PROPERLY GIRDED AND outfitted for their diplomatic expedition, Zakkai and Elder Okafor set out for Mejanno the following morning. Zakkai now wears a brown tunic, matching trousers, and a pair of riding boots, all in keeping with local fashion. He still refuses to part with his beaten coat from Esraya, but it remains folded and tucked away in the saddlebag behind him. His dagger, ordinarily a concealed weapon slung over inner garments and hidden by a coat or cloak, now sits proudly in a sashed sheath on his chest, silver pommel gleaming in the sunlight.

The pair ride in single file on horses Okafor claims are bred for speed more than strength. They are slimmer animals than the ones in Esraya that Zakkai had learned to ride on. In contrast with those stocky steeds tasked with pulling loads and facilitating transport, these athletic beasts of the savannah trot forward with energy, bobbing up and down as they go.

Okafor's weaponry also remains no mystery to Zakkai, as he had been granted an opportunity earlier that morning to watch the warrior prepare himself for the journey. His daggers retain their places in the slots of his leather armor, and on his hip, he carries a sword similar to the one Zakkai had picked out the day prior. It curves slightly, however, with no hand guard on the hilt.

Furthermore, Okafor rides with a shield tied to his back, but the design differs from the wooden, leather-wrapped disk he had given Zakkai prior to setting off. Okafor's shield is oblong, mostly white in color, but mottled with black splotches like the skin of a cow. Its handle consists of a wooden pole extending even beyond the upper and lower edges. A peculiar implement, which surely boasts unique advantages over the more straightforward design Zakkai is familiar with.

Lastly, Okafor had spent some of his morning polishing a lengthy spearhead fixed to a relatively short staff. It must have cutting capabilities in addition to its use as a thrusting weapon, for the edges are sharpened down the entire length, and the increased size of the head alone implies that versatility is the intent. The elder warrior had wrapped the spear in a blanket and tied it across his saddlebags before setting off, so clearly his sword is intended to be quicker to draw in case of trouble.

The pair ride across remarkably level ground for a matter of hours while the sun climbs the sky above them. They gradually leave Katulera behind them, burying themselves deeper and deeper in the savannah with each hoofbeat. Compared to the endless trek Zakkai had recently endured, this is nothing. His horse naturally follows Okafor's, so he simply sits back and breathes in their changing surroundings.

By and by, they come upon the only hill for miles around, and though Zakkai's compass indicates heading toward it would take them off course, Okafor insists they climb it. The horses should have a break, he says, and the savannah crawls with stealthy predators. From the crest of that hill, they will have a vantage point to watch out for approaching danger, so they veer in that direction.

Dismounting from their horses and allowing them to graze freely on the delicate sprigs on the top of the hill, the two men pull food from their packs and settle down on a nearby log. Okafor also unwraps his spear and props it up against a nearby tree. His posture relaxes, but his eyes remain vigilant.

While Zakkai nibbles at a piece of flatbread topped by a slab of salted lamb, Okafor produces yet another knife from his saddlebag and uses it to peel the green skin off some sort of root vegetable. Its red innards drip with juices as he deftly slices cubes out of it and tosses them into his mouth.

Watching the warrior's hands at work, Zakkai's attention fixates on an oddity he should have noticed far sooner. The two fingers farthest from Okafor's thumb on his right hand are nothing more than nubs, rounded off at the second knuckle on both digits. Okafor had been displaying a tendency to use his left hand more often than the right, but until now, the youth had failed to identify the reason why.

"I have a question for you, if you have no reservations about giving me an answer." Zakkai says.

Okafor's gaze remains fixed on the shrinking tuber in his hands. "That would depend on the question."

"Your right hand ... what happened to it?"

"War is an ugly thing. It strips much away from those who wage it."

"Clearly so. You lost those fingers in battle, then?"

"Yes."

A less than satisfactory answer. No elaboration. Zakkai crunches down on another bite of flatbread with a hum of disappointment. While Okafor is clearly diligent and experienced in matters of warfare, he leaves much to be desired as a conversationalist.

Then, the elder's left hand darts over to brush a piece of the vegetable peel off his right. A distinctive marking branded into his dark skin catches Zakkai's eye, a perfect circle, inside of which two straight lines come to a point and create a triangle. Four dots—two on each side of the triangle—complete the pattern and must convey some meaning to which the foreign prince is not educated.

"Forgive my constant questions," he begins, "but I cannot help noticing the mark on your other hand. What does it mean?"

"It is the mark of a Battlemaster." Okafor answers this question far more readily. "Few share this mark."

"Do I rightly assume it is a mark of peculiar skill?"

"A recognition of skill and an investment of authority. As a Battlemaster, my rank is above that of any officer in the king's army."

"You told me before that the Rukisu serve Zafanya's queen and advance her interests. Are these duties one and the same?"

"They usually are, but you are correct that there is a distinction. Unlike her neighbors, Zafanya's royal line passes down from mother to daughter. The queen is the sovereign monarch. The Rukisu are her sworn warriors, directly charged with her protection and tasked to carry out smaller operations in her name, but it is the king who maintains the main body of armed forces. Ordinarily, when sent alongside a battalion of the king's men, us Rukisu operate alongside, not over the officers commanding those men."

"But as Battlemaster, you are granted authority to command those forces?" Zakkai asks.

"Yes. Even the highest-ranked officer among them must submit to a Battlemaster's orders."

"You said only a few share your mark. How does one attain to this rank?"

"Years of dedication and diligence." Okafor says this with a smirk, as if his unsatisfactory answer is meant to amuse and spark further curiosity.

Zakkai takes the bait. "Surely the qualifications are more specific than that. You must be leaving something out."

"To attain this mark, one must master multiple weapons, to start. At the minimum, one must master a battlefield weapon, some variety of sword, a ranged or throwing weapon, a martial arts discipline, and show superior skill in horse riding. The trial also includes dueling each member of the Council of Elders."

"You are an even greater warrior than I had realized, then. The Council must be comprised of the mightiest warriors the Rukisu have to offer."

"They are elevated to the position they are for good reason."

"So your skills are such that you have dueled each member of the Council to a draw?"

Okafor nods, but no pride shows itself in his body language. "Diligence and practice beget mastery. Yet I still have much to learn."

"Out of curiosity, which weapons specifically did you master?"

He reaches for the short spear Zakkai had been eyeing earlier. "The iklwa of my homeland, though at times, I have found a battle axe to be an advantageous alternative. The Sandarian saber I still carry is a weapon I have mastered. Throwing daggers are another area of expertise; my archery is still weak. And while I have not practiced in years, the martial arts discipline of harakono served me well in my youth."

"How many others have attained to the same rank as you?"

"Only nine now bear the mark. Five of my peers in the council share the distinction, and four more besides. Out of two hundred or so Rukisu at large, we are a minority."

"You nine must be seen as the cream of the crop, then."

Okafor shrugs. "In this time of peace, it is little more than a scar on my skin. But in time of war, it can be a heavy burden."

"I do suppose the difference between duty and honor is often merely a matter of perspective."

"Should be the same. Come now. We have rested long enough."

Zakkai accepts Okafor's assistance in pulling him to his feet, and then the two trudge back over to their horses. In short order, they are on their way again, down the hill and returning to their westward heading. Mejanno awaits them still, and now the young exile finds himself even more assured of the worthiness of his travel companion.

* * *

As Okafor had said before setting off, crossing the savannah is typically a straightforward endeavor. The sun above, thirst in one's throat, and predators man and beast alike are the only prevalent threats to avoid, and the elder's vigilance had steered them clear of all four. In some areas, the expanse of grass and brush grows so high that even on horseback, the pair is unable to peer over the top of the stalks, but the flatness of the terrain itself presents no difficulty.

At the end of one such stretch of tall grass, the pair reach a broad clearing surrounding a walled town. Okafor immediately makes two declarations that resolve most of Zakkai's initial questions regarding the sight before them. The first is that the clearing is evidence of recent grazing from a sizable herd, and the second is that the town is none other than Mejanno.

