Atticus pulls the door shut soundlessly behind him. The smell of hay and horse dung permeates the air. We’ve emerged in a courtyard, but it is not the same one as the day Zander paraded me around the market.
Excitement courses through my veins. “Where are we?”
“The eastern stables, outside the curtain wall.” Zander is swift on his feet as he moves toward the nearest stall, his cowl drawn up to hide his recognizable golden-brown hair.
A scrawny boy of no more than twelve is talking softly to a saddled horse.
“Silmar.”
The boy bows deeply, giving me a glimpse of the gold cuff on his ear. “Your Highness.”
Zander glances this way and that, I assume to check for bystanders.
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinkin’, Your Highness.” His juvenile voice cracks over his nervousness.
“Are the horses ready?”
“Just like your guard asked. They’re good and strong, but nothin’ fancy. This one’s my favorite.” He pats its haunches. “His name’s Tripsy, but I promise he doesn’t trip. Don’t know where he earned that name. He’ll be good for yourself and the lady.” His innocent eyes dart to me, and I see curiosity there but nothing more. He doesn’t seem to recognize me. It’s a nice change. “The one to the left is Spirit.”
“She’s perfect.” Atticus smooths a hand over her chocolate-brown snout before leading her out of the stall by her reins.
Silmar clicks his tongue, and Tripsy steps forward with a soft whinny.
Zander drops several gold coins into the boy’s hand.
The boy makes to bow and then catches himself. “Thank you kindly.” He lowers his voice to a whisper to add “Your Highness.” He hesitates when he looks at me. “Will milady need a stool?” By the way his face scrunches, I’m guessing he doesn’t have one handy.
“No, I’m good.” This horse isn’t as looming as the black stallion we rode, and I’m not in a ball gown tonight, though it will be the first time I’ve climbed onto one on my own.
“You put your foot in there.” Zander points to the stirrup, smirking. He’s finding my lack of skill amusing.
I make a point of rolling my eyes before following the instruction, gripping the saddle as Atticus did. I hoist myself up, smiling with satisfaction as I lift my leg. Only Tripsy decides to take two sudden steps forward, throwing off my balance. Zander is behind me before I tumble, his hands clutching my hips in place.
“You weren’t kidding about the riding situation.” Atticus snorts as he leads his horse toward the wooden gate.
“Shall we try again, or do you have more insolence you’d like to share first?” Zander’s voice hints of stifled laughter.
I throw my leg over and settle in my spot, lifting my chin with indignation, even as my cheeks burn.
He climbs into the saddle behind me. Without the ball gown between us, I’m keenly aware of his thighs pressed against mine. He doesn’t make an effort to keep his distance this time as he reaches forward for the reins. “We’ll be back in a few hours, Silmar.”
The boy scurries to open the gate and allow us to pass through. The click of the horse hooves echo in the silence of the surrounding street.
“He’s a bit young to be out here all alone, isn’t he?” I ask.
“It’s safe enough. Silmar prefers being outdoors with the horses. He sleeps in one of the stalls most nights. If we can stable them without waking him, we will.”
“Do you call everyone by their name?”
“That’s what names are for, are they not?”
“But you actually know all their names.”
“I try to, yes.” He pauses. “Should I not?”
“No, you should. I just didn’t think a king would keep track of his servants. That’s … nice.” Korsakov had nicknames for all of us because they were easier for him to remember.
“It breeds loyalty. Also, when the king knows a servant’s name, that servant is less likely to do something they shouldn’t.”
“So, it’s more a subtle fear tactic than being considerate?”
“It’s both, but I don’t have the luxury of being nice simply for the sake of it.”
We descend through town at a steady pace. Atticus leads, his head swiveling this way and that, as if constantly on the lookout for threats. We’re taking a different route than the one we took with the cavalry, this one leading us farther to the left of the castle.
“You do this often? Take secret passages and ride horses like Tripsy?”
“You have a problem with Tripsy?”
I steal a glance over my shoulder to find him grinning beneath his cowl. If I didn’t know better, I’d say sneaking out has invigorated him as much as it has me. “No, but I wouldn’t call him pedigreed, compared to the last one we rode together.” He looks more like a workhorse skilled at pulling wagons of stone.
“We can’t ride one of the royal thoroughbreds through Cirilea without attracting notice. And it’s best that Boaz believes us in our chambers, fast asleep.”
“The captain of the royal guard doesn’t approve of the king sneaking out like a misbehaving boy?” I tease. Elisaf said Zander was known for lurking among the commoners.
He scowls. “I do as I wish.”
Ahead of us, Atticus barks with laughter. “Boaz will send the royal guard to shadow Zander while he’s doing as he wishes.”
“And any fool half drowned in a vat of mead would be able to spot them. They are not trained to be inconspicuous.”
“And tonight, we need discretion?”
“We need information that I won’t get within the castle walls or from my royal sources.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Port Street, to see if anyone there has heard about any casters arriving on a ship. Someone must know something.”
“Huh. With all those thieves and unsavory folk? I recall someone suggesting a similar plan. Who was it, though? Someone intelligent beyond her years, but why can’t I remember …”
Zander’s deep chuckle vibrates within my chest, and an unexpected flutter stirs inside me. The stone-faced king laughing seemed an impossibility a month ago, and now it is me who has sparked this genuine reaction. “Are you quite finished?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see. Aren’t you worried people will recognize me?”
“There will be as many mortals as immortals. And besides, I will keep you close.”
We cross a street and descend along a much steeper slope, and I sense the mood of the city shifting. We’ve left the quiet residential neighborhood of brick buildings and pitched roofs that surrounds the castle and are venturing into a more industrial area where wooden and metal signs dangle from posts marking various professions. I strain my eyes to read them as we pass—blacksmiths, butchers, wheelwrights, rope makers, glassblowers. Through the windows, I see nothing but darkness, but now and again, I catch the faint glow of light from someone within toiling late into the night.
A briny scent hangs in the air, and I find myself inhaling deeply, as if my lungs crave it.
“It calls to you, even with the cuffs,” Zander murmurs, and I detect a hint of awe in his voice.