SIGRUN
We'd been riding since midmorning, and by late afternoon I was beginning to suspect that horse-riding had been invented by people who secretly hated the human body.
In the past, whenever I'd imagined riding through a fantasy kingdom, I had pictured something cinematic. Wind in my hair. Dramatic scenery. Perhaps an inspiring soundtrack.
What I had not pictured was the fact that every single muscle below my waist would eventually declare war on me.
My thighs hurt.
My back hurt.
My shoulders hurt.
There were muscles hurting in places I hadn't known muscles existed.
The f**k?
The mare beneath me seemed perfectly content with the arrangement. I, meanwhile, was discovering that six straight hours in a saddle was a deeply offensive concept.
I refused to complain, partly because
