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made for smiling. He wore the uniform of the Own: loose dark trousers, chain mail shirt, blue tunic with silver trim, and a white burnoose. The crimson band around his biceps showed a dark circle with a black dot at its center: a sergeant’s badge.
    “I see you’ve still got your overgrown horse,” he remarked with a nod toward Peachblossom. “I was new to the King’s Own that day we saw you tilting. Everybody but me bet you’d come straight off his back when he reared. I won a meal at The Jugged Hare because I bet you’d stay on.” He bowed to Kel as she wiped her fingers on the handkerchief she kept tucked in her boot top. “Domitan of Masbolle at your service, Squire Keladry. Your page-sponsor was a certain mad cousin of mine.”
    She squinted to get a better look at him. His eyes - impossible to tell their color at the moment - were framed by wide, arched brows and set over a long nose slightly wide at the tip. It was Neal’s nose, on someone else’s face. Kel smiled. “You’re related to Neal?”
    “Sadly, yes. I call him Meathead. Have you ever met anyone so stubborn?” Domitan tucked his big hands into his breeches pockets with a grin.
    “He can be difficult, um… Sergeant?”
    He shook his head. “Technically you’re not in the Own. Besides, he’s written me so much about you I feel like I know you. Call me Dom.” He offered his hand.
    “Kel,” she said, taking it. He gave her a firm squeeze, reassuring, not trying her strength as so many young men did, and let go. She felt breathless and tingly.
    “You sure grew into this bruiser,” Dom remarked. When he offered a hand for Peachblossom to sniff, Kel yanked him back just as the gelding struck. “Oh, I see,” Dom remarked, unruffled. “A testy pony.”
    Kel giggled, then saw that Lord Raoul, Captain Flyndan, and two men, farmers by their clothes, had emerged from the palace. Stablehands brought horses and remounts forward.
    “We’re ready to do business,” Dom remarked. “Welcome to the Own, Kel.” He swung himself onto his saddled mount, a dappled gray gelding.
    Lord Raoul rode over. “All set to give Hoshi a try?” he asked. Kel nodded. “Mount up. Normally our remounts go in a string at the rear - the servingmen lead them with the supply train. We’ll make an exception for Peachblossom. You ride a neck length back on my left, and keep him with you. Behave,” he told Peachblossom, speaking directly to the horse. “Or I’ll muzzle you like a dog.”
    Peachblossom shook his head vigorously. Kel hoped that was restlessness, not disagreement. With no time for another word with him, she gave a silent prayer to any listening gods for his good behavior and swung into the saddle. Hoshi stood patiently as she settled in.
    Kel twisted to look into the carrier behind her saddle. “You have to move,” she told the drowsy sparrows huddled there. “Otherwise Jump will squash you.”
    The birds hopped out. Once the carrier was empty, Kel nodded to Jump: he sprang neatly into the leather box. Hoshi flicked two ears back, then swung them forward again. Not even Jump could shake the mare’s calm.
    “Well, I’m impressed,” drawled Raoul, who had watched. “Come along, Squire Keladry. Time to get your feet wet.”
    Following him to the front of the mounted force, Kel took note of the dogs. Thin, fine-boned greyhounds sat on the ground beside three riders. Four other men rode with terriers in carriers like Jump’s. Six wolfhounds stood beside Captain Flyndan, tails wagging. There was no sign of Third Company’s hunting birds - probably they were in carriers, asleep.
    Lord Raoul faced his men. “Doubtless you know as much as I do,” he said, his calm, steady voice carrying over the fidgets of horses and the creak of leather. The men fell silent the moment he began to speak. “Haresfield in the Royal Forest was attacked by a band of centaurs and humans. We’ve got reports of twenty-three dead. Balim’s squad is there now. Chances are