“Their loss,” Dorian said—another jibe. “And would you have liked to kill us monsters?”
I flashed him a hard, unbroken stare. “Now more than ever.”
He gave a nod, his face impassive. “Perhaps you’ll have a chance in the trials.”
A beat passed before I broke my gaze away. Only monsters could be so comfortable with the thought of killing.
I stopped at the open side of the building. Inside, a long aisle was laced with straw. Half-doors had been fitted in rows at either side, four to a side. “You keep the horses captive here.”
“And your kingdom doesn’t?”
“We do. But I thought…”
Dorian’s shadow eclipsed mine as he came to stand beside me. “You thought?”
“I should have known better. You’re keeping me captive.”
“Ah, but youdesireto serve the queen, remember?” He stepped forward into the stables. “Here you stand, ready to train.”
“Survival makes good actors of us all,” I said, stepping deeper into the aisleway. “Which of these is mine to ride?”
I sensed Dorian’s scrutinizing gaze on me as he stepped up beside me. Then, after a few seconds, he said, “I’m not certain any of the horses would be small enough for you.”
My lips pressed together. “Can you not go ten seconds without a rib?”
“It wasn’t a rib.” He swept an arm out. “See for yourself. You’d be hard-pressed to mount any of these without a block.”
Together, we walked the aisle. As we did, a roan horse’s head appeared over the side. Black, liquid eyes observed me.
“Here’s the one you heard kicking his door,” Dorian said. “He’s seventeen hands.”
I stopped in front of the horse. He was huge. “Why does he kick?”
Dorian stroked down his face and under his chin. “Boredom. They’re not meant for captivity.”
“So why are they captive?”
“For the court to ride as they will, of course. And we can’t very well have them roaming the forest.”
I took a hesitant step toward the horse. “Why not?”
“Horses are native to Highmark. They would wander back, given the chance.” Dorian scratched at the roan’s chin, and it leaned in to his touch. “They can go no further than the paddocks attached to the stables.”
It seemed everything in this court came from somewhere else.
“Ah.” Dorian led me to a half-door set caddy-corner to the roan’s stall. “Here’s a filly of fourteen hands.” He leaned on the door and clicked three times with his tongue.
I came to his side just as a small sandy head appeared, her mane bouncing and her face adorned with a white blaze over the forehead.She gave a whinny and hung her head over the door; she was barely tall enough to do so.
“This,” Dorian said, “is a horse we’d train children on. She’s not even two.”
I approached, and the horse’s black eyes shifted to me, fringed with impossibly long lashes.
“Put your hand out,” Dorian said. “Palm up.”
I did so, and from somewhere he dropped a carrot into my palm. The act was so casual, but this single carrot would have been a treasure for child-me. I stared at it, knowing what it was meant for and unwilling to extend my hand any further.
Strange, how convincing a story could be that I should still covet this carrot, even though I had just been served a more extravagant breakfast than King Halvar might eat.
