A magnificent horse stood trapped, his lead rope tangled around a fallen branch. His dark bay coat gleamed with moisture, mane whipping about as he fought against the bindings.
“Why, it’s a Namaren,” Quinn remarked, taking his hand from the hilt of his sword. “A stallion at that. This will be interesting.”
I followed at a distance, looking around for signs of the horse’s owner. He would be a man of wealth, judging by the fine saddle atop the beast, but there was no sign of any man, rich or poor, within eyesight.
“Easy, boy,” said Quinn, stepping forward with outstretched hands. The stallion reared back, striking out with his hooves and sending Quinn back with a stumble as he narrowly missed him with iron-shod feet. “Gods, he’s mad with fear!”
But I felt something else entirely. The moment my eyes met the stallion’s, the world shifted. Overwhelming grief crashed over me like a wave, followed by a deep sense of confusion and gnawing hunger. My own back ached as I imagined the weight of a saddle left on for too long, the chafing of straps against sweat-slicked hide.
Without thinking, I stepped past Quinn. The Namaren’s wild eyes fixed on me as he breathed raggedly, his hooves stomping uneasily beneath him.
“Alana, don’t!” Quinn warned, reaching for me. He nearly took hold when he froze in place, seeing the horse’s breathing slow and settle. I stretched out my hands, slow and easy, until at last I was within arm’s length.
The stallion lowered his head to my outstretched palm.
A weight falls from my back. I turn around to see my rider on the ground, clutching his chest. A strange scent fills my nose, a near-metallic twang—blood?—and I’m fightened. I run, it’s all I can do, but then I try to return, to look for my human. The brush catches my legs, tangles me.
I recovered with a gasp, the vision clear as though I’d lived it myself. The poor animal was confused, exhausted, and burned from the friction of the saddle.
He paid me little mind as I checked the saddlebags. There was a silver locket stashed away, the portrait of a young woman fixed to its insides. A few letters were sealed in wax, each bearing the Lynx of Hadria, and then there were various samples of silk cloth and a bottle of wine. Lastly, there was a map tucked into a leather journal, one filled almost to the end with personal notes—all in Hadrian.
I walked the journal to Quinn, turning my back on the stallion. As I passed it off to him, Quinn stared at me with awe, hardly paying mind to the leatherbound book. His hand was still half-raised in warning.
Then I returned to the Namaren and made swift work of untangling him. I looked over the various straps of the saddle with unfamiliarity, bending to examine from below. Dried sweat and dirt caked his coat, and his flanks were hollowwith hunger.
He’d been here for at least a couple of days.
“Alana, don’t move under it, for gods’ sake!” Quinn shouted, stomping nearer. His presence alarmed the stallion into a loud series of whinnies that warned the viscount to stay back. His hands raised in surrender until the horse settled once more; then, raking his fingers through his hair, he caught his breath. “L-loosen the cinches, then the back strap.”
Slowly but surely, I worked the horse free from his saddle, dropping it with a thud to the dirt below. It was surprisingly heavy, leaving deep imprints in the stallion’s coat.
I curtsied to the horse, which seemed appropriate for some reason, and came back to Quinn’s side. He continued to gawk worthlessly at me, so I tapped the journal’s face to remind him to read it over.
Quinn cleared his throat, flipping through the pages. As he did, the stallion approached, sniffing me curiously. I took Quinn’s flask of water and poured some into my hand, offering it to drink. A long tongue lapped up the small puddle, tickling me, and I continued to replenish it. I felt his relief.
“Says here he was travelling from Kartova,” Quinn said. “He was a Hadrian merchant. The Namaren—”
Seeing that the stallion had come so near, he fumbled backwards, catching himself.
“The Namaren is namedKante. Hadrian for Song.”
Kante blew hot air against my hands, raising his head at the mention of his name. I smiled, petting him on the nose.
“He certainly seems to like you,” Quinn commented. Then, with a blink: “I wonder where his owner’s gone?”
I turned toward a cluster of bushes not twenty paces away. Quinn followed my gaze; there, partially hidden by undergrowth, lay the faintest impression of a man. A sickly-sweet stench drifted through the air, growing stronger as we approached the brush.
Quinn’s face paled. He moved to block my view, but it was too late. The merchant’s body was bloated and discolored, his fine clothes stained dark. Flies buzzed about the arrow still protruding from his chest and from the look of it, the birds were beginning to have their way with him.
I turned away sharply, pressing my hand to my mouth as my stomach lurched.
“We can’t leave him like this,” Quinn said grimly, removing his cloak and placing it over the man’s body. The stranger had been stripped of coin-pouch and other accessories, but his clothing remained, sparing some of his dignity. “Nor can we afford to linger. I’ll inform the guards at Castle Altaigne so that he may be retrieved. We’ll need to make a report. A merchant’s murder on the main road…”
Quinn’s jaw tightened.
“A Hadrian, nonetheless. This requires investigation. Now, why on earth would they leave his horse behind? He’s an uncommon breed, so he’s worth a pretty penny…”
I shook my head, knowing the truth of what had happened—that the Namaren had fled when his owner was attacked—but I wasn’t quite sure how to explain it, or how I’d come to know it. Quinn’s eyes swept the surrounding woods once again, and he placed a gentle hand on my back, guiding me back to the road.
