“That’s unlikely, Jeene. We were together for a long—”
“Shh, shh. You’re too practical, Cinda. Practicality will be your ruin.”
“Well, it’s certainly kept us in coin, hasn’t it?”
“Now, I’m not saying that I don’t appreciate it,” Jeene purrs, letting me go and leaning against the kneading table again with a broad grin. “It’s just that…I think it’s caused you to suffer too much unhappiness in your life. Moments that you swallow down and accept without a fight. But have you ever stopped to wonder”—and she leans forward now, passion illuminating her face as if a fire dances beneath her skin—“if there’s more to life than baking bread?”
My heart skips, and I glance past Jeene, through the garden window. I watch the coneflowers dance in the breeze and let out a long sigh.
Yes, I've wondered what life might be like beyond the flour-caked walls of this bakery. But there are bills to pay, and a legacy to uphold. My mother loved this shop; it would do her heart good to know how well I’ve tended it. Though she's gone, I work hard, every day, to make her proud.
Yet sometimes...I consider the years passing me by, sifting through my fingers like flour. We're only given so much time on this big, beautiful world. And Jeene is right: I’ve wasted a lot of my time being practical. I haven't passed many hours observing beautiful things.
Or beautiful women.
My relationships have just happened. I’ve never sought out love. I’ve accepted the women who sought after me, haven't ever gone looking for more. And that has been the most unifying problem in my so-called love life.
“Trust me, Cinda, like you didn’t trust me when I told you Asla had a pitchfork stuck up her ass and wasn’t worthy of you.” Jeene straightens, and I notice the flour dusting the front of her cobalt blue coat. She doesn’t brush it off, doesn’t even notice it, because she’s staring into my eyes intently. “The best way to heal your poor broken heart is with a lighthearted tumble that means nothing. You can get a fresh start, win some confidence back. I know you, Cinda. I know what makes you happy. You have been stagnant with Asla for so long that you’re mired deep in the muck, and you need to be dragged out. By a lovely woman.”
I can’t help but return my best friend's grin. “You naughty fox—you found me crying, and now I’m smiling.” Affection fills my heart. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I murmur, one brow raised, “but you may, this one time, be right.”
“I’m always right, pet.” She claps her hands in triumph. “So, tonight it is!”
Before I can say another word, she laughs her way into the garden, aiming to pick some flowers for our cakes—and leaving me alone with my dough and my misgivings.
But without a tear in my eye.
Who knows?
This could be…fun.
Chapter 2
TALIS
“I’m always right,” Rane tells me primly.
I sigh for a good, long moment and stare at her.
She swishes her tail and refuses to look up at me. Smug horse.
“Rane, I love you dearly. There’s no horse on this world who I love more,” I croon, scratching my fingertips on her right shoulder, just beneath the crest of her frothy silver mane. This is every horse’s weak spot, so Rane cranes her beautiful gray head higher into the air and starts to twitch her horsey lips as if she’s about to smooch her stall door.
“I won’t suffer fools, Talis,” the horse says with a little nicker, rolling a wise brown eye back toward me, even as she stamps a back hoof with impatience. “Don’t change the subject and sweet-talk me with a little scratching.” She huffs, disdainful. “I don’t forget about things that easily.”
“Oh, is that so? Hmm. Odd, because it’s certainly worked for as long as I’ve had the pleasure of knowing you.” I grin and incline my head toward her. “That is the right spot, isn’t it? Just...right...there...” I continue my scratching, waggling my brows triumphantly.
Rane shakes herself, her illustrious mane flying in all directions, before stamping a hoof again and moving away from me, her ears slicked back against her head.
She’s mad.
“I will not be patronized!” she yells, but because most people can’t understand horse language, her yell sounds to the majority of ears like an annoyed whinny.
Unfortunately, I can understand horse language, so when she really lays into me, I can’t ignore her.
