Torgun nodded and returned to his bucket. Verity stood in the courtyard for a moment longer, watching the sky lighten over the eastern peaks, and then went to find Targesh.
Chapter 20
They left before dawn the next day.
The courtyard was empty except for the stable hands who had prepared the horses and Ralvar, who stood by the gate with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. Verity wore every layer Delia had given her: wool against skin, leather over wool, the bear-lined cloak heavy on her shoulders. She felt like a child playing dress-up in clothes meant for someone larger.
The horses were mountain-bred, shaggy and broad-chested, their breath steaming in the cold air. Targesh secured the last of the saddlebags while Verity stood uselessly nearby, her hands buried in the cloak's deep pockets.
"You remember the southern patrol route." Targesh did not look up from the straps he was checking. "If there is trouble—"
"I will handle it." Ralvar's voice was flat. "As I have handled everything else you have left in my care for the past nineteen years."
Targesh straightened. Something passed between the two orcs, unspoken. Then Targesh clasped Ralvar's forearm, and Ralvar returned the grip.
Verity watched silently. The exchange was brief and efficient, the kind of farewell between men who had said goodbye so many times that the words had worn smooth.
Targesh turned to her. "Can you mount?"
She had ridden before. Twice. Both times on placid mares chosen specifically for nervous passengers. This horse was neither placid nor a mare, and it regarded her skeptically.
"I can try."
His hands found her waist. He lifted her into the saddle as though she weighed nothing, settling her against the horse's broad back before she could protest. The animal shifted beneath her, adjusting to her weight, and she grabbed the pommel with both hands.
"Grip with your knees," Targesh said. "Not your hands."
"My hands are the only thing keeping me from falling off."
"Your knees will do that. Loosen your grip."
She loosened her grip. The horse immediately took a step forward, and she clutched the pommel again.
Targesh made a sound that might have been amusement. He swung onto his own mount with the easy grace of someone who had been riding since before she was born, and the horse beneath him responded instantly to the shift of his weight.
"Follow my lead," he said. "The trail is narrow until we clear the first ridge."
He guided his horse toward the gate. The stable hands pulled it open, and the gray light of early morning spilled into the courtyard. Beyond the walls, the mountain waited.
Verity's horse followed without being told.
The first hour was silence and stone.
The trail switchbacked up the mountainside, cut into the rock by generations of orc patrols. Verity concentrated on staying in the saddle, her thighs burning with the effort of gripping, her hands white-knuckled on the reins. The horse seemed to know the path better than she did, picking its way over loose scree and around jutting boulders with an indifference to her attempts at guidance.
Targesh rode ahead, his back straight, his shoulders blocking half the sky. He did not look back to check on her. He did not need to. The trail was too narrow for her to fall far, and the horse was too steady to let her tumble.
The sun crested the eastern peaks as they reached the first ridge. Below them, Northwatch spread out like a map—the courtyard where she had first arrived, the great hall where she had committed her first offense, the archives carved into the mountain beneath her quarters. From here, it looked small. Manageable. A toy fortress in a world of stone and sky.
Targesh reined his horse to a halt at the ridge's edge. Verity's mount stopped beside him without instruction.
"We follow the ridgeline for another hour," he said. "Then descend into the valley. We will camp tonight at Stonehaven shelter."
She nodded. Her throat was too dry for speech.
He reached into his saddlebag and produced a waterskin, holding it out to her. She took it, drank, handed it back. His fingers brushed hers in the exchange, warm despite the cold.
"You are doing well," he said.
