Tygoh pushes his gelding hard, past the edge of town into the broad expanse that surrounds the castle at Erah. His horse is lithe and agile, dark mane parallel to that of his own. Heat seethes up from under him as he barrels through the plains. He can feel the sun pounding off the back of his neck, the wind rushing past his ears.

  Tygoh had been raised from the back of a horse. As a boy, his father had insisted that his first ride be the estate’s greenest gelding, a hulking gray thing with a wild look in its eye. He’s yours,” his father said. “A man should bond with his horse.” On the first trot around the grounds, the animal had spooked at a rustle from the brush, catapulting Tygoh from his seat. His father had chastised him for letting go of the reins. When Tygoh turned eighteen, he had purchased the blood bay gelding racing beneath him now, and he’d own the remarkable beast until it died.

  Gentle leg pressure guides him to the western side of the great castle and a short tug at the reins pulls the gelding to a stop. Tygoh slides from his perch, slips the bit from his horse’s mouth and heaves the saddle off his back, the animal’s sweat coating his forearms. The gelding follows, muzzle at his shoulder, as he treads toward the stables. The young, red-headed stable groom makes his way to the gelding, reaching for the reins. Tygoh glowers at him.

  “Remember to brush him down before stalling him. He won’t oblige unless you do.”

  The boy nods, eyes downcast, frowning at the sand.

  Tygoh deposits his tack and makes his way through the gatehouse, across the courtyard, and up the sandstone stairs to the Guard quarters, taking the steps two at a time. The breeze dries the sweat on his exposed skin, lifting the heat from his bones. Anarah is waiting for him in their room, sitting at the desk in the soft eastern sunlight when he opens the door.

  “Did you find her?” she chimes, looking up from a leather-bound book. Her dirty blonde hair is tucked behind her ears, an unconscious habit when she reads.

  “Yes. In the Anvil.” He unbuckles his scabbard and tosses it on the four-poster bed. “You’re reading? Before a conference?”

  “Of course. Conferences are usually quite serious, and I wish to keep my apprehension at bay for a little while.” Anarah closes her book tenderly, rising to meet him. She steps across the room to him, reaching to unclip the burgundy capelet at his left shoulder. He flinches.

  “Taeg will make Drair Guard if he feels threatened,” he says, avoiding her eyes and moving to retrieve his armor, as is customarily worn during Guard conferences. “I’m waiting for her time here to blow up in our faces. She opted to kill the scout Nathis ordered her to apprehend.” He brushes the sand from his gray undershirt, letting it fall to the floor. “The boy told us Silon is looking for a magic user. We assumed he meant us at first, but thaumaturgy is no news to anyone now. The Crown has used the Guard’s Mark for decades.”

  He pulls on a breastplate inlaid with the sigil of the Crown – a silhouette of a perched raven, eyes inlaid with obsidian – but his fingers struggle with the straps. Anarah meets him again, buckling the plate around his torso and down his sides. He can feel her small hands brush against his skin as she works. She reaches up, smoothing his hair down.

  “Yes. Father found me this morning,” she says quietly, their eyes finally meeting. “The Lynac.”

  “The council believes so.”

  Tygoh skirts Anarah to pick up his scabbard. She reaches for his capelet and clips it back into its rightful place at his left shoulder. He buckles his sword belt at his hips again as Anarah watches, hands wringing at her waist.

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  “I read even the scrolls no one thinks to touch,” she says. “I’ve found multiple cases in which a scribe documented a patient who claimed to have seen a Lynac user, and these were reported after the war.” Anarah takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “These patients were enlisted as ward occupants. They rarely saw the light of day after their initial testimony.”

  “Psychosis was a common illness after the war,” Tygoh says, taking a heavy seat next to his fiancee. “We wiped them out for a reason.” He fiddles with his bootstraps, then his hair tie, nerves coursing through him. Anarah moves silently, walking to the desk to grab her brush, and crawls in behind him on the bed. She slowly unties his length of hair and guides the horsetail brush through his straight, mahogany locks. For a moment, the only sound is the flickering of the candles and the soft murmur of the brush.

  “I believe Nathis is ill,” she says, breaking the silence.

  Tygoh pauses, taking a deep breath and letting it flow out between his lips. “What makes you think that?” he asks finally.

  Anarah pulls his hair behind the nape of his neck and ties it together, then drops her hands into her lap.

  “I noticed yellowing around his eyes. He walks with pain in his abdomen. He eats very little.”

  Anarah is silent as Tygoh lifts himself from the bed to stare at the doorway. He had watched the army general for the past year. He ate commonly only at dinner, usually a small portion of fish or gruel. His training sessions with Lark had been interrupted more than once due to an ache in his gut, and Tygoh had been called in to babysit. Nathis often made himself familiar with the barkeeps across town, but he did not seek the physicians to medicate his pain.

  “He is an aging man,” he says, never turning to face her.

  “Tygoh, you see it too. We’re all just too afraid to-”

  “He is an aging man, Anarah. If Nathis felt the need to see the physicians, he would do so. You seem to have no faith in the decisions of the man that raised you.”

  She rises from her seat to meet him. He can feel her standing behind him, a power resonating from her that Tygoh has only seen on rare occasions. The power of the woman who was raised by the general of the army. The power of a woman whose family is in danger.

  “You do not get to tell me of my faith in my father. You are right, I was raised by him. I understand his actions. And if I am a physician, that means I am capable of understanding when my patient is ill.”

  Tygoh shakes his head, stalking to the door, reaching for the door knob, refusing to acquiesce. He turns to her. “He is not your patient. You are Guard. You will wound the pride of a great man assuming to know of his bodily weaknesses. To interfere would be to jeopardize our entire force with your worries.” The sound of footsteps and chatter seeps in from behind the door.

  Anarah steps to him, grasping his hand.

  “Please listen to me. I understand that you are afraid of losing a conflict with Silon. I understand that you are afraid of losing your mentor. You have to know that I am terrified of losing my father. I would not bring this up if I did not feel it necessary.” She squeezes his hand firmly, her calloused palm meeting his.

  Tygoh closes his dark eyes, sighing. “This is not the time,” he says softly, pulling away from her to open the door. “We have greater foes to focus upon. I suggest you change into your uniform.”

  She bristles. “I am not questioning Nathis’s command. This does not distract from my duties as Guard. I am worried for my father’s health. I requested that the church perform a physician’s check on each member of the Guard, including the Prince. If there is anything to be found regarding his health, we will know then.”

  Tygoh stops, the door cracked, heat from the upper balcony pouring in. He turns, grasping Anarah’s upper arms gently, her skin pale and warm beneath his rough, tanned hands.

  “Then it is my hope that it all comes back well,” he says, holding her gaze for a moment before reaching to open the door once again. He can feel her eyes on him.

  “Tygoh.” Anarah’s gentle voice brings him back for just a moment. “I’ll have the kitchen bring dinner up tonight. Please be here.”

  He sighs. “I will.” The door closes heavily as he slips from the room.