Fortney sat in the luxury cart as it rattled across the landscape, staring at the carpet on the floor as Zamiran droned on.

  "The last verifiable, recorded prophecy," he said in his professorial voice, "occurred shortly before the Second Catastrophe. Qadirin the Eldritch, the greatest champion of that age, recorded his prophecy. The translation is tricky, but he foretold of the Departure, which was fulfilled in the Second Catastrophe. He also wrote of the return of a champion, one who would master all the Powers, not just one. This was especially insightful, since the champions had not yet been lost at that time. When, after the fourth--"

  Fortney stood suddenly. "I need some fresh air," she said shortly. Zamiran bowed, and hopped out.

  She walked alongside the cart, frowning. The journey had been interminable so far, simply endless plains slowly rolling by. They'd cleared the headwaters of the Zahr River, and had passed out of the lands of Damasar without incident. The distant mountains of Mirashan had been visible for several days. Wispy smoke stained the sky, no doubt from some of Mirashan's many volcanoes. Yet the land around them remained changeless.

  Fortney had spent all her energy suppressing her anger and grief. She had been inclined to stay in the cart to brood, but Zamiran, with his pale, unhealthy skin, stayed in cart as well, hiding from the sun. The priest, all with good intent, had seen their proximity as an opportunity to inflict more of the history of the sanat-magi on her. He was filled with endless stories of the gods and Catastrophes, and could talk for hours without pausing about the mysteries of the temple.

  Fortney could tolerate only so much before she had to flee his presence. In this way, Zamiran unintentionally kept Fortney from hiding herself away from the world.

  She walked alongside the cart, breathing the fresh air. The camels grunted roughly and the horses knickered. The ceaseless winds of the plain tugged at her clothes.

  The servants walked near the animals, tending and directing them. The ?ābu-bara--the spear-soldiers--made a loose ring around the caravan, their eyes watching for danger.

  "Ah, princess," came a voice from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and had to suppress a grimace. Rami slid up behind her with his false smile and his too-bright eyes. "Have you come out to learn more of the land of Arden?"

  "Not right now, Rami," she sighed. Rami was nearly as bad as Zamiran, drilling her on her Ardenian language lessons and peppering her with the social and cultural expectations of Arden. "I simply want to... to walk and meditate."

  Rami bowed and withdrew, vanishing into the rest of the caravan. Fortney sighed in relief. Rami was easier to send away than Zamiran, at least.

  She walked along, lost in thought. Walking was easier for her, now. She had been relearning to balance with only one arm. She had relearned many simple things, now that she had to do everything one-handed. It was profoundly annoying, but she was slowly gaining proficiency in dressing, eating, and managing all her daily activities with one arm.

  She had been made an ineffective attempt to relearn other things as well. One evening, in the privacy of the darkness on the edge of the caravan, she'd attempted some simple fighting exercises, and had even tried a couple of simple side kicks. It was all a disaster. Her punches were weak and unfocused without the weight of her other arm to help counter her momentum, and her clumsy attempts at kicking left her on her behind on the ground. Good, powerful kicks were based on a fighter's sense of balance, and she simply didn't have any.

  Fortney's eyes traveled to the ground, and her heart filled with despair. She was no longer any kind of warrior, and she never would be again.

  The caravan crawled across the endless, monotonous plains, though occasional trees were appearing to break up the horizon, at least.

  A ripping snarl broke the peace. One of the soldiers screamed. Fortney's heart leapt with fear, and she sprang up onto the cart.

  On the edge of the caravan, a ?ābu was lying in the tall grass, his long spear lying on the ground beside him. He was being dragged backward in jerky fits and starts. The other ?ābu-bara cried out and rushed over, spears at the ready. They shouted and jabbed blindly at the thick grass. Before long, a lean, striped form reared up.

  It was a Mirashan tiger. Its body was long and powerful. It was a scaly tiger, rather than the furry tigers found further east, though it still bore the signature orange-and-black stripes. Its head was flat and its mouth broad, filled with rows upon rows of tiny, needle-like teeth. It had stumpy limbs that ended in long, wickedly-curved claws. It stood and roared at the assembly.

  It had lain in the tall grass and snatched one of the passing ?ābu. It was used to predating on the delicate antelopes of the plains, not on humans. Whereas the antelopes would have scattered, leaving the tiger to his feast, the humans came together. Soldiers with their long spears surrounded the beast on three sides. The stricken ?ābu scrambled away, his leg bleeding.

  Fortney ached to snatch up a spear and join the fray. She pinched her lips together, looked at her missing arm, and tucked herself back into the cart instead. She peeked out through the linen coverings.

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  Now, she was only good for hiding when danger appeared. Like any other princess.

  "Ah, the tiger must be old, or infirm somehow," Zamiran said. His unexpected voice startled Fortney badly; she'd forgotten about him. "It is far from the jungle," Zamiran continued. "Probably the younger tigers have driven it away from good hunting grounds. Now it is desperate, starving."

  Fortney frowned, but carefully watched the scene. The tiger was fierce, but upon closer examination, she realized that many of its teeth were missing, and its scales were flaking off in patches.

  The ?ābu jabbed at the Mirashan tiger, shouting and clicking their tongues, creating a wall of pain and noise. The tiger snarled, thrashing its head, and fell back, but did not flee.

  "A healthy tiger would run away," Zamiran said, "but this one is near death. It has nothing to lose now by fighting."

