They’d ridden from the windmill as quickly as the darkness and snow allowed, but a bouncing trot didn’t leave room for conversation. Now that they’d left the road, they allowed the horses to set a slower pace for a breather.

“I give up,” Queen Anouk replied to Runt. “What do they have in common?”

“Nothing! Only the canal rat is a commoner!” Runt cackled.

“That was definitely one of your worse ones, Runt,” Bastiaan said. “I’m common too, remember?”

“You’re a Talented.”

“I was born common as well,” Anouk said.

“But you’re queen now, so it doesn’t count!”

Bastiaan rolled his eyes. “Any joke that needs explaining is already a failure.”

“How long did you say this journey would take?” Anouk whispered with a laugh.

“Three days, as long as the horses and our stamina hold.” Mainly her stamina. Runt and Bastiaan were used to long, fast rides, pushing the limits of time in more ways than one. “Do you know if the king and his militairen were on foot or on horses?”

“Horses, of course.”

It was a thin hope. “When did they leave the schloss?”

“A day and a half ago.”

Bastiaan nearly kicked Sterk back into a canter. If they didn’t beat the king to the Well, this journey was a waste. He had spent hours studying his memory of the council meeting and how King Mattias had said he would offer Banes to all his subjects. How could he do that? He couldn’t bring every person in Winterune to submerge themselves in the secret pool of Nightwell water. And revealing the location of the Nightwell wouldn’t achieve his goal either.

Something was missing. Bastiaan could see the individual leaves of the dilemma, but there was no trunk to ground these thoughts into a clear picture. It was infuriating.

Anouk nudged her horse nearer to his until they matched pace. “Don’t let me slow you down. I want to reach the Well before my husband as much as you do. I’d rather not have to beg him for the water.”

“Is that the reason you’re trying to get there before him?” Pride didn’t seem like a motivator for her.

“I’ve heard of a voice in the water. I wish to speak with it.”

“There is a voice.” But more than that. A poultice upon the wounded heart, a salve for the soul. Something about the Well water had felt continuously alive inside his body, inside his Talent Mark. Anouk sought the voice—had faith that it held answers or guidance or something to satisfy her purpose. And if Bastiaan knew anything about the Well of Talents, it was that the water honored that sort of seeking heart.

“Prepare yourself then. We’ll water the horses at the river ahead.” Bastiaan gestured to a copse of trees. “Then we’ll ride so hard you’ll be too sore to dismount.”

*  *  *