Fire - Kristin Cashore [21]
Cutter had told her she was daft, and Cansrel had tried to talk her into a stunning black mare that suited her own flamboyant beauty. But it was Small she’d wanted, and Small that Cutter had delivered three days later. Shaking, terrified, because Cutter in his inhumanity had stuck the horse into a wagon along with a mountain lion monster Cansrel had purchased, with nothing but what amounted to a shaky arrangement of wooden slats separating them. Small had come out of the wagon rearing and screaming, and Cutter had stung him with his whip and called him a coward.
Fire had run to the horse, choked with indignation, and put all the passionate calm feeling she could into soothing his mind; and she’d told Cutter furiously, in the kind of words she never used, just what she thought of his way with his goods.
Cutter had laughed and told her she was doubly pleasing when she was angry - which had, of course, been a grave mistake on his part, for anyone with a modicum of intelligence would have known better than to treat Lady Fire with disrespect in the very presence of her father. Fire had pulled Small quickly to the side, because she’d known what was coming. First Cansrel had caused Cutter to grovel, and apologise, and weep. Then he’d caused him to believe himself to be in agonising pain from imaginary injuries. Finally he’d switched to the real thing, kicking Cutter calmly in the groin, repeatedly, until Cansrel was satisfied he understood.
Small, in the meantime, had gone quiet at Fire’s first touch, and had done everything, from that first moment, that she had ever asked.
Today as she stood at Small’s side, dressed warmly against the dawn, Archer came to her and offered his hand. She shook her head and grabbed the pommel one-handed. She pulled herself up, catching her breath against the pain.
She’d had only seven days of rest, and her arm, uncomfortable now, would be aching by the end of this ride. But she was determined not to be treated like an invalid. She sent a swelling of serenity to Small, a gentle plea for him to ride smoothly for her today. It was another reason Small and she were well-suited to each other. He had a warm, receptive mind.
‘Give my regards to the lady queen,’ Lord Brocker said from his chair in the middle of the footpath. ‘Tell her, if the day ever comes when she has a moment of peace, to come visit an old friend.’
‘We shall,’ Archer said, pulling on his gloves. He reached behind his head to touch the fletchings of the arrows on his back, as he always did before mounting his horse - as if he had ever once in his life forgotten his quiver - and then swung himself into his own saddle. He waved the guards forward, and Fire behind them. He fell into place behind Fire, and they were off.
They rode with eight soldiers. It was more than Archer would have taken had he gone alone, but not many more. No one in the Dells travelled with fewer than six others, unless he was desperate or suicidal or had some perverse reason for wanting to be attacked by footpads. And the disadvantage of Fire’s presence, as an injured rider and a popular target, was nearly negated by her ability to sense both the proximity and the attitude of the minds of approaching strangers.
Away from home, Fire did not have the luxury of avoiding the use of her mental power. Generally, minds did not draw her attention equally unless she was looking for them. A mind’s palpability depended on its strength, its purpose, its familiarity, nearness, openness, awareness of her presence, and a host of other factors. On this journey she must not allow anyone to slip her notice; she would search the surroundings constantly and, if she could, take hold of every mind she encountered until she was sure of its intentions. She would hide her own mind with extra care from the recognition of monster predators. The roads were too dangerous otherwise, for everyone.
Queen Roen’s fortress was a long day’s ride away. The guards set a brisk pace, skirting the edges of the town, close