Chapter 256: She Is Safe. You Have My Thanks

Shadowmere walked the whole way back.

He did not trot. He did not toss his head or test the bit. He went down the long slope of the ridge at a slow, even pace, as though the horse who had torn across half a county an hour before were a different animal, and he carried them both like something that might spill.

Morgana sat in front.

Draeven had put her up himself. He had set his hands at her waist and lifted her into the saddle as though she weighed nothing, and then he had swung up behind her in one movement and gathered the reins. His arms came around her on either side. His chest was against her back.

Neither of them said anything as Shadowmare started the journey back to the palace.

***

The wind had dropped. The sun lay warm on her shoulders, and his smell surrounded her, woodsmoke and cedar and hot metal. His coat was dark and dry, and she wondered, vaguely, how a man who had arrived in a gale of fire could be so perfectly dry. Then she stopped wondering, because the horse shifted under them and her back pressed more firmly against him, and she felt his breath catch and hold.

He did not move away.

She stared straight ahead between Shadowmere’s ears. The fields rolled by in gold and green. Somewhere a cow lowed, and a dog barked at a gate, and a child waved from a cottage doorway and then, seeing the man behind her, froze with her hand in the air. Morgana lifted her own hand in return, and the child grinned and ducked inside.

"They know who you are," Draeven said quietly, by her ear.

"The child?"

"All of them. The whole valley will know by nightfall that the king’s ward rode home on the black stallion."

"Is that bad?"

"No." A pause. "It is not bad."

She heard something in his voice that she could not name. It was warmer than the king’s voice and rougher than the man’s, and it went through her like a note from a deep string. But she kept her eyes forward.

"Draeven." Morgana called out.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for coming for me."

His arms tightened, very slightly, and then eased.

"I would have come anywhere," he said.

It was said so simply that it took a moment to understand it. When she did, she felt the heat climb up her neck. She was glad he could not see her face.

They did not speak again. Shadowmere’s hooves beat their slow steady rhythm on the road, and the palace grew out of the distance, gray towers and long walls and the red flicker of banners, and neither of them hurried it.

The yard was in uproar.

She heard it from the gate. Shouts, the clatter of buckets, a woman’s voice raised in sharp command. As Shadowmere came under the arch, every head in the courtyard swung toward them and every voice stopped at once.

The silence rolled across the cobbles like a wave.

Stable hands stood frozen with pitchforks. Guards stood at attention along the wall. Somebody’s cart horse, tethered by the well, put up its head and blew. In the center of the yard a dozen men in the king’s grey had formed up in ragged ranks, with Captain Rhen at the front. His scarred face was hard as slate.

And running across the stones toward them, hatless, grey hair standing straight up, came Garrick.

He had been running a long time. His chest heaved, and his face was the color of old tallow. There was straw in his hair and dirt to his knees, and he had lost the leather apron somewhere. He did not stop at a proper distance. He ran straight up to Shadowmere’s shoulder, seized the bridle, and stood there with his big hand shaking on the cheek strap.

"You...." he said.

He could not finish.

"Garrick." Morgana slid down before Draeven could help her. Her legs wobbled, and she grabbed the saddle. "Garrick, I’m all right. I’m so sorry. I’m well. I’m...."

"Don’t you ever...."

His voice cracked down the middle. He stared at her, jaw working, and then he reached out and caught her by both shoulders and shook her once, hard. It was not a rough shake. His hands were trembling too much for that.

"You never," he said hoarsely, "ever do that to me again. D’you hear? I’ve buried horses. I’ve buried men. I’ll not bury you."

"I know."

"I stood in that yard and I watched you go through the gate on the back of the Devil himself, and I thought...." He broke off. His eyes were wet. He glared at her, furious and wretched. "Where were you going?"

"I don’t know." She laughed shakily. "He knew. I just held on."

Garrick looked at Shadowmere.

The stallion stood quietly with his head lowered, one hind leg cocked, as though he had never done a wild thing in his life. He met the old man’s gaze, and then, deliberately, he blew a long breath through his nose.

"You," Garrick said to the horse.

Shadowmere flicked an ear.

"Insolent animal." The words had no heat in them. Garrick let out a breath that seemed to come up from the soles of his boots, and his hands fell away from Morgana’s shoulders. He wiped his face with his sleeve. "Well. You’re back. That’s the main thing."

"I’m back."

"Aye." He looked past her then, and what he saw straightened his spine. The big man’s shoulders squared. He pulled off his cap, though he had none, and found his hand closing on empty air, and bowed instead, stiffly from the waist.

"Your Majesty."

Draeven had dismounted.

He stood at the horse’s flank, one hand on the saddle, his eyes on the old man. The crowd in the yard had gone so still that Morgana could hear the creak of the weathervane on the stable roof.

"Master Garrick," Draeven said. "You ran the east road."

"I did, Your Majesty."

"On foot."

"My legs were all I had to hand."

"It was well done." The king inclined his head. It was a small gesture, but a murmur went through the watching servants like wind in barley. "She is safe. You have my thanks."