CHAPTER 541: TWO TREES FOR ONE (4)

"Gorge gusts," she warned, pointing with her chin. "Wrap your scarf like this." She showed Arielle the twist and tuck so it would not whip, her big hands gentle as she guided the cloth. Arielle copied until Lara nodded. Approval warmed like tea on an empty stomach.

Arielle was not a blade. She decided she didn’t want to be. She was a compass. They seemed to like that. Relief swelled and sat down quietly in her chest, companionable as an old cat.

She checked her kit like a prayer. Waxed ledgers—two, because one would get damp no matter how careful she was. Soil auger wand that looked like a pointer and felt like a promise; the masons had burned her initials into the shaft with a coal nail as a joke and a blessing. Measuring cord, knotted every foot and half-foot, the knots greased so they wouldn’t catch. Sealing wax. Spare quills. A stubby pencil, because pencils forgive haste. Folded placards with simple diagrams so that if she lost her voice, the pictures could talk: a row, a bucket, a sun, a cloud, a hand pinching a bean tip. She tied the satchel flap, patted it twice, and felt ready in a way that had very little to do with silk and everything to do with having thought ahead for strangers.

"Remember to pack your winning—" Josephine began, appearing from nowhere as always, peering over Arielle’s shoulder as if she could see through leather.

"Already done," Arielle said without looking up. Josephine cackled so loudly a groom dropped a currycomb, then blew her a kiss that Arielle pretended not to catch.

Wilhelmina signed the day pass with a crisp hand, sanded it, and passed it over. She did not say be safe. She did not have to. Her eyes said it and then said come back with something useful so I can mock it and then use it anyway, and the set of her mouth said if anything goes wrong I will personally duel the problem. Arielle tucked the pass into the inner pocket beside the button pouch.

Surena walked the line of riders like a shadow measuring shadows and swapped in two scouts without breaking step. She re-buckled a strap, adjusted a hood, and said three words to a boy whose hands were shaking too hard to tie his own knot; the boy’s hands steadied. Surena paused at Arielle’s stirrup. Up close, her eyes were the color of slate just after rain.

"If bored, count riders," Surena murmured, not unkind. "It calms the mind."

"I thought numbers were my problem," Arielle said, because the joke presented itself and it would have been a waste not to use it.

"You like problems that wear saddles," Surena replied, and was gone.

The stable was all breath and leather and the sound of animals talking to each other in simple words. Arielle sneezed in the dust of a sun shaft and flushed for no reason at all. Sigrid handed her a clean cloth with the straight face of a saint who had seen everything twice.

Lyan stood with the black horse, bareheaded, one palm on the stallion’s neck. He spoke low, almost a rumble you felt rather than heard. The horse’s ear flicked and settled like a flag choosing a wind. He rubbed the blaze with a tenderness Arielle recognized from the way he touched hard problems—a gentle pressure that said I see you, do this with me.

He looked up. The light slid along his hair and caught on the notch by his temple where an old scar lived. The stable seemed to narrow around that look. Arielle became very aware of her collar lying neat against her skin, of her braid pinned just so, of the winning set she wore like a piece of private armor, and of the way her pulse had decided to skip a number and then pretend it hadn’t.

His eyes flicked down and back up—so fast. He believed the motion was invisible. It was not. It made her smile into the corner of her mouth where no one could see.

She ran a hand along a pack girth out of habit and felt the stitch give a whisper of complaint. "This will give by mile fifteen," she said before she could stop herself.

Lyan blinked and then grinned at her as if she had just told him the weather tomorrow. "You see everything." He swapped the strap without question and checked the buckle himself.

(Look at you. She notices the small things.)

(That is why the house holds.)

(And also because you keep staring at her collar.)

"I am not," he muttered, too soft for anyone to hear.

Arielle did not hear the voices, but she saw the way he swallowed a smile and pretended he had only been thinking about rope.

