“Prince Corwin,” a voice called from down the corridor. “You’re early.”
Kate turned her head, spying the newcomer through the bars on the front of the stall. Age had marked Alaistar Cade in the last few years, spreading liberal amounts of salt through his red hair and painting a spiderweb of wrinkles around his eyes. But the crooked smile he turned on her now was exactly as she remembered.
“Welcome back, Miss Brighton.”
She stepped out of the stall, closing the door behind her. “Good day, Master Cade.” The title tasted strange on her tongue. She used to call him Uncle Alaistar but couldn’t imagine doing so now. That name came from another time and place—one she couldn’t go back to, no matter how close it might seem.
Alaistar must’ve sensed the distance, too, for his manner turned more formal. “Are you ready for your audition then?”
“Yes, sir.” She swallowed back a tremor of nerves.
Master Cade turned and led the way out of the stables to the cavalry field, where several of the horses in training were already saddled and waiting to be worked. Kate eyed them with a heart both full and hungry. She sensed her father’s hand in the making of each one. Here was his true legacy. The one he should be remembered for.
“Do you mind if I stay and watch?” Corwin asked, but before Kate could respond, a page arrived. He bowed low before the prince and handed him a folded card. Reading it, Corwin made a noise of disgust. “Tell the council I’m on my way.” The page bowed again, then ran from the stable, eager to deliver his message. Corwin touched Kate’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but duty calls.” He smiled, but it seemed weak around the edges. “Good luck, and I’ll come by to see you later if I can.”
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with Alaistar Cade. She turned to him, expecting to see that same smile again, but his gaze as he looked on her now was cold as a midwinter wind. She shivered, fearing the worst.
Alaistar folded his arms over his chest. “Now that the high prince is gone, we can be done with the charade. There is no need for you to audition, because the last thing I would ever allow is for that traitor’s daughter to ride one of my horses. I’ve better things in mind for you.”
Kate stared at him, openmouthed with shock. It quickly gave way to anger. Your horses? These are my father’s horses! His legacy! A dozen curses slid through her mind, but she was still too stunned to say them. It was just as she’d warned Corwin—the moment he was gone, they would turn on her. Only, a part of her had thought, had hoped, that Alaistar Cade—Uncle Alaistar—would be the one exception.
She was wrong.
Cade turned on his heel and headed back into the stable. He hadn’t ordered her to follow, but she’d understood the command just the same. With tears burning her eyes, she followed after him. She breathed shallowly, teeth gritted. She refused to cry in front of this man.
Once inside, Cade pulled a pitchfork off a hook on the wall and held it out to her. “You can muck out the stables. Start here and work your way down the line. I’m sure you remember where to dump the manure.”
Kate took the fork without speaking, outrage and betrayal forming a hot lump in her throat.
“And don’t you dare touch any of the horses. If a stall is occupied, skip it until the horse is let outside for the day.” Cade didn’t wait for confirmation this time, but turned and marched away, his boots making hard clicks against the floor.
Several seconds passed before Kate was able to shake off the daze that had seized her. A part of her wanted to quit right there, but the rest of her knew that would only make Cade happy. He wanted her to quit, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Retrieving a wheelbarrow, she set about her task.
It was hard, back-breaking work, but not unfamiliar to her. Her father always said that those who wanted to ride needed to earn the right by caring for their mounts first. Wishing more than ever that he was still here, Kate worked with her head down and shoulders set. She didn’t look up, not even when a groom or stable hand passed by. That was, until one of them knocked over her nearly full wheelbarrow, spilling piss-and shit-covered straw over the concrete floor.
“You bastard,” she shouted at the groom’s retreating back.
The boy looked over his shoulder at her. “Better a bastard than a traitor.” He made a rude hand gesture, then marched off.
The abuse continued throughout the day—half a dozen spilled wheelbarrows, her pitchfork going missing the moment she set it down, then finally, the last straw—when one of the stable hands dumped a forkful of steaming fresh manure over her head while her back was turned.
Kate’s anger burned in her cheeks and tears of outrage stung her eyes. She threw down the fork, ready to pummel the stable hand, but the boy was already running down the aisle out of reach.
Drawing a deep breath, Kate forced herself to walk serenely to Master Cade’s office. She felt the manure hot and wet against her scalp, but she didn’t shake it off. Not yet. To her satisfaction, she saw Cade sitting at his desk through the window.
She pushed the door open and stepped in. Cade looked up, his expression first surprised, then stormy. But he didn’t scare her. Not anymore. She leaned over the desk and shook her head, dislodging the manure right on top of the breeding registry he was working on. It slopped against it, ruining hours’ worth of work.
Cade leaped out of his chair with a curse.
“I’m glad he’s dead,” Kate said, hands on hips and sides heaving with rage. “So that he didn’t live long enough to see the kind of man you really are, Uncle Alaistar.”
Cade flinched but seemed too furious to respond.
Kate turned and marched to the door, pausing just long enough to say over her shoulder, “I’d rather be dead, too, than work for you. I quit.”
She made it all the way back to her quarters before finally breaking down into tears. To her relief, Signe was gone, allowing Kate to express her grief and shame in private. With her eyes blurred from crying, she drew a bath, grateful that the castle had running water, which allowed her to stay in her rooms instead of fetching a bucket from the kitchens. Enough people had noticed the state of her on the trip from the stables back to the castle as it was. All of Norgard would learn of the incident before long, she didn’t doubt. It would make for an amusing illustration in one of the newspapers.
Trying not to think about it, Kate washed the manure from her hair and body, scrubbing until her skin and scalp felt raw. Then she dried herself off and dressed in fresh clothes, throwing the old ones into a pile to be washed later. But still the pain had not subsided.
She wandered back to the main room and sat down behind her father’s desk. Other than the stables, it was the place that reminded her of him the most. Whenever he came home at night, he would sit here for hours, working on the bloodline registries or balancing the family finances in the ledger. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine for a moment that he was still here.
When Kate opened her eyes again, her gaze fell on the top edge of the painting that had hung behind the desk for as long as she could remember. She hadn’t really looked at it since returning, but now it drew her in. It depicted a coastline with water an impossible shade of blue green, yet so clear that you could see the outline of rocks on the seafloor. Hovering in the distance, emerald-green mountains stretched toward a cloudless sky. Kate had been fascinated by the painting as a child. Although it was an imaginary landscape, existing only within the mind of the artist, Kate used to call it . . .
Fenmore.