Through the trees to their right, the smooth, flat expanse of the King’s Road appeared in snatches—a tempting, easy path compared to the brutal track they were on. Shadow drifted toward it, drawn by the promise of solid footing, but Gessa tightened the reins.
“No, not that way,” she said, keeping up the stream of words. “The road means travelers, and travelers mean eyes. We need to be invisible.” She stroked his neck, feeling the tension knotting his muscles. “We go south and east, the hard way. Toward the Iron Spurs.”
He snorted, blowing air through his nose, but he let her turn him back into the brush.
“I know it’s difficult,” she told him, her eyes scanning the unknown rise and dip of the land ahead. “But let Kestrel earn his gold. If he wants to find us, let him tear his boots up on this track just like we are.”
By mid-morning, the sun beat down without mercy. They had pushed through rougher country since leaving the track, a mix of thorny scrub and uneven ground that demanded constant vigilance. Shadow’s dark coat glistened with sweat, his breath coming in deep, rhythmic huffs as he navigated the footing. His stamina commanded respect, but even he had limits. Gessa ached—shoulders tight, good leg trembling—but the core of desperate energy still burned.
Thirst finally overrode the drive for distance. Shadow’s chest heaved, his stride shortening with fatigue. A thin line of darker green vegetation snaked across a shallow dip ahead.
“See that?” Gessa patted his damp neck. “Green means water. Almost there.”
Hope quickened her pulse. As they approached, the murmur of a narrow creek reached them, running clear over smooth, sun-dappled stones beneath the shade of hardy willows. It was a vital haven in the harsh landscape.
Gessa slid from Shadow’s back, but as her feet touched the earth, her injured ankle gave way. A white-hot spike of pain stole her breath, and she crumpled against the horse’s side. Shadow flinched, stepping sideways at her sudden instability.
“Steady,” she gasped, gripping his mane with white-knuckled fingers until the world stopped spinning. “I’m alright. Just the leg. Steady now.”
She leaned heavily against his warm flank, letting his solid presence ground her until the nausea passed. “Go on,” she whispered, urging him toward the stream. “Drink.”
While he drank, water swirling around his muzzle, Gessa watched him, grateful for his thirst; it gave her a moment tobreathe. When he finally lifted his head, dripping and content, moving to crop the sparse grass, she fumbled in her survival bag for the comfrey.
She forced herself to look at her ankle. It was swollen tight against the skin, blooming in angry shades of blue and purple beneath the grime of her journey.
“Ugly business, isn’t it?” she said softly to the horse, needing the sound of her own voice to distract from the throbbing pressure. With deliberate fingers, she tore a strip from the hem of her linen skirt. “But we can fix it. Just a little comfrey.”
She bruised the leaves against a smooth river stone and bound the poultice around the injury, her breath hitching as she tightened the knot.
Task complete, she eased herself down onto a flat, sun-warmed rock and lowered her foot into the current. The cold water bit, then soothed. Shadow drowsed in the warmth, his head drooping. The only sounds were the bubbling of the stream and the lazy buzz of an unseen insect. A sliver of sunlight found a gap in the willow canopy, touching Gessa’s cheek with unexpected warmth. A small, azure butterfly with wings like stained glass danced past, flitting over the water before vanishing into the shadows.
A sigh escaped her lips. A fragile, unfamiliar sensation unfurled in her chest: peace. She traced the dance of light on the water. No Polan. No corrections. Just the sun and the water. The restless, wild thrumming deep within her—the chaotic energy she’d carried since crossing the border—quieted to a gentle pulse.
But such moments were luxuries she could ill afford. With reluctance, she withdrew her foot from the water. The brief respite had made the thought of the road even more daunting, but the renewed fear of discovery goaded her into motion. She forced down a sip of water, a bit of dry bread, and a finalsliver of cheese, her gaze constantly scanning the trees. The stop had been too long. Every minute spent stationary felt like an invitation to Kestrel.
The afternoon dissolved into a blur of grim endurance. They stuck to the rough track paralleling the unseen road. The comfrey poultice took the edge off the worst of the throbbing, but every lurching movement served as a reminder of her vulnerability. Shadow remained a challenge. His unpredictable shies and sudden stops turned the ride into a draining battle of wills, leaving Gessa’s arms burning. This was a raw, bruising exertion, worlds away from the polite riding of Polan’s manicured estate.
The landscape slowly began to change, the dense woods of the periphery giving way to more open, rolling hills. But the open sky increased her sense of exposure. Her magic felt like a live thing coiled inside her, independent of the land now. It uncoiled without warning—sometimes a low, vibrating hum, other times a prickling surge that made Shadow toss his head and fight the bit.
“Easy,” Gessa soothed, though she wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the horse or the volatile energy beneath her ribs. “Shhh. It’s passing. Just keep walking.”
Dusk bled across the sky, painting the clouds in hues of orange and violet that felt cruel in their beauty. The vibrancy mocked her desperate plight. Impatience warred with practicality—lost time, her mind screamed—but as the shadows lengthened, she patted Shadow’s sweaty neck.
“We can’t navigate this in the dark,” she told him, her voice heavy with resignation. “We have to stop, or one of us will break a leg.”
She scanned the darkening hills for shelter. Her eyes settled on a dense copse of old fir trees set well back from the path, their boughs thick and low-hanging. “There. That will have to do.”
She led Shadow into the gloom beneath the firs, where the thick carpet of needles muffled his hooves. She tethered him to a sturdy lower branch, leaving enough slack for him to move. The ground offered only sparse pickings, so she gathered armfuls of rough grass and edible leaves from the edge of the copse, piling them within his reach.
“Here.” she piled the greens near his nose. “It’s not oats, I know. I’m sorry.”
Only then did she attend to him. Her hands, clumsy with fatigue, moved with gentle efficiency as she loosened his bridle, slipping the bit so he could eat. She knelt to check his legs, running her fingers over the hot tendons.
“I know they burn,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his shoulder for a moment. “Mine do too. You’re riding hard, Shadow. Harder than you should have to.”
He leaned into her touch, a shared weariness passing between them.
For herself, Gessa chose a spot at the base of the largest fir. She unrolled her torn blanket, the thin wool a meager barrier against the encroaching chill. As she sat, the skin of her inner thighs stung fiercely. She winced, shifting her legs, but there was no salve to spare for simple chafing. Curling up on the bed of needles, she clutched her bag close, the hematite a cold, familiar pressure against her sternum. It was far from safe, but it was a small pocket of stillness in a world that had become uncertain.
