Page 14 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Chapter 4
Fenn woke to the drumming of rain on the roof and the gurgle of water in drain pipes. So, he must have passed out eventually. What daylight reached the stall was watery and dull and he was colder than he’d been for months.
It was still raining.
Steady, constant rain was the one thing everyone had been wanting for months, but Fenn could feel no relief or pleasure, because last night the only rain had been here, over the tower and he was willing to bet the situation was the same this morning. It certainly seemed possible that Morgrim had stolen the clouds. Perhaps he was responsible for the drought?
And the horse? Fenn raised his head. The creature stood at his feet, chewing meditatively on a piece of pink silk eiderdown. Oh, Gods! Fenn lurched forward to confiscate it, but only a few shreds remained. Fenn knelt in the hay, anxiously examining the animal for signs of distress. But on the contrary, the horse seemed in clover. Its charcoal eyes were half-closed in contentment, its neck was relaxed as it chewed. It stood hip-shot, resting one hind leg as real horses will. The hay net was still full. So was the bucket of water.
Well, that eiderdown was done for. Fenn sighed. So much for Jasper’s kind gesture. And if the horse was going to give itself a colic, there was no stopping it now.
Although, who was to say that worple horses didn’t eat pink silk eiderdowns?
Whatever a worple horse was.
In the light of day, it could have been a child’s drawing come to life. A child who had seen a horse once, maybe, from a distance. The creature’s tail hung like an empty sausage casing and none of its legs matched in shape or width. It seemed neither mare nor stallion, as if that detail had been deemed unnecessary by whoever had made it.
Fenn had seldom met a horse that was such a mass of contradictions. It was cocky enough to get in his way on the ground and it clearly had heart because it had carried him hundreds of miles in a matter of hours. But it had collapsed when Morgrim had glared at it. In the field last night, it had been a lamb to ride, the kind of horse that read your mind, and yet it had refused to land or fly out of the courtyard last night. It looked so flaming gormless but it had known how to get Fenn to ride it and it had understood the word “moths”. And it had brought him here, as if it had known where it was going.
It found the last bit of pink silk and pulled it into its mouth with that enormous tongue.
“All right, you blame thing. Carry on. Hide the evidence.”
The horse’s ears flicked towards him as he spoke and it blew air out of its nostrils, friendly-like. Perhaps he ought to name it?
Sacky? Fringes?
Ah, but it could fly.
Birdie? Sparrow? Swoop?
But nothing suited. And anyway, naming it felt like claiming it as his own. He wasn’t necessarily going to keep it. No, it could carry on being “the horse” for now.
He put on his damp socks and boots, got to his feet and froze, groaning. His hips felt dislocated. His thighs ached in places he’d forgotten existed. He’d ridden for hours last night after years of no riding at all. Ah, and a wild ride it had been, streaking over the dark countryside, up among the stars. It had been marvellous at first, but it would be better not to repeat it. If he did get back on the horse—which maybe he wouldn’t—he’d be keeping things slow and calm. No cantering. No jumping. Certainly, no flying.
The horse swallowed the last of the pink eiderdown and cocked its head, tongue flapping, eye rolling. Fenn had a vision of it on the road again, barging in his way like it had last night.
“Happen we’re best off here for a time, eh? I could teach you not to get in people’s way as they walk along. Happen I could get to look after the horse that lives here and all?”
He peered into the next stall along; it was empty but for some hay. But from the third stall rose the enamelled and filigreed chassis of a horseless carriage. Morgrim’s stables, like most in the land, had been partially converted into a garage. Fenn stood on tiptoe and noted the expensive pink crystal that powered the carriage. Only the wealthiest folk had pinks. Well, you couldn’t stop progress. At least Morgrim still had one horse.
The other stalls, about ten of them, seemed to be empty.
Fenn opened the door of his stall and stepped out into the stable yard.
Like last night, the cloud was heavy overhead. Rain pattered on the cobbles and on the black slate roofs of the outbuildings opposite. But off to the left, only a couple of hundred yards away, the steep roofs of the palace glinted iridescent green in bright sunshine. There was blue sky over the city’s cupolas and spires and bridges too. As he’d suspected, the rains had not come anywhere but the tower. Fenn’s skin crawled all over again. That was sorcery, all right.
The peculiar weather conditions made it difficult to judge the time, but no one was yelling, so it couldn’t be that late. All the same, he’d better get on and remind someone that last night Morgrim had mentioned breakfast.
He turned to retrieve his jacket and there, pushed up against the outside wall of the stable was a small table that hadn’t been there last night. It was protected from the rain by the wide overhang of the stable roof, and on it sat a pile of folded clothes, a pair of boots, and a tray bearing a silver dome, a chocolate pot and a cup. New clothes. Breakfast.
The cup was white porcelain with gold butterflies on the rim. Dome and pot looked real silver. Some kitchen maid would get in trouble, bringing the good stuff out here. Better be extra careful. Especially with that pink silk eiderdown now missing. Would the housekeeper—if there was one at the tower—make a fuss? She might well. Better eat fast, before anyone noticed.
He took the tray, sat in the open doorway of the stall and lifted the dome to reveal two bread rolls, two cold fried eggs and several slices of cold ham. Oh, glory! Also, a pastry, luscious with custard and plums, and in the pot, cold chocolate. The horse was still dozing, showing a very un-horse-like lack of interest in the bread and pastry. Maybe silk eiderdowns were all it ate?
Fenn stowed one of the rolls and a slice of ham in his pocket alongside the pie crusts from yesterday and bolted down the rest. He was draining the last of the chocolate when a distant clock struck nine. That was all right then. He wasn’t expected anywhere until eleven.
He put the tray back on the table and examined the clothes. On the top, under a peculiar looking hat, was a piece of paper with a few lines of neat handwriting.
