They spotted the salar's company coming out of the valley a few hours before sundown. An entourage of fifty men accompanied the salar, with two riders riding a little ahead to clear the path and two rows of guards flanking left and right of the five wagons that presumably contained gifts from the governor of Khandoor. The salar made a trip to all the four provinces, once independent kingdoms that now belonged to the Salasar, at least once a year. Governors needed to be kept on a short leash to discourage any plan of uprising. There was always an uprising somewhere in the Salasar, no matter how long they'd been conquered or how many privileges they were allowed. People were people. 'Give them an apple, and they'll say it's an orange they need,' his father had said. It was a big peninsula to rule, a responsibility more enormous at times than the power that came with it. Lasura had never quite understood why anyone would want to sit on that throne.

Ahead of the wagons was Salar Muradi in a black tunic completely identical to the guards around him. His mount—a magnificent black Vilarian stallion—was dressed with the exact same military saddle as the rest of his men's. To his immediate right, Ghaul rode sturdily atop his massive Samarran horse, alert and ready, as always, to kill any living thing that came within two steps of his salar. A royal carriage followed not too far behind. It would be empty, as always, dragged along only to deceive those who might try to assassinate him.

It would have to take a truly ignorant assassin to attack the carriage, Lasura humored himself with that thought, watching the company coming nearer. While it should have been difficult to notice the salar in his party of fifty men wearing the exact same color, even with his giant guard removed from being the center of attention, the Salar of Rasharwi would still stand out from a crowd ten times as large. His father's was a presence that filled rooms and doorways, a figure that demanded absolute attention in any space he occupied, and Lasura had never gotten used to the way his limbs tended to paralyze every time he had to share that space.

Next to him, Azram's horse fidgeted as it stood waiting, forcing its rider to reign him in several times. Horses were sensitive creatures. They could always sense the rider's anxiety or a lack of confidence. Azram, for all his eagerness earlier that afternoon, looked like he was trying not to sit on a spear someone was pointing up his behind now that their father was approaching.

Ghaul snapped a command, and the two riders in front came forward to check on Azram's party. Once their identities had been confirmed, one rode back to the main company to inform the salar, the other stayed behind to signal should the situation change in any way. One of the things Salar Muradi was notorious for was how thorough he could be over security checks. It was the reason why he'd survive to become what he was and why the other princes of his time hadn't. One might call it an act of cowardice, but so far such a person hadn't existed in the Salasar, or if he had, his existence didn't last long enough for Lasura to hear of it.

Azram urged his horse forward as the salar's company reached them, bowing smoothly to their father once they were at the appropriate distance.

"Welcome home, father." With a discreet gesture, Azram signaled the tracker to bring forward the kill. "We were out hunting in the area and saw you coming out of the mountains. I've caught you something."

It had to appear as a coincidence, everyone knew. The salar had always been suspicious of those who went out of their ways to lick his boots. Lasura doubted the event that day would be seen as a coincidence by his father, but sometimes one could get away with putting up an effort to conceal it.

The tracker brought the dead fox over to the salar. Ghaul steered his horse between the two and reached for it in his place, handing the kill to another soldier. His father, who had yet to say a single word, took a glance at the animal, and then at both his sons. The silence that ensued made all the horses fidget. The first word from the Salar always felt like a death sentence, for the reason that sometimes it literally was.

"I see," said the salar with a grin that made Lasura wish he had something to cover his head with. He had come to know that smile, that look in his eyes, and what it was that his father was truly seeing. At least he seemed amused more than insulted. "Only one?" The question was light and directed at Lasura.

It wasn't a difficult question to answer, but when it came from his father, everything became complicated. Lasura considered his choices for a moment. On one hand, he could tell the truth and risk damaging Azram's ego, on the other, he could lie and risk insulting the salar's intelligence. He might just be able to avoid both, however, if he chose his words carefully enough. "My aim was a little off today." It wasn't exactly a lie. His aim had been off, whether or not it had been deliberate.

The salar studied him for a time. Lasura held his gaze despite the way his skin pricked like he was coming down with a fever. Above them, an eagle was soaring, whistling a distinctive, high-pitched sound he readily identified from his time spent hunting in the desert.

His father looked up at the eagle, then at him and nodded. "The bird, Lasura."

It was one of the ways he signaled during a hunting session—a quick glance at the prey, and a characteristic nod to give permission. Without delay, Lasura unslung the bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow and made his aim. It would have to be done swiftly, if at all.

He didn't want to shoot the bird, especially one as rare and magnificent as the spotted eagle of the Black Desert. But a command from the salar was a command, and between his life and that of whatever it was his father wanted dead, Lasura chose his without much hesitation. Clearing his mind to focus on the target, he drew a breath, calculated the timing, and released the arrow.

It missed by a hair.

He looked at his father, hoping that it wouldn't be seen as a calculated attempt to fail. The salar nodded. "Again."

He fitted another arrow, recalculated the speed and distance of his target, and released. This time it went through the chest cleanly. The eagle screeched a piercing cry before it fell to the ground. He released the breath he'd been holding, feeling a mixture of relief and pity for the magnificent creature. More of a relief, if he were to be honest. There were several things he could imagine happening should the salar regard his failed attempts to be deliberate, and probably as many he couldn't.