“Talis, you listen, and you listen well,” she snorts, stamping for emphasis, her tail swishing violently, as if she intends to fell someone with the silken strands. I roll my eyes a bit and pick up the pitchfork, intent on clearing out her stall, which is the chore I should have begun quite a while ago, if it hadn’t been for Her Royal Highness Rane demanding that I talk to her and give her a bucket of fresh water, even though I’ve changed the water three times today.
Rane, a warrior mare, is a very large horse. She’s tall, much taller than me, with the muscle to match (her legs have been compared to trees), enormous hooves as big as dinner plates, a glorious gray coat so shiny that I can practically see my face in it, and a thick belly due the fact that she is nearly twelve moons pregnant.
“I’m about to deliver this kicking brat of a filly, and you’d dare to stress me out with an argument?” Her tone has turned wheedling, as manipulative as a small, sweet dog demanding table scraps. I arch a brow, shaking my head but keeping my mouth shut as I pitch forkful after forkful of straw into the wheelbarrow by the stall door.
And then Rane gets really angry.
“I am in a delicate state,” she hisses, though she does not appear to be in a delicate state as she drives me into the corner by snaking her equine head and baring her teeth. She has been known to nip, and I wager you’ve not felt a hint of fear in your life until a warrior mare with a head as large as a goat (an entire goat) gently takes your hand in her mouth, grinding her teeth ever so lightly down onto your fingers, signaling that she could gnaw off your entire arm if she chose to do so.
The mare’s eyes shine with a glint of imperiousness as they regard me.
“If you don’t ask Magel today, you’re never going to do it,” she tells me, trying—and failing—to sound sensible. Instead, she’s prim. “Talis, you can't keep putting it off. We’ve talked about this.”
I sigh, meeting the mare’s gaze, my arms folded over my chest churlishly.
I’m not fond of being talked down to, and damn it, I have chores to take care of. I try to move past Rane, but she doesn’t budge a finger’s width, setting her hooves firmly in the straw at her feet.
“Listen to me,” she snorts, bobbing her head. “You deserve to be a knight, Talis. You’ve been working so hard, and I’m sure your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed. Magel just needs a little…push. You’ve got to ask—and ask now—or you’re just going to drum up another foolhardy reason to put it off again.”
“Being that you're almost twelve moons pregnant, my friend, I'm afraid your brains are a little addled,” I croon sweetly, then scratch Rane's shoulder again. When I work my fingernails under her glossy gray coat, her head swoops up, she lifts her lips, and her eyes roll back blissfully. “Unfortunately,” I begin, in a tone of mock disappointment, “I can’t ask today, because Magel is busy. And that’s that.”
Rane looks down her long nose and snorts in my face.
My hair—red as a sinner’s blush and stubbornly sticking up in all directions because it’s full of straw—blows straight back from the force of her hot, oaty breath.
“I won't accept that flimsy excuse. I’m not going to let up on this, you know.” Rane skillfully chooses a piece of hay from my head and chews on it as she ruminates.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to.” With a soft smile, I pat her shoulder, taking up my pitchfork once more.
“Good, because after you ask her, we’re going out,” Rane declares, stalking over to her grain bucket and peering into its depths. “Why is this empty?”
“Because you
ate your third morning portion already, and I’ve been told not to give you more until noon.”
She whips her head around to stare at me, her eyes accusing, but I shrug, smile, and keep on pitchforking. “And you can’t go out, Rane. You’re pregnant. Very pregnant.”
“So I’m forced to languish in these torturous confines?” Rane lets out a low moan and then rears up on her back legs. I imagine, in her mind's eye, she looks every inch the warrior steed and battle mare right now. But in actuality, she's an overly pregnant horse raising her front hooves about a foot off of the ground.
“Oh, blast,” mutters Rane, coming back down so quickly that the floor shudders beneath the weight of her landing. “I am,” she tells me, her neck long, her teeth bared, “dreadfully uncomfortable. Do you understand me, Talis?”
“Perfectly. Please don’t bite me.” I scratch behind her ears. “And, hey, it isn't my fault that you’re with child.”
Rane’s mood switches quickly: she forgets about snapping her teeth in anger and sighs so woefully that I raise my brows.
“Oh, I need to go outside. I can’t be walled in here anymore. You don’t understand what it’s like,” Rane says, shaking her body for emphasis. “I’ve been cooped up for so long, treated like I’m a fragile creature made of glass—”
“Um...weren’t you just telling me that you’re in a delicate state—”
“I need fresh air.” Rane stomps her foot hard. “Or,” she continues in a soft, refined tone, “I am going to break down the stable door.”
The threat is legitimate. She could break down the stable walls if she chose to do so.
“No need to go redecorating the place.” I hold my hands out to the moody mare, palms up, in a soothing gesture. “In just a few more days, I’m sure you’ll deliver, and then you can wander wild, for all I care. Though Asla might protest—”
“Asla,” says Rane through gritted teeth, “can kiss my rump.”
I chuckle.
Asla is the Royal Knight partnered with Rane. Normally, a warrior mare is bonded—heart and soul—to a specific knight. The two become inseparable; they love one another like sisters and are loyal to the end. It’s a solemn relationship, one not to be taken lightly.
But Asla? Well, as a stablehand, it’s not my place to comment on a knight, but Rane says it all for me: “Asla is a vain, shallow ass who cares about nothing and no one aside from herself. Did you hear her earlier this morning, crowing to one of the other knights about how she was going to end her relationship with her lover? Because her lover—and I really must quote this—was ‘getting too fat’?” Rane shudders, huffing. “She is callous, cruel, and I cannot endure her presence. The next time she rides me, I will delight in sending her into the air.”
Rane snorts self-righteously, arching her neck.
“My dear Rane, you can’t start bucking your knight; you’ll give the other warrior mares a bad reputation.” I pick up my pitchfork and begin to inch out of the stall.
Now that she’s suitably distracted, maybe she'll forget to nag me about—
I flinch as words float over Rane’s stall door: “Have you asked Magel yet?”
The intruder on our conversation, who is standing a respectable distance away from the wheelbarrow of Rane’s leavings in the corridor, has her hands positioned on her waist, her feet set hip-width apart. She's here for answers.
Lellie.
Lellie is my best human friend (the word “human” is an important distinction, because if Rane knew I’d called Lellie “my best friend” without adding “human” to the phrase, she’d step on my feet a lot more often, the jealous curmudgeon), and—like Rane—she is as stubborn as a box of rocks.
“Lellie, I’m in no mood for arguing. Please,” I beg, going so far as to clasp my hands together around the pitchfork’s handle. “Her Majesty,” I say, with a wink at Rane, “has made me late, and I’ve got so many other stalls to muck out.” I gesture down the length of the stable, but Lellie shakes her head, and as she crosses her arms, the metal bracers on her wrists clink against her chest plate.
Her expression turns stormy.
Lellie is a Royal Knight of Arktos. She’s a match for my height, but her heeled leather boots make her appear to be taller than me. She is known far and wide for having perfected the art of swordfighting in an ankle-length dress, and she’s just as deadly—if not more so—than her fellow knights.
She’s also our Queen Calla’s cousin, so her badassery might, in fact, run in the family.
Lellie has long—so long it falls below her rear—flaming red hair, and her face is as pretty as that of a goddess statue. Everything about her, actually, is pretty, from the metal flowers that twine around her sword’s hilt to the floral embroidery on the dress she wears beneath her armor, to the expertly crafted, vine-like scroll work on her metal chest plate.
She’s one of the highest-ranking knights, is gorgeous beyond words, and is related to the queen…so why she’s friend to a lowly stablehand like me is a mystery. Though, I promise, I’m working hard on bettering myself. I certainly didn’t set out to be a career stablehand, and it’s not been my lifelong dream to clean up after moody horses.
Hence all of today’s arguing.
Lellie tilts her chin stubbornly. “Well? Did you ask her?”
