Shadow's Fall by Dianne Sylvan

match.”
    As a show of sportsmanship, she retrieved his sword and handed it to him.
    When they drew close enough to shake hands, he said, “Tonight, after the meeting’s over … your place?”
    She met his eyes. “Yes.”
    Then, taking a deep breath, she turned away from him and went to rejoin her team.
    Isis, lithe and swift as a deer, leapt over the stream so smoothly that Cora barely felt the jolt of the Friesian’s front hooves striking the earth on the far bank. Cora leaned into the horse’s neck, her hands almost slack on the reins, letting Isis take the lead—the animal knew these trails backward and forward and, when allowed to run free, responded with a joy that Cora felt echoing in her own body.
    Cora felt and heard the lighter impact of four paws alongside them; Vràna kept up easily, her tongue lolling out and her tail high.
    The Queen knew she was going to be late for the party. She didn’t especially care.
    Jacob had taught her to ride almost the day they’d arrived in Prague. His love for his horses was infectious, and though the size of the beasts had intimidated her at first, she had quickly caught her mate’s fever, and now she had her own Friesian, a gelding named Zimní—which meant “winter,” though his full registered name was something like, “Damn, the Winters Here Are Hellish.”
    She had asked Jacob if he thought Prime David would mind her taking Isis out for a run; Jacob had told her she ought to ask him herself, probably to nudge her past her fear of the Southern Prime … of every Prime but Jacoband Deven, truth be told. She had screwed up her courage and approached David on his way to the Council meeting.
    He had been thrilled to give her access to the stables; he still hadn’t persuaded Miranda to learn to ride, and Isis was temperamental with most of the staff, so the mare got less exercise than David would have liked.
    Cora was sure the horse remembered her. She had walked up to the stall and bowed, saying, “My Lady Isis, would you care for a run?”
    Isis stepped delicately up to the gate, leaned over, and whuffled her hair; then she tossed her enormous head in an unmistakable nod.
    An hour later, here they were, galloping around the perimeter of the Haven grounds, with Vràna keeping pace, all three of them practically whooping with happiness.
    Cora would never have believed that one day she would love riding horses or doing yoga or running with her dog. The thought of enjoying anything had been ludicrous back when she lay beneath Hart. But thanks to the will of the Signets—which she was convinced was the will of God—she had stumbled headlong into a new, wonderful life, and whatever she had to do to keep it, she would.
    Miranda was right. Her life was worth facing down Hart every ten years, assuming he lived for another decade. She knew war was coming … It might not be outright battle, as that was a rarity among Signets, but there were many, many ways to destroy someone, and she knew that Hart was a master at the slow torment of a lingering death.
    As she, horse, and dog came around the last turn before the stables, she reluctantly pulled Isis back from her run and into a slower gait to cool her off; they’d take one last turn around the back loop before heading in to the pasture at a walk. Cora didn’t want to go to the Queens’ gathering; she didn’t really want to have anything to do with the other Queens, who so far had mostly ignored her or looked down their noses at her. She had done nothing to deserve their ire, yet they apparently thought she was on a lower level of royalty than they were. She had promised Jacob she wouldtry to make friends, mostly because he worried she was too withdrawn, but she was already anticipating an awkward, if not outright miserable, evening.
    She saw in the distance that someone was standing at the pasture fence. Vràna identified the figure first and bounded over; it didn’t take long for Cora to recognize him as well.
    “My