Fergal made no reply, but his head was bowed.

Karigan left the bridge and mounted Condor, reining him upstream where there was supposed to be a better bridge. Fergal and Sunny followed.

Karigan could have sworn she heard Fergal say he was sorry, but if he did, the words were not meant for her. Some of her tension eased, but it seemed maybe her hopes for Fergal moving beyond mere duty in his care of horses were never to be realized. Maybe with his background, he’d never be able to genuinely care for horses, never allow himself to care. And with his cruel knacker father as his model? Karigan shook her head.

And yet Fergal had been called. He had been called to be a Green Rider, which necessitated riding horses. Perhaps whatever higher powers existed in the world knew something she did not.

Was it just coincidence Fergal was chosen for an errand that included visiting the man who supplied the Green Riders with their horses? Definitely ironic, but coincidental?

She’d experienced too much in her own life to believe in pure coincidence. Maybe, just maybe, this visit to Damian Frost would be just the thing to help Fergal see beyond duty. Maybe he’d learn to care. Or it could be too much, too overwhelming, and there was a chance it might drive him to reject horses altogether.

It was out of her hands, she decided. Only Fergal could determine how it would all turn out.

“Wait,” Fergal called to her.

Karigan halted Condor, and Fergal nudged Sunny up beside them. He kept the mare on a long rein, was gentle with the bit.

“Yes?” Karigan asked. Was that the shine of tears on his cheeks? It was too dark to tell.

“It won’t happen again,” he replied. “I–I don’t want to disappoint Captain Mapstone or the king.”

Or you, he might have added.

“I know Sunny’s not stupid,” he continued. “It’s just…I don’t know how to be.”

“Listen to your heart,” Karigan said.

“I just hear my da.”

“He’s far, far away, Fergal. He can’t tell you how to think or feel now. You are a Green Rider, and we are your family. You don’t have to be the knacker’s son if you don’t want to be.”

Fergal fell into thoughtful silence and again they set off, at last coming to a sturdy bridge Sunny did not balk at. Karigan noted Fergal patting the mare’s neck as they crossed, and the last of her tension eased, allowing her to settle into a kind of peace.

In the dark, Karigan feared she would miss the last sign, a cairn at a junction of three trails. She need not have worried, however, as the pile of stones was enormous and it was topped by a flat-faced rock with a horse painted in white and an arrow pointing the way.

“We’re almost there,” she said.

“Good. I’m starving.” If Fergal continued to feel remorse for his earlier behavior, she could not hear it in his voice, unless he sounded just a little too chipper.

As they continued on, Condor’s step picked up and he bobbed his head. Was it possible he retained memories of his first home? With messenger horses, anything was possible.

The farther down the trail they went, the friskier Condor became, prancing and whisking his tail, snorts steaming from his nostrils. Karigan began to think she was riding some young colt rather than her staid, experienced messenger horse. Sunny, sensing his spirits, picked up her gait and bobbed her head as well.

“What’s wrong with them?” Fergal asked.

“Condor is going home,” Karigan said.

THE FROST PLACE

They rode out of a thicket to the top of a ridge. The land rolled away from them, open to the sky and the sharpness of stars. Below them, golden light spilled from the windows of a long, low building. There were other buildings near the main one, but the dark claimed their shape and size. The breeze shifted and Karigan smelled wood smoke.

“I think we’ve found Damian Frost’s place,” Karigan said.

Though Karigan did not completely give Condor his head, she allowed him to canter down the ridge, tail swishing all the way. When they arrived at the front porch of the place, Karigan had to check Condor so he didn’t climb right up the steps onto it and through the door. He pranced and bucked at the command.

“Settle,” she told him.

He shook his head, rattling the reins in rebellion.

Before she could dismount, the door swung open and a wiry fellow stood there silhouetted by the lamplight.

“It’s about time,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you for weeks now.”

Before Karigan could ask how he knew, or say anything for that matter, Condor launched up onto the front porch, taking her by complete surprise. She did not duck in time and smacked her head on the eave of the low, overhanging roof. She spilled off Condor’s back, over his rump, and hit the ground.

There were only the stars above, like a great spangled black quilt over her. Her body took its time to sort out the pain, the worst of which was the growing throb above the bridge of her nose.

Suddenly the night sky was framed by heads—two human, two horse. Fergal and Sunny stood to one side of her, and the wiry fellow and Condor on the other. Actually, Condor stood behind the man, peering at her around his shoulder. His ears wilted as if in apology.

“Chicken,” she said.

“What’s she saying, lad?” the man asked Fergal.

“She called you a chick—”

“I was addressing the horse,” Karigan said. “The one hiding behind you.”

The man reached over his shoulder and patted Condor’s neck. “Aye, a little overexcited. S’posed to protect his Rider, not dump her.”