The Scorpio Races (41 page)

Dove is beginning to panic. Movement to her right makes her jerk her head sharply enough that the rein rips open one of the searing blisters on my palm. I see white all the way around Dove’s eyes.

I need to get out of here. Sand stings my cheeks and the corners of my eyes, but I can’t spare a hand to swipe my skin. I don’t see how we can move forward until the
capall uisce
to my right charges into the ocean, tripping over the waves, twisting in the air before throwing its rider.

It’s Finney. I see his eyes meet mine for a bare second, his hands pedaling through the water, and then his bay
capall
’s dull teeth snap shut on his cheekbone.

Then I’m past them and they’re gone and it’s only seething water that sprays a dark pattern on Dove’s shoulder. And I’m sick, sick, sick.

Suddenly, there is a narrow path where before there was a
capall uisce.
If I pull through the right, using some of Dove’s precious strength, we might get clear.

It won’t do any good to save her speed if we die in this fight. I press my calves into her hot sides and suddenly, it clicks. Dove finds her stride and we pull free of the little tempestuous pack that we were trapped in. And there, hanging behind the leaders, I see a red stallion under blue colors, and Sean Kendrick folded neatly on top of him.

I sweep blood off the bite on Dove’s shoulder. It’s not deep, but guilt pricks me anyway. I say
sorry
to her and she flicks a trembling ear back. I let out a barest length of rein. She’s still terrified, but for a moment, I have her attention.

Focus.
I think about riding on the cliffs, holding her steady, keeping her even. I remember the
uisce
mare leaping from the edge of the cliff. The secret is to remember the race while the others forget everything but the ocean. I can be steady.

SEAN

There’s a newcomer on our right, and Corr, mad at the touch of the sea, snakes his head to bite at them. I check him and the horse beside us jerks but holds steady. Black-tipped ears. Smaller than Corr. Smaller than any of the horses on this beach. Ordinary muscles pumping and moving beneath her skin.

It’s Dove, matching us stride for stride, feathers fluttering on her saddle pad. I glance, once and then again, at Puck and then Dove. Dove’s been bitten, but not deep. