Asra’s wounds did not get better.
Ciaran’s concern for her health grew with each passing day. She seemed to be in a great deal of pain, but refused all help he offered. Ciaran caught her fussing over her wounds often, and while he always told her off, she rarely paid him mind. There was a glassy, faraway look to her eyes now, and she was slow to react to anything around them. Ciaran wasn’t even sure if she knew who he was half the time.
He couldn’t shake the image of her turning on him after she’d fallen from the cliff. There had been nothing but fury in her eyes, and Ciaran was confident that if Bane had not been there to protect him, Asra would have ended him.
But Asra had not been in her right mind. She hadn’t even recognized Ciaran, and he had a strong feeling he knew who she saw that night. Ordinarily Ciaran didn’t mind his striking resemblance to his older brother, but the hatred in Asra’s face as she’d bore down on him made his skin crawl.
If what Ciaran had inferred about Asra giving Nolan the secret to her town’s concealment spell was true, he certainly understood her vendetta. Would that vendetta extend across the family tree? Would she turn on him the instant Nolan was dead? He didn’t ever want to face her like that again.
Of course, these concerns would be moot if Asra died of infection in the middle of nowhere. He needed to get her help. More importantly, he needed to convince her she needed help.
The town of Creekwater was a slight detour, but Ciaran knew of a good stable there. He could switch out horses—this poor beast deserved some rest—and he may be able to find some sort of remedy or elixir for Asra’s infection. He hoped human remedies would work on a six foot tall shapechanging dog-woman.
As they approached the small town, Ciaran tried to find the most diplomatic way to inform Asra she wouldn’t be joining him. There was a mossy spot on the ground beneath the shade of some leafy trees. That seemed a good place to tell her to wait.
He took a deep breath. “I need you to wait here while I head into town.”
“You’re not going in there by yourself.”
Ciaran sighed. He knew it was coming. “I won’t be by myself. I’ll have Bane.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Asra, look at yourself. Even if you wouldn’t completely blow our cover, you’re in no shape to be protecting anyone.”
Asra straightened herself, growling as she did so, in what she likely thought was an intimidating posture. But the way she swayed on her paws made it clear that a stiff breeze would take her out.
“Bane and I can handle ourselves,” Ciaran said. “Besides, I’m going to the stables. You don’t want to be around all those horses.”
Asra maintained her stance for a few moments longer, clearly mulling the situation over in her head. Eventually she flopped to the ground with a grunt and laid her head between her paws.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Ciaran said, and he called Bane to his side as he started towards town.
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An eerie feeling fell over Ciaran as he made his way through Creekwater, and it only grew worse the further toward the center he traversed. The usual hustle and bustle of the busy town had been replaced by a handful of stragglers who scurried to their destinations with their heads down. Most of the stores along Main Street had closed early, something Ciaran had never seen before.
Thankfully the stables were still open. Ciaran tethered his mare to a post out front, then stroked her nose one last time.
“Thank you for your help,” he said to her. “May the rest of your travels be dragon-free.” He hoped that his own travels would be equally dragon-free.
“You here to swap out?”
Ciaran looked up at the stablemaster standing in the door of the main building. He was a heavyset man with a thick, graying beard. Ciaran nodded and twisted the gold stud in his left ear, the marble-sized lodestone heavy on the lobe. He hoped he remembered the proper enchantment for the disguising spell he’d cast into the jewelry. He’d tried to ask Asra if the change in his hair and eye color was convincing enough—pale blonde for his hair and bright blue for his eyes—but she’d only grunted at him.
“What are you looking for?” the stablemaster asked.
“Something fast and hardy, if you please.”
The man turned to head back into the building, waving to Ciaran to follow. As Ciaran stepped inside, the floors creaked and whined under his feet and the door squealed behind him. The interior was cramped, barely wide enough for the desk in the center, strewn with papers and folders. Extravagant ribbons and photographs of horses leaping over hurdles were collaged onto the walls.
“Are all of those yours?” Ciaran asked, dipping his head toward a cluster of photos and rosettes.
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“Some of them,” the man replied, his voice as rough as gravel. “Some of them are my daughter’s. I don’t ride much these days.”
The man pulled out a rental agreement from a folder on the desk and slid it to Ciaran, indicating where he would need to sign. Ciaran caught himself before he put down his own signature and scribbled something that looked reasonably like a name, then passed him the agreed-upon amount of royals.
“You ever compete?” the stablemaster asked.
“Not in anything with horses. Dogs are my forte.”
