of the hill, waiting for Lysandros like a loyal mount. Since he was incapable of motion without Fractica being nearby, it was not surprising that the machine would remain close, just like her horses. She chuckled at the fact that she was seeing this creature as less of a metal giant and more like a horse. Yuma once again thought of the question she had wondered about from the beginning.
“This might be an awkward question…” Yuma started.
“You want to know why the Empire would send someone with my body as an emissary?”
Yuma didn’t know what to say. Perhaps it was too soon to ask such questions. Perhaps she should have waited until he volunteered his story. She realized she didn’t know half as much about the Empire’s culture as Lysandros knew about hers.
“No, that’s not… your body isn’t…” Yuma stuttered.
Lysandros only laughed. “I’ve honestly never been in a country so long before being asked this question. In Lasra, the head of the clans there took one look at me and said, ‘The Empire must think nothing of Lasra to send acrippleas an emissary!’” Yuma flinched at the unexpected slur, angry at whichever cruel herder dared teach the word to her guest and friend. But Lysandros seemed unbothered by it. “How did you stand not asking that question for so long?”
Her face turned red. “You don’t have to answer. I apologize, sincerely.”
Lysandros smiled and waved away her apology. “No, no, it’s just that I was wondering all throughout the herding when youwere going to ask. I should’ve brought it up before you… I should be the one to apologize. I’m sorry.”
Lysandros bowed, but the act made his stance somewhat precarious, and Yuma hurriedly stepped forward to support him.
