Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

stroking the mare’s neck. “She was Jay’s,” he says. “I know it.”
    “You can’t know that.”
    “I know a lot of things, sweetheart. And I know that you’re acting weird, and the only times I’ve seen you act weird are when we discuss Jay.” He pats Em and repeats, “This was his mare.”
    I grit my jaw and take a deep breath. In and out. Then I do it another time, filling my lungs and releasing the air. For once, it does nothing to calm me.
    “You cannot ride her,” I snarl. “She belongs to Ashe.”
    Lor grins, and I clench my hand to keep from slapping him. I don’t care if he’s a prince, or a figure from a prophecy. He’s my Guardian now. And, if he’s so determined to replace Ashe, he may as well at least act a little like his twin.
    Lor makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, motioning to all the horses in the stables. “I thought your royalty could come down and ride any one of these things they wanted? You did say that no one actually owns a particular horse, didn’t you?”
    I grit my teeth until my jaw aches. I
had
said that, and I’d been telling the truth. All the horses in here are strictly reserved for the royalty living in the castle. But few of us actually owned any one horse, except for Father.
    “So,” Lor continues, taking my silence as confirmation, “unless you spend a lot of time down here telling other people this poor mare is vicious…” He raises an eyebrow and pats Em again, as if needing to prove to me that my own words are a lie. “Then I’d guess that you don’t care about her being ridden. You just care about
me
being the one to ride her.”
    I wait for some retort to rush out of my mouth, but nothing comes. Lor seems to steal that ability from me. “You can’t ride her,” I whisper. “End of story. Now find another horse.”
    Lor smirks at me and winks. “As you wish, sweetheart.”

Twenty-Six
    I’ve heard stories of beaches that are comfortable to walk across with bare feet. I’m not sure if shores like those are real, but if they are, they exist far from Irrador.
    The sand of Irrador is dark and rough and the consistency of fine gravel. Sharp bits of white shells stick out among the black, and it looks like someone scattered salt and pepper all across the beach.
    Tamal’s hooves strike the sand in a leisurely, steady rhythm. Behind me, Lor curses at his horse—a stallion, of course; it’s only suiting for his ego. I turn in my saddle and give him an exasperated look, but Lor doesn’t notice. He’s too busy trying to untangle his reins, which he’s somehow gotten into a knot.
    “Primitive,” he spits. “Your people are
primitive
.”
    I scoff and face forward again. “In our culture, men are expected to be able to ride by the time they’re four years old.” I wave a hand at him, gesturing to him and his general inadequacy. “That makes
you
the primitive one.”
    “I know how to ride,” Lor snaps. “Just not in such a ridiculous method and on such fragile beasts. Do you realize how helpless your steeds are? Do you? And yet you base entire units of your army on these things. It makes you utterly primitive.”
    I can’t help but to smile a little at the way Lor’s speech is slowly becoming more formal, and how his accent grows stronger with each word. It seems instinctual for him to revert to princely mannerisms when he’s upset. “You’re awfully worked up about my country’s primitiveness, for a man who doesn’t understand the concept of wearing a shirt.”
    This has led to a bit of tension between us in the past few days. Lor claims that it itches when fabric comes in contact with the scars on his back, and that he shouldn’t have to wear any type of upper-body clothing. Period. End of conversation. He won’t see it any other way.
    And I won’t have my Guardian walking around half-naked. I keep trying to tell myself that it’s just inappropriate, or that it’s the scars on his back that are bothering me. But, in reality, it’s his tattoo that’s so unsettling.
    Every time I look at Lor’s tattoo, I see Ashe. It’s as if he never died, as if he’s right there in front of me. Then Lor makes some rude comment, or smiles needlessly, or does something else Ashe would never have done. And I realize that I’ll never see Ashe again, and that Lor’s presence is nothing but self-inflicted torture. Necessary torture. But still torture.
    Lor grumbles some excuse for his lack of shirt, which he took off as soon as we