Squinting at the stretch of track ahead, Alinore saw only trees and bushes. Nothing. Then, turning, she spotted the source of the noise: a flash of a bay horse disappearing behind a bend.
Flint tried to twist his head too, but Alinore tugged back the reins, pulling them to the side to let this hurried traveller pass.
She yawned as she nudged Flint on to the verge. She had barely slept at the tavern last night. The comings and goings of travellers in the courtyard had been loud and her room had turned out to be cramped and uncomfortable. This morning, she felt stiff and a little crestfallen – the exhilaration of her grand plans waning with tiredness and the beginnings of saddle sores.
Yesterday she had taken a wrong turn at one of the forked paths and lost most of the afternoon doubling back. It had been a frustrating and costly mistake, but she tried to assure herself that she washeading in the right direction now, and if she kept up a pace, she should reach the border of Calestra by nightfall. Then it was just a few more days riding to Galasque.
Behind her, the thunder of hoofbeats drew closer and Alinore peered down the track once more, intrigued. She had not yet encountered a traveller in such a hurry; most of the passers-by were wagons dragging produce from town to town, or villagers on foot, trudging to the surrounding fields – not riders tearing down the paths with feverish intent.
The bay horse reappeared around the bend, cantering closer, its rider bent low over its neck. The horse was a fine, neat animal with a noble head. Almost familiar. The way it moved – fluid, surefooted even on the uneven track – stirred something in her memory. She had seen that gait before.
Alinore’s gaze flicked to the rider: a large, bear-like figure.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The rider straightened slightly, lifting their face into the dappled morning light, and Alinore’s stomach clenched. Cloak flying like a banner behind him, wind whipping his dark hair back from his face, was Prince Ottone.
Alinore scrambled to gather up Flint’s reins, hurriedly kicking the horse forward. The gelding huffed in surprise and took off on the wrong leg, throwing his head back and stomping to a halt.
‘Alinore!’ bellowed Prince Ottone. ‘Alinore, stop!’
Before she could gather herself again, a streak of bay shot past her, close enough that she felt the gust of air in its wake. The horse skidded to a halt on the track ahead in a spray of pebbles, blocking the path.
Alinore had no choice but to rein Flint in.
Dust curled through the air in clouds as Prince Ottone swung hishorse around to face her. The stallion’s flanks quivered, foam lacing its bit and dripping on to the ground. Both horse and rider were sleek with sweat.
‘I thought it was you,’ said Prince Ottone between panted breaths, his voice rough, cracking at the edges. ‘I’ve been riding all night.’
Alinore stared at him, his broad chest rising and falling, his face flushed.
‘Please,’ he added. ‘Just stop a moment.’
Prince Ottone’s clothes were the plain attire of a groomsman: mud-splattered breeches and a sweat-damp tunic clinging to his body under a travel-worn cloak. His dark-haired head was unadorned – no circlet, not even a cap, just loose strands sticking to his brow.
Alinore told herself that she was angry to see him. Not just angry – furious.
Her fists clenched around Flint’s reins, leather biting into her palms. How dare Prince Ottone come after her and unravel the careful distance she had put between them.
‘What’re you doing here?’ she cried.
‘I needed to speak to you.’
She scowled.
‘I never apologized for how we left things,’ he said in a garbled rush, as if the words might collapse if he did not force them out all at once. ‘I didn’t mean to say what I did – or rather, I never meant to say it like that.’ He swallowed, his breath still ragged. ‘Things have been difficult since I returned from the war in Journier and I haven’t been myself. I saw things there that … changed me. So much blood and loss. I was relieved to be called back home, but not to witness the King’s death. We weren’t exactly close, but still, he was my father.’ Prince Ottone paused and pushed a handthrough his hair. ‘But all of that doesn’t excuse the fact that I know I hurt you.’
Memories surfaced of their childhood: chasing each other around the castle courtyards and laughing together in the passageways. Prince Ottone had always understood Alinore in a way that no one else did – not even Cressyda. And if Alinore was honest with herself, she had noticed that he had returned from the Journian war changed – more cautious, watchful and quiet. But she had been so focused on her own quest, so convinced that battles were full of honour and glory, that she had not wanted to concern herself with anything else.
‘I’m sorry, Alinore,’ he added in a deep, soft voice.
She felt her resolve ebbing and she shook herself.
‘You were trying to stop me then and you’re trying to stop me again now,’ she replied. ‘Move out of my way!’
She kicked Flint towards a bank at the side of the track, intending to find an alternative route. Flint’s front legs scrambled on the muddy slope and he shied.
‘Careful, you’ll get hurt.’