Zafanya's capital three days behind them dwarfs Mejanno, but it remains an impressive sight nonetheless. Hundreds of homes topped by thatched roofs fill the space inside the walls, arranged in an orderly grid pattern and encircling a giant central building. A cathedral, it appears, judging by its angular construction and the three spires climbing to the sky. The church's supremacy over this land is evident in the cathedral's prominence over any other building surrounding it.

Zakkai and Okafor nudge their horses into a trot toward the town, only for the latter to call their advance to a halt only a few paces in. Utterly puzzled, Zakkai comes to a stop and studies the Battlemaster's apprehensive face.

"Something is not as it should be." Okafor explains.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I feel it."

Zakkai crosses his arms. "Is this based on any observation, or simply an instinct?"

"I know something feels amiss. I simply need to determine what it is."

Watching Okafor fruitlessly peer at the buildings ahead, Zakkai realizes he can be of assistance, and reaching into the saddlebag behind him, produces his looking glass.

"Perhaps this may aid you." he says, handing it over.

Okafor takes the device, but other than discovering that the two interlocked sections extend, he finds himself only baffled as to its use. Zakkai proceeds to demonstrate how to place his eye against the smaller end and use the magnification to get a closer look at the town from afar. Enlightened by the demonstration, the elder warrior scans Mejanno through the lens and purses his lips.

After seconds that drag into minutes, he removes the looking glass from his eye, blinks, and hands it back over to Zakkai. "I see nothing amiss, but I fear my eye deceives me. I know something in the air is not as it should be."

"What exactly are you suspecting is the matter?" Zakkai asks, taking his turn with the glass.

"Perhaps I am only superstitious, but evil has a smell. Our horses know it well; they obeyed our command to proceed, but only reluctantly. There is evil in the air."

Naturally, Zakkai focuses his vision on the cathedral first, being the prominent building in sight. Broad walls of sturdy bricks stand tall, adorned by delicate touches of sweeping latticework. Golden loops and intricate filigree convey immeasurable wealth on the part of whoever had financed the cathedral's construction. Indeed, the more detail he focuses on, the more he finds himself impressed with the overall magnitude of beauty before him. Yet he sees no evidence to support Okafor's apprehension.

"I confess my ignorance in how this place is ordinarily supposed to look," Zakkai admits, "but I see nothing worth halting over."

"We will proceed, but I prefer to know what dangers await me."

Continuing to peer through the looking glass, Zakkai shifts his focus. Instead of fixating on the aesthetic spirals of metalwork or the likeness of the Redeemer on the cross fixed to the second tallest spire, he hones in on men pacing the balconies jutting out from the building. He squints.

Empty scabbards swing from their hips, and their hands grasp neither sword nor shield. Their armor and uniforms imply they belong to a military group, yet they have no ability to wage war. They resemble a bird stripped of its feathers.

"You may be correct," he says. "I see men who must be sentries, lookouts, but they appear disarmed. They wear empty scabbards and pace with empty hands."

"What does it all mean?"

"I cannot begin to guess."

Okafor sighs. "And now, an invitation. Look at the gates."

Zakkai sweeps his magnified view down to the town gates, then removes his eye, realizing he can see well enough without it. A group of five old men in flowing garments wait with outstretched arms, what can only be a welcoming gesture. Yet with the uncertainty in the air, their invitation invokes a sense of foreboding.

"We go," Okafor says, "but cautiously."

Pushing their horses to a trot, the pair approach the five elders. Once in speaking distance, they dismount on Okafor's cue and close the remainder of the distance on foot. The quintet's voices blend together as they chant in greeting.

"May the Redeemer's favor follow you," they say. "You must be here on behalf of Queen Jokuye."

"Indeed," Okafor replies. "I am informed the farmers have lodged a formal complaint against the clergy here over a violation of land rights. Her majesty was requested to resolve the matter, and we are here in her stead."

"No doubt, she has more important matters to attend to."

"No doubt. Would you be able to point me in the direction of the bishop?"

One of the men steps forward, violet robes rustling as he gives Okafor a slight bow. "I am he, Bishop Manno. And you are?"

"Battlemaster Enu Okafor, First Elder of her majesty's Bladesmen. This is my assistant, Zakkai."

