Kit flashed his canines, tail slashing through the air in a quick, agitated move. Seche straightened. Wariness crossed his face as his eyes darted to Kit’s tail.
“Kit,” Nick cautioned.
“They will use you,” Kit said in a voice of wrought iron. “They will trade you for food and weapons and demand the symbol too. This is just a way to get you away from me so that they can do so.”
Nick had been paying attention to these men since they’d been taken. He’d noticed the way they behaved around Kit. The way they spoke about him. To him. And Nick didn’t think he was wrong—they cared about Kit. “I disagree,” he said.
“They –”
“They know you’ve scent-marked me,” Nick interrupted what he knew was to be an angry argument. “They’re not going to use me.”
Kit had asked Nick not to kill the chickens on board simply because they had tails similar to his. He’d asked him not to ruin the coffee seeds just because he was angry with him. Kit was used to having things he cared about used against him and ruined. He expected it.
“Have they ever harmed something you cared about?” Nick asked. “If the answer is ‘yes’, then I won’t go without you.”
Kit’s tail went still.
“Answer me honestly.”
Torment flashed across Kit’s expression, leaving behind reluctance. Kit’s jaw set. “Ios once dissolved sugar into my wine.”
Nick’s lips twitched. “Kit.”
“I cared about that glass of wine.”
“Kit.”
“It was harmed.”
Nick ducked his head, physically hiding his face with his hand as he laughed. Seche breathed out a huff of amusement.
Kit’s tail lashed.
Nick sobered, wiping away a loose tear. “I’ll be coming back here,” he said. “I’m not going to disappear down the river with the merfolk, alright? I promised you.”
Kit’s chest heaved. His eyes were filled with reluctance, but despite that, his chin moved down in a stony nod.
“Ios will show you to the stables.” Seche seized the opportunity, nodding briskly before disappearing down the hall.
Ios showed up shortly after. Nick sat and ate breakfast as Kit rubbed numbing salve onto his back. Kit both refused Ios’s offer to do it and refused to take off his leather gloves, but luckily the gloves were so soft that it didn’t hurt Nick when the material touched his skin.
“These are healing well,” Kit murmured after a long pause, a note of guilt in his voice. Nick hoped for Kit’s sake that they’d heal without any scarring; that Kit wouldn’t have any reminder of what Desre had made him do.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Nick lied.
Ios brought a change of clothes: a loose shirt, soft cotton trousers and the same boots as last night. No jacket was offered, and as soon as Nick stepped into the courtyard, he understood why; the sun was large in a blemish-free sky. Nick was sweating by the time they reached the barn. It was a long building, connected to the courtyard by double doors wide enough to fit a wagon, and lined with dozens of large stables. Where the solid stone stables ended, wooden fencing began; horses were divided into small fields in threes. The grass was yellow and sun-bleached, mounds of hay the only food source for the horses.
Ios guided and Kit accompanied, pressed tight to Nick’s side with his tail protectively coiling around his legs every other step. Nick kept expecting to trip over it. “I’ve never ridden a horse,” Nick said when Ios pulled out an animal that towered above him. Watching Laurence’s foray into horse-riding as aten-year-old was the closest Nick had ever got, and those had been reasonably sized Connemara ponies.
Seche waited in the courtyard mounted on a grey horse, even taller than the one being offered to Nick. The courtyard was busy, kits moving here and there, and Nick recognised many from last night’s festivities. There were no signs of hangovers on any of them.
“You will pick it up quickly,” Kit said reassuringly. “Simply keep your balance centred.” He went to the horse, pulled down the stirrups and adjusted their length. “They are well trained. From a young age, my uncle worked at the council’s stables in Aridia. Most horses are bred for physical ability, rarely temperament, and he dealt with many animals that were dangerous to handle. Since then, he has spent his life carefully breeding lines with gentle natures.”
Nick went to Kit’s side, listening.
“When I was younger, I thought that he did it for the sake of the stable boys handling the horses.” Kit lifted a flap and tightened buckles that strapped the saddle to the horse’s belly, the leather as soft and pliable as his gloves. “I said as much once, but he told me that it was for the horses that he did it. The dangerous ones are beaten until they submit or break. They live miserable, unfortunate lives—no matter where they end up—and it’s all the worse when it’s a physically impressive animal too. More is wanted of them. But those that are gentle and willing, unless they end up in the hands of someone truly horrid, will have a far more peaceful life.”
“Your uncle sounds kind.”
