Disclaimer: It's probably quite clear that I have no ownership claims to the characters, world, etc. I'm simply playing in the world Ms. Pierce created.

"Problematic"

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Gret dumped a pile of bridles into Evin's hastily extended arms. He stared at the leader of the Fourteenth Rider Group. "What's this?"

"They're broken."

"They're what?"

"Broken."

"How?"

Gret pulled out a strip of leather that might have once been a rein, one end cleanly severed. "Well, a spidren with a knife got this one." He rooted around and pulled out a cheekpiece. "The buckle on this one rusted off. And I'm not sure what happened here," he said, stooping to pick up a particularly frayed piece that was dragging on the ground. "You're going to have to talk to Onua about getting them replaced."

Evin struggled to keep his jaw from dropping in disbelief. "She's halfway to Cría by now!"

Gret shrugged and abandoned Evin to his inventory of Rider equipment. He untangled the bridles as best he could and hung them over his shoulder, scowling at the racks of saddles, girths, blankets, bits, and bridles arrayed before him. He nudged an errant stirrup with his foot. Neither its partner nor its saddle could be seen. The trainees had left the room a mess this afternoon, which meant he'd have to speak with them later.

He'd barely made it two steps from the tack room, bridles on one shoulder and a worn out saddle propped on the other hip, before bumping into Sarge. The taller man promptly handed him a sheaf of papers. "The latest reports. We need to review them and decide which groups to send to the border next week, which to call back, and which to send elsewhere."

Evin looked down at the reports and felt his vision begin to blur. "Tomorrow…morning?" he suggested.

Sarge gave an affirmative nod. "Whenever it's convenient for you."

"Commander!"

The single word had a magical effect: instantly a knot of tension formed between his shoulders, a headache flamed between his eyes, his back teeth ground together, and he couldn't quite suppress an aggravated groan.

He turned, saw the anxious face of the leader of the Tenth, and barked a little more harshly than he meant to, "Is anyone dead?"

The woman stopped short. "No," she answered uncertainly.

"Is anyone dying?"

"No."

"Is anyone going to be close to dying?"

"No."

"Then it can wait an hour. An hour!" Without waiting for an answer he swung around and stalked all the way back to Commander Tourakom's—no, his—office.

The office's former occupant was inside. She raised her eyebrows when he unceremoniously dumped the pile of tattered equipment into a chair.

He shook the pile of papers Sarge had given him. "How am I supposed to deal with all of this? Onua's gone, the trainees have trashed the stables, Sarge wants me to reschedule the groups, all of our tack is starting to fall apart, and Mithros knows what disaster is going to come next!"

Buri took the last of her stone-carved horses from the bookshelf—she had four, one for each of the Horse Lords—and carefully placed it in a box with its fellows.

"Well?" Evin asked, losing his patience. "Any advice? Any parting words for a devoted protégé?"

The corners of her mouth twitched. She tucked the box under her arm and stepped away from the shelf. Then she patted him on the arm, right on the Rider badge encompassed by a gold circle.

At first Evin thought it was an uncharacteristically motherly gesture, but when his eyes met hers, she smiled with no small degree of mirth and told him cheerfully, "It's no longer my responsibility."

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