Chapter Fourteen: Leaving Windsmoor

I eyed the horse warily.

Under different circumstances — say, circumstances where I wasn't expected to actually get on her — I would have found her magnificent.

"I'm fine," I told the stable hand, with as much breezy confidence as I could muster. I was well aware that I was being watched by prodding eyes. "Thank you."

"Aye, Yer Highness," the stable boy said and stepped back.

I approached the mare carefully. I'd read somewhere that horses could sense anxiety. I wondered if she could tell that I was anxious as hell.

"Hi," I said quietly when I reached her. "I'm Sigrùn. We're apparently going to be spending a lot of time together, so I'd really appreciate it if you could just work with me here."

She blinked one large dark eye at me.

Okay. Let’s do this.

I put my foot in the stirrup. Got approximately halfway up. Discovered, at that precise altitude, that the other half of the way up was significantly more complicated than the first half, and that the coordination required to swing one's leg over a horse while also managing reins and a thick wool coat and approximately zero prior experience was not something that could be improvised through sheer willpower.

I hung there for a moment, one foot in the stirrup, both hands on the saddle, tilted at an angle that communicated nothing good about my relationship with horses.

The mare sidestepped slightly, as if she'd had second thoughts about the whole arrangement.

"No, no, no, girl,” I tightened my grip on the saddle. "We talked about this. We're working together—"

"You're gripping the saddle."

The voice came from my right. Low. Velvety. Bringing to mind whispered threats.

I will enjoy playing with you, Princess.

I turned my head, still suspended at my undignified angle, and found Varul beside me on his midnight horse, looking down at me with an expression that revealed nothing.

It really was unfair, how I seemed to be the only one having flashbacks from last night.

"I'm aware," I said, with enormous dignity, from my position of zero dignity.

"Let go of the saddle. Take the reins,” he clipped with infinite patience.

"I have the reins,” I answered stubbornly.

"You have the reins and the saddle. Let go of the saddle."

I looked at my hands. He was correct. I had acquired the reins at some point during the struggle but had not relinquished the saddle, so I was holding both, which explained several things about the current situation.

I let go of the saddle.

The mare shifted again. My stomach lurched.

"Now," he instructed, "use your core. Push through the stirrup and swing over. Don't think about it."

"Easy for you to say, you've probably been doing this since—"

"Don't think about it, Princess,” he commanded softly.

I stopped thinking about it.

I pushed through the stirrup, swung my leg over, and was suddenly, improbably, entirely on the horse.

On the horse. On top of the horse. Upright. Both feet in stirrups. Not falling.

I sat very still for a second, processing this development.

"Oh," I said.

From somewhere behind me I heard a man’s low chuckle. A quick glance showed me it was Darren.

I gathered the reins into both hands and sat up straight — or tried to. My grip was wrong in some fundamental way I couldn't immediately identify, too tight, too high, the reins bunched awkwardly in my palms in a way that the mare communicated her feelings about through a subtle but pointed shift of her head.

Varul's horse moved alongside mine. He watched my hands with assessing calm of someone reading a problem before solving it.

Then he reached across.

His hand closed over both of mine briefly, adjusting the reins and redistributing the leather between my fingers, lowering my grip, correcting the angle of my wrists.

It lasted all of three seconds. Maybe four. Then he let go.

"There," he said. "Hold it like that."

I held it like that.

I was going to hold it like that for the entire journey if I had to. I was going to hold it exactly like that until my hands forgot any other way.

I kept my eyes forward.

"Thank you—“ I began, surprised by how steady I sounded, but he’d already turned back to the front, reins easy in his own hands, posture straight and enviably effortless.

I really had to stop thinking about the exact temperature and weight of his hand over mine right now, immediately, effective this second.

I concentrated very hard on the horse, which wasn’t hard to do, considering the fact that I was more prone to falling and breaking my neck. Hmm. Now, maybe that would get me home.

We rode out of the castle gates as the first thin grey light began at the horizon.

The pack fell into formation around us — some ahead, some flanking, a few behind — with the wordless, automatic precision of people who had done this a thousand times.

I rode in the middle of it all, on my pale grey mare, trying to look like someone who belonged there.

The city of Valdenmere was quiet at this hour — shuttered windows, empty streets, the occasional distant bark of a dog. The cobblestones were slick with early morning damp. My mare's hooves struck them with a clean, rhythmic clop that I focused on like a metronome, letting it regulate my breathing, settling into the motion of the horse's gait with the tentative concentration of someone learning a new language one word at a time.

Don't think about it, he'd said. I was trying.

Darren came up at my left. I had a feeling that he was watching me closely, even though he seemed oblivious to my presence.

I had no idea what Varul had said to him earlier when his attention had snapped to me But I knew that Darren was a man who noticed things, and that at some point this was going to become a problem I'd need to address.

For now I smiled at him with the pleasant composure of someone with nothing to hide.

He looked back at me, bored.

We were going to get along just great.