As the day progressed, the morning's cheerful sunshine and warm breezes gave way to a brisk northern wind. By the time S̆ams̆ādur and Erin passed the city gates, thick, black clouds heavy with rain covered the skies from one horizon to the next, though the promised rain had yet to begin.

They rode hard, hoping to beat both the rain and the stoneflesh ambassadors to the meeting place. The first objective proved futile as they were no more than thirty minutes outside Abāya before the winds whipped into a frenzy, shaking the trees as easily as blades of grass, and a cold, bitter rain began to fall.

They paused long enough to don the long, oiled ponchos they'd bought in the city, and pressed on, though their progress slowed as the road returned to muck. Despite the instructions the satyrs had given them, finding the farm proved as difficult as Samsadur had feared.

There were dozens of small farms dotting the countryside, and many in this region had constructed small shacks alongside the main road where the farmers' children hawked their wares to passing merchants. Finding a cart filled with strawberries proved an easier task than expected; indeed, nearly every stall they passed had a cart piled high with the lush red berries as the farmers harvested them as quickly as possible to prevent them from rotting in the fields. The obstacle proved to be finding the right cart.

S̆ams̆ādur knew next to nothing about farming, but it turned out that turnips were definitely not in season. The occasional adult manning the stations answered his question with reserved politeness, expressing their regrets that the turnips had barely begun to grow; the children just laughed at him.

He was starting to think that the satyrs had found a way to deceive him when they stumbled across a worn-down shack run by a weather-beaten man. The only thing he had for sale was a single cart overflowing with strawberries.

Mud splattered his pants as S̆ams̆ādur dropped off the horse and approached the vendor. The man wasn't quite as old as he'd thought from the road. Though the farmer's hair was peppered with gray, most remained jet-black and the lines on his face were deeper than those on his hands. "Do you care for any strawberries, my lord?"

There was no trace of a rural dialect in the man's voice, and as S̆ams̆ādur reached the counter, he realized with some surprise that the man was only a few inches taller than he was. He's too short to be a Corsyth. Maybe a half-blood? The man's keen emerald eyes to a possible Fey ancestor, but Samsadur felt a sudden certainty that the man was at least half stoneflesh.

"Actually, I've been looking for some turnips," he replied casually. "I know they're not in season, but when a man's gotta craving, a man's gotta craving."

The farmer's eyes sharpened, and his gaze focused on the scout. "There might be a few turnips left in the old root cellar," he replied slowly. "But I'm not sure they'll sit right with you."

"That's alright. I'll be happy to take a look at them anyway."

The man hesitated a second longer before pursing his lips. "Where's the goats?" he asked bluntly.

"The goats were a failsafe in case my father's primary plan didn't work," S̆ams̆ādur lied smoothly.

"Your father's plan?" The half-stoneflesh stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Am I supposed to know who your father is?"

There was nothing inauthentic about the prince's scowl. "How many durgū do you know of that are free to wander around the Empire?" he snapped. "If your information on the Empire is so lacking that you don't know who I am, then I have to question what you can possibly offer us."

"Now, hold up-" the 'farmer' started, but someone else spoke over him.

"Shut up, Ēkal." S̆ams̆ādur had already sensed the presence of the woman who stepped out of the shadows, so her lips turned down in a frown as he failed to react to her appearance. "You knew I was here."

"Rumors usually have some basis in truth," he responded evasively. Although his father had never formally admitted his abilities, the gossip about S̆ams̆ādur's magic had spread wildly.

"You claim to be Prince S̆ams̆ādur, then? The same prince who was exiled by his father and had assassins sent after him?"

"One and the same."

"So the assassins were, what? A little birthday present?" she asked skeptically.

The prince shrugged. "Ask yourself this - if the men of Mūt-Lā'is really wanted to kill me, would I not be dead?"

"You're not the only target to survive their attacks," she countered. "The assassins are skilled, but they're not unbeatable."

"True," he agreed amiably. "But you know the sort that beats them - the warrior at the top of his game, the mage with death at his fingertips - and you know what sort of magic I have at my disposal. Do I really strike you as able to fight them off?"

Uncertainty entered her face. "You're a mind mage. Perhaps you commanded them to kill themselves."

S̆ams̆ādur tutted his tongue in disappointment. "Come now, if I were able to control minds, why would I be wasting my time trying to convince you of anything?"

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She cocked her head to the side, her expression inscrutable as she studied him. "So why did your father send the assassins?" she asked after a few seconds of silence.

"I'm sure you're familiar with the restrictions placed on durgu travelling the empire."

"Yes, which is why he told us to expect the goats."

"The goats, as you call them, are not my father's subjects. Friendly folk, if a bit odd, but not best suited to dealing with sensitive matters," he replied smoothly. "My father manufactured my exile so that the empire would let me in. He had to send a few assassins to make it convincing, but they understood the role they were playing."

There was another long beat of silence before she finally nodded her head. "You better not be deceiving us."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Lady," he paused, fishing for a name.

"I'm no lady. Commander Marat."

"So your man's named 'palace' and your named 'daughter.'" S̆ams̆ādur snorted. "Not even going to pretend to give me your real name?"

