Horses were wild, unpredictable creatures. Their eyes grew wide and their ears pinned backwards at the sight of a corpse boy climbing onto their back, no matter how rigorous their training. No saddle could keep a bag of bones from tumbling from its perch if the horse thought to remove itself from such things. The ground felt safer, even if it broke his wrist when he hit the sand.

  Kelo spits sand from his fleshy mouth, gathering his robe about him to stand, staring petrified at the dun-colored mare that had just catapulted him from her back. She prances frightfully about the brush, her ears pinned to her head. The horsemaster, a middle-aged beanstalk of a man, shrugs lightly.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but she is not privy to his...kind.”

  The King, sitting skillfully atop his own mount, dressed in the finest deep blue doublet, nods absently. “Where is General Tygoh?”

  The horsemaster dances away to catch the spooked mare, hushing her. “I’m not sure, Your Majesty. His stallion is not in its stall. He should be with the cavalry, no?”

  Kelo watches the horse, struggling to contain his fear. He cradles his broken wrist with the other hand, feeling along the bones to realign them. His hand is shaking. Hoping for sympathy, he steals a look at the King.

  A humming noise comes from the dark-haired sovereign and he swings from his horse’s back, seemingly unperturbed by the height of the fall. “Follow me,” he says.

  “Your Grace,” Kelo whimpers, following him. “I can walk the way. I’m quite swift on my feet.” He follows Taeg into the stables, jumping as the nearest horse snorts dust from its flaring nostrils. The stables are filled with piles of molding hay and buckets of water, mosquito larvae swimming in their midst. Kelo takes a moment to thank his inability to smell.

  “I am sorry, brother, but you must ride with us. Denand’s border is nearly seventy miles from Erah.”

  Kelo walks behind, barefoot, watching the King’s leather boots alight tendrils of sand from the ground. The cape about Taeg’s shoulders waves wistfully around his ankles, dark and heavy. A horse the color of sand squeals as Kelo passes its stall, rearing its head and crashing into the wooden walls. A small shriek comes from his throat and he huddles under Taeg’s shadow.

  “But none of them like me...”

  The King chuckles.

  They make their way down the stalls to the end, arriving at a pen half the size of the others. Peeking over the edge, Kelo sees a smaller horse with long, graying ears and a soft brown muzzle. The animal is calm, eyes half closed, a rear hoof cocked.

  “When I was young, I was terrified of the horses,” the King says, placing his hand on the stall door. His eyes are a bright, emerald green. Kelo looks away, ashamed of his black orbs. “My mother had the horsemaster put me on a donkey,” Taeg continues. “His name was Five. I felt a little silly on his back, but Five was so docile I could stand on his shoulders, picking blooms from the Manzanita trees.”

  The donkey in the stall opens its great brown eyes as the door slides open, pricking its ears forward. Kelo takes note of its comically short legs and the rough patches of mousy gray hair along its flank. The animal’s mane sticks straight up, feathering about its disproportionately large ears. Kelo smiles.

  “This is Seven,” Taeg remarks, stroking the stiff mane. “He will take wonderful care of you.”

  Seven made for a pleasant companion throughout the ride to the province of Inonin. The landscape turned from desert to plains, and the green of the grass was more than welcome. He could feel the change in the breeze. Kelo was that much closer to his home. The horses took their chances snatching blades between their teeth as often as their riders would allow. As they approached the base of the mountains, the plains grew into trees that shook in the winds, hushing about the party as they rode.

  The noble city of Nelivian was built from the pines of the Pfeist Mountains, underfoot lying massive stone pathways that clopped beneath the horses’ hooves. The army, following a mile behind the King and his convoy of guards, settled just outside the city walls, hooting and sparring. Kelo could only be thankful that he was not forced to sup with the brutes. Soldiers never trusted him, seeking rather to kill him than to look at him. He had been pierced by the swords of men more times than he cared to remember.

