Assassin In Training #3
The power of the sigil grows as I move forward, a subtle steadiness guiding my balance. I extend my hands, feeling the air, trusting the mark etched into my flesh as I make my way across the beam.
There’s a tingling sensation and heat as it works its magic.
Thankfully, the steady noise of the men and animals masks my movement. Even so, I tread carefully. The gripping rubber I applied to the soles of my boots helps silence each step I take on the beam.
I pass a wide section where cows are being milked, their low, patient sounds blending with the soft clink of pails.
Beyond them are the chickens, crowded inside a coop with straw spilling from its doorway.
A half dozen wander freely nearby, pecking at scattered feed the workers spread across the ground.
The sheep come next. Their thick wool coats press together in the gated enclosure, the space too small for their number. They bleat softly and shift as if agitated. Their bodies are packed shoulder to shoulder.
Above me, a bird nesting in the corner of a higher beam squawks suddenly.
I freeze.
Dropping into a crouch, I remain perfectly still, listening for any change in the rhythm of the stable below. Minutes pass before the bird settles and the sounds of routine resume. Only then do I rise and continue.
At the next crossway, I turn left, keeping close to the outer wall where the shadows gather thickest.
Minutes pass as I search. Finally, I find the White Horseman’s steed in the largest stall near the end.
The moment I approach, the horse—standing at the center of its gilded enclosure—lifts its head. His unnerving pale eyes fix directly on me. A low chuff escapes him, his muscles rippling beneath his sleek hide. Cool ghostlike vapor curls from his nostrils in slow bursts.
He snorts again and shifts his weight, settling into a powerful stance.
Before dropping on the ground from the perch at the top of his stall, I pause and watch him, gauging the danger he might pose to me. He is a magnificent beast, really, but one well-placed kick could easily send me crashing into the wall.
This is why I came prepared.
After steadying my breath, I secure the rope around my waist and fasten the other end to a nearby beam. I slide the satchel from my shoulder and search inside until my fingers close around a carrot. Holding it out where he can see, I wait.
His nostrils flare.
He steps forward, curious, and a small smile tugs at my mouth.
This may just work. There’s a good possibility I might lose a hand for my optimism, but it will grow back, so at least there’s that. However, knowing the white beast can’t kill me still doesn’t make approaching him any less daunting.
The great white beast lifts his head, scenting the air further—testing either me or the offering.
I toss the carrot into the corner of the stall, not far, careful to remain within his sight at all times.
He hesitates, then moves toward it with cautious steps.
When his lips curl back, his teeth show—large, blunt, and powerful enough to crush bone.
I grab the rope and start lowering myself down to the floor, careful not to startle him. The last thing I want is to provoke his temper.
My boots touch the straw with a soft rustle.
He tenses instantly.
His head lifts and drifts toward me, ears pricked forward. Muscles flex along his flank, and his tail thrashes through the air. A harsh, displeased sound rumbles from deep in his throat.
Slowly, carefully, I untie the rope from my waist. From my satchel, I pull out another carrot and hold it out to him. He withdraws instead, taking two deliberate steps away. I press a finger to my lips in a silent attempt to soothe him.
This yields no change, so I try something that helped with the younger girls in the Order. A hymn surfaces in my mind, slow and melodic, and I let the sound slip free, a low hum that barely whispers past my lips.
Miracle of all miracles, it works. He nears and nips the carrot from my hand.
Trepidation tries to take hold of me, but I push it down. I’m doing this. With the Weaver of War getting closer by the day, it is not enough that I learn to ride; I must ride well. And I must have a beast capable of matching the others in speed and one who won’t falter in battle.
The White Knight is already aware of my presence. I believe he has been for quite some time. More than once, he paused mid-speech when his gaze landed on me. But like me, he’s kept his distance and only watched me from afar.
He remains safely behind iron-barred windows, sheltered within the heavily guarded, pristine building on the hill. But this will draw him out and give me my first true chance to test myself against one of them.
It’s time.
Time to stop hiding in the shadows. Time to make my presence not just known, but to see if I’m anywhere near ready to face more than one Horseman. Because soon there will be two of them.
