It didn’t take me long to discover Duke Chapman didn’t have the heart to sell or discard any of my old tack. My saddles, chaps, stirrups, reins and bridles were piled up and stored in a forgotten corner of a shed. Nikolas mumbled something about he swore that stuff was for the Prince, but when the Duchess agreed I could keep or sell whatever I wanted from the pile, he left me alone to dig through it all. By the time I picked out the large pads and saddle meant for the Percheron draft horse I rode in winter, a crowd had gathered. Duke and Duchess Chapman, and about four workers lined the corral to see how I would tame the newly named Basque.

The Nivernais stood still as if a statue as I lugged the weight of the padding and saddle across his back. With another handful of sugar cubes, I had him haltered and bridled. Unsure of how tame he had been before me, I took my time rubbing down his shoulders and legs until I could pull up and check the hoof and horseshoes. Again, everyone was holding their breath as I went to check the rear shoes. My hand glided with ease over his rump, his skin taut, hair smooth, and muscles like a solid clay mold. Basque flicked his tail, slapping my face and snorting. I gave him a look and he relented to allowing me to check his back feet.

“Is this your work on the shoes, Nikolas?” I was glad to be walking away, the horse’s hooves were as big as my head. “If so, you did an amazing job. Best I’ve seen.”

“Yea, that’s my handiwork. He’s too big to let them go bad.” Duke Chapman was nudging Nikolas’s arm and he blushed with pride. “Be a shame to see him go lame over a bad shoe. Even if he’s got a nasty temper.”

Nodding, I tugged and check the straps under and across his belly and chest. The stirrups were lowered but it was still a long way off the ground. I inhaled, holding my breath as I nearly hit my knee to my chin placing a foot in the cradle. It took a few hops before the muscles in my leg pulled the rest of my body up. Swinging my leg over, Basque sidled. Shushing him, he shook his head and huffed. I let myself sit fully in the saddle, my thighs aching from how wide he was under me.

“We taught him how to carry a rider, he should know how to do this.” Duke Chapman raised his pipe at me. “Congratulations, normally he kicks us off a few times before letting us settle in the saddle.”

Everyone burst into laughter and I shot him a look. This wasn’t the reassuring news I wanted. Squeezing my legs, clicking my tongue on my teeth, he trotted around the corral. His head was high and his muscles twitched under me. He wanted to cut lose, I could feel the unsteady jerking of Basque’s desire to break into a gallop and let his muscles stretch. Pulling the reigns up, he stumbled to a stop, snorting in disapproval with ears flicking back.

“Is it still legal to break into a gallop down the main road?” My cheeks were aching from my grin. I haven’t done this in over ten years and I’ve missed it.

“Yea, but I wouldn’t do it with–” Duke Chapman dropped his pipe, Basque leaping in response to my legs squeezing around him.

“HAH!” Slapping the reigns on Basque’s shoulder sent him in a longer stretch.

With little effort, the Nivernais launched himself over the corral railing. It took every muscle in my legs and arms to not fly off backwards while keeping my hat in place. The ground thudded under his weight, a plume of dirt and dust trailing behind as I urged him to gallop down to the gates. The guards there startled at the approaching black tank and one fell to the ground with terror on his face. With little signal from me, Basque came to a stop. Snorting and flicking his tail, his feet danced and muscles relished in the burst of energy he had been allowed to release. I fought to turn him around and we raced back to where the stables lay just before the uphill climb. Again, he followed my signals as if I had trained with him directly, paying attention to every shift, pull, and squeeze whether it be my body or the reigns. They had worked him harder than normal, perhaps hoping to make him a more appealing buy.

“I thought he’d come back without you like he’s done a million times before,” laughed Nikolas. “I bet the guard down there wet his pants seeing him galloping down the street again.”

“That explains why he tripped over his feet.” Laughing with everyone, I decided it was time we parted ways. “I have much to do and the sky is turning already. I’ll see you all around.”

“Glad to have you back, Danny.” This time Duchess Chapman spoke up. “This place doesn’t feel right without its… without you.”

I heaved a sigh, giving her a knowing glare. Tugging the reigns, I rode off to the market. The sun was setting fast and I had little time to finish what I wanted to achieve with the money in my pocket. Passing the fabric stall, I had a more important task to address. John’s back wasn’t healing right and medicine would be needed to stave off fever or worse, infection. Tying Basque to the hitching post, he gulped the water in the complimentary trough. My thighs ached from the ride, and the drop back to earth was further than I expected, making me stumble. Leaning on his shoulder, I caught my balance, he flicked an ear as if to say, are you kidding me?

Ignoring Basque, I pushed through the door of the old shop. Inside it was musky, dark, and the smell of herbs and medicines stung my eyes. Fighting through it all, I found the counter and the basket displaying heaps of dried herbs. There between them was a tiny bell and I rung it. Something banged beyond where I stood and I heard the woman cursing. Hobbling out, her maroon eyes took me in with caution. She sat on her stool and her patchwork skirt fell to her ankles with tattered edges from dragging the ground. Her bodice was patterned with stitching I hadn’t seen since the paintings on the walls in the King’s mansion. The three-knot braid had a long, free-flowing tail of curls marking her lower-class, unusual for a shop owner in the city.

“What do you want?” Her voice was like a slap to the face. “It’s almost closing time, spit it out.”

“Buzz buttons, and recommendations for treating burns.”

Her mouth twisted. “Buttons are up on that shelf you passed, good for numbing the tongue, tooth, or skin. I recommend chewing them up or spitting in the medicine bowl, works best in a paste. Speeds up the effect.” I made an unsavory face at the idea. “What sort of burn we talking about?”

Opening my mouth, I paused, grabbing a handful of buzz buttons and responded with, “Blacksmith burnt himself with iron, branded the shit out of his back.”

