I hoped to detect a hint of humor… but there was none.
At a brisk trot, we arrived at the city gates quickly, Sainte shifting uncomfortably in the saddle.
“Halt!”
He pulled back on the reins, and I immediately hated having the hood so low that I couldn’t see the guards’ faces. How would I know if one wanted to remove my head from my shoulders?
“Hail, gatekeeper.”
“Ah, ‘Sainte the Great,’” someone mocked. “How are your bastards in the south?”
“Passing through to Wynterborne,” he replied, ignoring the comment.
Is that what men thought? That he had a mistress and bastards? I resisted the urge to rub my sweaty palms on my trousers.
“Always, always.”
The mocking tone grew curious, and I squirmed as footsteps against the cobblestones signaled his approach.
“Thief tried to rob me in the dead of night,” Sainte said. “Managed to throw some dirt in their eyes. Ended up cutting them to bits—”
I frowned, squinting at my hands. Why was that important to our ruse?
“—can’t see a thing now,” he added.
I can’t? I immediately obeyed his silent order and scrunched my eyes shut.
“Ah, serves them right, then,” the guard commented.
My head snapped back as something hard struck me. A whimper escaped my lips, and I clutched the horse’s mane as my hood tore away.
“Take care, gatekeeper,” Sainte warned. “I’ve saved this one for the dungeons. I’d hate for them to meet their end this close to Wynterborne.”
“Such a shame it would be. Looks like they’ll still make for a decent plaything if anyone wants a round with them.” The footsteps receded. “Go on, then.”
“Good day.”
Sainte tensed, nudging his mount onward. I held my breath, loathing my inner turmoil. While I hoped for safe passage, I dreaded the idea that every step drew us closer to Wynterborne’s grasp.
“Breathe,” he whispered, pressing his mouth close to my head.
“Can I look?”
“Wait till we dismount.”
Bound and unable to survey our surroundings, my frustration welled. I trusted him, but that was a lot of vulnerability to ask of any street rat. Every muscle tensed, wary of potentially being recognized. Who would recognize me, though? It had been fifteen years since Sainte tore through this city with me curled to his chest.
His solid warmth at my back served as a steady assurance that everything would be fine. I might have known Landing’s End and Port Siren, but in a sense, this washisworld.
After an eternity, we came to a halt. Panic thrummed through me as he dismounted, taking the security of his presence with him. He yanked me from the saddle in a show of force.
“Stable him, feed him well. Ready another horse within the hour, then send mine to Wynterborne in three days.”
Sainte spoke with curt precision to who, I assumed, was a stableboy. His fingers dug into my shoulders as he spun me toward him. When he reached past my cheeks to pull my hood up, I opened my eyes, catching his reassuring gaze for a split moment before he gave the slightest nod, then tugged it in place.
At the inn, he paid for an hour-long stay, eliciting a disturbing chuckle from the innkeeper. He led me up the stairs with a firm grip on my arm, strong but not bruising, then shut the door behind us.
I raised my tied hands, letting the hood fall back to take in the space. It was simple, small and sparse, exactly what a weary traveler needed. A place to rest, a basin, a polished brass square on the wall for reflection, and a window covered by a thin tanned hide.
