Page 6 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

If we can’t get out of here fast enough, we might be slaughtered by the same people we raced in here to protect.

I don’t know whether to be thankful or horrified that the scourge sorcerers’ clay attackers took down enough of the guards that we’re able to dash through the side hall without encountering even one. Does the king truly realize just how close he came to dying himself today?

We’re almost at the main entrance when a yell carries from behind us. “There they go!”

We sprint past the fallen door and onward between the bodies of flesh and clay to the blasted gate—and run straight into a small herd of saddled horses in the lane beyond.

Rheave peers at us from the steeds’ midst, his luminous blue-green eyes as eerie as always beneath his chocolate-brown curls. “I brought the horses like you told me to. Does the king need them?”

Casimir sputters a laugh. In the chaos, I’d forgotten that Stavros had sent the daimon-man to the stables in case the royal family needed to make a hasty getaway out the front of the palace.

“He doesn’t,” Stavros says grimly, catching one set of reins from Rheave. “But we do. Everyone, ride!”

Two

Ivy

Asnort brings my gaze to a stallion I know well. I snatch at his reins. “You brought Toast!”

“He’s the one you like,” Rheave says, as if it’s self-evident that of course he’d know that. At a volley of shouts from the courtyard beyond the gate, he hefts himself onto a nearby mare.

Julita lets out a choked laugh. It seems the daimon is good for something.

The instant we’re all mounted, Stavros kicks his horse to a gallop. We take off down the laneway with a clatter of hooves against the cobblestones.

For the first several minutes, we simply hurtle through the streets, following Stavros’s lead. The citizens of the inner wards gape at our frantic passing. We’re certainly not maintaining a noble standard of propriety.

We have to slow to a canter to avoid crashing into any pedestrians, but when we approach the ring of the old city walls that now mark the division between inner wards and middle, Stavros nudges his stallion faster again. “Be ready to jump,” he hollers back at us.

A curse slips from Alek’s mouth. I’m not sure how avid an equestrian the scholar is.

I haven’t been in the habit of sending my mounts over obstacles rather than around them myself. I tighten my grip on the reins, leaning forward to murmur to Toast. “If I’m going to stay on you, you’ve got to work with me now. No messing around.”

The dark bay stallion is known as the terror of the college stables. He and I have come to a sort of understanding, but that doesn’t mean he never tests my patience.

My steed gives a short huff, although I can’t tell whether it’s in protest at our renewed gallop or a dismissal of my concerns.

We veer along a curving road, and I spot the reason for Stavros’s instructions up ahead.

Most people pass the old city walls through one of the many deteriorating gates. But the Crown’s Watch likes to monitor those spots to watch for suspicious persons venturing into the hub of Florian’s elite.

The former general must be hoping to avoid having any of the city’s royal police force observe our frantic dash. So instead, he’s aimed us at what’s meant to be a dead end.

The stones of the old wall ahead of us are particularly crumbled. Only the base of the wall remains in an uneven line. But it’s still about as high as my waist.

Oh, dear, Julita murmurs, and then seems to rally. You can handle this, Ivy. Give that beast a good prodding.

I sink lower into the saddle as if I can meld my ass and thighs with the leather.

To be honest, I’ve never jumped on a horse before. Hopefully Toast knows what he’s expected to do here—and doesn’t toss me right off his back in the process.

Stavros’s stallion launches over the uneven row of stone blocks first. The black animal he took from those Rheave grabbed isn’t his usual mount, but he still makes the leap look easy.

Casimir nudges the chestnut gelding he chose a little faster and soars over the stones with the same grace the courtesan seems to bring to everything he does. Then it’s my turn.

Toast makes a sound that might be skeptical, but he pushes himself forward a little faster. With a soft grunt, he heaves himself up and over the low wall.

For a second in the air, I lift slightly off the saddle despite my best efforts. The wind whips my cloak’s hood back from my hair. Then we’re both thumping back into place—Toast’s hooves on the road on the opposite side, my butt into its seat.

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