It hadn't been deliberate—he was smart enough to know how well his father could see through an act. The first shot had truly been a mistake. He hadn't shot at a flying target often, except during tournaments he was required to enter and lose. His skills in archery had been taught by Shakshi warriors in gray, handpicked by his mother, of course, and they only hunted for the meat, sometimes for the fur they needed as a necessity to stay warm. To the Shakhis, killing birds was seen as a waste of both animal and arrow, and so they never practiced on such a target. He also remembered his father saying something of the sort, and so far had only seen him hunt land animals. There was, however, a purpose to that day's command, as always. Every act had a purpose when it came to Salar Muradi. Deo di Amarra, his sword master and tutor of many things assigned to him by his father had taught him that very early on.

In many ways, it wasn't that difficult a shot. Spotted eagles were large enough, some with wingspans as wide as twice the height of a fully grown man, and this particular one had been flying low. Lasura considered himself pretty good with his bow. Growing up training with Shakshi warriors and being taken out to the desert for days at a time to make sure he knew how to survive would make a competent archer out of anyone with half a brain. Being a prince of the Black Tower, he didn't think he would need that kind of survival skills in his lifetime, but what his mother wanted, he'd learned to obey. Deny her something, and she could make his life more miserable than all his father's wives and sons combined.

"The next time you want to kiss Azram's princely behind," said the Salar. "Do so when I'm not around."

A lesson taught with the life of a precious bird. A message for both his sons.

Next to him, Azram shifted uncomfortably on his horse as if feeling the saddle for the first time. He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to have decided just in time to not die prematurely and closed it.

For Lasura, it required an acknowledgement. "There won't be a next time," he said and checked himself before allowing his head to drop too apologetically. That, too, had been known to irritate him. Anything of excess irritated him. "May I have permission to retrieve the bird?"

The salar nodded. "You may."

Guiding the horse with his legs, he trotted to the eagle that had fallen a short distance away behind the salar's company. When in range, Lasura leaned over to the side to pick up the bird without getting off or slowing down his horse—a show of competence in horsemanship he wouldn't have done in front of Azram on other occasions. His father, having seen him done so many times, would be expecting it, and he wasn't going to make the same mistake twice in one day.

The bird had been a fully grown female, judging from the coloring of its feathers. Lasura only had time to glimpse at the eagle as he rode back to the party, but was acutely aware that the bird was carrying something in its foot. Pulling the horse to a stop as he reached his father, he looked down and saw a freshly killed rabbit still being clutched tightly by the talons. A female carrying food back to her nest, he thought. A nest full of chicks in it.

Without thinking—a deadly, careless, idiotic thing to do in front of the salar—Lasura looked up at the mountain that rose majestically behind them and saw his father turning to the same direction. Their gazes returned moments later to meet in a wordless exchange of understanding they often had during their hunting sessions.

A hint of smile appeared at the corner of his father's lips. "You think you can get them." It was a statement, not a question.

Lasura drew a breath and began to consider the consequences. "I'll miss the reception," he said. "But I can try."

"You can ride back with me to the reception and fatten yourself on wine and suckling pigs, or you can go get them." His father was already pulling his horse to the side to continue his ride back to the Tower. "If you choose to go, you come down with the birds or you don't come down. A man does not try. He does or he dies doing it. What will it be, Lasura?"

A hard choice, considering that he might still die after having succeeded in getting the chicks, either by falling to his death on the way down, or by the hands of his mother for risking his neck over some stupid birds trying to please the husband she preferred to piss off. On the other hand, choosing the reception could make him a son no longer worthy of accompanying him to the hunts, which would in turn lower his status in the Tower, allowing all sorts of crap to come back into his life and ridding him of many privileges he enjoyed. Either way, he was considered fucked. Why, in the name of Ravi—or Rashar, or whichever god responsible—did he have to look up at the damn mountain?

Lasura swallowed his tantrum and asked himself the two remaining questions that might have made it worthwhile: Did he want to do it, and whether he could live with being a disappointment on top of being the good-for-nothing halfblood son if he didn't rise to the occasion?

Yes and no, he thought. It really wasn't much of a choice. He gave his father a pained smile. "Can I have a change of saddle?"

The rare, resonating laugh that followed would be heard and remembered by the company of more than fifty men and the two young princes for a long time afterward. Words would be exchanged in the Tower (they always were) regarding how the salar's halfblood son had found a way to entertain his father, and he would likely be showered with attention and gifts from the ladies at court and the men looking for a quick promotion from now on. He would, unfortunately, also be made to suffer adequately for these things by the princes and their mothers when he returned. If he returned.

"And I was so looking forward to seeing you limp coming down from that thing," said the salar amusingly before turning to a soldier nearby. "Get him a new saddle and a flask of water. Ghaul, my cloak." He made a gesture, and Ghaul, who had been holding on to the bear pelt cloak for the salar, handed it to Lasura promptly. "I want it back. Do you understand?"

"With the birds in it, I know," he replied, holding the one thing that was going to mess up his life in the most elaborate way possible with his free hand. He was now officially the only one in the Black Tower the salar saw fit to wear his cloak, and he was about to climb one of the most treacherous mountains to get him a nest full of priceless, young, trainable spotted eagles no salar had possessed for the past hundred years. How many piles of shit could he possibly step into in one day? All because he'd allowed himself to lick Azram's boots to take an easy way out.

Knowing his father, it was probably and precisely because of it. Lasura looked up at the mountain with all its deadly cliffs ahead of him and let out a heavy sigh once the party had left.

He would either die tonight unless he remembered all his training, or he would survive only to kiss life as he knew it goodbye for at least the next decade.