  Seven follows the King and his companions through the city to the gates of a towering stone manor just inside the heart of the business district. Horse carts, merchants, and tradesmen wander the cobblestone streets behind them, advertising their wares. The plodding of hooves overtakes their voices, ringing in Kelo’s ears. The manor lies situated behind the many merchant booths, introduced by a long gravel path lined with boxwood shrubs. The small party is greeted by an elderly man holding the keys to the gateway. His body is shriveled, but his gray eyes are kind. He lets the company pass, bowing as low as he can without straining himself, allowing a small, puzzled peek at the gruesome visitor at Taeg’s back.

  “Your Majesty,” he says, peering up from the two gray caterpillars on his bony brow. “Lord Feyor welcomes you.”

  Inside the manor’s premise, the noises of the city fall to a dull roar, slipping quietly through the trees surrounding the house. The estate itself looks as old as time, climbing vines and moss growing stubbornly on the stone facings. The roof, shingled in wood, is faded and uneven. When they reach the front door astride their horses, the King dismounts, followed by the Grand Master and General Nathis. His guards, the pretty woman with dirty blonde hair and a gentle smile, and the raucous blonde teen that had hounded Kelo with questions during the long ride, remain saddled, their hands on their swords.

  As Kelo dismounts, his foot catching in the stirrups on the way down, he gapes at the magnificent door that leads into the manor. It is a dark cherry wood, inlaid with gemstones from the mountainside. The stones, one of every color, are shaped into the spiral-horned ram sigil of the Feyor family. The knob turns and the door opens wide, revealing a rather small man wearing soft leather trousers that seem too small for his frame. He wears a ruffled burgundy tunic and numerous bangles about his left wrist. He is short, shorter than the horses, and sports a clean shaven, middle-aged face stretched tighter than his pants.

  “Your Grace,” he says, in a whining drawl, bowing deeply. “I welcome you to my home. I hope your travels were safe and quick. My food and my accommodations are yours, if you wish to partake. There is wine in the cellar and a fresh cut pork shoulder curing in my smokehouse. I do hope you’ll find my home suitable. Please, please, come in.” Then he shouts from the doorway to no one in particular, “Boys, come take their horses!” His words cascade from his mouth, leaving the King with little room to interject.

  The Grand Master stands at Taeg’s side, shifting from one heavy foot to the other, his thumb tapping on the pommel of his sword. Kelo hides behind the others, wringing his hands. He looks back at his donkey to see a pair of twin boys, as blonde as the sands in Erah, leading their mounts around the back of the manor.

  “Your guards are welcome as well,” Feyor says, gesturing at the women still mounted. “I have rooms for them all.” He smiles brightly. His bowl cut hair is a pale blonde, turning white at the temples. Taeg meets Argos and Nathis at the steps up to the manor and nods politely at Lord Feyor.

  “You are very generous, Lord Feyor. We thank you. I hope you do not mind my company sharing your home for the night. We have much to prepare for.” Kelo watches as a small twitch of a smile appears on the King’s face, disappearing as quickly as it came. “This is my military commander, Grand Master Argos. Nathis Stoles, the captain of my Guard and General of the Army. The women behind me are two of my Guardsmen.”

  Kelo holds his breath.

  “And this is Kelo,” Taeg says without pause, motioning to him. “He has been a valuable asset in our preparations against Denand.”

  Kelo flinches as the lord stares blankly in his direction, waiting for a howl of fright. It does not come, and instead, the small man ignores him, greeting the others with a spurious toothy grin, waving his hand inside the door.

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  “Lovely to meet you all. Please, do come in.”

  Inside the manor, a dizzying hall opens to the rafters above, lined with stone and spotted with framed paintings as high as the walls will allow. A crimson red floor covering lines the entryway, leading to a sitting room fit for a king. The door hammers shut behind them, echoing through the chamber, and the gregarious lord takes his place at the head of the procession, waving his arms about at the décor. The air inside is dry and warm, a fire crackling in the mantle at the head of the room.

  Lord Feyor seems overly delighted to showcase his home, flitting through the halls like a crow collecting shiny baubles. “This is the sitting room,” he chimes as they reach the living area. “Please sit. We have much to discuss.” His eyes glow, motioning to a plush padded chair the color of chardonnay. “My father was a collector. He purchased each of these paintings from the greatest artists of his time. They are timeless pieces.”

  Kelo shuffles in behind the rest, gripping at his robes and feeling very out of place. He jumps when Nathis clears his throat.

