The Gates of Tarlin
Thalia glared at them with a rigid expression. “What are you staring at? I didn’t hang myself out here for your entertainment.”
At her venomous words, the men who had been clutching their bowls and blinking in confusion awkwardly looked away. Thalia snorted loudly for all to hear, shoved Barcas’s arm aside, and limped toward the front of the carriage. Barcas followed and caught her by the elbow. She turned to him with a tense face.
A proper noblewoman would have fainted from the shock or at least averted her eyes from the corpses with dignified composure. Was he about to reprimand her for behaving so unbecomingly as the Grand Duchess? She regarded him with wary suspicion, yet Barcas only turned her gently around.
“From here onward we travel on horseback.”
Before she could recover from the unexpected command, he guided her toward the line of waiting horses. Thalia spoke in a rush. “I can’t ride!”
“There is no need for concern, Your Highness. You will ride with me.”
At his light whistle, Tork lifted his head from the grass and came trotting forward, black mane streaming. Thalia stared at the gray warhorse—built like a creature forged of steel—as though it were some monstrous beast. Tork was nothing like the showy Nornek blood-sweat horse Gares liked to parade about. Larger than any ordinary thoroughbred, with the wild temperament of a steppe stallion and an arrogance that dismissed every living thing except Barcas, the horse was every bit as fierce as his master cherished him to be.
Thalia had always loathed the savage creature Barcas doted on. The feeling, it seemed, was mutual. The moment the stallion caught sight of her he snorted, and she spun away in panic—only to be caught again by Barcas’s grip on her arm.
“Let go! I’m riding in the carriage!”
“The road ahead is rough. The carriage will shake you apart before half a day is done.”
“I’d rather collapse than climb onto that filthy, stinking beast!”
A few easterners saddling their mounts nearby exchanged disbelieving glances. The notion that anyone could despise horses was clearly beyond their comprehension. A people mad for horses, indeed. Thalia clenched her teeth. “Are you going to release me or not?”
Barcas exhaled once, then lifted her bodily into the saddle. Thalia shrieked and flung herself forward, clutching desperately at Tork’s neck. Barcas swung up behind her and drew her rigid body back against his chest. Shame forgotten, she locked her arms around his waist, knees trembling at the certainty that the horse would hurl her to the ground at any moment.
“P-put me down.”
“Lean back and rest. I will not let you fall.”
Thalia tilted her chin high and glared at him with all the venom she could muster. She longed to slap him, yet dared not move for fear Tork would bolt. Through gritted teeth she forced out each word. “I said put me down this instant!”
Barcas ignored her and flicked the reins. Thalia snapped her mouth shut, terrified she might bite her own tongue. The world swayed with every stride. A faint dizziness rose; she squeezed her eyes shut. From close beside her came a familiar voice.
“All preparations are complete. Shall we depart at once?”
It was Daren. Barcas gave him a brief nod. “Split the men. Half ride with me; the rest follow with the supply wagons.”
The cavalry moved as one. Thalia cracked her eyelids just enough to watch, then spotted several more corpses strung up at the edge of the village square and instinctively shrank back. Barcas shifted to block her view.
“Do not look.” His voice was low and firm against her ear. He turned the horse’s head. “They raided this village more than once. The display is meant to ease the villagers’ anger and warn other raiders—not for idle spectacle.”
Thalia offered no reply. Barcas studied her silent, tightly pressed lips for a moment, then urged the horse up the slope. A wind carrying the scent of grass swept over them, threaded with the faint cries of beasts that had echoed through the night. An idle, foolish thought drifted through her mind: Would those sinners be reborn as beasts someday and sing for someone? Or perhaps… one day, even I… She gazed at the vivid green forest ahead, then shook the hollow notion away with a bitter smile.
The domain tour was nearing its end. After visiting every village, large and small, across the eastern and western territories, the cavalry turned north. Following the river, they finally reached their last destination: Tarlin. Beyond the horizon rose the imposing sandstone walls, and the riders sent up a jubilant roar.
“We’ll sleep soundly tonight, at least.” Daren slowed his mount and called out cheerfully. Barcas made no answer. Instead he turned to survey the column behind him. Among the long train of supply wagons, the luxurious travel carriage stood out. On the roughest stretches he had kept Thalia in the saddle with him, but her strength and courage were so slight that even two hours proved too much. The moment they left the worst terrain behind, he had returned her to the carriage. Better she endure the swaying motion under the influence of a sleeping draught than suffer further. She was likely still half-drugged and fighting nausea even now.
Barcas watched the curtained window a moment longer, then moved to the head of the column. He needed to reach their destination quickly so she could rest properly. He spurred his horse forward. The city walls drew rapidly nearer. Raising one arm, he signaled; the cavalry behind unfurled the black-horse banners high. The iron-bound gates swung open, revealing the bustling city beyond.
“You have traveled far—welcome!” City guards lined the main avenue to greet them. Barcas acknowledged them with a slight nod. “Who governs this city?”
“Lord Temuran, Your Grace. Appointed directly by your father.” The middle-aged captain of the guard answered evenly. “His Lordship’s health is poor at present; he is recuperating at Tarlin Castle. He sends his apologies for being unable to greet you in person.”
Barcas regarded the fortress rising at the city’s heart. Impressive at a glance, yet clearly too small to house hundreds of knights. He turned to Daren. “Leave only a minimal escort. The rest must find separate lodgings—see if an entire inn can be taken.”
“Understood.” Daren departed with a dozen elite knights and Lucas Laedgo Seorkan, heading for the outskirts.
Barcas glanced at his younger brother, who had grown visibly thinner over the past weeks. “Stop lingering at the rear. Come here.”
“I should stay with Daren at the inn—”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
Lucas approached with a sullen expression. Barcas regarded him coldly for a moment, then addressed the guard captain once more. “Lead on.”
“Ah… this way, please.”
They entered the inner city. A broad square and the great fortress came into view. Barcas dismounted and walked to the carriage that had halted at the edge of the open ground. He opened the door carefully. Inside, a woman lay slumped against the seat. He climbed in and lifted her, supporting her back. Stirring from a light sleep, she rubbed her eyes and murmured in a drowsy, nasal voice.
“…Are we there?”
“Yes. We have only just arrived. I will carry you—rest a little longer, Your Highness.”
Sliding his other arm beneath her knees, he lifted her feather-light body. For once she did not protest or insist on walking; instead she quietly looped her arms around his neck.