My Mare’s Breathing Turned Me From the Ford

On the morning the banners changed, I was already facing the right way. I expected to take my mare across the ford before dusk and reach my keep with the levy, but halfway down the bank her breathing shortened, though she still obeyed the rein. I turned her uphill, found a washout under the water, and lost the crossing, a night’s rations, and the chance to arrive before the gate closed.

You would have called it stubbornness if you had only watched her feet. I had learned to watch the breath first, the way I watch a road before trusting a banner, and the cost was smaller than a lame horse, unless the next ford is worse.