Page 56 of Queen of War and Ruin

I glance down the hallway like I’m thinking of wandering onto the patio and maybe just jumping off the edge. The girl stifles a brief flicker of annoyance, then bows.

“Of course, my lady,” she says. “If you would just follow me.”

She leads me down the stairs to the second floor. The doors on the northern side are open this morning, and servants flow in and out, carrying washbasins and piles of neatly folded sheets and towels. They aren’t even trying to hide what they’re doing; maybe they assume I won’t understand what all this clean linen means.

They must be staying in the northern wing, the guests from Vsenrog with the horses Gerard saw this morning. But still, the level of commotion on the second floor doesn’t quite make sense. Gerard found six horses. I assume that means one important visitor, a diplomat perhaps, along with his attendants. That would mean three to four guest rooms, or possibly six, if the attendants are sufficiently high ranking or if Ethiria is trying to impress them. But it looks like the entire second floor of the castle is being washed and readied.

All this effort for a delegation of six? Something is off, although I don’t have time to dwell on it as I follow the serving girl across the floor and down another set of stairs, this time to the main castle entrance.

“There it is,” the serving girl says as she points across the courtyard to the stables. “You can’t miss it,” she tells me in a tone that makes me think she expects me to walk directly into the wall if she doesn’t point out the door.

“Oh, of course,” I say with a wide smile.

She nods, bows, and then backs away, probably trying to escape before I can ask her to do something else. I cross the courtyard and slip into the stables.

The light dims as I enter the barn doors, and the scents and sounds of horses surround me. My shoulders drop, like I’m letting go of a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying. Yes, I lived in the palace in Marion. I slept in a massive bed, ate in the banquet hall, and learned to dance and bow in those stone halls.

But the stables were my home.

One of the horses nickers softly, sticking his velvet nose out of his stall to see if I’ve brought anything. I rub his nose and watch his nostrils flare.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t think to grab a cracker.”

The horse sniffs my fingers again, just to be sure, and then retreats back into his stall, clearly disappointed. I smile as I run my hand over the nameplate. Star of Morning Light’s First Shimmer in Dawn. He’s a four-year-old gelding, if I remember Ethiria’s records correctly.

“Hello, Star,” I whisper.

Star ignores me, clearly uninterested in anyone who’s not bearing gifts or treats. I take another step, reading the name of the next horse. Crabapple Blossoms in the Morning Dew. One of the breeding mares, I think. I take a step closer to the stall and peer inside, curious to finally see her.

The massive door at the far end of the barn slides open, and a voice calls into the gloom.

“Hey!” someone shouts. “They’re coming!”

I freeze. A man steps into the doorway, silhouetted with light. Another door slams open, somewhere I can’t see. I glance down the aisle and see horses sticking their heads out of their stalls, curious to see what’s about to happen.

I drop to my knees. And then, before I have time to think about what in the gods’ many names I’m doing, I climb over the low bar and into Crabapple’s stall.

Another man rushes past me, hurrying toward the open door and cursing under his breath.

“How many?” he calls as he runs.

If he gets an answer, I can’t make it out. Crabapple snorts, then shifts in the stall. A long whinny echoes through the stable, drifting in from the window. It’s a greeting, something horses say to each other when they’re reunited.

Slowly, I come to my feet and peek through the narrow window that gives Crabapple a view of the palace courtyard. Crabapple huffs beside me, her wide, brown eyes watching dispassionately as a dozen horses ride through Ethiria’s castle walls.

Vsenrog’s horses.

Hells, they’re not even trying to hide it. Four soldiers ride in front, wearing Vsenrog’s scarlet and blue. I hold my breath as they fan out in the courtyard, each with one hand on their reins and the other on the pommel of their sword.

Another round of official-looking riders follows the soldiers, wearing heavy cloaks and clean, crisp Vsenrog sashes decorated with metals and amulets that sparkle in the sun.

How did they get here so quickly? They didn’t ride hard, not if they look that good. Gods, they must have camped just over the border.

My mouth goes dry, and my body feels cold. These riders must have come down from the mountains just after we did.

The officials move to the side as women and men emerge from the stables to take their horses. Another rider comes through the gates, a tall man on a black stallion. He dismounts smoothly, then pulls his hood back.

My body goes cold. The stable hand who just reached for the stallion’s reins freezes.