"You don't need it."

"Maybe not, but you know my name," he pointed out.

"And you have yet to introduce the Corsyth," she quickly rebutted. "Since when do the durgu work with their kind?"

S̆ams̆ādur clapped a meaty hand on the scout's shoulders. "This one's more Fey than Corsyth," he replied easily. "You aren't the only one my father hopes to sway."

Her suspicion was replaced with scorn. "Good luck," she sneered, "but I think you'll find the Fey lost their balls a few centuries ago."

"Oh, I don't know - I think my friend here," he slapped Erin's back again with fake cheer, "is still in possession of a pair. But enough stalling. Are you going to welcome me in, or will I be forced to send back word to my father that the stoneflesh refused to meet with me?"

"Fine." S̆ams̆ādur could still sense some lingering suspicion in her mind, but the woman shuffled to the side and reached for the door. "You can come on in."

As Samsadur took a seat at the farmhouse's weathered wooden table, he wasn't surprised to find themselves outnumbered. There were more than a dozen stoneflesh inside, though most of them seemed to be simple soldiers who greeted him with a polite nod before retreating to the back of the room. Only three of the stoneflesh followed him to the table - Commander Marat, whom he'd already met, and two men who had been waiting inside.

It was rather amusing, truthfully. The prince suspected the stoneflesh had sent an entire squad in the hopes of intimidating his father's pair of emissaries, but the fools had no idea they were trapped inside the farmhouse with a wood mage. Good luck escaping.

The commander pulled out a well-worn letter as he sat down and spread it across the table. "While Lord Maḫarkum found your father's offer interesting," she began, "he had a few concerns."

"Like if he's actually going to get off his ass and invade, or it's just posturing?" the prince spoke up with a grin, reading the foremost thought off her mind.

"I wouldn't have phrased it that way," Marat replied.

"Oh, of course not," he replied sarcastically, "but I'm sure you would have found some flowery phrase to express a similar sentiment. It's a reasonable concern," he added.

"Surely you did not come all this way to tell me your father has abandoned his plans."

"Do you jest?" S̆ams̆ādur scoffed. "That man has been plotting this invasion since before I was born. I assure you, he will invade; he's spent his whole life preparing for it. What I can't promise you, though, is when he will invade."

The woman frowned. "What does that mean for us?"

S̆ams̆ādur took a moment to answer, his plans rapidly changing as he rummaged through her thoughts. He'd been under the assumption that the alliance was all but finalized and had come prepared to kill the ambassadors in the hopes of destroying the durgū's relations with the Zalancthians, but Commander Marat was not what he had expected. Her mind was full of doubts, both hers and her master's, and the stoneflesh were hesitant to commit to anything, suspecting that the durgu would prove as unreliable an ally as their abortive attempts with the Fey.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "What that means, commander, is that despite what my father may have promised, I think it quite unlikely he will invade before Lord Eligon's campaign is drawn to a close."

Momentary confusion flickered through her face before comprehension dawned. "Your father didn't send you, did he?"

"Oh, he certainly did," S̆ams̆ādur chuckled, "but not on purpose. I would have looked the other way if he'd just left me alone, but after he so generously shelled out for a full squad of hitmen, I found myself taking a rather personal interest in his plans."

"Let me be blunt," he continued. "I've worked with my father for many years, and I understand how his mind works better than most. I do not think he cares about the southern lands of the Empire one way or another, so perhaps he'd allow you to keep those, but Corsythia is the greatest city of the land. It would be the crown jewel of his conquest, and he will never allow your people to have it."

"Why should I believe you?" Marat countered. "It's obvious you're bitter and filled with hate. The terms are quite good."

"Too good, aren't they?" S̆ams̆ādur sneered. "By all means, accept my father's offer and allow him to play you like a fool. And when you and the empire have worn yourselves out fighting each other, and your armies are a pale, broken shell of your former glory, he will sweep in with an untouched horde. Perhaps, if he's feeling merciful, he'll allow you to be a vassal."

The stoneflesh looked uneasy as the doubts he'd already picked up on were magnified with every word he spoke. "I will admit," Marat said slowly, "my lord has his concerns about the offer, but it's not like we have many other options on the table."

"It's unfortunate for you that the new emperor managed to consolidate his power at the same time your lords are fracturing," S̆ams̆ādur agreed. "I suspect Lord Maḫarkum has reached the same conclusion as I - you do not have the strength to stop the Empire from reclaiming their capital."

"So you see why we will accept your father's offer, bad though it may be."

"Then you are fools," S̆ams̆ādur replied sternly. "My father will leave your people to bleed, and when you are armies are shattered, he will claim his victory. There is another option on the table, though. A third way, if you will." He dangled the proposition before them.

"The Fey will never help us."

"Oh, I wasn't referring to the Fey," S̆ams̆ādur smirked. "I meant the Empire. You wouldn't be the first or, dare I foretell, the last group to find themselves assimilated and the Empire, for all its faults, is surprisingly indulgent. I'm sure you won't be willing to consider it just yet - but keep the thought in mind. Is the Empire really a worse overlord than my father?"

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