  Fortney frowned. She itched to hold a weapon, to join the fight against the beast. She wanted to be out there, facing the danger, not coddled in a silk tent. Her face twisted with anger.

  The tiger sprang at one of the ?ābu-bara. He fell back. The tiger's leap exposed his flanks to the other ?ābu, who closed in, jabbing deeply. The tiger howled in pain and rage. It twisted and clamped its teeth down on one of the spears. With a shake of its head, it snapped the weapon in half. But soldiers on its other flank dashed in, stabbing.

  One spearhead lodged deep under the beast's foreleg. Viscous black blood squelched out around it. The creature shrieked in pain. It pulled back, taking the spear with it. Other men rushed in, jabbing at its face. It swiped with its long claws, batting aside the forest of spears, but its movements were clearly slowing. It snarled and leapt again. As before, the ?ābu in its path danced backwards, and others closed on its flanks, stabbing mercilessly.

  The tiger fell back. It was panting heavily, and its thick, black blood oozed freely from a dozen wounds. It swung its head back and forth, growling at its enemies as foam dripped from its jaws.

  Without warning, the tiger roared and reared, spreading its claws wide. Its roar was defiant, desperate and wounded, but unbroken. One brave ?ābu-bara rushed forward and drove his spear deep into the tiger's chest.

  The roar cut off. The tiger's claws came together, scrabbling at the shaft of the spear. It turned its head, fruitlessly trying to bite at the spear. It slowed, and the mighty tiger toppled to one side. The ?ābu clustered around the beast, stabbing mercilessly. The creature thrashed helplessly under their spears.

  Fortney stepped back with a tight frown and pulled the curtain closed. She went and sat down with her head in her hand. Zamiran continued to watch through the curtain.

  "They've just about--yes, I believe they've killed it. The rab?aq--the captain--has begun gutting and skinning the creature." Zamiran nodded as he watched, oblivious to Fortney. "We can sell the skin for a good price in Mirashan. They prize these pelts. Unless the Shazedah would like it?" he asked, turning to her. "It would make a fine decoration."

  Fortney shook her head. "I had no part in the battle, I have no part in the reward. Sell it and split the price among the ?ābu."

  She stared at the floor.

  "The only thing I have part in," she said quietly, "is fear and uselessness."

  A few days later, she was walking alongside the cart, stretching her legs. Rami walked alongside her.

  Fortney did not like Rami al-Sahir. He talked too much, smiled too much, and acted as though he was privately laughing at some grand joke that everyone else was missing.

  She had vague memories of him floating around the palace. He worked for her father, some kind of ambassador, always out traveling, bringing diplomatic messages to and from other lands.

  Officially, he was now traveling to Arden to act as a diplomat for Namar?n, but he was also bending all his effort toward her tutelage. He spoke to her only in Ardenian, to force her to practice with the language.

  Whatever she thought of him personally, the man did have a gift for languages, and it was clear to everyone that he was trying his very best to help her learn about Arden.

  Today, he was teaching her about the school she would soon be attending.

  "It is strange, this concept of a 'school'," she said, her brow furrowed. "Teachers who will teach anyone--not royalty or even their family--just for money. It seems unnatural."

  Rami nodded.

  "It may seem unnatural, but a school is not unlike the palace. The Shazedah will live at the school, just as she lived in the palace. She will eat at the school, just as she ate at the palace. She will learn at the school, just as she learned at the palace. There are different masters for different skills, just as you are used to."

  "Not 'just as'," she said, her face downcast. "Kadir will not be there."

  Rami's smile grew a little forced.

  "The Ardenian school can teach you many wonderful things." he said. "You may even learn some of the secrets of their wonderful devices!"

  "It doesn't matter," she replied morosely. "I'm only there to be out of my father's way until this rebellion is finished."

  Rami grinned uncomfortably and stepped past that part of the conversation.

  "Living at the school will be wonderful," he promised. "There will be many new friends for you, I am sure. The princess of Namar?n will be well-loved in Arden."

  Fortney grunted noncommittally. They walked in silence together for a minute. After a time, Rami picked up his lessons back up.

  "There will be some differences from the palace, of course," he said. "The Ardenians love order and compartmentalization. For instance, your bedroom will be in a building that is devoted entirely to bedrooms for students. They call it a 'dormitory'."

  Fortney frowned. "Like a barracks?"

  Rami bowed. "A barracks would also have weapons and training grounds. A dormitory is a building with just bedrooms."

  "That's... very strange," she said.

  Rami nodded.

  "It does seem so to our eyes," he admitted. "But that is the way of Arden. Of course, in the 'dormitory' you will have also have a 'roommate'."

  "I don't recognize the word," she said, frowning.

  "Ah, it is a compound word, of..." Rami thought for a second then gave her the words in Namar?nian. "Room and mate."

  Fortney's eyes lit with shock and fury.

  "They have what?!"

  Rami made a calming gesture. "It is a strange word," he said, "and the translation is not as it sounds--"

  "I had heard they had looser morals in Arden, but this is not acceptable!"

  "No, no, princess, it only means that two, ah, young ladies will share living arrangements. Like the servants in the palace! They share a room, that is all."

  Fortney's face darkened and she glowered off into the distance.

  "Well, then, this 'room mate' had better watch her step," she said. "I won't tolerate their strange Ardenian ways in my own bedroom."