Page 26 of The Crimson Throne
She whips a glare at me. “I am not a horse.”
“I—” Oh. “I didn’t mean it that way. I—”
“Do you need a surgeon?” she asks through a tight jaw. “Are you unwell?”
“No, I—”
“Then you will excuse me, sir.” And she turns again.
God above, this girl. I don’t exactly want to be on her bad side if she’s got fae magic and used it to kill a man over an ordinary cauldron, but I can’t just let her go, can I?
It’s all just a weird happenstance. Maybe fae magic is more prolific in Scotland. Maybe this is what’s normal up here, people offing each other with magic items, then hand-waving it away from regular folk. If I call her on the magic, she’d turn on me, likely.
So I stand there gaping at her as she trudges off into the village, my mind a squall of shock and uncertainty and—birds.
What have I gotten myself into?
***
I dropped my bags a few buildings over, and I find them again,untouched. Most of the people in this town took shelter from the birds, thankfully. In London, this’d all be picked clean.
I’m still unsettled. Sore from my injuries. My doublet got destroyed, but I have another in my supplies, and I swap it out and do my best to wipe off the blood from the small cuts.
All the while, I keep a sharp eye, but that girl doesn’t show up again; she probably hightailed it out of here. Though who’d accuse her of murder when there’s no body?
Shit. Maybe it’s on me to bring her to some kind of justice, given I know about the fae magic she used and most folks don’t. But none of this is gonna help me do what I came here for, and for all I know, that man had it coming.
Still, a small flicker of guilt eats at me. I’m honestly surprised I still have it in me to feel torn up over a situation like this.
What makes this different? The fae magic she used? Or maybe the girl herself. She didn’t seem like a murderer. She didn’t seemcruel.
I give myself a hard shake.
My job’s the same: get to Mary’s court. Stirling Castle. Cecil said I could find a ride up in this town.
So that’s what I do.
I ask around until I get to the stables at the little inn, then ask about a horse for hire. Cecil gave me a bag of coins, but once the innkeeper realizes I tried helping the baby, he waves off my attempt at payment.
Second time today I’ve been struck speechless by someone.
When’s the last time I did something that got rewarded?
Face more than likely matching my hair, I accept the horse, all saddled up, and listen to the innkeeper’s instructions on how to reach Stirling fastest.
The road out of the village is quiet, just like this sleepy town. I passsomeone coming toward me, a family on a wagon; they give curt nods and carry on. That’s it for a while, the sun rising as I ride, the horse swaying gently under me, following the well-carved road like he’s been up and down this stretch of Scotland enough to do it with his eyes closed. So I let him go, exhaustion creeping up over me in double time now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, and I’m not proud of the way I let my attention slip. I’m past the border, but threats are still real; I need to stay sharp.
But damn it, I’m tired.
I don’t wanna stop to camp just yet though; the innkeeper said I could make it to the castle in two days if I push.
I sag forward, snap upright.
Awake. Stay awake. Stay—
My eyes catch on something ahead of me. On the road. The scenery’s been much the same as it was in Northern England with Cecil, scraggy winter-stripped knolls and hills rippling off into the horizon. So at first, I think what I see is just a gnarled tree, but it’s thicker than that. Moving a bit.
A horse?