  “My Lord, we appreciate your charity, and your magnificent home, but perhaps you have a washroom, or quarters in which we may compose ourselves before we get to business?”

  The lord turns sharply to face the group, bowing and grinning. “Yes, of course,” he says. “This way.”

  As the group changes their muddy boots and removes themselves of their riding gear, Kelo waits fitfully outside the door. He stares wide-eyed at the elegant paintings climbing above his head. Picking nervously at a widening hole in the sleeve of his robe, Kelo listens to the rustling behind the door. When the latch clicks, he jumps. The King pokes his head out, searching momentarily, and stops to smile at him.

  “Kelo, come in. Lord Feyor has offered new clothing for you,” he reveals another toothless smirk that sends more nerves tingling up Kelo’s spine. He stands motionless for a minute, pretending to study the paintings. “Kelo,” Taeg says gently.

  He sighs, moving to slip inside the door behind his brother. Inside, the chambers climb almost as tall as the living area. The rafters are spotted with warm flickering lights. Several cushioned chairs are scattered about, each with a Guard sitting in them. Lark calls in his direction as he enters.

  “Hey, Tauran. Have you ever worn anything other than that robe?”

  Were he a warm-blooded creature, Kelo would have blushed. Why concern himself with overly complicated clothing when his face would counteract any effort he might put forth? He grasps his decayed hands in front of him, ignoring the girl and turning his attention to the king, who leads him to the corner of the room, where a large walk-in closet holds more clothing than he ever could have imagined.

  “Take your pick, brother,” the King says.

  Kelo stares, rapt by the array of colors and textures filling the closet. He reaches tenderly for a silken sleeve, rubbing it between two fingers. The gowns are brightly colored silks, velvets, and damasks, each richly jeweled in various stones. He picks a tidy, simple robe from the end of the rack, holding it gently away from his chest.

  “Nope!”

  A harsh call comes from behind him, jerking his attention away from the robe. The blonde-headed swordswoman stalks up, grabbing the simple faded robe. “You’re one of us now. You need to look the part,” she says. She rummages through the clothing, crowding him into the edge of the doorway. Her elbow bumps his arm, but she seems not to notice. She pulls a forest green tunic from the closet, holding it up in the light. Golden stitching lines the hems. It is silk, moving freely in the girl’s hand. She shoves it against his chest, eyeing him.

  “You know, you’d look a bit like Taeg if you had a full head of hair,” she grins. “Here, take it.”

  Kelo lifts a hand to take the tunic from the young woman, glancing at the king to watch his reaction. Taeg chuckles. A pair of leather trousers are tossed in his direction, landing heavily at his bare feet. They too are lined with golden stitching. He refuses the boots presented to him, insisting only that his feet remain bare, however gruesome they may be.

  As Kelo dresses, the group waits outside the door. The trousers are foreign to him, and with his balance a far cry from what it used to be, he finds himself falling backwards, one foot halfway into an opening, crashing down onto an ornate chest. After several minutes of getting the feel of wearing pants and brushing the tunic down, Kelo gingerly opens the door to a sharp cackle and a shoulder slap from the blonde Guardsman.

  In the splendid sitting room, Lord Feyor begins filling the space with his whining lilt. “My King, I wanted to congratulate you first and foremost on the coronation. We have been patiently awaiting your rule since your father so dreadfully passed. He was truly a great sovereign," he smiles.

  Kelo shudders. The man’s voice crawls into his ears like a fly, tapping hurriedly on the soft flesh of his eardrums.

  “Thank you, Lord Feyor. My father would have appreciated the sentiment.” The King looks about as uncomfortable as Kelo feels. He is sitting across from the lord, his right ankle on left knee, his head resting on his hand. Kelo sits lightly in the burgundy seat next to his brother, folding his hands in his lap.

  The Grand Master, twitching in his seat, roars into the room. “Have you had any trouble with the Denand scouts as of late?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Feyor nods, remembering his pleasantries where the warlord had not. “We’ve seen them heading north a few times, still the same rough looking fellows. I’ve not yet had the luck of capturing one. I did hear Your Grace had succeeded in apprehending a young man a few fortnights ago, yes?” He turns to the king again, ignoring the short huff that erupts from the Grand Master’s throat.

