but, when necessary, we have ways to organize more quickly.”
Wil rubbed some of the grit from the stable floor between his fingers, sighed, and stood, facing Eleanor as he leaned forward against the stable gate.
She wore a beautiful riding dress of pale gold, the color of wheat in the fall. Her lips, pink against the cold spring wind, offset her fair skin, and her copper hair looked like fire, pulled away from her face in a dance of loose braids. He lingered a moment on the lines of her face before speaking.
“And you offer me, an Imirillian soldier, a post on your war council?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head but bit off the edge of a laugh. “May I ask why?”
“We would benefit greatly from your expertise,” was Eleanor’s response. “I’m certain, after the few days you have spent sparing in the yard, you understand that for yourself.”
Wil looked down at his boots and kicked the gate softly. “What I don’t understand,” his eyes returned to Eleanor, “is why you would trust a complete stranger, part of the empire that is invading you, into your inner confidences.”
“I’m not a fool, Wil Traveler.” Eleanor’s words were barbed. “I know my country is underprepared. Crispin says your guidance would be advantageous. I agree with him. It’s true; for all I really know, you could be a spy. Even so, whatever you could gain from us is far less than what we would gain from you. It is a risk I am willing to take.”
She took some leather riding gloves in her hand and slid them over her fingers. “We would pay you well, and obviously offer permanent hospitality, if you should choose to accept it.”
“I don’t need payment from you,” Wil countered the queen with a laugh. She looked annoyed, as if she had sensed what he was thinking: that all her wealth was a fraction, compared to his own.
“Why do you laugh?”
“You wear gloves to ride a horse but not to dig in the dirt,” he deflected. “I find it a bit odd.”
“Add it to your list, Traveler.” Eleanor said, tossing the words over her shoulder as she walked down towards the far end of the stable, exhibiting a different persona from the one she’d shown in his midnight interview a dozen hours earlier. Thrift had been saddled and was waiting with a groom. Wil followed her out, not speaking until after the groom had helped her mount.
“When do you need an answer?” Wil asked, leaning against the post as he looked up at the queen.
“The spring festival is in three days,” Eleanor replied, her eyes on the western gates rather than him. “The morning after, I would expect you at a logistics meeting. The battle run begins in a month’s time.”
“Why so late?”
Her eyes came back to his own. “We are an agrarian society, Wil. What fools would we be to not get our crops in the ground.” Thrift shifted anxiously beneath her, and she gave a light touch on the reins. “And, to be clear, I never suggested taking you into my inner confidences.”
She urged Thrift forward, riding from the yard through the west gate, into the fields beyond.
***
Wil watched from western battlement, near the travelers’ house, as Thrift tried to run at the pace of a wild spring day across the downs of Ainsley. Eleanor, at length, gave the horse free rein, and they flew through the tumble of cloud and color. She rode proficiently, if not naturally, but the true grace was Thrift’s, whose faultless form and sense of movement was far more spirited than Eleanor’s methodical steadiness.
Wil wondered if Eleanor ever imagined all her thoughts and worries being pulled from her mind, getting caught in the waiting trees, blowing in all directions, until nothing remained to trouble her, just the beat of her heart, pounding in rhythm with Thrift’s hooves. That was how he often felt, when he rode his own horses through the unsteady, wind-cursed sands of the northern deserts.
Conscious of the guards at his back, Wil turned away from watching Eleanor and