“It’s a shame to leave while the barley’s still green,” I murmur, turning my horse at the top of the hill, dropping a kiss to the top of Niall’s head as he sits before me in the saddle. “It’s so beautiful late in the summer.”
“What color does it turn?” Niall asks, fascinated, looking out over the fields of rippling grain as the entire court progresses on behind us, in carriages and on horseback, guards and soldiers flanking us on every side.
All precautions, Mahl assured me. He has no true fear.
“Gold,” I say, sighing, remembering back to days when I walked with my friend in the fields, our hands brushing soft over the scratchy tufts. “The barley turns most beautiful burnished gold.”
My little boy stays quiet and, curious, I peek at his face, bursting into laughter when I see disappoin
