I reach across the small gap between the two horses and I grab his mane. I make sure his head is pointed where it needs to be. I need the horses to see each other. I need Tornado to see Rocinante. To see me. To know there is nothing to fear.

“What are you doing?” Ana’s shout is nearly as fearful as Tornado’s eyes. I ignore her. If this works, all will be explained.

I can feel the moment the horses connect. The moment when Tornado realizes he isn’t alone, running like a demon out of hell. He is in his herd. He is as safe as we can make him.

“Come on, Roci,” I whisper into my own horse’s mane.

Gentle pressure on the reins and adjustment of my weight in the saddle slows Rocinante down incrementally. The fear has left him. He trusts my lead, and he will follow.

And then, Tornado begins to slow.

His stride shortens to match Rocinante’s. His heaving breath starts to steady. The wild froth of fear begins to quell.

And he finally lets Ana use her reins.

She catches my eye as we canter on, far slower than the unrestrained gallop, but much, much safer.

“Thank you.” Her words are swallowed up by a peal of thunder but I know the shapes those lips make and I hear it all the same.

The rain comes before we reach the caves. It’s sudden and hard and unrelenting. In mere seconds, I am soaked through to the bone, my coat clinging to me, my boots sliding against the leathers of the saddle.

But the horses steady on. Rain is less scary than the crack of thunder, and that holds off, as if the gods of sky and storm have decided to be blissfully generous.

The weather continues its relentless assault as we finally—finally—reach the outcropping. And, as I had wished, there is a network of caves just tall enough to allow a horse through.

I slide off the saddle and lead Rocinante into the nearest one. It won’t be a comfortable night but it might be a dry one.

Ana follows behind, Tornado’s reins in hand. Their iron shoes clomp against the stone, echoing loudly into the cave. It’s slightly larger on the inside than I expected. There are paintings on the walls, crude things, made from mud or blood. Hard to say, but what is clear is that we are not the only ones to seek shelter in this place.

“Well, this is less than ideal,” I grumble. I only half mean it. Any shelter is good shelter right now. But I wouldn’t be Eustaquia de Sonza if I didn’t grumble at least a little at our rather rustic accommodations. Rocinante grumpily paws at the ground, as if annoyed that it’s stone and not grass.