Prince Saryn Skor, eldest son of the Mizizian emperor, looked out at the cheering crowd and soaked up the applause. This was to be his first diplomatic mission, a journey across the mountains to negotiate with the rich nation of Collara, accompanied by a royal entourage of six others his father had specifically chosen. His bodyguard, Kinnegan Tantos, stood next to the supply wagon on his big gray horse. Saryn smiled at him--this mission was going to be easy, and perhaps even fun once he experienced Collaran hospitality. He was a prince, and everyone regarded him with love and devotion, right? "Boy!" he shouted to the scout who would guide the journey. "When do we go?"

Evas Bris, the scout, shook his head--perhaps Saryn was a prince, but the age difference was not great enough for him to be calling Evas "boy." Really, the scout considered himself the most important member of the mission, as it was his expert guidance that would take Saryn and the others into the Stoneridge. The party would never survive without his help: three haughty nobles, a quack doctor, a writer, and a barbarian horselord. Well, maybe Lord Tantos would survive, revised Evas, noting the bodyguard's broad frame. "We go when the chronicler arrives," he told the prince carefully. "She's coming soon from her business in the palace."

Francho Coeuran, lord of the Duchy of Palak, watched the crowd with a mixture of apprehension and pride. He saw very few Palakkans in the crowd, which only served to make him stand taller. When this expedition succeeded, and he came back a hero, he would bring his duchy glory. Perhaps even the glory it needed to separate permanently from the rule of the emperor and his foolish sons, something he'd petitioned for many times but never obtained. Compared to the battles and wars he'd fought in, surviving a few months with Saryn and his pompous sense of self would be easy. He rolled his eyes as Saryn blew a kiss to a girl in the crowd, who squealed. "Good-for-nothing showboater," he muttered under his breath.

Igo Pazzom, the medic, scoffed at that. Lord Coeuran probably thought he couldn't hear what he muttered, but the words rang true: Saryn was snobbish, flighty, and conceited. Last time he was in the palace, almost two decades ago when he cured the emperor's wasting disease with a simple lime tonic, the prince had treated him like dirt. Asking him pointed questions, leaving spoiled food all over the living quarters for the servants to clean up, reveling late into the night while he tried to sleep. Made Igo feel less bad about swindling his father for thousands of gold pieces. It wasn't exactly his choice to be serving a spoiled royal again, but then again, couldn't exactly refuse a direct order.

Charla Ilvi, a court lady, looked down from her place at Saryn's side and tried not to think about how far away from court she was about to be. Thanks to the prince's protection, she had never left the capital city in all her eighteen years, but she felt certain she could prove herself in the wilds of the Stoneridge and the golden halls of Collara. And a few months away from the other ladies' constant disapproval couldn't hurt, either. Did they know the extent of her relationship with the royal family? Did the emperor know? Surely not. He'd kill her if he did.

For his part, Lord Kinnegan Tantos stood still as a statue on his horse's back. His oath was to protect Prince Saryn, and that was the duty he intended to carry out, with no complications about it. He came from the horselords of the plains, a simple and brutal people with no law but strength and fealty to the Mizizian court. Kinnegan himself carried no weapon. There were ways to be strong without resorting to violence. A movement in the crowd caught his eye: a woman wearing a green tunic, carrying a huge leather bag of scrolls, rushing as quickly as she could toward the royal wagon. "My liege," he told Saryn, "Chronicler Soll approaches."

Viri Soll, the expedition's chronicler, pushed through commoners in a single-minded focus to get to the wagon. This expedition seemed to her like something out of an old fairy tale: being called to aid the crown prince himself on a mission across the mountains, with such motley companions. Charla and Francho were known to her as fine people, and the scout and the doctor were unknown. Lord Tantos was a fascinating mystery, and Prince Saryn... well, she'd written some not-so-flattering things about his drinking habits in the past, but she was willing to put those old assessments aside for the sake of the story. By sky's grace, the chronicle of this expedition was going to be her greatest work.

Saryn surveyed his companions. Saryn's Seven. It had a nice ring to it. "My loyal and adoring followers!" he shouted over the crowd noise. "We ride for Collara and glory!"

