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"No," I agree. "That was never something you seemed interested in."
"An oversight on my part." His voice is darker now, and I know I won't like what he says next. "So tell me, where did you grow up?"
“I’m from the Eastern Lands, near the Mirrored Desert." I hesitate, still wondering what his game is. “But I have spent the better part of my life in Bondé, in Corentin.”
It's not a lie. "And yet, you speak the common tongue without the trace of an accent?" He startles me from my thoughts.
This is an interrogation — that much is clear — but his tone is polite enough that I can't call him on it without looking like there is a reason I don't want to answer his questions.
"I have a gift with language, as you have already noted yourself." I let my irritation show in my tone, hoping he will drop this line of conversation.
He doesn't.
"Don’t sell yourself short. What you have is more than a gift. You speak my own language as though it were your mother tongue. Why hide such skill?"
An irritable sigh escapes me, sending plumes of smoky condensation from my nose.
"Perhaps a lifetime of suspicious and easily emasculated men has taught me better than to flaunt my particular set of skills.” I eye him pointedly, though I don’t actually put him in that category.
I need a moment to think, but he doesn't give me one.
“Exactly what is your particular set of skills? You throw stars, you play chess, you --”
“Do everything a man can do? Have I offended your sensibilities, or merely wounded your pride?” I shoot back, still trying to gain the upper hand.
“You’re so good at flipping a conversation on its head, Zaina, and I might even believe you, except...” He pins me with a stare that has the blood draining from my face.
“Except what?” I say with all the false bravado I can muster.
“Why, if you were teaching yourself my language, would you refuse to speak to a sick woman — a woman you called a friend — in her own tongue? Unless you had something to hide.”
I scramble for a response that makes sense, something that won’t feel like a lie. Hesitation is the first tell, so I open my mouth before I’m even sure what I will say.
Just then, Gideon stamps his feet again, but this time, he doesn't seem to go any faster. If anything, he’s moving sideways and even backing up slightly, his ears twitching.
"Something's wrong," I say, looking to Khijhana and noting that while she doesn't look exactly anxious, she is looking intently off to the side.
"Are you that desperate to change the subject?" Einar asks me sharply.
My jaw clenches, and before I can respond, Gideon whinnies and shakes his head, rearing up a bit as he moves toward the side of the narrow trail. Finally, the king deigns to look in our direction. His eyes widen, and he reaches out a calming hand toward my hestrinn, rubbing his own clearly better-trained one on the neck.
I don't understand the panic widening his eyes since he is looking behind me and whatever Gideon is backing away from is clearly up ahead.
But it's dark now, bathed as we are in the shadow of the mountain, and I have been more focused on the king than our surroundings. I realize my mistake a moment too late, when Gideon rears up again, backing up until his back leg slips down further than it should be able to.
The jolting motion makes me lose my precarious grip on his reins and my seat in the saddle. I've never been much of a screamer, but I let out a yelp as I sail through the air until my foot catches in one of the stirrups.
Gideon’s feet are back on the ground, but now he’s bolting down the trail, and it’s all I can do to wrangle my foot out of the stirrup before he tramples me to death. I hit the ground hard before rolling back down the mountain.
My chest aches, and I can’t breathe. The wind is knocked from me as I continue to flip and roll for what feels like an eternity.
By some miracle, I finally crash into a snowbank near the edge of the cliff, just before sailing clean over it.
I gasp and choke when air forces its way into my lungs. Stars line my vision, but I still see Khijhana’s form taking hesitant steps toward me.
When the ringing in my ears stops, I hear Einar’s voice in the distance, but I can’t make out the words he’s saying. He has dismounted and is waving frantically. I strain my eyes until they can focus a little more on his lips, which are moving emphatically and forming two words.
I roll to my side and try to sit up, my head still spinning, when I finally make them out.
