10
As the road curved to the left, the setting sun shone directly into the face of a tired, lanky young man dressed in the blue and red of Eskuzor. He squinted against the light and slowed his pace, knowing the road would return to its northerly bearing in another mile. He might as well take the opportunity to rest his horse, since to ride breakneck, blinded by the sunlight, was idiocy. He knew riders who did it, but he wasn’t one of them.
He leaned forward in the saddle and patted the roan horse’s neck. He didn’t know her very well, although he had ridden her a few times in the past. He vaguely remembered that her name was Patsy. She was one of the many horses who lived in the posthouses on the highway route from Highkington to Montreya.
Jackson had been riding since lunchtime yesterda
