“Is he mine now?” she asks the king, who is looking at her with a curious expression Croi doesn’t particularly feel the need to decipher. Croi glances at Ceara and finds her looking over with narrowed eyes and a displeased face.

“Not until you ride him,” the king says. All right, fine. Now that her limbs are almost as long as the Fire Princess’s, Croi is able to get herself on Enbarr’s back easily. The saddle is soft and supple, and when she’s comfortably seated, the sand-horse rises to his feet. She grabs his mane as she wobbles in her seat. Tinder alights on her shoulder, keen and curious. Croi surveys the world around her, satisfied by the loftiness of her current position.

“How do I make him walk?” she asks her other self, because she doesn’t want to ask anyone else.

Try sending him a request to walk through the bond.

Croi finds the bond stretching between her and the sand-horse, a thick thread of amber magick, and sends a mental picture of walking, slowly. Enbarr obeys her thought-request and takes a few steps. Elated, she beams at the world. She will no longer have to hold on to the princess.

“He’s mine now,” she tells the king. From the mutterings of the kin around her, Croi can tell that her words and the way she delivers them are not received well. But what to do? She doesn’t care. Life, she has discovered, is much more livable when your emotions aren’t involved.

“The sand-horse is yours,” the king pronounces, and it becomes fact.

While they were talking, the camp was completely packed up, and after the traditional ritual of gratitude to the earth for shelter, they are on their way. The king is at the head of the procession with the princess beside him. The handmaids and Croi follow with the rest of the Tine fae behind them. The carts containing diminished supplies bring up the rear of the procession. Soldiers are in place all around the group.

“Fiadh,” Tinder says in her ear. Croi doesn’t respond. “Why did the king give you a sand-horse?”

“How could I know the Tine King’s thoughts?” Croi shrugs. “Perhaps he wants me to be his daughter.”

Tinder starts, her eyes flitting from the king on his horse to Croi. She leans closer and asks in a whisper, “Really?”

Croi snorts. “Do you really think I’m that lovable?”

“No,” Tinder replies immediately.

Hey.

“How rude,” Croi says with a sniff. “Now that I’m the owner of a sand-horse, you should be kinder to me. Who knows, I might be a princess tomorrow.”

“Being a princess is not a lot of fun,” Tinder offers, a glum look on her face.

“How would you…?” Croi’s mouth drops open. “Are you a princess?”

Not another one!

Tinder ducks her head, blushing. “I didn’t plan to be one! I’m just the youngest daughter of Titania, the queen of the pixies.”

“Youngest? How many siblings do you have?” Croi asks warily.