Dom Carlo’s kindly voice interrupted her reverie.
“So you have saddled Longlegs for me? Thank you, my lad.”
“She is a beautiful animal,” Romilly said, giving the mare a pat.
“You have an eye for horses, I can see; not surprising, if you are of MacAran blood. This one is from the high plateaus around Armida; they breed finer horses there than anywhere in the mountains, though I think sometimes they have not quite the stamina of the mountain-bred. Perhaps it does her no kindness, to take Longlegs on these trails; I have often thought I should return her to her native country and get myself a mountain-bred horse, or even a chervine for this wild hill country. Yet-” his hand lingered on the glossy mane, “I flatter myself that she would miss me; and as an exile, I have not so many friends that I would be willing to part with one, even if she is a dumb beast. Tell me, my boy; you know horses, do you think this climate is too hard on her?”
“I would not think so,” Romilly said after a minute, “Not if she is well fed and well cared for; and you might consider wrapping her legs for extra support on these steep paths.”
“A good thought,” Dom Carlo agreed, and beckoned to Orain; they set about bandaging the legs of their lowlands-bred horses. Romilly’s own horse was bred for the Hellers, shaggy-coated and shaggy-legged, with great tufts of coarse hair around the fetlocks, and for the first time since she had fled from Falconsward, she was glad that she had left her own horse. This one, stranger as he was, had at least borne her faithfully.
After a time they set off, winding downward into the valley, which they reached in time for the midday meal, and then along the gradually broadening, well-travelled road which led into Nevarsin, the City of the Snows.
One more night they camped before they came to the city, and this time, noting what Romilly had done the day before, Orain gave orders to the men that they should groom and properly care for their riding-chervines. They obeyed sullenly, but they obeyed; Romilly heard one of them grumble, “While we have that damned hawk-boy with us, why can’t he care for the beasts? Ought to be his work, not ours!”
“Not likely, when Orain’s already made the brat his own pet,” Alaric grumbled. “Birds be damned – the wretch is with us for Orain’s convenience, not the birds! You think the Lord Carlo will deny his paxman and friend anything he wants?”
“Hush your mouth,” said a third, “You’ve no call to go talking like that about your betters. Dom Carlo’s a good lord to us all, and a faithful man to Carolin, and as for Orain, he was the king’s own foster-brother. Haven’t you noticed? He talks all rough and country, but when he wishes, or when he forgets, he can talk as fine and educated as Dom Carlo himself, or any of the great Hastur-lords themselves! As for his private tastes, I care not whether he wants women or boys or rabbithorns, so long as he doesn’t come after my wife.”
Romilly, her face burning, moved away out of earshot. Reared in a cristoforo family, she had never heard such talk, and it confirmed her opinion that she liked the company of men even less than the company of women. She was too shy, after what she had heard, to join Orain and Dom Carlo where they spread their blankets, and spent that night shivering, crouched among the drowsing stag-ponies for their warmth. By morning she was blue with cold, and huddled as long as she dared near the fire kindled for breakfast, surreptitiously trying to warm her hands against the sides of the porridge-pot. The hot food warmed her a little, but she was still shivering as she exercised and fed the birds – Alaric, still grumbling, had snared a couple of rabbithorns, and they were beginning to smell high; she had to overcome surges of nausea as she cut them up, and afterward she found herself sneezing repeatedly. Dom Carlo cast her a concerned glance as they saddled and climbed on their horses for the last stage of the ride.