“Should I—? Please, sir, let me—”

The instructor’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, young Marrakai; it’s too late. And I’d not risk you—let the Guard remove the tack.”

Camwyn’s own mount, another Marrakai-bred bay, had quieted. He unfastened the girth, pulled the saddle off, and set it on the ground; the horse stood quietly, as it should. He looked at the sleek bay back … with a lump on it. Lump? He reached out to feel it, and just stopped himself. “Sir?” he called.

The instructor rode over, took one look at Camwyn’s horse, and hissed through his teeth. “Don’t move,” he said. Camyn stood still. “It may not have bitten yet,” the instructor said. “Drop the reins, come hold my horse.” The instructor was already dismounted. Camwyn took the reins as the instructor spoke quietly to his horse, drawing a dagger from his belt.

“What are you going to do—” Camwyn began, but the dagger was already moving, the lump flying away from the horse’s back.

“May be too late already,” the instructor said as Camwyn’s horse shuddered and jerked its head; sweat broke out on its neck. The instructor stroked across its back with his gloved hand. The horse flinched, pinned its ears, and cow-kicked. Before Camwyn had time to ask another question, the instructor had cut its throat, dancing away from the flailing hooves as the horse fell, a torrent of blood pouring out.

“Sir!” Camwyn said.

“Poison,” the instructor said. “Yours and Marrakai’s; now we’ll see the others.”

None of the other horses showed any lumps, nor did the saddles or saddlecloths. The instructor checked carefully; the boys tried not to look at the dead horses, or at Camwyn or Aris. Camwyn, still leading the instructor’s horse, walked over to Aris.

“He said poison,” he said.

“I heard.” Aris, usually so ebullient, spoke so low Camwyn could hardly hear him.

“Who would poison a horse?” Camwyn said. “And how?”

Aris swallowed hard before answering. Camwyn realized he was trying not to cry. “Verrakai,” he said. “To kill you, or maybe me, or both. Or because the horses were Marrakai-bred.”

“But they’re all dead,” Camwyn said. “The bad ones, I mean, and Egan’s in prison.”

Aris looked at him. “If they were, our horses wouldn’t be dead. No one else would do it, but one of them or someone they controlled.” A tear rolled down his cheek; he scrubbed it away. “I’m sorry, it’s just—he was my first, that was mine alone.”

“I didn’t know,” Camwyn said.

“I was there at his foaling,” Aris said. “My father—helped me do the things you do with foals, to teach them trust. I was in Fin Panir for most of his training, but when I’d come home, I’d help. And then when I came here—Father let me bring him.”

Camwyn didn’t know what to say. Aris had not been his closest friend, in the group of boys who took instruction with him, and he himself had ridden a succession of palace ponies and horses chosen and trained by someone else. “I’m sorry” was all he could think of.