Free The Skeleth by Matthew Jobin

alone.

Chapter 7

    K atherine crept along the cold, swept passage. “Indigo?” She looked about her and kept her voice to a whisper. “Indigo, where are you?”
    An enormous gray head stuck out over the door of a stall at the far end of the stable. Indigo fixed Katherine in one dark eye. He snuffed at the air and twitched his ears, then drew back from view.
    Katherine took a careful glance behind her. The stable stood half again as high as the one on the farm back home, a single row of stalls graced by decoration that far surpassed what she would find within the dwelling of a prosperous merchant. Boys shouted and heaved outside, hauling up a whole morning’s worth of dung and carting it away in barrows, their voices ringing flat against the sides of the castle walls.
    Remnants of Katherine’s old life greeted her no matter where she chose to look—Soot, Yarrow, Bluebell, all the mares from Papa’s farm, squashed with their foals into stalls meantfor one. It set her teeth on edge; any fool could see that the foals should be kept out in pasture, a stony hillside in the lee of the wind where they could find their stride and strength. They should be outside, eating grass grown on limestone, learning the scents of the meadows and the sights of field and wood. Someone should be checking them for sickness, someone should be watching them grow and waiting for just the right moment to wean them from their mothers.
    Anger gave way to sorrow. “Forget me.” Katherine picked up her rags, her wash bucket and her bundle of ash-and-soda soap, then turned her back on them. “You’re not mine. You never really were.” She hurried past heads thrust out in greeting, ignoring the whinnies and snorts and invitations to play. It felt like a millstone pressing down upon her back—everything her papa had trained her to do, everything she had wanted to become, all wasted, all useless, all for nothing.
    The next stalls she passed bore the marks of long residence. Spare bridles sized just so hung from the posts, and blankets of matching colors lay folded with care upon the trunks. Here and there leaned a lance, as much the steed’s weapon as the rider’s. Many of the stalls bore the names of their occupants carved into the beams above: Firebrand, Sword-of-Glories, Dauntless. Katherine knew them all, remembered every warhorse as a spindle-shanked colt who followed his mother everywhere. She had birthed them, trained them, coaxed in them a fire, a love of the charge and the clash of arms. Though they were all grown up into fierce, proud stallions, they still nosed out to snuffle for the touch of her hand. She forced herself tohurry past. She could spare little time, and so could enter at only one door.
    â€œIndigo.” She raised the leather loop from the door to his stall. Indigo nudged aside to let her in. He put his nose to her in greeting; she gave him half the carrot she had saved from breakfast.
    â€œAre you well?” She lingered at his side, stroking his neck though she knew how he hated to be bothered at his food. “How are they treating you?” He had not grown up the same color as his mother—white hairs amongst the black made him look like a thundercloud, a deep slate that in some casts of light really did hint at blue. He had grown up perfect, the finest horse of war she could ever hope to train. He had the stride, the strength and the proven fire. They had proven it together.
    â€œWe should be training with the lance right now, out on the pastures back home.” Katherine ran her hand over his withers. “We should be practicing the turn and charge—but look at me. What am I, now?”
    She set her rags and bucket by the door, and tried to drag her ill-fitting workdress into shape. Indigo took his chance to shove his face into her belt, looking for the other half of the carrot.
    â€œGet off, you great silly!” Katherine nudged him away, then