Page 37 of Trick

Poet toted a weapon and had been skulking through the complex. Surely, the Crown had gifted him with his own stallion, if his chambers and wardrobe were any indication. Yet he insisted on taking an animal from a public stall under the cover of night.

He could be a spy for an unknown group of insurgents. He could be dangerous.

First, I stole a hoof pick—the only portable and sharp item available—from the tack room. My own horse had accompanied me from Autumn, but it was ensconced in the court stables. Instead, I claimed one of the horses, a mare fit to catch up with the jester and the least antsy of my options.

Hastening to saddle her, I ran my palm over the female’s back and whispered like my father taught me to. “Shh. It’s all right. We’re friends, you and me. I give you my word.”

The mare relaxed. I might be a stuffy Royal, but I identified with these creatures, and they tended to respond.

I mounted and steered her forward. We passed from the stable and navigated a narrow lane wedged behind the building, which guided us through town. Bawdy laughter and fiddle music filtered from the tavern, while shaky moans and crossing blades echoed from other establishments.

I tightened my grip on the hoof pick and urged the mare faster.

From a rift in the town’s main gate, Poet’s steed ascended the rolling hills. At the crest, he bled into the wildflower forest—the hub of recklessness, where hidden copses inspired one’s impulsive nature.

I should know.

So thinking, I stalled the horse. Our company had traveled through that woodland from Autumn, though we’d journeyed across the safest public avenues. While in Spring, I did my best to otherwise avoid that place.

Somewhere in there, my father had died.

Thankfully, I could not remember where it had happened.

Bracing myself, I dug my heels into the mare, and we plowed after the jester. The wind chased through my hair and licked my cheeks. At the tree line, I wavered once more and then decided. Resigning myself, I secured Poet’s ribbon to a bush, lest a search party should need to find me later. They wouldn’t associate the item with me, but theywouldlink it to the jester.

The route twisted, veering in and out of the moon’s ashen glare. At length, Poet abandoned the main thoroughfare and crossed into a thicket. I kept far enough behind, but close enough to pursue the horse’s glossy coat. The woods grew dense, twigs tangling into nests and bracken clogging the ground.

Anxiety soaked my palms. I had no plan. I had no idea where, or to whom, he was headed. Had I used my brain, I would have torn strips off my gown to mark a trail.

We kept on like this, heading toward the outlying villages. However, this remote area isolated us from the hamlets. I glanced behind me, then twisted back around, only to jerk on the reins.

Poet was gone.

I guided the mare farther into the snarl of vegetation before halting us again. The animal must have noted the tension in my joints, because she pressed her tail down and snorted. She shifted uneasily, so I slid to the ground and glided my palm over her coat.

Nearby, a brook tumbled and nibbled at its bank. From somewhere above, an owl hooted.

I might as well admit it. I’d lost my quarry. It had to be midnight at this point, which meant I’d have to wait until morning before backtracking home.

My pulse raced. “Don’t panic,” I told myself and the horse. “We’ll be fine.”

“Hooo. Hooo,” the raptor called from an unseen perch.

“Quiet,” I hissed.

“Hoo-hoo-hoooooo.”

I paused. That wassonot an owl.

An obsidian steed trotted out of the shadows, sans its rider, and proceeded to chew on foliage. I reached for the animal’s bridle.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a masculine timbre warned. “He’s a skittish thing.”

Whipping around, my gaze connected with a pair of cutthroat eyes.

9

Poet

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