  “We did,” Taeg says.

  “I know you did mention in your letter that you were bringing an army through my way, but I wasn’t sure about the pretenses. I take it you discovered something we do not yet know?”

  Kelo studies the small lord. His clean face is taught, peeling the corners of his lips slightly outward, gracing the thin lord with a perpetually blank stare. His lighthearted beaming comes quickly and disappears just the same. Loyally turned toward the king, Lord Feyor’s attention is on little else.

  “We did,” Taeg says again.

  Kelo stifles a chuckle. The Army General, Nathis, makes eye contact, one side of his mouth upturned in amusement. Kelo looks away.

  The little lord pauses. “I will send my vassals with you from here on,” he sniffs. “They are my finest men, I assure you. Do you require a guide through the mountain passes? I can provide one of my best.”

  “That won’t be necessary, My Lord,” Nathis notes. “Kelo is here to assist. He hails from the Pfeists and knows his way about them.”

  Another flush of embarrassment rushes through Kelo’s face. He takes a deep breath, twiddling his thumbs, his shoulders hunched around his ears.

  “Ah,” Feyor’s mouth gapes. Then closes. He turns again to the king.

  “Now, if there is anything-“

  “My lord!”

  A plump young woman wearing a cloth wrap about her head and a stained apron pops her head through the doorframe to their left, her cheeks red and round. “Dinner is ready when you are,” she chimes.

  Lord Feyor smiles back, turning in his seat to face the cheery girl.

  “Thank you, Prenula. We will be there momentarily.”

  “Best hurry yourself,” she shouts as she disappears into the dining room again.

  “My apologies,” Feyor bows his head. “Prenula has been with my family since she was just a babe. She is rather enthusiastic.”

  “No worries,” Taeg murmurs. “We are grateful for your patronage and your vassals, Lord Feyor.”

  “And your beautiful home,” Nathis adds, his head swaying to look at each painting.

  “As I was saying, if you are in need of anything, the Feyor family is at your aid. Now, we must eat.” He springs from his chair, waving a hand about as if to herd them into the kitchen.

  The Grand Master and Nathis scoop themselves up, trailing from the room. The blonde girl, Lark, bounces off through the doorframe, shouting after Nathis as she goes. The King removes himself from his chair. Kelo watches, unmoving as the others get up to leave. At a look from Taeg, Kelo jumps up, hanging behind the group. When all but Kelo and the King are left, Lord Feyor clears his throat.

  “Your Majesty,” he places a hand on Taeg’s shoulder, and Kelo notices his brother’s arm drop away, an almost imperceptible twitch. “I did happen to notice a rider coming through town not long before your party arrived. Now I’m not terribly familiar with the Dacre family, as they reside on the other side of Nelivian, but I am familiar with their… unique appearances. I believe I spotted a young Tygoh Dacre on horseback, stopping in to receive supplies. It seems he was headed into the Pfeist Mountains.”

  Kelo hovers, waiting. The King does not hesitate.

  “Tygoh was sent ahead of the group to do some scouting on my request. I’m glad to hear he made his way safely. Thank you for keeping an eye out.”

  Lord Feyor nods knowingly, repeating his offer for help.

  At dinner, Kelo sits quietly next to his brother, politely slipping small bites of roasted carrot between his thin lips. Nathis, seated on the other side of the king, gives him encouraging looks.

  When the others are busy eating, drinking, and talking of their travels, Teag leans into the older man’s ear, their shoulders meeting. Kelo finds himself eavesdropping, his gaze darting around the table, looking for eyes on him.

  “Tygoh was seen gathering supplies in Nelivian,” the King says. “Lord Feyor seems to think he was headed through the Pfeists. Do you have any idea what he might be thinking?”

  Nathis, sipping placidly from a cup of foamy mead, clears his throat to speak. “I couldn’t begin to tell you the workings of that man’s mind. I’m sure he is aware this is grounds for desertion charges; however, I’m uninclined to believe he would do so out of insubordination. It’s not in Tygoh’s blood.”

  The King nods, staring blankly at the patterned tablecloth. “We need to find him.”

  “Yes, we do,” the older man replies.