The wagon was for supplies, not for people to ride. The draft horses only had so much stamina. That didn't stop Saryn from riding in the wagon anyway.

For the first day or so, his bodyguard and the scout had tried to convince him to walk like the others. Nothing worked. The spoiled prince sat back against a crate of cornmeal, sipping wine from sky-knows-where, remarking every so often on how dreadfully long the expedition was taking. The horses, meanwhile, huffed and puffed in the heat of the plains, lucky to get a moment to eat some dry grass.

Francho Coeuran was realizing very quickly that his years of military command had not prepared him for this. On the third day, as the scout and the medic watered the horses at a small stream, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Prince Saryn!" His voice rang across the half-dry creek bed. The prince looked up from his perch on the back of the wagon, where he had been sleeping in the noonday heat. No one else was around. No witnesses, thought Francho treacherously, if my sword slipped into his throat. But he was a man of honor, who settled disputes in honorable ways.

"What is it?" he asked blearily. "We aren't there yet, are we?"

"No, Prince," said Francho exasperatedly. "It will be two months before we sight the mountains, let alone the halls of Collara. In that time, do you not plan to aid the mission even a little bit?"

Saryn shrugged. "I'm the whole reason for this mission, so you had better watch your tongue."

Lord Coeuran stepped closer, so close he could smell the prince's breath--rank from bad water and wine. His hand clasped his sword, and he unsheathed it, holding it idly at his side to make clear he meant business. "Prince, you may be respected in the capital city, but here we are all equals. By riding in the wagon, you make all of our jobs more difficult. Could you not help us out a bit?"

"Equals?" The prince's face went red, and he grasped among the supplies for a weapon of his own, eventually settling on a stalk of barley. "We aren't alike at all, you and me."

That much was true, reflected Francho with a slight smile. If he ever were similar to Saryn in the slightest, then the sky was under full permission to strike him down.

His eyes lighted on the crates and barrels behind the prince's head. They were not marked with an origin, but he would recognize the smell of Palak barley and salt pork anywhere. His own duchy was starving in their homes, and the emperor was stealing its food to provide a bedrest for his useless eldest son? His fist clenched around the hilt of his sword as blood rushed to his head. Somehow or another, the house of Skor would pay for this transgression.

"What is this?" asked a voice, deep and soft. Francho spun around to see the barbarian bodyguard standing right behind him, the big, pale plainsman. That man was terrifyingly quiet.

"He's making me very uncomfortable, Kinnegan!" shouted Saryn. "Get him out of here! That's your only job!"

"Interesting." Kinnegan looked calmly from the prince to Francho. "And your side of the story is?"

He sheathed his sword. He felt shame at giving in to his own anger while a literal barbarian showed none. "I only meant to express my discontent," he said carefully. "We are in agreement that Prince Saryn's traveling in the cart is only slowing down the horses and our expedition. Then I was carried away by my own sentiment."

Lord Tantos nodded. "You are a sentimental person, I observe." Then, to Saryn: "He raises a good point. As a leader, you should try to meet your followers where they are."

The prince sighed, pressing his hand against his forehead. "Fine. If you insist, I will walk." He said "walk" like it was a dirty word but climbed down from the wagon all the same. His steps were uneasy, perhaps addled a bit by sun and alcohol, but he made his way down to the creek for water.

As he left, Francho couldn't help but take stock of the supply crates. Indeed: every bit of food in their supply wagon was stolen from Palak and the other poor duchies in the east. For a two-month journey, it seemed very little food, especially for one with Saryn's appetite. And something else seemed wrong, too, but he didn't realize it until a few long moments later.

It was only food on the wagon--no luxuries or treasures to show off the riches of Mizizia, strange for a diplomatic mission to a rich nation. Did the emperor really believe Saryn's savoir-faire was enough to impress the Collarans by itself? If so, the prince would have to shape up on the journey like no man before him.

Just as Francho, too, left to get water, he noticed the chronicler staring at the wagon and scribbling in her book. Viri Soll had seen everything.