“So formal. What is your name?”
She hesitated before taking his hand, and he gave her a gentle smile. “I won’t bite, I promise. Just take my hand and stick your foot in that part there, hanging off the side, then swing your other leg over. Easy enough.”
Soren swallowed thickly, looking at the enormous black mare above her, kicking the dust up with her hooves.
“Yes, sir,” she finally relented, taking Lanor’s hand.
He nodded. “Step on my other hand with your foot. One, two…”
Soren froze.
“One, two?—”
No.
Not that memory.
Not today.
But she was helpless as the image of her mother’s death assaulted her. The soldier, the one who called himself Jadis, had counted down so casually before his companion had swung his blade. Kelshie had screamed, the sound mingling with the wet smack of their mother’s head hitting the forest floor…
She sucked in a breath, banishing the memory, and hopped up on Lanor’s outstretched hand, hauling herself clumsily onto the mare. Lanor and a few of the other knights laughed before Cion shot them a dark look.
“Apologies, princess,” they all murmured.
Lanor hopped onto his white-speckled horse easily, just as a processional hymn began to play loudly behind them. Traditional send-off music, local to Aren; the same song Soren sometimes heard playing in the streets as soldiers marched off to battle.
The beating of the drums lined up with the wild thumping of her heart.
“One, two…” she whispered, her eyes on the horizon.
A trumpet cried out.
“Ahead!” a knight at the front of the party cried.
“What was that?” Lanor asked, that easy half-grin still on his face.
Soren glanced at him. “Nothing, sir.”
He laughed again, something he seemed to do quite a lot. Soren couldn’t decide if it bothered her or not. She couldn’t decide anything about the knight, not yet, which unsettled her. People were generally easy for her to read, but this knight…
He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with typical features of a man born in Aren: short black hair, pale skin, brown, upturned eyes, a tall stature. He boasted many scars, an honor for a knight or warrior, and he was muscular under the armor, but he needed to shave. There were dark circles under his eyes. Perhaps these knights were not treated as well as they appeared at first glance.
“Take hold of the reins.” His voice startled her out of her observation. “Pinch your legs slightly and lean forward.”
She followed his instructions and held back a yelp as the horse moved. It was an odd feeling, being up this high and not in control. She wasn’t sure if she hated or loved it.
“Good,” Lanor said, smiling. “Get comfortable. We have a long journey ahead.”
“So I’ve been told, sir.”
Lanor laughed. “So shecanmake a joke, and so soon into our journey together.”
Soren looked away, facing ahead toward the streets of cheering people quickly approaching. Of course, King Johannas would make a spectacle of the princess leaving. Anothercelebration to add to the appearance of glory surrounding the war.
Still, even with the cheering faces and pumping fists, Soren saw it in their hollow cheeks and desperate eyes: these people were hungry. Some for food, some for a savior, many for both. They thought perhaps Princess Cion would be their champion, but Soren knew that wasn’t true. The princess was here for entirely selfish reasons.
A few caught sight of Soren and spit curses her way. When a pebble collided with her cheek, Lanor intercepted it, angling his horse in front of her and shouting, “Enough! She is with the princess!”
