The soldiers take that as their sign and rush to mount. A stable hand—a boy of maybe fourteen with a gold cuff in his left ear—carries a wooden step stool over and places it beside Zander’s sleek black stallion.
Zander turns to stare at me.
I finally clue in. “You want me to ride with you?”
“I’m certainly not giving you a horse of your own to barrel through the city streets on.”
I eye him cautiously, perched in the saddle, his thighs that look lean but muscular in black pants waiting to bracket mine.
He gestures to the piebald ahead of him where Boaz waits, glowering. “Unless you’d prefer to ride with the captain—”
I march straight for the step stool, gathering the layers of my dress so as not to trip on them. I ease up the two steps, cursing Corrin in my head the entire way. Who rides a horse in a fucking ball gown? She couldn’t have found me suitable pants? The yellow dress would have been more appropriate for this.
With a sigh of reluctance, Zander holds out his hand.
As much as I’d like to rebuff his offer of help, the chances of me humiliating myself without it are high. After a moment’s hesitation, I rest my small hand in his much larger one, feeling his smooth skin beneath my palm. How many times has he held this hand? How many times have his hands—those strong, long fingers—touched this body I inhabit? How intimately?
Zander’s gaze settles on my ring. His jaw tenses as his grip tightens, supporting me while I swing my leg over the saddle and settle down in front of him. The layers of chiffon bunch around me like the walls of a deep nest. I do my best to smooth down the fluffy material, only to graze Zander’s inner thigh. The muscles in his leg visibly flex in response.
“Sorry,” I murmur. I lean forward, my back ramrod straight as I try to put distance between us, praying this is a short ride. The dress does offer one positive: it’s an effective barrier between us.
Zander reaches around to collect the reins, effectively caging me in, that sweet woodsy scent that I’m coming to recognize as him tickling my senses.
I curl my arms closer to myself in response.
Boaz gives a command, and the horses shift into formation—two lines, save for the additional soldier flanking us on our right. It’s Elisaf.
I smile at the sight of him, relieved for a friendly face.
The head dip he offers in return is barely noticeable, but I catch it all the same.
We move through the castle courtyard, hooves clacking against the downward slope of stone in a steady clatter, the soldiers, save for Elisaf, giving the king a wide berth. My body jolts continuously.
“Elisaf, have you ever seen anyone look so awkward on a horse?” Zander asks, his tone taunting.
“No, Your Highness. Can’t say that I have.”
“Have the fates taken your ability to ride as well?”
I had never been on a horse until I came here, I want to say, my cheeks flushing. “I’m trying not to crowd you.” Your Highness. I hold back the acknowledgment, mainly to see if he’ll remark on its absence.
“You’re going to be in great discomfort by the time we reach the lower streets.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You can relax. I won’t bite.” Zander adds with a touch of grim humor. “We all know what happens to the wretched creatures who dare.” When I don’t respond, he urges, this time more commanding and annoyed, “Sit back.”
I realize I’m holding my breath. I release it and loosen my muscles a touch, but not enough to make physical contact with my co-rider.
We move toward the stone wall and a set of heavy iron gates flanked by guards. None of this side of the castle property is familiar to me, but I wore a blanket on my head the night they brought me here, and then I used tunnels to escape with Annika. To my right, a tower stands alone. It must be the one Boaz threw me in. Somewhere below it is the square where they executed Princess Romeria’s servants and guards while I lay unconscious in a bed. Were they truly deserving of such doom, or were they simply following their princess’s orders? Was the execution a big event? A celebration? What even earns a person an execution in Islor? Is it only the most treasonous of crimes or is it anything that annoys the king?
“Go ahead, speak freely,” Zander prompts. “Say what you want to say.”
“Why? So you have an excuse to flog me?” It slips out before I can stop myself.
“You are fixated with being flogged.”
“I’m not.” More like terrified, but I push down my fear.
“I wouldn’t have to search for an excuse. I’m the king, and your list of infractions is long.” There’s an edge to his tone. “Are your thoughts worthy of punishment too?”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Come now. You spent weeks guarding your tongue and saying all the right things. Believe me when I say I’d much prefer you speak your mind and say all the wrong things. Especially now that you have not a hope of earning my trust or my gaze again, no matter how much effort you put into it.”
“You think I’m …” My words fade. Effort? What effort? I look down at the layers of chiffon and realize he means my appearance. “I didn’t choose this absurd dress. My charming attendant that you handpicked forced it on me.”
“The dress is absurd. At least, for horseback,” he mutters, gathering the reins in one hand to fuss with something behind me. “I’m sure Corrin meant well.”
I dare glance over my shoulder to see him swatting at the sage-green material that puffs halfway up his chest between us. I press my lips to stifle the laugh, and it escapes in a snort.
But then I make the mistake of looking up, and the fleeting humor dies in my throat. From this proximity, it’s easy to pick out the deep flecks of gold woven into his hazel irises and measure the length of his thick fringe of lashes.
His eyes probe mine, searching for something.
I shift back to face forward. “You wanted to execute me. Trust me, I’m not trying to earn your trust or your gaze. You’re a stranger to me.”
“And yet you still wear my ring.”
I look down at the smooth, white stone. It must seem odd to him that I do. “I can’t explain why, but it feels important to me.” As vague and as close to the truth as I can get.
To that, he says nothing.
We’ve passed the looming inner wall. Beyond it is a narrow street banked with steeply gabled houses, much like I remember from that first night. Only now there are no buildings smoldering, no wagons full of bodies, no children crying over fallen parents. The azure sky is smeared with wispy white clouds, and a warm breeze disturbs the stray hairs around my face.
The procession swerves right where the street splits off to another, and suddenly the vista opens to the broad expanse of water beyond the city’s limits below. On the far horizon, a faint line hints of more land. I try to recall the map in Zander’s circular room. Is that more of Islor? Seacadore? I committed all the names to memory as soon as I returned, and yet I know nothing of them.
I inhale the slight waft of brine from the sea. It’s calming.
“You don’t feel any pull from the water?” Zander asks, and there is genuine curiosity in his voice.
He knows Annika told me. Of course. Wendeline warned me that all my conversations would reach his ears. “I’m not supposed to, am I?” I hold up my arms to show the cuffs. “What could I do if I weren’t wearing them?”