Korrin went to the stable when the Hall turned into a clause. He had always gone there. A horse did not read, a horse did not argue about the word until, and a horse that bit you could be hit once, hard, and would think twice afterward, which was more than you could say for a Chamber.
The grey was in the end stall nearest the river gate. Its name was Tessel, after nothing, because the stable-boy had named it and then been told the name was a pass in Corvanne and had cried. Korrin did not care about the name. He cared about the back legs, which were good, and the shoulder, which was better, and the way the grey put its head over the door when he came in, as if it had been waiting all afternoon for somebody who would not talk.
He took the saddle down from its peg and tossed it aside. He threw the blanket over the grey’s back, flat and fast, and reached under for the girth, and the horse sidestepped, and he put a palm on its neck and said, “Still,” and it was.
“You are going to Thornwick,” said the stable-boy from the hay, where he had been pretending to sleep.
