Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(110)

Or worse, waiting to execute me right here.

I limp to the horses, who’ve calmed somewhat, sweat dried into streaks along their flanks. They’re narrow driving horses, bred for harness instead of saddle, and I spare a moment to worry the animals aren’t broke for riding at all. I suppose I’ll find out in a moment. The bay gelding seems less flighty, so I adjust the bridle to remove the blinders, then use the dagger to cut the reins to riding length, knotting them together. I’m left with several feet of leather, which I loop into a breastplate of sorts, tying it in place at the horse’s withers. Bareback, it’ll give me something to grip if I need it.

A branch breaks somewhere in the woods, and I freeze.

I wait an eternal moment, but nothing follows.

If the night patrol is close, I don’t want Saeth to have to waste time prepping the other animal. I make quick work of the other bridle, then fashion another workable breastplate.

My leg aches something fierce.

I think of Corrick and my chest tightens.

That ship is a farce, Arella said. It’ll never reach Ostriary.

Does she know? Or was she playing to the crowd? There’s no way to be sure.

I take a slow breath and force my thoughts into order. I can’t help my brother if I’m dead. I need to get on this horse so I’m not trapped.

I grit my teeth. I haven’t made a bareback mount in years. I grab hold of the reins and the straps of leather, then stride forward to swing aboard.

The horse shies sideways. My injured leg gives out. I end up in the underbrush.

I swear with words I’d never use in the palace.

My second attempt ends the same way. Maybe I should just start walking.

My third attempt gets me on the animal’s back. I’m so relieved about that that I nearly forget everything else I know about riding. The gelding has clearly had enough of this nonsense, because he jerks his head down, rounding his back to buck. I grab hold of the reins and get his head up. He sidesteps, pawing at the underbrush.

“Easy,” I say, a bit breathless, hooking a hand under the strap in case I need it. His tail swishes, but he stands, chewing the bit in irritation.

“This is no treat for me either,” I say, but I stroke a hand along the crest of his neck, and the horse sighs.

Another branch snaps, and I take up the reins again. Both horses whip their heads up this time, ears pricked. I nudge my heels into the gelding’s ribs, ready to gallop—or fall—but Saeth appears between the trees, and I let out a sigh of relief. He looks startled to find me on a horse, but I don’t wait for questions.

“I sent the others into Artis,” I say. “We should follow. Did you find food?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good. You can’t call me that now, Saeth.”

He inhales, looking confounded for a moment, probably because he can’t really call me Harristan either. When I was a boy, sneaking into the Wilds with Corrick, I used the name Sullivan, and I almost give it to Saeth. But my tongue stalls. For some reason, just now, that feels … special. A name to be shared between my brother and me.

Cory. Please be well. My chest threatens to tighten, and I shake off the sentimentality. I turn my thoughts to the present.

I think of Violet. I think of Maxon.

“Call me Fox,” I say. I nod at the chestnut. “Mount up. We need to move.”



Saeth was able to find strips of dried beef that have been rolled in cinnamon and nutmeg, along with two peaches that are only a little bruised. I haven’t eaten anything since the nut bread that Maxon prepared, so I want to inhale it all, but I offer half to Saeth.

He looks surprised by that, a frown line appearing between his eyebrows. “No. Thank you.”

I hold out a peach and two strips of beef anyway. No matter how hungry I am, I can’t afford weak guards. “Eat,” I say. “We don’t know when we’ll be able to find more.”

He obeys. We ride slowly and stay off main paths, crossing creeks and doubling back time and again so our tracks can’t be followed. My trousers are still tacky with blood, especially since I reopened the wound trying to get on the horse. I wouldn’t be recognized as the king, but an injury like this would definitely draw attention.

It’s the guard at my side that’s more worrisome, especially if rumor spreads that the king was traveling with two palace guards. In the dark, it might not be a concern, but in the bright light of day, Saeth is just too conspicuous. He left most of his livery at the workshop, but his trousers are the rich blue of his uniform, his polished black boots gleaming in the sunlight. Each weapon bears gold filigree, right down to the hilt of his daggers and the buckle of his belt.

I consider Quint, in his palace finery, and Thorin, who’d be attired similarly to Saeth. Maybe they didn’t make it very far at all. Worry begins to crowd into my thoughts, and I force it away.

As we get closer to Artis, we begin to see people through the trees, families and workers going about their business.

“Stick to the shadows,” I say.

“Yes, Your—”

I give Saeth a sharp look, and he breaks off, then gives me a nod. “Yes, Fox.”

Eventually, we near an area where the Wilds begins to give way to the sprawling main city of Artis. The bulk of the sector is on the other side of the Queen’s River, but there are enough people here to form a bustling city. Men and women come and go along the wall, children in tow, squalling infants strapped to the chests of women who are burdened with parcels or sacks. Larger carriages and wagons rattle along the road, too, and I carefully watch for any vehicles that might originate from the Royal Sector, but so far I haven’t seen anyone.