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I have saved your life. Each word was a soft brush against her mind, a gentle caress. More than once.
Clare shook her head. You saved yourself. Do me a favor, Song, and keep your offers and your opinions to yourself for a bit. The last thing I need is Proconsul Miriam thinking I am insane.
She’s going to think you’re drunk if you cannot walk better than that. I shudder to consider how you will stay on the horse.
She didn’t have double-vision precisely—she was not seeing the Song’s sight as if it were alongside her own—it was more that she felt its sight, slightly out of step with her own, and the awareness tilted her off-balance. Clare gritted her teeth and focused on her vision, on remembering the way it felt, honing in on it until her awareness of the Song was only a faint buzz in the background of her senses.
It gave her a splitting headache, but she managed to straighten and walk steadily into her room. The hibiscus plant crowding the glass of her window caught her attention. She’d avoided looking at it, when she’d ridden in, had done the same when she’d tossed her clothes in here before settling down to work with Marquin.
But now… She walked to the window, flipping the latches and sliding it open. The plant was as hale and beautiful as when Numair had first coaxed it from the earth. She could still remember the feel of his magic flowing through her into the ground. She’d never felt anything that pure, and the memory of it finally banished the phantom touch of Alaric’s magic from that same hand.
On impulse, she plucked four flowers before closing the window. After changing, she wove one of the flowers into her hair, so it rested above her left ear, a deep red contrast to the black diamond below it. The others she took with her to the stable and, braiding Kialla’s mane into a sleek plait down the crest of her neck, wove the other flowers in to match.
When Clare approached with the pad and saddle, Kialla decided she wasn’t in the mood for them. She shifted as much as her tied rope allowed, swinging her hindquarters from one side of the fence to the other. Clare got the pad on, only to have it dislodged by the mare’s constant shifting each time Clare stopped holding her still long enough to reach for the saddle.
Eventually Clare put her foot down—letting Kialla determine fully what she would or would not allow was a recipe for disaster. If she thought she was the more dominant of the two of them, she would fight Clare at every opportunity, and when push came to shove, she wouldn’t trust her. But dominance—leadership—didn’t have to come from harshness. So Clare wasn’t harsh, but she was firm, and Kialla settled and let the saddle be placed with a sigh.
“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Clare murmured as she finished tightening the girth. Kialla blew out a long breath that fluttered her lips. “But since you so obviously aren’t in the mood, you can go without it today.”
Clare wasn’t much in the mood for the restraint of the saddle either, so she removed it with quick efficiency. “But you get to explain to His Princeliness if he asks where his expensive tack wandered off to.”
“Is ‘His Princeliness’ the official title these days?” Alys had come up some time in the middle of Clare’s argument with the horse, and she leaned now with her forearms on the wooden fence railing.
“Yes.” Clare carted the saddle toward the gate.
“You can leave it on the fence, I’ll put it in the tack room.”
Clare did. Divested of gear, she was left on display for Alys's perusal. It was a thorough perusal, one that took in both her, her outfit, the hibiscus flower in her hair, and then subjected Kialla to the same inspection before snapping back to Clare with a snort. “You look like you’re riding off to be the flower goddess’s virgin bride.”
She wore a pair of dove gray riding breeches Chalen had embroidered with what could have been maiden’s breath-on-the-vine, or artistic daggers, depending on visual interpretation. Clare appreciated the ambiguity. She also appreciated that the pants were spelled against wear, and to shed the dirt that would otherwise cling to her after a bareback ride. Even if the cost of such attributes had made her head spin at the time of commission. Her riding shirt was a gray-blue festooned with enough fashionable embellishments to hide its practical nature, and it contrasted nicely with the rich darkness of her hair.
She had chosen the ensemble with care, to evoke just the type of innocent correlation Alys had made.
“I had no idea Veralna had a flower goddess.”
“It doesn’t. But if it did, you’d look like her virgin bride.” She stepped next to Clare, pulling a length of fine, slender brown ribbon from her pocket, from which dangled a delicate, filigreed clasp for holding small letters or mementos. “Many people ride the king’s trails this day of the month.”
“So I have heard.”
“You owe me a favor.”
“So I do.”
“Wear this today.” Alys wrapped the ribbon deftly around Clare’s left wrist, tying it on the underside in a pretty knot that Clare studied with an eye towards being able to reproduce.
“Only wear it?”
“Yes. Unless the right person comes along, in which case I trust you to ensure that there are no misunderstandings.”
“A difficult order as I’ve no idea who the person might be, or what they might misunderstand.”
“You’ll figure out what you need to know.” A delicate shrug. “Or you won’t, in which case I have grossly over-estimated your intelligence and made a poor bargain for your services.” She hoisted Kialla’s discarded saddle and pad into her arms and walked away.
Clare watched her go, realizing with a start that the unfamiliar feeling echoing through her was sheer, unadulterated amusement. She liked Alys, she realized. She didn’t trust her, but she liked her.
Miriam Aula, the proconsul of Taella, rode a smart little bay mare, fourteen hands at the most, by Clare’s guess, with a narrow, fine-boned face and a pretty white star between her eyes. Kialla greeted the mare nose-to-nose, trading breaths as horses were wont to do, her neck arched and nostrils flared. No doubt she would have proceeded to posture and squeal in typical mare fashion had Clare not settled her with a firm but gentle hand.
“It seems they are taking each other’s mettle.” The proconsul laughed, her voice melodious and deceptively soft.
