Page 27 of The Sorcerer's Thief
His magic is handy, though he frowns if I ask him to use it for anything more than showing off. I don’t see why. He uses it freely in front of me regularly, heating our drinks, changing clothes, even untangling Slinger’s messy mane, all done with a tilt of his head or a flourish of his hand.
Though he’d called Slinger an old nag when they first met, he’s quickly become attached to the ornery pony. He dotes on her like a grandmother with her first grandchild, spending his money on sugary fruits and peppermints and murmuring compliments into her big, shaggy ears.
And she returns the affection by sneezing all over his fine jacket.
At present, Julian is using their newfound bond to attempt to coax her across a temporary bridge, and she’s having none of it. I’m in front, but tugging on her lead is more likely to make her stop than move.
Julian pushes her forward with his hands splayed on her rump, disguising the guidance as scratching, all the while cooing encouragements. “Atta girl.”
“Not so scary.” Pat, pat.
“You can do it.” Scratch, scratch.
“Just a wee bit more, lass.” Boop, boop.
She’s on to him, but if the way she swings her rump closer to his hands is anything to go by, she’s milking the experience for everything it’s worth.
The soldier standing guard laughs at us. “You’re not the only ones through here with a spooked horse. Give her time. She’ll figure it out.”
The main bridge to Rutherton over the Dulas River was destroyed during the recent battles. A crew of men, fae and human alike, some wearing the colors of the royal army, are building a new one as we speak. But for the time being, a temporary floating bridge has been erected.
And Slinger doesn’t trust it.
I don’t blame her.
The wooden boards move with the current until the ropes tying them together stretch to their limits, and the whole construction springs back into place. Not to mention that theboards sink a bit with every step taken, despite the air-filled buoys beneath them. Railings keep people and horses from falling, but the bridge both looks and feels tenuous.
Travelers have crossed before us, and more wait to cross after us, as if it’s perfectly normal to traverse this floating atrocity, so onward we press.
“You could help, you know,” says Julian.
“I know, but watching is more entertaining.” That and the nausea threatening deep at the back of my throat keep me from riding. Despite coming from the coastal town of Irondale, I’ve never been much for boating. Makes me queasy, a lot like what standing on this bridge feels like. A little boat being tossed around by the mighty sea.
Slinger takes her first tentative steps onto the decking and snorts.
I click my tongue, encouraging her to follow. “We don’t have to like it, girl. We just have to do it. Come on.”
Julian pats her rump. “That’s it. Go on.”
At a snail’s pace, we make progress. Me, feeling woozy in the lead, Slinger, whale-eyed and grumpy in the middle, and Julian, ever hopeful, bringing up the rear. Slow and steady.
Until an argument breaks out behind us.
“The bridge isn’t made for a wagon of that size.”
“It’ll fit.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Watch me.”
“You’ll have to go ’round.”
“That’s three days’ time. Time we ain’t got. Roll on, I say.”
“Don’t dare.”
As the voices grow progressively louder, all three of us glance back to see what’s going on. A huge covered wagon with four heavily muscled draft horses pulling it is poised to make thebridge crossing. Seeing as the wagon is almost as wide as the bridge, I doubt it’ll make it.
