THE HOSPITALITY OF the Watchers impresses Zakkai greatly, for despite the tribe's failure to adapt to the times and fully integrate into Esraya's commercial empire, their dishes are seasoned well and they feast heartily. He eats more than his fill of roasted lamb and seasoned stew full of root vegetables and herbs. After dinner, he sips herbal tea with the chief while listening to a series of warriors who step forward to recount tales of their expeditions out into the jungle, stories of slaying man and best alike. The entertainment continues well into the night until drowsiness sets in and the chief dismisses everyone to get some rest.

As welcoming as the Watchers had been, their chief sends Zakkai away the following morning. He explains that harboring a banished royal immediately outside the walls of his father's domain will be seen as a political maneuver, and the Watchers seek no quarrel with Esraya. He does order for his men to send Zakkai away with ample provisions for his journey, however, and the deposed prince is granted a ceremonial escort out of the Watchers' village.

He does turn back with a regretful glance before leaving the settlement behind for good. Savages though they be, the Watchers had been good to him. If only they had a touch more culture about them, he may have insisted to stay among them for a while. But onward he must go, and so the exiled prince turns his sights westward.

A mile or two west of the Watchers' village, the terrain gradually slopes downward, curving toward the northwest and then descending into a valley basin. Peopled by a tribe of land-based merchants, this place boasts of a market every bit as vibrant as Esraya's, even if less civilized.

On his way through, Zakkai purchases a handsome walking stick and a compass for his journey. Breakfasting on a bright soup with notes of citrus and a piece of poultry, he prevents from digging into his provisions just yet. In about an hour's time, he leaves the market behind, and not long later, his path ascends bit by bit until he leaves the valley behind. Checking his compass after reaching level ground, he resumes his westward course.

The westward trek drags on day after day, week after week. Zakkai plods onward, sometimes spending entire days crossing endless wilderness without another soul in sight. Every tribe he encounters, he requests an audience with their chieftain, king, elder, whatever their sovereign calls himself. Sometimes he is granted his request, while other times, their laughs haunt him as he trods away in shame.

His endless journey causes everything to dwindle over time. His provisions from the Watchers dwindle no matter how much he rations them out. Then his money dwindles next as he is forced to purchase food, and as desperation grows, he attempts to buy his welcome among tribes who he thinks may grant him respite for awhile. Of course, his strength dwindles, joints worn out from hours of walking every single day. Through it all, he refuses to turn back, for he will not suffer the jeering of tribesmen who turned him away before and would now bear witness to him treading back through their territory with head hung low.

Even an exiled prince has some measure of pride to maintain, after all.

This relentless trek continues on for two months, give or take. Zakkai is hardly the same man anymore. Persevering with only pride and the scraps of food he purchases along the way powering his steps, he has gained a perspective for the true vastness of the Teiporan continent. Having traveled westward for this long and still not seen a glimpse of the opposite coast highlights the endlessness of the expanse.

The revelation comes at great cost, however. His once vibrant coat has faded and become tattered over the course of the journey, now little more than a battered quilt with sleeves. Assaulted by rain at times and the unforgiving sun at others, only the garment's tailoring now gives any indication of its fine workmanship.

A scant handful of coins jingle against one another in Zakkai's travel bag, the very last of the two hundred thousand koi he had left Esraya with. The farther out west he had traveled, the less value tribesmen had seen in his foreign currency, which only increased the amount he had been asked to hand over for services. The only use for Esrayan koi this far west is to melt back into base metal and mint it again in local coinage.

Zakkai's weary gaze peels off the dusty ground and sweeps over a broad swath of tall grass in the distance where a vast herd of cattle graze. Among the livestock, a handful of warriors bearing spears trot on horseback. A crushing sense of hopelessness overtakes Zakkai's heart as he anticipates being turned away by yet another tribe. Having crossed so much of the expanse of Teipora's land mass, one would have expected just one clan to have room in their hearts for the banished prince of the east, but it is not so.

He shuffles toward the herd, almost too exhausted to lift his head and acknowledge the pair of mounted warriors who approach him. The two exchange a curious glance, but not that of guardsmen identifying a possible threat. The look is more akin to the one given to an injured bird squirming outside one's abode.

"Strange to find a beggar this far from the city," one of the warriors remark. "Is there any way we can help you?"

The shred of dignity left in Zakkai bristles at the first comment, but he chooses not to address it. "I should like to speak with your leader, please."

"For what purpose do you seek him?"

"I have come an exceedingly long way in search of a new home. My father cast me out, and thus far, I have been unable to find a place to lay my head. Perhaps your leader has kindness in his heart for a wandering soul in need of asylum."

The warriors slowly nod their heads. "Above all, our chieftain esteems those who are skilled with their hands and lively in their step. Furthermore, we recently buried a number of our men who were slain in a cattle raid, so he may well offer you a place among us if you can prove yourself as a herdsman."

"I am a prince, not a nanny of cattle. Please, allow me to speak with your leade—"

"If our way of life is too dirty for you, you may wish to continue on to where he is headed."

Zakkai frowns. "Where is that?"

"Our chieftain departed yesterday for the capital to pay tribute to the queen. I hear there is much work to be found in the city, much of it suitable for men of soft hands such as yourself."

"I do not appreciate your insolence, but I am thankful for the information. How far is this capital city you speak of?"

"Two days' journey west. As I said, if you fancy yourself a craftsman and not a husbandman, you will find that opportunities abound there."

"If that be so, I will delay no longer."

The warriors turn away from Zakkai, and he steels himself for another two days of plodding to the west. His very bones ache from this endless trek, but at last, a final destination may be in sight. Civilization may at last be in the exiled prince's grasp.

* * *

The two day trek to the capital city drags into three due to Zakkai's wearied pace. Hunger gnaws at his innards, and the sun overhead beats down on him with a vengeance. Sweat glistens on his forehead and trickles down his temple. Despite the utter exhaustion aching through his entire body, the exiled prince presses on, and cresting a steep hill, he finally reaches a vantage point to view his destination from afar.

One glimpse is enough to place Zakkai in a state of awe. For months, he has passed through lands peopled by nomads or uncultured tribes whose habitations can only be branded villages or towns at best. When the word "city" is uttered, however, a place like the metropolis before him is what comes to his mind. Memory fails him as he attempts to pinpoint which great western nation could boast of so mighty a capital, but this sight alone is almost worth the grueling journey.

A vast spiderweb of paved roads fan out from a trio of majestic buildings in the center, a palace, a cathedral, and some sort of military garrison, if he can venture a guess. The largest is topped by a dome, the smallest by a crucifix, and the least ornate sports a central spire jutting up toward the heavens. The architecture here, even for the smaller structures on the outskirts which must be ordinary homes, conveys a certain culture and artistry Zakkai admires greatly.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out his looking glass. Extending the two interlocked cylinders, he peers through, and with an enhanced view of the capital below, he can only be more enamored. The grand structure he presumes to be a palace is even more intricate than he had first realized. The first two levels are constructed of red clay, ornamented with floral engravings and calligraphy over the entryways, while the uppermost section opens up to an airier aesthetic. In contrast with the sturdy, grounded construction below, the top section upholds its ceiling with timber pillars spaced out enough to allow airflow and sunlight into the space, an exquisite way to enjoy indoors and outdoors at the same time.

Eager to find some food to quiet his stomach and hopefully enjoy the beauty of the city more from up close, Zakkai returns the looking glass to his bag. He tightens his grip on his walking staff and makes his way down the hill with hurried steps. Redemption draws near, his heart tells him, and what a grandiose redemption it is.