That was faith.
"Go on," I said. "You've earned this."
I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew he was studying me. Trying to decide whether something was bothering me.
I plucked at the hood. "It fits weird."
He chuckled and then nudged his horse to the mouth of the path. I pulled in behind him. He lifted a gloved hand and counted down with his fingers. Three, two, one...
The moment Tywysog Du lunged forward, Rhyddhad was right behind him.
The horses tore along a path that should have been too small for them, one that would have brushed my shoulders if I walked it. But they whipped through like wind. That was what it felt like: riding the wind, the scenery blurring until it disappeared, even Rhyddhad seeming to vanish beneath me, no longer a creature of bone and muscle but one of spirit and smoke.
I loved speed. I had from my earliest memories of my father, Todd, whirling me around. As I grew up, nothing was ever too fast for me. Nothing was ever fast enough. Not a bicycle, not downhill skis, not even my adoptive father's garage full of classic sports cars. Only Ricky's motorcycle came close, but even that wasn't quite what I ached for.
Riding with the Hunt reminded
me of high school and a boyfriend who I thought shared my love of thrill rides until I took him on the biggest roller coaster at Six Flags, and he declared that was too much. It crossed the line between exhilarating and terrifying. My first ride with the Hunt was like that, sitting behind Ioan. It was incredible, but it was also, perhaps, a little too much.
It wasn't just the speed. As Rhyddhad and I flew through the forest, I seemed to slip between dimensions or layers of time. There was no other way to describe it. She ran, and I caught glimpses of things that my brain couldn't even grasp. I heard impossible sounds and inhaled impossible scents. Some of them left me wanting to leap from Rhyddhad's back and track them down. And others made me hold on tighter, eyes squeezed shut, eager for them to be gone.
It wasn't like that for Ricky. To him, this was like riding the winding, sloping roads on Cape Breton, except doing it at double speed and never having to worry about crashing or losing control. He smelled, saw, and heard only the forest, and it was like crack to his Cwn Annwn blood. The dimension-tripping was mine alone. My Matilda blood, reaching through time or memory, showing me more, whether I wanted it or not.
Since Ioan gave me Rhyddhad, I'd ridden enough that the experience no longer overwhelmed me. Again, it reminded me of that boyfriend, whose name I couldn't even remember. Within an hour, he wanted to try the roller coaster again. We went on it four times that day, and it never lost that edge of terror for him, but he came to enjoy it, like I enjoyed horror films, seeking them out even when I knew they'd give me nightmares. Riding Rhyddhad in her true form still terrified me, but it was the most exhilarating and complex experience imaginable, and so, when I rode that night, I was briefly able to forget my doubts.
When the horses caught up to the cwns, they slowed. I leaned down to run my fingers through Rhyddhad's mane, seeing flame dance between my fingers. Fairy fire, without heat, without danger, endlessly fascinating.
The path widened, and Ricky waved me up beside him as the horses walked. In the distance, I could see Lloergan at the rear of the pack. They loped now that their prey neared exhaustion.
Johnson must have heard the horses behind him. He turned, and he stopped, and he stared. The hounds fanned out in a semi-circle, their heads lowered, growls rippling through the night air. Johnson didn't seem to notice them, though. His gaze was riveted to us. On the spectral horsemen and their flaming steeds.
"Who are you?" he shouted.
Silence answered.
"What are you?" he yelled.
"Judgment," Ricky called.
Yet it wasn't Ricky's voice or even the cloak-distorted version of it. It was Arawn's. I looked over, and that was who I saw from Matilda's memories. Arawn sitting ramrod straight on his steed. No sense of joy emanated from that figure. No excitement, either. Only the grim satisfaction of doing a job that must be done.
"Judgment for what?" Johnson said, his voice rising.
"Keith Johnson," Ioan said, his horse moving up behind ours. "You are guilty of the murder of Alan Nansen."
"Wh-what?"
Confusion rang in Johnson's voice. I told myself it didn't matter. I'd seen men and women break down sobbing in Gabriel's office, begging him to help, swearing they hadn't committed the crime...only to find evidence that they had. Evidence I tucked away because proving that wasn't my job. Before I tucked it away, I showed Gabriel, but only so he'd be prepared for what the prosecution might uncover. Even between ourselves, we never said that our clients were guilty. We knew they were, though. Most of them were.
So I should have heard the confusion in Johnson's voice and rolled my eyes. Yeah, yeah, it wasn't you. You don't know this Nansen guy, and you have no idea what we're talking about.
But I hesitated, and it had nothing to do with Johnson's pleas. His cries were only a reminder of what the ride had wiped from my mind. My own questions.
Ioan had said Keith Johnson murdered a man named Alan Nansen during a home invasion.
"Johnson killed a thief?"
Ioan shook his head. "That would be a justifiable act. We don't punish those who are acting in defense. Nansen was the homeowner."