But I smile for what feels like the first time indays. “Come on, Mercy. We’ve got a race to win.”
The only time I’ve ever ridden with Rhen, it’s been sedate journeys to distant towns, surrounded by guards or advisers. Everything I know of him is careful planning and thoughtful deliberation. I didn’t expect him to take off like an arrow shot from a well-strung bow.
He keeps a lead as we fly past the competition fields and dive into the shadowed woods north of the palace. I expect Rhen to stick to the broad, winding road through the woods, but his horse slips between branches to skip curves, leaping over fallen trees without hesitation, trusting that the ground won’t fall away on the other side. My heart is pounding in time with Mercy’s hooves against the turf.
I should be responsible here, should call for a slower pace, because if the king’s brother goes flying headlong into a tree, I’m pretty sure there’d be no forgiveness.
But the wind is in my hair, and the thrill of competition is in my blood, so I slip Mercy another inch of rein. “Come on, sweet girl.”
She flicks an ear in my direction and redoubles her speed.
It’s not enough to make up for Rhen’s head start. When we burst into the clearing, he’s at least three horse-lengths ahead of me. Both horses are breathing hard when we draw to a stop, but they’re fit and we haven’t gone far. Mercy is prancing in place, pawing at the ground in protest, wanting to run again.
Rhen is red-cheeked and windblown. His hair has fallen acrossthe leather mask that covers his missing eye. “I haven’t done that inyears.”
I smile. “Well, you couldn’t prove it by me.”
“You didn’tletme win, did you?”
That makes me laugh. “No. Mercy might feel better if I say that I did.”
He says nothing to that. He looks out at the stretch of sunlight-dappled grass, then swings down from the saddle and pulls the bridle free, giving his horse the freedom to graze. After a moment, I do the same with Mercy.
“You used to race with Grey?” I guess.
“I did. He could almost always best me in the arena, but I rarely find a horse that can beat Ironwill.” Rhen pulls another caramel from a pocket, slipping it to the buckskin.
I consider the sword at his side. The race. The lack of guards. The fact that we’re miles away from the competition fields and the watchful eyes of his brother.
“Did you drag me out here to practice swordplay?” I say.
He glances over. “No. I dragged you out here so you could freely ask about your king.”
I feelthatlike a fist to the gut. “Oh.”
We stand there in silence for the longest moment. I don’t know what to say.
Eventually, I put my hand on the hilt of my sword. “Perhaps we could do both.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he takes hold of his own weapon. “Fine.”
I’m prepared for him to begin slowly, to ease into swordplay like a beginner, with straightforward thrusts and parries. Luckily, I have years of warnings from Grey about underestimating an opponent, so when Rhen comes at me like he means to wage war, I deflect and spin and disarm him in less than ten seconds. His sword lands in the grass, and he swears.
“I didn’t let you win that time either,” I say.
Rhen gives me a rueful glance. “Noted.”
He attacks again. I disarm him again.
He swears again.
“We could begin more slowly,” I say.
“Don’t make me stab you.”
“Haven’t you been trying?”
He looks startled, and I worry that I’ve poked at his pride too hard. But he laughs under his breath and claims his blade. We begin again. And again. And again. It’s not just that he’s out of practice, though that’s part of it. Some is his vision—but there’s nothing he can do about that. It’s his disappointment in himself. His impotent rage. He’s tireless, though, and he attacks with such surety.