Tara swung into her saddle like a cat climbing a sun-warmed wall. "We judge your cooking at camp," she warned Lyan. "Stew is truth."

Sigrid checked Arielle’s stirrup length and then, very quietly so no one would make a joke out of it, said to Arielle, "We’ll make space."

Lara watched them both and let her mouth quirk the smallest amount. Respect granted. It sat between them like a coin neither of them had to touch to believe in.

Lyan patted the saddle in front of him and then behind, thinking for a second, then patted the space behind and looked directly at Arielle. "You’re coming together with me on the horse. Should we go?"

Nerves and delight crackled through Arielle like a sheet hung to dry that suddenly remembered the wind. She set her boot, took his hand, felt the world tilt, and found it steady again with her knee against the saddle and his arm a sure line at her waist.

"Okay—let’s enjoy the trip," she said.

The gate chains rattled, and the banners snapped in the morning breeze as Nightshade, Lyan’s black stallion, stepped into the sunlight. Arielle’s heart skipped a beat, her fingers tightening around the reins as she settled into the saddle behind Lyan. The courtyard buzzed with the rhythm of departure—grooms calling to one another, a cartwheel creaking, the gossip pigeons cooing their latest scandal about dragon eggs. Her cloak caught the light, the wolf-head clasp glinting as if winking at the city they left behind. She felt the weight of her satchel, the waxed ledgers and soil auger wand tucked securely, and the secret silk of her "winning" undergarments, a private talisman of confidence beneath her practical riding skirt.

"Wait," Arielle said, her voice softer than she meant, but clear enough to make Lyan pause. He turned in the saddle, one eyebrow lifting, his scar catching the sun like a river’s edge. "I... I’d like to ride in front. If that’s alright. I want to learn how to handle the horse better." Her cheeks warmed, but she held his gaze, determined to sound more like a stewardess than a nervous girl.

Lyan’s half-smile bloomed, the kind that said he was three steps ahead but happy to let her lead. "Fair enough," he said, his voice warm as the sunlight pooling on the cobbles. "Slide up." He shifted back, making space, and offered a hand to steady her as she maneuvered forward. Tara, Lara, and Sigrid, already mounted on their own horses, exchanged glances. Tara’s brown hair swayed as she tilted her head, a knowing smile curving her lips. Lara’s red braid swung as she leaned forward, her freckled nose crinkling with amusement. Sigrid, her blonde ponytail catching the light, let out a low chuckle, her toned arms relaxed against her axe’s handle.

"Learning to ride, scribe?" Sigrid called, her voice rich with mirth. "Or learning to lead?"

"Both," Arielle shot back, surprising herself with the steadiness in her tone. The mountain women’s smiles widened, a silent approval that made her chest lighten. Lyan’s hands guided her into place, his palms steady but brief on her hips, and then he was behind her, his chest a warm wall against her back. His arms framed her as he took the reins, his breath brushing her ear as he murmured, "Hold here. Light grip, let him feel you’re there."

She nodded, her fingers curling around the leather, feeling Nightshade’s rhythm beneath her. The horse snorted, eager, and she giggled—a small, unguarded sound that felt like a girl sneaking out to meet a prince in a story. Lyan’s warmth seeped through her cloak, solid and reassuring, and she leaned back just enough to feel the steady beat of his heart against her spine. It was ridiculous, she told herself, to feel so giddy, but the sensation was as bright as the morning sun, and she let it stay.

The road stretched ahead, a ribbon of packed earth winding through rolling hills dusted with late-summer green. The air carried the scent of clover and warm stone, with a faint tang of pine from the forest edging the horizon. Wildflowers nodded in the breeze—purple vetch and yellow gorse, their colors vivid against the gray of distant mountains. A hawk circled above, its cry sharp and free, and Arielle tilted her head to watch, her spectacles catching a glint of light. The world felt vast, open, like a ledger with no margins, and she drank it in, her hands steady on the reins as Lyan’s voice guided her gently.

"Ease up on the left,"