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He lay down at Squab’s side, as he’d done every night since he’d got it. It stood there, hip-shot, with its flopping tongue and wall-eye, its mis-matched legs and barrel sides, its gormless expression and its rough brown sacking coat. He spoke and its ears flicked towards him. It nosed his hands and accepted a bit of sprigged muslin from the rag bundle. And he felt as he’d done the night before taking Philo to the knackers, feeding her peppermints in a heartsick daze and regretting everything, everything about a world that said his beautiful horse must die.

He tried to pretend that Morgrim might not have to kill Squab to get its magic. But that felt like a vain hope, because surely a worple horse with no magic is simply a pile of old sacking? And the fact that it would be Morgrim himself who would do the deed seemed somehow the unkindest twist of all.

Fenn closed his eyes as if that would make the pain go away.

Because after, what would come then? When Squab was gone. When Morgrim had the magic and Fenn had none. Could Fenn stand to live there, knowing what Morgrim had done? Would Morgrim even want him anymore? Because, after all, it was the magic Morgrim had been attracted to. Not Fenn. Not really Fenn.

Or maybe Morgrim would get the magic out of the horse but still not be able to recover his power. Then they’d both be too busy fighting off an invading army to care about such niceties as love and heartache and who a bit of magic had once belonged to.

Fenn tapped the lantern and lay in the dark.

Chapter 18

Fenn was awoken by the roar of velocipedes bucketing up the country lane, then slowing, wheels crunching on the stones of the yard. Someone banged on the farmhouse door, shouting to open up in the name of the monarch and the Gods and the people of Essuera. Fenn scrambled up, breaking into a cold sweat. Soldiers, come to take him back. Morgrim must have guessed he’d come here and gone straight to Aramella. Gods, they hadn’t wasted any time.

Would Morgrim ever believe that Fenn had been going to fly back at first light to give up Squab voluntarily? Why, oh why had Fenn not gone back immediately?

Cursing himself for a sentimental fool, Fenn ran to the barn door. If he could escape while their attention was elsewhere, he could fly back, meet Morgrim man to man and hand over the horse with dignity. All he needed was to gain the open sky.

But as he reached the door, it burst open, the white glare of velocipede headlamps pinning him where he stood. He flung his hand up to shade his eyes and a dark shape in the doorway said, “Fenn. Thank the Nine!”

It was Aramella.

She’d come; the queen herself. She wore brown velocipede leathers and a helmet with the visor pushed up. Her face was drawn and grim. She seemed to have aged twenty years.

“I was going to come back—” Fenn began.

“It’s Morgrim,” she said, over the top of him. “He’s been taken.”

It took Fenn a moment to understand. When he did, his knees went weak with dread and a regret so powerful it hurt.

“Taken where? By what? Another hex?”

“No. By a man.” Her face hardened. “One of my own. A palace guard.”

“A spy?”

“Must have been. Probably working with Jasper. He’s gone too.”

“Gods! How? What happened?”

“He was on his way here. You had a fight, yes? He said he needed to talk to you and that you were probably here. He took his carriage. I—” her face hardened “—made him take an escort. Three men. Hand-picked. An hour later a night-fisher found the carriage at Padalla Bay. Pushed down a ravine. Pure chance she saw it. Two of my men dead in the back. Shot.” Her eyes widened. “Gods, I’m assuming you know. Did Morgrim tell you? He lost his magic. He can’t defend him—”

Fenn lifted a hand to stop her. “He told me. So, Padalla Bay? Where’s that? A bay means a boat? Aye? Going where? North? To Lutia?”

“Probably. Since Jasper’s missing.”

“And you think Morgrim’s...” Fenn’s voice broke. He tried again. “You think he’s still alive?”

“Don’t know.” Her voice was tight, flat. “But there’s a chance. Because Morgrim’s head on a spike is one thing. The man himself, paraded through the streets, shown to be powerless. Executed in public. Well...” She took a deep breath, let it out.

A wave of repugnance crashed through Fenn, worse than nausea, worse than fear. The idea of Morgrim—humiliated in public, put to death—Fenn’s whole being revolted from it. It could not happen.

“Where would they take him?” Fenn asked.

“It’s all guesswork, but probably to the summer palace at Hardara. The Lutian king’s there and my brother too. If they’ve realised Morgrim has no magic they would both want to...to see that.”

“Hardara.” It was just a name. A foreign city in another country. Sailors came from there sometimes. All the same, Fenn was going there, to get Morgrim back. “How will I know it?”