The horse slowly calms. Tension drains from his body. Another breath leaves him, and again pale vapor curls out from his nose. I hand over another carrot carefully to keep my fingers away from his mouth.
Then I reach out and run my hand down his flank, feeling the powerful movement beneath his skin. He stills momentarily, but doesn’t pull away. His hide is soft beyond reason, smooth as silk over dense muscle.
I spend long minutes letting him grow accustomed to my presence, learning him as he learns me, and I discover one shocking detail. He is a she, and I don’t know why it takes me by such surprise, but it does.
When she finishes the third carrot, she turns and nudges my satchel with her nose, even nipping at the edge in search of more.
I gently shoo her away. The remaining treats I have need to last a while longer.
It’s a long journey back, and I don’t want her turning on me when I can no longer bribe her with food.
Footsteps quickly approach just beyond the stall. I go completely still, as does the horse, as if listening in.
“Have you fed her yet?” a voice asks. “Cleaned out the stall? You know how he is about that.”
Another voice answers. His closeness has me holding my breath. “No. I was hoping Pollock would come down and do it himself tonight. The damn thing hates me, I swear.”
“Heard she bit you.”
“Yeah, the fucker. Look at this—got a hold of my shoulder.”
Fabric rustles. One of them curses under his breath, followed by a low, uneasy chuckle.
“Would you look at that. She left fucking teeth marks.”
“The very reason I’m not going back in there unless I have to.”
“Well, it’s gotta be done. Wouldn’t wait on Pollock either. He’s usually pretty low-key after his speeches, and word is the council was heading into the war room afterward to discuss more strategy.”
Another curse. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see to it then.”
“I’d help you out, man, but I’m leavin’ now. Got a slot booked for a little one-on-one time down at the tavern with Mable.”
“You dirty dog.”
A chuckle fades as boots scrape away across the stone. Then silence. A heavy breath just beyond the stall. Metal clinks. Another. The latch slides free with a dull scrape, and the door creaks outward on dry hinges.
“Listen, you brute. You—”
The moment the guy sees me, his words die off, and his eyes widen. I’m already gripping the beast's mane in my fist and vaulting onto her back. She stomps her feet, then rears slightly, muscles bunching like coiled iron. When she lands, her hooves strike the packed earth with a violent thud.
I clamp my thighs tight around her side and lean low over her neck, cheek brushing hot, living muscle. Her skin twitches beneath me.
Bareback on a creature this size is madness.
But I have no choice.
I press my heels into her sides and click sharply at the corner of my mouth, praying instinct—and research—are enough.
She bolts forward. We crash through the doorway in a blur of motion.
The man barely has time to shout before she knocks him to the side, driving him hard against the frame with a sickening thud before he collapses to the floor.
The air fills with the sharp scent of sweat and hay as she takes off toward the entrance. Thankfully, ahead, the doors stand open. Guards hold the entrance for a passing worker, unaware of what bears down on them.
Knowing the opportunity will vanish in seconds, I urge the horse faster.
I am not prepared for the violent burst of speed that follows.
Power detonates through her stride. Her muscles surge beneath me like an unholy storm that’s just been unleashed. The stable blurs into streaks of shadow and lantern light. I slip sideways, nearly thrown, and clutch desperately at her coarse strands of hair to drag myself upright.
Shouts erupt behind us.
A man lunges from the side and seizes my pant leg. The sudden pull nearly wrenches me free. I kick wildly, heel connecting with bone. He howls and loses his grip, skidding across the dirt as we thunder past.
The guards hesitate to fire their weapons, but their voices rise in panicked cries.
“Close the doors!”
“Stop her!”
It’s too late for that.
The beast tramples anything in her path—hooves striking with bone-jarring force, the ground trembling beneath each impact. Men with terror in their eyes dive aside, bodies colliding with stalls in their race to escape her path.
The guards at the entrance glance up to see us charging toward him. They abandon the door and jump in the opposite direction.
We burst into the open night, and cold air immediately lashes against my face. Elation burns in my chest. Holy Mary, Mother of Grace, I actually did it. I stole the White Night’s horse.