Prince Felderon pressed through the low tunnels of the underground armory behind Symon, who led the way by the faint light of an oil- burning lamp.

He coughed in the close stale air, but gradually, ventilation improved as they wound their way toward the surface. Symon stopped at a low threshold.

“Your Majesty. Forgive me for speaking freely. I saw how it was—how your father’s and your brothers’ ministers betrayed you. And I perceive your intention to bring your father’s war to a swift end. Well that may be, but there are complexities.

“First, the soldiers do not know and trust you. If they will follow anyone right now, it is their commander in war. You are a sixth son, and have rarely been seen. Yet men will believe you the rightful heir and King if you can but command the late King’s war horse. No general has been able to manage it, and the men regard any who fails with suspicion. Master this horse, and I guarantee you’ll secure the loyalty of the entire army at the same time. Then you can finish the war if it please you to do it.”

Felderon ground his teeth. A contest to win the hearts and minds of his own countrymen was the last thing he wanted right now. But he could handle a horse—even a skittish stallion. “Fine, Symon. Bring me to to the stable. I can manage the stallion.”

“Good.” Symon rattled the door knob and pushed through. “As it happens, this tunnel exits through to the King’s stables. The steed is right through here.”

The smell of horse and fresh hay met his nostrils and he breathed a long breath. Some things would always settle him, even in probable in impossible circumstances. Even in his probable madness. He needed a horse right now, though he fully intended to abandon his throne. Everything he thought he knew was an illusion. But a horse was real. Of all things he needed right now, it was good horse flesh. He would never hunt down the Sage of the Sun without it.

Symon went first through the door, making a commotion until someone above pulled up a trapdoor.

Felderon mounted the short flight of steps through floor of the King’s stables. He’d never known such tunnels and trap doors had existed and he didn’t like the feel of the earth shifting beneath him nor the grim gazes and the glances of subterfuge exchanged between Symon and the apparent stable hand at the top of the stairs. Anyway, the stable hand bowed, in observance of duty, but again, Felderon did not recognize the lad.

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He rolled his shoulders. A stallion stomped in the King’s stall. Prince Felderon glance upward. Caught the dark horse’s eye and he started.

Serge! Was Serge the King’s war horse?

This would secure the entire army’s loyalty? Nothing could be simpler. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck with a quick snap! At last someone familiar! “Lord love you, Serge. If you’re not sight for sore eyes!”

But as he swung the stable door open, Serge whinnied in protest, rearing up.

“What’s this?” Prince Felderon grabbed the reins, the tendons in his neck tightening.

The Serge reared back again, flaring his nostrils as he exhaled hot puff of breath into the cold air, coat glistening like polished mahogany.

“Serge, it’s me! You know me!”

And with a snort, and a flash of the old boy’s eye, he realized—recognition—not failed recognition—was the problem. In his mind’s eye flashed a memory of every whip he’d cracked against the horse’s hide. Every spurr he’d kicked hard into the horse’s flanks. Every harsh word he’d ever leveled.

From behind, Felderon could feel the smirk on Symon’s face and the grim skepticism in a gathering audience of men, both stable hands and cavalry.

Curse it! Who had time for this? Felderon slipped his foot into the stirrup, and swung astride the stallion, but Serge danced skittish and sideways, swinging his head with a defiant snort.

“Whoa there! Easy Serge!”

Stubborn hooves stamped the ground in protest.

“You want oats? I know you love ‘em. You damned wanton mare of a stallion!” A battle of twin egos raged as Felderon reigned and released, issuing blunt commands laced with fair promises. Serge however, had other plans, his powerful musculature propelling them out of the stable and into a wild, anti-rhythmic gallop.

Felderon hazarded a peak over his shoulder. Symon, sprinted after him, plowing through Serge’s dust, coughing and shouting something. What is he trying to say? Something about the Windswept Plains? A dead end?

Prince Felderon couldn’t stop. For one, his own sense of urgency goaded him to some kind of action. But more to the point, Serge was beyond his control. Reigning in the beast was a losing battle. He had to ride out Serge’s rage—no matter what Symon was trying to say and regardless of what lay ahead on the Windswept Plains.