Zakkai bristles at Okafor's choice to introduce him as nothing more than an 'assistant', but he holds his tongue. Instead, he listens as the bishop's four companions introduce themselves in turn. Their speech is overly lofty, and they dance around the nature of the dispute they and the farmers are embroiled in. Eventually, they guide the two travelers through Mejanno's gates, still repelling Okafor's blunt attempts to gain insight on their predicament.

They navigate the grid of narrow streets while still engaged in this verbal tugging match. Okafor asks a question, which somehow gets ignored or dodged, and his protests get lost in the clerics' endless words. They speak until out of breath, and yet Zakkai shares Okafor's frustration, for they still end out saying nothing.

Finally, they reach the wide steps leading up to the cathedral's open doors, and the bishop turns to Okafor, suddenly serious. His companions finally make themselves useful in tying the Zafanyan horses' reins around decorative knobs at the bottom of the stairway's handrails.

"Forgive my obtusity," he says, "but for reasons you will soon understand, I am not permitted to elaborate on the specifics of this dispute you are here to resolve, esteemed Elder. The farmers' representative awaits you inside. I swear on the Redeemer's blood that you shall find all the answers you seek once you speak with him."

Okafor squints. "You ought not swear on the Savior's blood so lightly, or you may find in the end it was not shed for you."

"There is nothing light about my oath, esteemed Elder. God bless you."

The five clerics disperse, leaving Zakkai and Okafor to exchange another suspicious glance. If they are truly embroiled in such an intense dispute that it warrants a foreign queen's attention, why do they now scramble away from the matter? Nothing is as it should be.

Okafor takes up his oblong shield in one hand and his spear in the other. Prompting Zakkai to have his own shield at the ready and loosen his sword in its scabbard, he steps into the gaping maw of the cathedral's entrance. The youth's heart pounds in his ears as he moves to follow.

This must be a trap. Pristine carpet spreads out under their feet, and their very breaths echo through the hollow space. Empty corridor stretches out ahead of them, lined with dramatic paintings of Biblical scenes. Only the eyes of the twelve apostles on one side and an assortment of prophets on the other watch as the two stride down the lonely passageway.

Okafor rounds a corner spear-first. Zakkai steps out behind him, and here, they find a sanctuary chamber awaits them at the end of the hall. Rows and rows of long benches stretch out on either side of a walkway leading up to an ornate wooden pulpit. An anguished likeness of the Redeemer on the cross hangs over the pulpit, painted on tapestry in bold colors.

The two continue on, stepping into the sanctuary and finding it just as empty as the two corridors outside. Yet something causes Zakkai's skin to crawl. Maybe Okafor was right and evil does have a smell, for the air hits his nose with a lightly foul odor now. He shudders at the sensation.

"Who goes there?" Okafor calls out, apparently certain they are not alone. His branded left hand tenses around his spear shaft.

"Enu Okafor..." a grating voice returns, its origin uncertain. Echoing off the walls, it strikes fear into Zakkai's soul. "...a voice I have not heard in a long, long time."

"Show yourself! Whoever you are, I take it your quarrel is not with the local clergy after all."

The rustle of fabric against itself hits their ears. Then a head peeks over the top of the pulpit, a gaunt man sporting a wide grin and wearing a necklace of human teeth. His tattered cloak fans out behind him as he rests his hands on the speaking platform.

"How perceptive of you, Enu," he intones. "I had just been about to offer a sermon."

Zakkai allows his gaze to drift toward Okafor, whose face is now frozen in horror. His spear jitters in his hand, and his shield arm hangs slack. Mouth agape, he bears no resemblance to the confident warrior who had entered the sanctuary moments prior. Now the youth's stomach drops, dreading the discovery of what has unnerved him so.

"It ... it cannot be," Okafor stammers. "This cannot be real."

"Your eyes do not deceive you, old friend."

Zakkai rapidly looks between the two, grappling for context to understand the interaction playing out before him. What sort of history are the two drawing on, and what had so utterly shaken Okafor's resolve?

"I must have lost my mind," Okafor says. "This cannot be. Here you stand, yet I killed you twelve years ago."