The horse came back without its rider. It came out of the rain at dusk, black from mane to fetlock, one broken rein dragging through the mud and a coach trace snapped against its flank. No blood showed on the saddle. No pack hung from the straps. No human voice followed it down the road.
Only the horse. Only the rain.
Only the sound of hooves striking puddles in a measured, exhausted way, as if the animal had walked from a place where running had been forbidden.
Cael Veyr stood beneath the old toll stone and let the horse come to him.
The Black Lantern burned in his left hand. Its flame was not large. It did not throw honest warmth. It sat behind blackened glass and burned the color of old honey until the horse crossed the line of the toll stone. Then the flame bent hard toward the animal.
Cael tightened his grip. “Easy,” he said.
