Page 26 of Seducing the Sorcerer
They passed the pavilion. Behind it, rather spoiling the elegant effect, but more delightful to Fenn’s eye, stood a row of wooden stalls with a roof. This makeshift stable had a hard-packed earth floor and was just large enough for four horses to be tied up in the shade. At one end was a battered wooden table with a bale of hay shoved underneath and a small assortment of brushes and other needments scattered about on top. A mounting block stood to the side.
Morgrim walked up to the fenced field and called, “Blaze! Come!”
A black horse was already trotting towards him and Fenn forgot about everything else because—stars! He’d never seen a finer horse! She was a real beauty, elegant as her master. Jet black, sixteen two, well-muscled, with a lithe neck, a kind eye and a wide nostril. Her proportions were perfect. Her feet flirted with the ground as she moved and her summer coat reflected the sunshine so that she dazzled the eye, a rippling pattern of gold and black. Blaze. A royal gift indeed.
She snorted in surprise and flung up her head when she saw the worple horse, but after a perfunctory sniff she was more interested in nosing Morgrim’s hands, gentle as a dove. The sorcerer rubbed her poll and spoke to her in a low voice. He brought a morsel of something from his pocket and she ate it with appreciative nods of her head.
Gods, but seeing Morgrim so friendly with his horse—and the horse so friendly back—was doing things to Fenn’s insides and that was no good-fellowship spell. Fenn reckoned he could tell a lot about a man from the way he was with a horse, and Morgrim wasn’t treating Blaze like a machine or a possession. He was treating her the way she ought to be treated: kind, affectionate, respectful. Warmth welled up in Fenn’s chest. Relief, perhaps, that Morgrim was showing he had a softer side; hope that everything was going to turn out all right.
Jasper ran up with a rain spattered saddle, a halter and bridle hung over his shoulder. He put the halter on Blaze and tied her up in the small stable, brushed her perfunctorily about the saddle and girth area, and began to tack her up. He did it all right too. Wasn’t rough or too sudden in his movements.
“Fine horse,” Fenn remarked to the sorcerer. “Lovely. Not sure I’ve seen finer.”
“Thank you. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She’s from Teleria, a nation a long way to the north west. Far beyond Lutia. Have you heard of it? Their horses have a famously sweet disposition. She’s very gentle.”
Jasper was tightening the girth. Any minute now, he’d be done. Fenn tore himself away from Blaze, checked his own girth and led the worple horse to the mounting block. Uncanny meadows and handsome sorcerers aside, it felt as if someone had shoved his stomach into a dairymaid’s churn. Last night’s ride had been exhilarating at the beginning, but it had also been bloody frightening. Fenn knew what to do if an ordinary horse bolted or disobeyed. This was not an ordinary horse. He was about to risk being carried off to Gods knew where. Again.
But the sorcerer seemed to take it for granted that Fenn would get back on the horse and he was right. Fenn could ride anything. He could.
Fear was not an option. Because horses could tell.
He took a deep breath and mounted.
Moments later, the sorcerer also swung into the saddle and nudged Blaze into a walk. From sheer habit, Fenn watched him as he’d watch anyone who got on a horse.
Clearly, someone had taught Morgrim the basics well. He knew how to ride. He sat well. But he needed to shorten his reins a fraction. And get his leg back an inch. And relax. He kept glancing about, fierce gaze darting from sky to grass to wildflower patch. Blaze was catching his tension. She danced a few paces, shied at a bee. Could it be more dangerous here than anyone was letting on?
“Come, I’ll show you to the edge,” Morgrim said. “The effect is dramatic, but I assure you it’s perfectly safe.”
Fenn put the worple horse into step beside the sorcerer. The scent of crushed grass and peppermint rose from Blaze’s hooves. Grasshoppers chirped and tiny lilac-grey butterflies flew up in clouds. The breeze had a salt freshness, and yet the sea was invisible. It was as if they were riding across a vast plain. The sun was warm on Fenn’s face and the worple horse’s pace was smooth as oil. It looked up to the blue sky above, and Fenn sent a “don’t bloody try anything” message down the reins. The horse flicked an ear back at him.
“Perhaps a faster pace?” suggested Morgrim and put Blaze into a trot.
The sorcerer was a little off with the transition, giving an extra squeeze of the heels when he had no need of one and then having to pull Blaze back to a more collected pace. And he still needed to get that leg back. And relax.
Not that Fenn could talk. He still hadn’t noticed any effects of this good-fellowship enchantment because he felt jittery as a flea on a five-headed dog. He took a deep breath and sat down into the worple horse’s pace, telling it with every fibre of his being that he was in charge. All a horse needed was a calm and confident rider. Fenn was that rider. Always had been and always would be. Today there would be no wild gallivanting off into the air. Today they would be staying on the ground, nice and peaceful.
Everything was going to be fine.
He glanced over his shoulder to see the tall peaks of the palace roofs and the city buildings, all spires and balconies and windows glinting in the sun. Morgrim’s dark tower loomed in the foreground, surrounded by clouds except for the battlements on top which poked out like a row of blunt teeth. It was, very clearly, still raining over the tower.
Fenn checked the pasture again. Very lush. Absolutely prime grazing. Was that magic or was the rainwater somehow pumped out here for irrigation? Could this be what the clouds were for? Had Morgrim put the entire country in drought just to water this uncanny pasture? Here and there the ground under the grass looked glittery, almost as if it were waterlogged. And yet there were no bog plants, and Blaze’s hooves were finding a firm footing.
“It’s perfectly safe,” Morgrim said, again.
It was right decent of the sorcerer to be so reassuring. Fenn didn’t want Morgrim thinking he was afraid. He’d better keep up his end of the conversation.
“So, you’ve taken up riding recent-like?” Fenn asked.
Morgrim inclined his head. “A friend thought it would help take my mind from affairs of state. The exercise, you know.”
Was the “friend” the same person who’d given Morgrim the horse: Queen Aramella?
“Good idea. Nothing like a ride to get you out of yourself. Does it work?”
“Sometimes.”
There was an unexpected note in the sorcerer’s voice. Sadness, maybe. Or regret. Perhaps his troubles were many. Or maybe he was one of those men who took his duty very serious and would rather be doing spells or paperwork than riding. There were blokes like that, though it was hard to credit.