“I noticed your ridgeback. You’d have to be a fancy boy to have one of those, wouldn’t you?”
Ciaran smiled. “Yes, I suppose.”
He hadn’t considered the fact that ridgebacks were illegal for commoners to own. He decided not to tell Asra this; she would ban Bane from entering any of the towns and cities with him.
“Your dog needs to be on a leash, you know. We have leash laws here.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize.” Ciaran had never been asked to put Bane on a lead before. “Do you have one for sale?”
The man grunted and said, “I’ll grab you one when I get your horse.” As he shuffled through some papers on the desk, the man mumbled something about “damn out-of-towners.”
Ciaran remembered his other task. “Would you happen to have any remedies in stock? Something that could help infection in an animal?”
“’Fraid not,” the stablemaster said. “Shipments are all delayed with the execution tonight.”
Ciaran’s heart sank, his mind on Asra’s wounds. But as the rest of the stablemaster’s wounds registered, his brow furrowed. “Execution?”
“That’s what I said.” The stablemaster took the signed paper from Ciaran and stuffed it into a folder, then filed away the folder in a cabinet.
Ciaran waited for the man to elaborate, and when he didn’t, Ciaran said, “I don’t understand. A public execution?”
The man eyed him with his lip curled so severely even Asra would envy his sneer. “This your first day outside of your mommy and daddy’s estate? Never seen an execution before?”
Ciaran bristled at the stablemaster’s condescension, but brushed it off. This old man had no clue he was the prince. If anything, it was a compliment to his disguising spell. “But … who? Why?”
The stablemaster shrugged. “Some iron workers who striked too long. A couple army deserters. A royal guard who neglected his duty. King wants to make a spectacle of it.”
Ciaran took a deep breath, unsure of which revelation to address first. He eventually landed on, “Royal guard?”
“Yeah, the one who let the prince get kidnapped.”
Ciaran’s stomach roiled. That had to be Thomson.
“King’s been all out of sorts since his baby brother vanished,” the stablemaster continued. “Been making life a lot harder for us little guys. Increased guards, increased taxes, more executions. Not that you care, rich boy. But it almost makes me wish for their daddy back. Alexander was a bastard, but at least he ignored us commoners. Let us get on with our day-to-day.”
“Alexander was a monster,” Ciaran said, his hands forming into fists at his side.
“Well they’ve all been monsters, ain’t they? All those damn royals and their simpering nobles. The rich folk are always gonna be up in their fancy estate houses fighting their power struggles, and us common folk will always be caught in the crosshairs while we do all the real work. Makes no difference who’s in charge.”
Ciaran stared at the stablemaster. He’d never heard anyone speak so brazenly against the crown. Well, no one human at least. Asra would probably like this man.
“I … should get going,” Ciaran said.
The stablemaster shrugged. “You need anything else?”
Ciaran took a deep breath, and as he did so, he took note of how much his hands shook. “Do you have any liquor I could purchase from you? The stores are all closed.”
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They finished the paperwork, then the man led Ciaran to a bay gelding in the stables outside. Ciaran took the reins, thanked the man for his help, and headed back to Asra.
It was twilight now. The flickering streetlamps shone against a purple sky as Ciaran, Bane, and the new horse navigated through the town. The horse’s hooves echoed on the cobblestone in the empty streets. A warm glow came from Main Street, around the corner of the block, accompanied by a rumble of muffled shouts.
Ciaran hadn’t heard of a public execution in Windemere for many years, since before Nolan was crowned. Nowadays they were private events, viewed only by courtiers and the victim, or the victim’s family in a murder case. It was one of the many reasons for the unification war—to end the lawlessness and barbarism of the independent states. For Nolan himself to sanction one …
Bile rose in his throat as he thought of Thomson’s body hanging limp from the gallows. The old guard had been one of the few people Ciaran could rely on in his twenty-six years of life. He couldn’t leave him to die.
Then his mind flicked to Asra. She would kill him if she found out he’d done something to expose his true identity and jeopardize their mission, and she may not have to bother with the effort if the executioners and guards recognized him and delivered him to Nolan.
He took a deep swig of the bourbon flask he’d purchased from the stablemaster as he considered what Asra would do if she were in his shoes, then a new resolve flowed into him. Asra would protect her friends and family, consequences be damned.
Ciaran took another sip of whiskey, then another, the burn in his throat hardening his nerves. He tethered the gelding to a hitching post in front of an empty general goods store and put Bane in a tight heel, the dog’s shoulders brushing Ciaran’s thigh as they headed to the square and traversed through the crowds.