“Happens.” She shrugged, “Keep it moist. Use fresh water, keep it out of the sun and if he’s willing, out of the heat of a fire. I have something made up, happens a lot with the war picking up again.”

“The war,” I echoed.

She hopped off her stool, sorting through the jars on the shelves behind her.

“Didn’t know it was picking up pace again, been working out in the fields too much.”

“If you ask me, Viceroy Falco’s been at it again.” Reading the scribbles on a jar, she scoffed and placed it back, still searching. “Rumor has it, he’s been dropping a lot of coin on new armor, swords, even assassinations aimed for King Regius and his daughter Sonja in Captiva City. Dangerous stuff. He’s gone mad if he thinks The House’s army is strong enough to march on the capital of The Tower. Oh, here’s what I was looking for!” She spun around and slid the jar across the counter.

Staring at the dusty jar, I pressed to know more. “He’s funding the next wave, not King Traibon?”

Why is my father letting this go so far? He should have stepped in if she knows this much.

“You have been out with your head in the dirt.” I reached for the jar, but she grabbed my wrist. Our eyes met, maroon reflecting maroon in a way that sent chills across my skin and I knew she could see through me. “Your father’s sick, Dante.”

Closing my eyes, defeated, “Does everyone recognize me so easily?”

“How can we not know our prince?” She hissed, letting me go. “Look, I have my suspicions and as a lower class, I slide under Viceroy Falco’s interests. Take this with you too.”

“How sick is he, my father?” She dug through unseen drawers. A pouch of tea and a small vile of strange liquid landed next to the ointment. “What is all of this?”

“Medicine for your father.” She tossed a satchel at me. “Take it all. He's been poisoned, I’m sure of it. It’s like watching your mother all over again and the Rabid Dog has to be behind it all. I’ve only seen King Traibon’s face from afar, but it won’t be long before he’s bed-bound. The sooner you get that antidote to him, the sooner we’ll know for sure.”

Swallowing, my hatred for Falco was building. My mother… poisoned. No one had bothered to say a word to me. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.” She waved me on, “Know you have supporters and we’re damn glad to see you alive and well. If you need anything, just ask for me by name: it’s Madame Plasket at your service, my prince.”

Reaching into the pouch, I dropped twenty gold coin on the counter. “Thank you, Madame Plasket.”

Rolling her eyes, she grabbed her broom up. “Quick, before I have to beat you out of my shop. The sun’s setting and I’m exhausted. Out with you!”

The shop door slammed behind me. Basque stared, curious what I had done to anger her. I climbed back in the saddle with a grunt of discomfort and we headed to the church. My thoughts were twisting into a sea of anger and despair. To humans and non-bloodeaters, Falco was a plague, but now he had turned his decay on his own kind. Emotions tugged at one another, my father was ill, but I promised to keep John safe. I can’t have a keeper and be the prince. This is my life now. I’ll have to make a choice and stand by it.

Basque neighed, signaling we had stopped in front of the church doors. The hitching post was intact, though, if Basque wanted to, he could snap it with a single tug. Looking on either side, the church had only a single hitch in the front. If we wanted this to be a proper church, I would need to make more, and add a trough or barrel for water. Nobility would take wagons and horses to come for the weekly service, but with nothing to cater to the horses it would deter many from bothering to come.

Pushing inside the church, John was on his hands and knees scrubbing the pulpit. Stubborn. It was the word the old man had used to describe John on the nights he spent comparing us, you’re bullheaded, but that boy, he is stubborn made into flesh. The priests and nuns are gonna think a mule came there to train, ha!

“I was going to do that tomorrow,” I scowled down at him.

John rocked back, sitting on his knees wiping sweat from his forehead. “It was bugging me. Couldn’t look at it anymore, didn’t want it here disgracing this place any longer.”

“And what about your back?” My eyes shifted to the black jacket still on and hiding what lay beneath. “Normally you would take that off for something like this.”

He winced, “I outdid myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I managed to get us a workhorse and the carpenter…” My eyes shifted, noticing some of the pews from the junk pile were missing. “Did he come by already?”

“Yup.” John leaned back down, scrubbing the last dark spot with contempt. “He said he’d be back tomorrow to toss the rest. Nice guy, said he remembered when you were younger.” He paused his scrubbing and every muscle in me locked tight. “Do you think he noticed who you were?”

How could he not, if so many who saw me today knew who I am, who I once was? And John, John knows but like Paul said, he wants me to say it, to make it clear from my words. I can’t, it scares the shit our of me to dare say it to him of all people. Stubborn incarnate. Even then, is he really ready to hear me tell him?

The church fell dark, the last slither of sunlight gone. John was on his hands and knees, frozen as he glared at the blood stain. The expression on his face made my heart thud loud in the space between us. I gathered my nerves and marched toward the pulpit. He started scrubbing again, his teeth clenched tight. I couldn’t read if he was mad at me or still brooding about Falco, but it didn’t matter. Leaning down, I gripped his hand making him stop. He jerked twice before facing me again. His lips parted, but no words came out before his face reddened with frustration.

“I don’t know if Falco noticed who I am.” His shoulders slumped at my words, I can’t say it, not yet, not here in this moment. “I do know I need to look at your back. I’ll finish this, you go take off your jacket and shirt. Let me tend to your wounds.” Patting the satchel, he released the brush. “Go cool down and steel yourself. We both know it will hurt like hell to pull off your shirt, let alone for me to clean the burns.”

John launched to his feet and slammed the office door behind him. The stain glass windows glowed with the light of the street lamps flames outside. Grabbing the bucket and brush, I scrubbed away the last of the blood. The podium was gone, I imagine he had the carpenter take it and asked for it to be refinished. Dropping the brush into the dirty water, I marched back outside to slosh it across the street.