"Forward, forward!" Vyarin said, whispering loudly as he urged his horse onward. He was surrounded on all sides by carriages, magnificent coaches pulled with all manner of exotic beast. Slowly, he edged his horse through the procession, flitting between those great vehicles while his honour guard raced tiredly along behind him. Of his entire retinue, Vyarin was the only one with a horse. A gift from a baron in one of the neighbouring realms, a man with meagre land to his name but a heart large enough for his entire court. The horse was a magnificent specimen; stout and strong, and could go many leagues without stopping, much to the annoyance of the rest of the party. Vyarin was not concerned, however. These were the men of Prozdy, and their discipline was unmatched in all the League. It was Prozdy arms that won the great victory at the Battle of Zpina's Pass, driving the Overlords across the mountains and securing freedom. They could surely march on. The clattering of armour marked the appearance of Vyarin's confidante; the head of the honour guard and a distant cousin, known to Prozdy as Tellos "the Outlander". His face was reddened, in part by the exertion and in greater part by the intense sun. "A match here would be fortuitous," he muttered, his tongue languid as a brook. He spoke the language of Prozdy, which no doubt would be foreign to any they would encounter in this palace. "If you could establish a personal union here, while your father secures the loyalty of the princes of Vlaga and Perozord, the combined power base could propel us to the forefront of continental politics. Prozdy may become the singular arbiter of power from the Zpina to the eastern sea." "Please, not now. It is hot," said Vyarin, gritting his teeth. The thought of marriage was so distant when he had left his homeland behind. It was like a game to him. Suddenly, as he approached the opulent gates ahead, boxed in by fine carriages he could only marvel at from the outside, he felt the pull of his youth being sucked from under his feet. "There is no better time," said Tellos, leaning a hand on the flank of the horse. It whinnied in response, lowering its head, surely feeling the heat even more than its rider. "All that we achieve contributes in some part to the game of state. At home, perhaps, you are Vyarin. Here, you are Kremazov." "You make my eye hurt," Vyarin mumbled, reaching a hand to his bandages. Tellos shook his head slowly, as all the carriages stopped and the nobles within them stepped with shaky legs onto solid ground at last. Reaching up a hand, Tellos helped the young Prince of Princes down from his horse, and together they tied the creature up to a large tree. "It really is hot here, down in the south, unbearable nearly," he continued, breaking the minutes of silence between them. Tellos didn't feel the need to respond. He never did. The stone-faced man was not quite ten years Vyarin's elder, but a lifetime of standing by his father's side had made him nearly as strange. "You go inside. First. We watch . . . outside. Item. Horse," Tellos had changed to the local tongue, of which they both were hardly fluent. It was a clear enough sign. When in foreign lands . . . Vyarin nodded. They spent their last few moments together rapidly going over a few common phrases of this strange land. "Enchanted to meet you." "I represent Prozdy and the princely clan of Kremazov." "Is this good to eat?" Finally, Tellos patted his cousin roughly on his shoulder, and left to bark orders at the rest of the guard. Vyarin steeled himself, straightening his posture and taking a deep breath. Recall solemnity. At last, he followed the crowd milling through the gates into the palace proper.