It took the rider the entirety of a day to descend the canyons of the Cleave. There wasn’t just one canyon. They didn’t tell him where to begin his descent, only to catch the host along what the Aredunians called the Boiling River. He wasn’t sure if he’d recognize the river, but he didn’t want to be called a fool so he didn’t bring it up. The descent was endlessly winding and the path was not always clear. While the sun beat down on him, every turn on the burnt orange, red, and brown landscape looked the same. Several times he backtracked until he found a passage down. Sometimes he had to climb higher just to get to lower.

He regretted not bringing more food and water. When he was with the camp, there was plenty. When the camp emptied and he stayed behind, they left some food, mostly cooked grain and overly ripening fruit. They left behind the fermented drink they claimed from the villages on their way to the city, but no one could drink it. He rode without stopping except to give his horse rest. He ate little himself, saving apples for his horse.

The next day he wandered through enough canyons to find a stream. He didn’t know which stream he would find, except he was told that all streams made its way to the river. He followed the stream until it met a larger stream, and he followed that until he found the Boiling River. It was a rolling river with several rapids at times, but calm almost all the time. Together they drank deeply from the river.

The next day he fell ill, probably from drinking from the river. The waters here were not as clean as the waters back home, but being ill was better than being dead, he figured. The river snaked through the canyons without end but after several days of pursuit he had finally caught up to the moving host. Ten thousand cavalry and infantry marching north through the bottom of the canyon.

When the rider approached, the rear guards gave him fresh water and food, then they escorted him through the line of soldiers. It seemed to the rider that the length of the army went on forever. When they reached near the head of the line, the guards announced the rider's presence.

The Pleader wheeled his horse around to meet the rider.

"You may speak," Onesimos said.

"Pleader, the Aredunians have reclaimed their city, and our forces have fought to the last man as you instructed," the rider reported.

"Did they feign retreat?"

"Yes, Pleader. They all perished during the retreat."

"A great sacrifice that Erehar shall repay in the afterlife. And what of the winged cavalry?"

"They are still on their guard, thinking that the general has moved his forces back into the forest. They prepare for his next assault."

Onesimos laughed. “The Golden Mansion, they call their capital city. And completely emptied for my taking.”

"For your taking? Is the general not among the army?" the rider asked.

"The general moves against a different front, as there are many apples in this world ripe for the picking. General Gnonobod has tasked me to seize the Golden Mansion. It is a great honor he has given me, and I look forward to meeting the boy king.”

“Will you plead for peace?”

“In my way. You have brought me the news I wanted. Loyal servant, I can tell that you are not well. I will give you something to replenish you. You may have a Fruit. Sarvamang will not miss one."

The rider's eyes widened. “Thank you, Pleader!”

"Come with me," Onesimos said.

They rode toward a caravan of wagons.

"Are the prisoners giving you any more problems?" Onesimos asked one of the guards.

"Not any more," the guard replied. "Though I could do with less chatter. What are they mumbling about?"

Onesimos leaned toward the prisoners. “This one wants to know what you say,” he said in their language.

“The Fargod shall protect me from evil,” one of prisoners said, his head bowed under a brown hood. “Through the fires of tribulations shall He hear my words, for I am righteous, and He is gracious, and I shall be delivered to his hall not to be judged but to be accepted.”

“He is talking quite a bit,” Onesimos said. “He’s praying to his god. “They call him the Far God.”

The guards laughed. "I guess their god should have been closer."

"Which one chatters the most?" Onesimos asked.

The guard pointed to one of the prisoners with the brown hood. "The one you talked to for sure. He sometimes wails to his god loudly as if he really is far."

"Take him out."

The guards halted the caravan and unlocked the gate.

“Uncle, the Fargod has answered your prayers,” Onesimos said to the prisoner. “This one has given you a horse to return home. You must tell the others that the Fargod has spoken to this one, and your words ring true in this one’s heart.”

“I…I am free to go?”

“Yes, but you must thank the Fargod.”

The prisoner in the brown hood climbed out of the unlocked wagon. “The Fargod has deemed me worthy.”

As soon as the man was out of his cage, Onesimos grabbed him by the arm and threw him down to the rider. The prisoner was confused and looked at the guards for help.

"You have served your masters well," Onesimos told the rider. "Now eat and enjoy your reward."