And at the other end of it, Highbell City. Built in front of the forest of the Pitching Pines—trees so tall that you can’t see their tops when you look up, so large that it would take several men with outstretched arms to span the width of a trunk. The trees stand proud, growing pine needles of blue and white, shedding down like teeth of icicles, dripping with sap at the tips to grow longer, sharper.
But those trees, hundreds of years old—maybe even thousands—they offer the city a break from the wind that comes in down from the mountains, the branches taking on the brunt of the wintry gusts and brutal blizzards, shielding the buildings behind them.
The city itself is dwarfed by them, looking almost comical next to each other. Even in the dark, I can see the light of even the tallest buildings completely dominated by the trees at their backs.
And all at once, I’m too far, too closed off. Maybe it’s just now really hitting me that I’m out, I’m truly out of my cage. No Midas, no expectations, no role to play. I’m out of the palace, off the mountain, and I just want to see it, see everything. And not behind a pane of glass like always, but in the wide open, with the outside all around me, and me on the outside with it.
The moment the carriage wheels start rolling easily over the paved city road, I rap my knuckle against the window. Digby is riding next to me, of course, and his head whips to the side when he hears my knock. But I don’t wait or give him a moment to stop me. Instead, I open the carriage door while it’s still moving—albeit slowly—and I jump.
Digby swears and calls for my carriage to stop, but it’s too late. I’ve already landed on the ground with a spring in my step as my boots hit the ground. Digby pulls his horse over to me, a scowl curling down his weathered face. The sight makes me smile.
“Glaring so soon, Dig?” I tease. “This isn’t a good sign for our journey, is it?”
“Back inside, my lady.”
Digby doesn’t look amused. Not at all. But of course, that just makes my smile stretch wider.
“Glaring it is, then,” I say with a nod. “But scowl or no, I want to stretch my legs. I feel cooped up.”
He narrows his eyes, giving me a look like, Really? You’ve lived in a cage for the past ten years, but now you feel cooped up?
I shrug at his silent challenge. “Can I ride a horse for a while?”
He shakes his head. “It’s sleeting.”
I wave it off. “Barely. Besides, the sky is always doing something here. But I have a hood, and I’m not cold,” I assure him. “I want to feel the air on my face. Just for a little while.”
His gray eyebrows pull together as he looks down at me from his spot on his horse, but I wave my hand ahead of us, toward the city’s buildings where people are walking around. “It’s safe in Highbell, isn’t it?” I ask him.
Of course it is, which is why I asked.
“Fine,” Digby finally says. “But if the weather gets worse, or if you get too cold, you’ll have to return to the carriage.”
I nod, trying not to visibly gloat.
“You know how to ride?” he presses, looking unconvinced.
Another quick nod. “Of course. I’m an excellent horse rider.”
He regards me dubiously, seeing right through my smile, but he doesn’t question me further. Truth be told, I’m not sure that I do still know how to ride a horse, but I guess we’re all about to find out.
Digby whistles, and a pure white horse is brought forward by another guard holding the reins. I walk over to it, running my eyes over the animal, noting the long, shaggy hair all over his body.
Sixth Kingdom horses were specifically bred to withstand the cold. They have long, thick hair all over their bodies, the longest at their chests and right above their hooves. But even so, they’ve still been equipped with heavy woolen blankets draped over their backs beneath their saddles, along with thick leg warmers.
I walk up to the horse, crooning a soft hello as he blinks at me. I lift a gloved hand to his nose and pet him slowly, noting how his braided tail flicks. The Highbell emblem on the front leather harness hanging around his neck sits proudly against his chest, gleaming in gold.
When he nudges my hand for daring to slow my strokes, I smile and continue to rub his nose affectionately. “What’s his name?”
“Crisp,” the other guard answers me, hood over his head, matching cloak and gloves to keep the cold out.
I hum and look again into the horse’s eye. “Help me out here, okay, Crisp?” I murmur to him before I circle around to the saddle.