“I’ll find her,” Kestrel promised.
“I know.” Polan moved to the side table. “Go.”
As Kestrel vanished, Polan turned back to the window, looking out over his manicured gardens. He took a slow breath, centering himself.
He imagined Gessa out there—cold, hungry, possibly injured. He didn’t want her dead. He wanted her back in this room. He wanted the pleasure of stripping away this new, foolish layer of rebellion. He wanted to watch the realization dawn in her eyes that there was no escape, that his will was the only solid ground in the universe.
He had never found a horse he couldn’t break. Gessa would be no exception.
“Run, my love,” he whispered to the empty room, tasting the anticipation of the correction to come. “Exhaust yourself. And when you are ready to be whole again, I will be here.”
3
THE PRICE OF DISGUISE
The first outlying homesteads of Hillston were mean, rough-hewn structures of unseasoned timber and sod. Suspicious eyes peered from behind grimy windowpanes as Gessa guided a reluctant Shadow past. Woodsmoke hazed the air, smelling of damp timber and poorly cured meat, carrying with it the faint, metallic tang from the smithy ringing in the distance. The track widened into a muddy, rutted street churned by hooves and wagon wheels.
The sounds of the village grew louder: the rhythmic ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer, rough laughter spilling from a squat building with a sign depicting a rearing horse—The Dancing Stallion—and the lowing of cattle. Hillston was larger and rougher than she’d expected, a current of wary, hard-bitten life flowing through its unpaved arteries.
She kept her head down, but she couldn’t block out the flash of the lockets.
They were everywhere. In the iron-choked air of the estate, every throat bore the milky blankness of the Unaspected; no one with a spark could survive the suppression. But here, colorbloomed. A burly man hauling grain sacks wore a pendant of rough, grey granite that swung against his chest—a Stone-seer. A woman scolding a child in a doorway wore the soft, translucent green of a Mender, the glass warm against her skin. Every person she passed broadcast their soul to the world.
Gessa pulled the edges of her torn dress closer, one hand instinctively going to the milky, opaque glass at her own throat. The lie felt leaden against her collarbone, a stark contrast to the midnight-blue truth hidden in her bag. She kept her hands, soft and uncalloused, buried deep in the folds of her skirt.
Her first need was to sell Shadow. The stable yard attached to the inn looked substantial, a collection of leaning sheds and fenced enclosures thick with the scent of old straw and manure. A few tired-looking horses stood tethered to a rail. Swallowing her trepidation, Gessa led Shadow through the wide, muddy gateway.
A stooped, wiry man with a face like a knotted root emerged from the largest building, a pitchfork in hand. He paused, wiping his hands on a stained leather apron. His shrewd, pebble-like eyes swept over Gessa and Shadow with unnerving speed.
“Looking for a rub-down and a stall, mistress?” he asked, his voice raspy as old leather.
Gessa shook her head. “I need to sell him.”
His eyes flicked over Shadow again, lingering this time, then back to Gessa, taking in her torn dress, her exhaustion, and the favor she gave her swollen ankle. A flicker of calculation crossed his face.
“Bit sudden. Good-lookin’ beast, though he’s got a wild look in his eye.” He reached out a slow hand. Shadow flinched violently, ears flattening, a low rumble vibrating in his chest. The man pulled his hand back. “Aye, skittish indeed. Like he’s seen a ghost, or carries one with him.”
“He’s been through a hard journey,” Gessa managed. The lie felt flimsy. “I can’t care for him properly anymore. He needs a good home, a firm hand.”
He stroked his chin, his eyes making a slow, insulting appraisal. “Fifteen silvers.”
Gessa’s head snapped up. “Fifteen? He’s worth ten times that. Look at his lines, the strength in his legs. He’s barely out of his youth.”
“Lines don’t mean much if the mind is addled,” he rasped. He gestured dismissively at the horse. “He’s got a touch of the mad-staggers, or he’s plain ill-broke. A nervous beast is a dangerous beast. More trouble than he’s worth.”
“It’s fire,” Gessa countered, her voice gaining a surprising strength. “He’s been on a hard road, but his spirit is strong.”
He let out a long, theatrical sigh. “I see a woman in a hurry to sell. A skittish horse is a risk, and I ain’t in the business of charity.” He let the silence press in on her. “Twenty-five silvers. It’s a generous offer for the trouble he’ll likely be.”
Gessa stood frozen. Twenty-five. It was highway robbery, a pittance for a creature like Shadow. But it was coin, solid and real, and her only path forward. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a cold, hollow ache.
“Done,” she said, the word sour in her mouth.
As he took the lead rope, his touch firm and businesslike, Gessa reached out a trembling hand. Quickly, before she could think too much about it, she laid it on the gelding’s warm, sweat-dampened neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Be well, brave heart.”
She turned away, sorrow tearing through her. As the man led Shadow toward the stables, a sudden, intense wave of peppermint scent hit her. A dizzying internal pressure built and receded in a heartbeat. Her hand flew to the hematite.No, not here. Not now.
