Malik and Ash didn’t possess emotional ties to their mounts the way Amaris did. Their steeds had both been sired by the same highland pony that had fathered half of the horses in Stone, making their horses half-siblings.

When Amaris had asked the boys of their mounts’ names, the young men had informed her they were on mares Nine and Fourteen, respectively.

“Your mare’s name is Nine?”

Ash had shrugged. “Naming can be deeply meaningful, or it can be perfunctory. This one, of course, has the deeply meaningful title of being the ninth horse born to its mother.”

Nine, Fourteen, and Cobb were pleasant road companions and trustworthy horses. She’d have to see if she could do something about the colt and filly naming process when she returned to Uaimh Reev.

Conversations ebbed each night as the sun dipped and their stomachs began to grumble. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of yet another meal of bread, hard-boiled eggs, and hard cheese that awaited them in the saddlebag. Amaris had considered her tiny sachet of salt as valuable as her waterskin. Her assertion had been met with eye rolls at the keep, but Ash and Malik were quick to eat their words as they dipped their bland traveling foods into her salt each meal to make them palatable.

“Shall we?” Malik asked, patting his stomach.

He’d either heard her stomach or read her mind.

They steered their horses from the road and away from prying eyes once more. The woods were filled with toppled trees, thickets, and thorny bushes. Amaris was halfway through a tight cloud of gnats before she began swatting at the air, choking on her tiny, disgusting nemeses. Between the scrapes, scratches, insects, and hunger, they were all feeling relatively soured by the time they made camp.

“I would love to not eat eggs again.” Ash frowned, looking at their meager supplies.

This was something they could agree on. There was leftover bread from the previous village, and if they could catch a rabbit, the hot, gamey sandwiches would be a nice break from whatever hard, sharp white cheese and apples they’d acquired from the last village. While she normally loved cheese, this one was dry and crumbled in a way that made her think she’d rather skip a meal altogether than suffer through another block of the stuff.

Malik insisted he didn’t mind the cheese, but she was sure he only said that because he’d been the one to purchase it. Instead, they split their hunt three ways in search of game, both for efficiency and for safety in case one was to fire an arrow. Enough reevers died at the hands of beasts and men. They didn’t need another in their dwindling league falling to friendly fire over a hare.

She let the men keep themselves occupied as they hunted for supper. She had more important things to do.