“My father,” Kihrin repeated. There was a catch there. A play on words. Thurvishar’s father wasn’t Gadrith; his father was Sandus. His father. “Wait. Do you hate Darzin D’Mon?”
“Passionately,” Thurvishar answered. “I’ll leave you with this thought, young D’Mon: an interesting quirk of the Arena is that it is beyond all divination, all clairvoyance. If a wizard can prevent sound from escaping—a simple trick I assure you—there is no force in all the universe that can discern the dialog of a conversation held within its borders. It really is a shame I couldn’t provoke you into a duel, or that you are too young to be considered a fair opponent. What an interesting talk we might have had.”
The wizard set down his glass, left enough coin on the table to pay for several nights with his pick of bedmates at the Shattered Veil Club, and walked out of the alcove. Kihrin could only stare, mouth open.
* * *
Kihrin hid in the stables.
Now one might think the stables a poor place to hide from Darzin’s attention, since the Lord Heir was famously fond of horses, but Darzin seldom ventured into the stables themselves. Instead, the grooms did all the mucking and feeding of the horses while he rode them or presented them to guests at his leisure. And when Darzin did come to claim a horse, Kihrin could count on him not being at the stables for at least a few hours. The location was therefore free of interruption, provided he didn’t draw attention to himself.
Like play Valathea—which was exactly what he was doing.
To be fair, he didn’t have a good place to practice. If he tried in his room, the High Lord complained of the noise, although Kihrin thought the room soundproof enough so no one could hear him. If he practiced elsewhere, Darzin always found him, and Darzin hated the idea of Kihrin playing at the upcoming New Year’s Ball. After the duel between Thurvishar and Jarith, Darzin wanted Kihrin to keep a low profile until the High General forgot Kihrin existed.
Kihrin didn’t know what Lord Therin thought, only that if he never reminded Therin about the harp or his promise, Therin would never change his mind about Kihrin playing. Indeed, it was really Therin from whom the young man hid.
He’d built himself a fortress of straw bales to keep the sound from echoing into the main stable. Behind that wall, he practiced notes, biting down on the way each played refrain reminded him of the people he had lost. He wished Morea were still alive. He wished Surdyeh were still alive. He had so many questions, and no answers but a strange intaglio-carved ruby ring.
Kihrin’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of a horse’s whinny. He paused with his nails on the strings. This was a stable, after all: there were horses. And yet this wasn’t coming from one of the stalls, and was much too close. He peeked around one of the hay bales, looking over the side of the loft to the stable beneath.
“Ah,” he said, smiling. “It’s you, Scandal. Escaped from your cell again?”
The Jorat fireblood, Darzin’s prized but never-ridden possession, was below looking up at Kihrin. She was an enormous horse, blue-gray throughout her body but with white stockings and a white mane and tail. He had been told her size was normal for the breed, but she seemed too large for a human being to actually ride. Not that she would let anyone ride her anyway; the horse’s typical response to anyone who tried was murder. She was also quite the escape artist, although her attempts had been half-hearted since Star’s arrival.
She tossed her mane and blew air in a way that seemed like agreement, then stamped her front hoof repeatedly against the ground and lowered her head. Kihrin smiled. He liked to think that she was applauding his performance.
“She likes it when you play. Can’t keep her in her stall if she hears you,” Star said as he came around the corner.
Galen had been surprised when Darzin hadn’t had the horse killed, but Kihrin understood well enough. As long as Darzin owned her, he could boast of her lethality, her size, her divine breeding. (Was she not the equine equivalent of a god-touched royal, after all?) He could laugh if anyone suggested she should be ridden or bred, while keeping his private frustrations hidden. If he killed her though—he could only admit his attempts a failure. The deaths had stopped since Star’s arrival; but she remained a magnificent specimen worthy of envy and admiration. Darzin had decided she was worth the effort in exchange for bragging rights.
Kihrin fished in his satchel, pulled out an apple, and tossed the fruit down to the mare. He’d learned she liked apples. They were an expensive, exotic treat—not native to the areas around the Capital—but what did he care about spending D’Mon metal? “For you, my lady,” he told her, giving her a bow. “Shall I continue playing?”
The mare expertly caught the apple from midair, and nodded vigorously.
He pulled the harp up from behind the hay bales, sat down on the edge of one, and began to play once more. It was risky—Darzin would certainly hear him if he came into the stable area proper—but Darzin never let the fireblood horse anywhere near him, so he hoped it would balance. He played a vané song, the one he had been practicing for the New Year’s Ball, and once again let the silver chords of music wrap themselves around him.
Star leaned against the wooden frame of the barn entrance, a piece of straw having replaced the sliver of wood as his favorite toothpick. He listened with half-closed eyes. The fireblood horse moved her head the way a human might move their hands in time with the music.
“What are firebloods?” Kihrin asked when he finished the song.
“Horses,” Star answered.
Kihrin sighed. “They’re not like other horses.”*
“No,” Star agreed with a shrug. “Not like other horses. Come on, Scandal. We’re finished here, you think? We should get you back before the little men panic and run.” He chuckled at the thought, a sound mirrored by the gray horse.
“Why do you call her Scandal?” Kihrin asked as he watched the giant horse turn and trot out of the room.
Star shifted the piece of hay from one side of his mouth to the other. “Because you call her Scandal.”
“It’s not her name,” Kihrin said, laughing.
Star shrugged. “She likes it.” He gave the adolescent a wink and ducked back around the side of the door, following his charge back to her stall.
Kihrin smiled and put Valathea away in her case.
“There you are,” Lady Miya said.
Kihrin looked down to see the seneschal of the house standing in the same doorway Star had just vacated.
“Lady Miya? Is something wrong?”
The elegant woman raised her chin. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you.”
* * *
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Therin D’Mon said to Kihrin after Lady Miya left them alone.
Kihrin crossed his arms over his chest. “What gave me away, my lord?”