I should state, for the record, that I work here, in the Royal Stables of Arktos Palace, because I want—more than anything in the world—to become a knight. I’ve been training every day with sword and pike and axe, for hours and hours, after my daily stable duties are done. I work my heart out, until my bones are weary, and still…still, I haven’t been chosen to advance from stablehand to squire. That’s the path I must take: stablehand to squire, and squire to knight.
I’ve been stuck in first position for quite a long time. A couple of years now. All of my fellow stablehands have progressed to squires…
While I've stayed in place. Still a stablehand at the ripe old age of twenty-two.
It’s starting to feel a little, well, embarrassing.
Which is why my well-meaning but meddlesome friends are trying to push this baby bird out of her nest. And, believe me, I’ve been ready to fly for a while. But whether Magel, head of the Royal Knights of Arktos, will choose to acknowledge that is yet to be seen.
My best friends—of the horse and human varieties—want me to ask Magel if I can finally move up in the ranks, become a squire. The problem is…Magel is very busy right now with the activities going on in the city—Arktos City, capital of the realm. Magel’s in charge of all of the knight campaigns, and it's up to her to resolve every skirmish in the country.
On top of that, the Hero’s Tournament—an enormous tourney where countries across the world send their champions to compete—is happening here in Arktos City, and Magel must prepare her knights and arrange the tournament while, of course, keeping our citizens and guests safe. She’s been running around at full speed, and though Magel is normally the mistress of calm, she’s been looking a bit frazzled lately. And when I glimpsed her earlier this morning, she was trailed by a dozen knights and other palace staff, all talking to her at once…
She doesn't have time to listen to the concerns of a stablehand right now.
I sigh and shake my head, returning to my pitchforking. “Lellie, I love you, and your heart is in the right place, but I can't—”
“Talis.” Lellie holds up a hand. “You’re about to feed me more excuses.” Her tone is short and sharp, permitting no arguments. “What did we talk about last night?”
I wrinkle my nose and lean on my pitchfork with a rueful grin. “I…can’t remember. I was too drunk.”
Lellie grins wolfishly and then chuckles. “Ah, it was a good night. I’ll never forget your dancing!”
“Wait a minute… You can remember last night?” I ask, incredulous. Lellie and I went to our favorite tavern, the Happy Lioness, and got very inebriated. Well, in our defense, it was the end of a long week, and I had just gotten paid. Lellie bo
ught a few rounds, too, because she was feeling generous; she’s a happy drunk…
And that’s where things start to get fuzzy.
Lellie hoots, throwing her head back to crow. “You danced on a table!”
My cheeks burn. I hold a little tighter to the pitchfork. “I did no such thing.”
“Talis. You know that when you drink a particular amount of ale, you get all...dancey.”
I narrow my brows, whisper, “I do not!”
“A fiddler came in and started playing one of your favorite tunes…”
“Oh, no.” I palm my hand over my face and groan, long and low. “Tell me he didn’t play ‘The Dragon Maid of Brightcoast.’”
“He played ‘The Dragon Maid of Brightcoast,’” she chirps, with the widest grin, “so you climbed up onto the table and yelled, at the tippy-top of your lungs, ‘This is my song!’ And you started to waggle your hips—with gusto.”
Rane is staring at me with a huge, horsey smile. “You danced on a table?” the mare laughs, and then she’s whinnying, tilting her nose up toward the air. She looks a bit like a donkey, braying herself silly, but I’d never dare tell her so. Instead, I sigh, accepting the good-natured ribbing as one who allowed herself to become so drunk that she danced on a table must.
“Anyway, the point of my reminding you about your nocturnal indiscretion is that, after the dancing”—Lellie holds up a finger, smile slipping from her face—“you cried on my shoulder. Cried, in fact, for the remainder of the evening.”
I grimace, bracing myself, as my friend's expression turns thoughtful.
“Now, it was hard to understand what you were saying between the sobs, mind, but you mentioned something about your ‘lifelong dream never being realized.'” She waves a hand in the air. “Something like that. I caught the gist. So…” She draws herself up to her full height—which is quite impressive, and more than a little intimidating. “That’s why I’m here.”
Just One Knight Page 2
