At first, the layers of her dress wouldn’t comply. She hiked her skirt up to fit her foot into the stirrup, the breeze refreshing on her bare thigh. She used his arm as leverage to hoist and swing herself up and over the saddle. Once she got adjusted, it hugged her bottom perfectly.
She took a moment, catching her breath. Then, she looked down.
As it had appeared from the ground, this horse was much, much taller than the horse she’d briefly ridden with Garin before. Her vision swam, and she pressed her front against its neck, burying her face in its mane. It didn’t seem to appreciate her shifting weight and sputtered loudly, so she sat back up and groaned when it began to walk on its own, its legs shifting beneath her.
“Eyes open,” Garin commanded from below, leading them by Loïg’s reins away from the side of the carriage.
“It’s so tall.”
“Get used to it. Your father’s Camargues are unfit for battle and should only be used for diplomatic business. The stables in Rennes are alarmingly empty.” He spoke matter-of-factly; it wasn’t a question. “Do you know if Henri has ordered more destriers to your capital?”
She was stunned into silence, feeling both attacked and shocked at hisknowledge. She thought of the developments over the last few hours, her ears heating. There had been no confirmation of anything. “He hasn’t. I don’t plan on entering a war anytime soon.”
Garin didn’t seem to notice. “And you shouldn’t. But to be caught unprepared is to write your loss in stone. No matter, the stables can be addressed. Loïg is from the north, primed for travel and battle, and his breed becomes attached easily to the right rider. At the moment, he is the safest horse in your personal arsenal.” He turned his head partway, and despite the mild warning in his words, his slate eyes were light, his mouth pulled into an approving smile as he surveyed her. “You’ll have to learn to ride someday. You’ll start now. Loïg is your brute.”
She stared at him.
“Happy birthday, Eleanor of Brittany.”
Remembering to breathe, she gripped the small bars in front of the saddle for support. Loïg washergift. She’d never learned to ride, and no one had ever gotten her such a… thoughtful, practical, yet unexpected gift. A horse. Her very own. She suddenly felt very far away.
Loïg. A means of the freedom she chased.
“Garin,” she hissed.
He’d already turned away, guiding them forth. “Your Majesty?”
“Where did you find him?”
Instead of answering, he only steered them off the road to the right, allowing room for the carriage now slightly behind them to lurch forward.
“Right here, sir, in front of me,” Garin called above the grinding wood and clomping horseshoes, holding his arms wide to the trees on the left side of the path. “Between that boulder and thicket right here. The smaller boulder. That’s it now.”
It was a small clearing in the trees he was pointing to, barely the width of a single horse, filled knee-high with half-dead vines, bluebells, and other tall flora.
Lilac made a sound of warning, but Garin shushed and patted the air. “Watch.”
Giles drove the carriage forward, picking up speed before careening right just before them and swinging wide into the clearing, which was much, much too small to even fit the two horses side by side. The carriageteetered slightly, resulting in a panicked yelp from what must've been a furious Bastion.
Refusing to witness the crash, Lilac turned her head—just in time to shield herself from the warm gust of air that exploded from the tree line, sending soil and grass flying in their direction.
Garin was laughing while Bastion shouted expletives out the window. The clearing was gone, and so were the thicket and boulder. In their place was a gaping entryway flanked by two stone pillars, gargoyles atop them. Beyond, there was a torch-lit cobblestone path, her horses and carriage—and a cheering Giles—rolling right through it.
3
“Ye of such little faith.” Garin was suddenly behind her. How he had accomplished this when the horse couldn’t stand him, she didn’t know, but every thought fled her mind as his arms brushed her sides, his body molding around hers as he reached around her to grab the reins.
Already several trees down the path, Giles had resumed his excited chatter.
There was much to process, and it proved difficult with Garin at her back and the slow, rhythmic movement of the horse. Lilac was speechless.
“We’ll find you an instructor.” He spoke over her shoulder, inhaling against the curtain of her hair and causing her to shiver. “Ifyou need one. Something tells me you’re resourceful in times of need. Dire times of need, that is. Meanwhile, you have me.” With a tug on the rein, he diverted them into the entrance, and they fell into a trot several paces behind the carriage. The guard then followed, closing off their small traveling troupe.
“Has this entrance always been here?”
“Since around the Hundred Years’ War.”
They were surrounded by torches—rows of them on each side, about a carriage length between each. The orange flames glimmered with the faintest outline of a wicked sort of green. They reminded her of the brightblue flames that had consumed them on their way to Cinderfell; the magic in them obvious. “Was it warded against humans?”
