He sensed Ridha’s judgment without turning to her, so he did not bother. With a grunt, he stabbed a bale of hay and tossed it easily into the stall before him. It exploded against the stone wall. In the corner, a stallion blinked, unamused.
“You always did know when to keep your mouth shut, Cousin,” he sneered, thrusting the pitchfork again. He imagined the next bale was Taristan’s body, the tines running him through.
“I believe you missed that lesson,” she replied. “Just like the one on tact.”
Dom bit his lip, tasting blood again. “I’m a soldier, Ridha. I don’t have the luxury of tact.”
“And what do I look like?”
Sighing, he turned to face the closest thing he had to a sibling.
Gone was her gown. The sword still hung at her side, but the rest of the princess was changed, having traded silk for steel and jeweled locks for tightly wound braids. She rested her hands on her sword belt, letting him look. A green cloak of Iona poured over one shoulder, shadowing her mail, breastplate, and greaves. Ridha was the heir to the enclave, the Monarch’s successor, and she had been taught to fight as well as any other. Better, usually. Her armor was expertly made, well fitted to her form, emblazoned with antlers, the steel tinted green. It gleamed in the dusty light of the stables.
The smallest bit of hope sparked in Dom’s chest. His first instinct was to smother it.
“Where are you going?” he asked, wary.
“You heard my mother: she won’t send her people to die, and neither will any other monarch,” she said, adjusting her gauntlets. Her thin smile took on an edge of mischief. “I thought it best I make sure she’s right.”
The spark grew in leaps. The pitchfork fell from his hands, and Dom moved to embrace his cousin. “Ridha—”
She ducked his arm, her steps light and agile even in full armor. “Don’t touch me—you stink.”
Dom didn’t mind the jab in the slightest. She could have said anything to him, asked anything of him, a dangerous thing to know. I would dance naked through the streets of Iona or marry a mortal woman if it meant she would help me. But Ridha demanded nothing in return. In his heart, Dom knew she never would.
“I’ll ride to Sirandel first,” the princess said. She set a quick pace down the aisle, and Dom was forced to follow. With a practiced eye, she noted the horses, surveying each stall for a steed fast enough to suit her needs. “They lost three of their own to those monsters. And the foxes can be so hot-blooded. Something about the red hair.”
Eager, the prince crossed to the tack wall and heaved a saddle onto his shoulder. The fine oiled leather gleamed. “I’ll start with Salahae. The sand wolves do not run from a fight.”
Ridha snatched the saddle from him. “Leave the enclaves to me. I don’t trust your powers of persuasion.”
“You’re mad if you think I’m staying here,” he said, moving to bar her way. Again she dodged. At the far end of the aisle, the stable hands gathered to watch their bickering. Dom could hear their whispers, but he gave them little thought.
“I didn’t say that,” Ridha said in a chiding voice. “Raising an army to fight the Spindles is one thing—impossible, perhaps. Closing them is another entirely, but it’s something we must do if we have any hope of maintaining Allward.”
Her search ended at a familiar stall, where her mother’s own mount stood waiting. The horse was coal black, bred for speed in the deserts of Ibal. A sand mare. A rare flash of greed gleamed in Ridha’s eye before she turned back to her cousin. She took his hand.
“You need Corblood and Spindleblade.”
A young face rose up before him, his eyes kind and warm, a green-and-gold tunic cast over his coat of mail. The squire. Andry Trelland. A son of Ascal.
“The blade I can find,” Dom said grimly. I hope.
Ridha’s dark brow furrowed. “How? There were only two in the vault, and Taristan has them both. The other enclaves have none—”
“The blade I can find,” he said again, his voice deep with resolve.
Ridha searched him a moment, then nodded slowly. Dom could only pray she was right to put faith in him.
“But the blood,” he sighed, leaning back against the wall. The Veder scrubbed a hand down his face, forgetting his wounds for the first time since leaving the temple. He did not forget long. His face stung and he cursed lightly. “Cortael was the last of his line. The others, if there are others . . . we have no means of tracking them. It will take months, years, to find another branch of that tree. The sons and daughters of Old Cor are all but spent.”