Four more Royal Guardsmen arrived with the two led horses, a roan and a gray; they carried fresh saddlecloths. With them came a Marshal. The instructor checked the saddlecloths, the saddles, and then drew aside to speak to the Marshal while the two saddled their new mounts.

“You will be knights someday,” the instructor said, when he returned to the group. “Ride like that, through the city, and not like chattering boys.”

Camwyn felt no desire to chatter; Aris rode beside him, grim-faced now, looking ready to kill someone. He was reminded that Aris’s older brother, Juris, was his own older brother’s best friend. Instead of talking, Camwyn sat tall, imagining himself as Camwyn Dragonmaster, for whom he’d been named. Of course, he was Girdish, but the images of Camwyn, sword in hand, confronting the Father of Dragons were far more dramatic than those of Gird with his cudgel. He scolded himself for daydreaming, hoping no one had noticed, and watched the people in the streets as they passed. Was one of them a Verrakai agent? Servant? What would he do if someone rushed at him?

In the royal mews, the stablemaster met them. “My lords—I had no idea—”

“Enough,” the instructor said. “These boys have other lessons now. Let them go, and then we’ll talk.”

Camwyn wanted to stay and listen, but his escort and his tutor were there as well, and Duke Marrakai had already collected Aris.

“To the Council with you all,” Marrakai said. He looked as grim as Aris. “We want it all down before you’ve forgotten or talked each other into something that you didn’t see.”

Camwyn had found Council meetings boring before, the times his brother the crown prince made him sit through one. He’d not been to one since the assassination attempt. This one proved different. He and his friends were held in an anteroom and ordered not to talk, while one by one they went in to tell their stories to the Council. Those who finished were whisked away by tutors, older siblings, parents before they could report on what it had been like.

Camwyn expected he and Aris would be first, since their horses had been poisoned, but instead they were last, and Camwyn went in before Aris. He had to relate the entire morning’s events, from waking up to the instructor killing his horse.

“Are the horses usually saddled and waiting in their stalls?” asked Duke Mahieran.

“No, sir,” Camwyn said. The Duke usually ruffled his hair and called him a young scamp, but today his uncle treated him with cool courtesy. “Since Midwinter, we’ve usually had to groom and saddle them ourselves, but sometimes the grooms do it.”

“So you were not surprised to find the horses ready?”

“Not really. It’s easier that way, anyhow.”

“And did you check the saddle?”

“I tightened the girth before mounting, and looked at the stirrup straps and girth for soundness, but I didn’t feel under the saddlecloth. The horse showed no sign of discomfort; its eyes were bright; its nostrils … everything seemed normal.”