to Krimathe at dawn—and took all of the Parsathean mares with him.
Aerax woke to the sound of galloping hoofbeats and shouts from the warriors, yet the mood at the other camp seemed no darker for having half of their mounts stolen. Instead Aerax saw smiles and laughter as the southerners gathered their things and sorted out who would be riding and who would be walking.
Or riding double. Aerax had just finished saddling his own horse when Tyzen joined him. The young monk, who was more slightly built than either the prince or the Parsathean girl, was seated behind him. Seri was on foot.
And it was apparently she who had prompted them to seek out Aerax. Her eyes shone brightly as she asked, “Does Caeb let anyone ride him?”
“He does not.”
“Has anyone ever tried?”
“Once.” He could still picture Lizzan giggling wildly and clinging to Caeb’s thick ruff while he sped across the snow. “She said sitting on Caeb was akin to straddling a log in water. Every movement would threaten to tip her off balance.”
Tyzen grinned. “That will not put Seri off. She believes that she can ride anything.”
“Parsathean warriors ought to be able to ride anything,” she retorted. “We are as silver-fingered Rani. And a long-toothed cat seems more like a dragon than a horse is.”
Silver-fingered Rani, the goddess who flew upon her dragon to deliver the souls of the dead into Mother Temra’s arms. If Parsathean warriors were as Rani, then they were as near to the goddess as Aerax had ever been.
He mounted his horse, then held out his hand. “If you will settle for a mere Kothan steed, you can share my saddle.”
Seri’s wide smile appeared. As if in deference to his outstretched hand, she touched his fingers but needed no help to mount the tall horse. Nimbly she sprang up behind him, the red linens belted around her waist flaring out before draping over her legs. She did not grip his waist or his shoulders to steady her balance, and so lightly she sat that Aerax could hardly feel her presence.
“I like your Kothan breeds,” she told him. “They are not as big as ours, but they are hardy and surefooted.”
“So they are,” he agreed. “And you do not seem upset that your mount has been stolen.”
She gave a merry laugh, and it was the young monk who answered wryly, “The Parsatheans have been parading their mares in front of Shim since we left Krimathe.”
“By the time we return south and retrieve them from his herd, they will all be heavy with his foals,” she said. “And we will find other mounts that are suited to the cold climes in the villages ahead.”
So the Parsatheans had not anticipated that Shim would steal their horses, but the outcome was exactly as they’d hoped. And the satisfied glance Tyzen gave to Seri made Aerax wonder if his offer to let her ride with him was another hoped-for outcome.
He had the suspicion that these three young southerners were protecting him. It was an absurd thought, as Aerax was half again their age—also half again Tyzen’s weight, a head taller than Seri, and was already protected by a cat that could tear apart a mammoth.
A cat that was uncertain about Aerax’s new protectors, too. Caeb prowled up alongside his mount, his disdainful gaze on Seri before he rubbed his big head against Aerax’s thigh. Only after Aerax scratched the cat’s ears did Caeb continue forward, using Aerax’s calf to massage the full length of his body, pressing so hard that his horse had to shift his stance to remain in place and leaving a covering of white fur on Aerax’s leather boot.
Seri chuckled. “Is he telling me or telling the horse who you belong to?”
Likely both. Yet Aerax did not answer. A mounted Riasa approached them at a trot, tipping her head to indicate farther down the road. “The High Daughter requests that Prince Aerax and Prince Tyzen ride with her.”
At the head of the caravan. Aerax spared a glance at Lady Junica, who was already in her litter, and Degg, who was scrambling onto his own mount, before following the captain. The travelers in the caravan watched them pass, eyes curious—and widening when they caught sight of Caeb.
Aerax’s own eyes began to water as they caught up to the red-cloaked warrior. Before dawn, the herd of onks had continued on, leaving a swath of trampled ferns in their wake—along with piles of steaming dung and pools of rancid piss.