Beside her, Kirgan Marrakai nodded, no hostility now in those green eyes. “You ride very well, my lord,” he said, as they turned the first corner of the palace wall. Then he flushed, having revealed he hadn’t expected her expertise.

“A fine horse,” Dorrin said. “Kieri always preferred Marrakaibred horses. What’s his name?” She smiled and nodded at the crowd lining the street, held back by Royal Guard troops.

“Firebrand, my lord,” he said. “Stable name’s Cherry.”

Ahead of them, the king touched spurs to his horse, and the gray curvetted; Duke Mahieran, just behind him, did the same. The red stallion jigged; Dorrin lifted her hand slightly, shifted her weight, and the stallion lowered his haunches, bent to the right, and began the half-parade. Beside her, Kirgan Marrakai did the same to the left, and the two of them formed a V behind the king and his uncle for a dozen steps before shifting to haunches out. As long as she kept him busy, Dorrin found, the red stallion steadied: supple, obedient to the lightest aid. She doubted anything similar would work with the peers.

By the time the procession had completed its tour of the city bounds and returned to the palace, the stallion had relaxed. Not so the peers, other than Kirgan Marrakai and Duke Serrostin; the others’ glances were brief and ranged from anxious to hostile. The palace servants, too, as they helped the peers change from riding boots to court shoes, avoided her gaze. The same tiring maid who had giggled while adjusting Dorrin’s court dress that morning now seemed terrified of her. No doubt the woman had heard that Dorrin was one of the dreaded magelords. Dorrin longed to get away, but law and custom decreed she must attend the coronation banquet.

In the anteroom of the banquet hall, she was surprised to see Duke Marrakai slouched in a chair; she’d assumed he was still in bed, under a physician’s care. Dorrin, uneasily aware of the Marshal-General’s displeasure and the fears of some of the other peers, stepped aside to let the others talk to him first, but he gestured to her.

“Come closer,” he said. “You were Phelan’s captain; I hold no grudge against you for your name.”

“You are kind, my lord,” Dorrin said, wondering why he said nothing about the attack in the courtyard. “But how do you feel?”

“They tell me I fell and hit my head—what a thing to happen on a coronation day, eh? But a head as hard as mine does not crack easily, whatever the physician says. I have a headache, that’s all. Anyone might.”

Dorrin looked at him closely, concerned. Despite his words, he looked the color of new cheese, and his gaze wavered. She leaned close. “My lord duke, with no intent to argue, I have seen soldiers take such a blow, who wore helmets. They needed to lie quiet; our physicians insisted on it. By your leave, I would have you obey the physician; you are not yet well.”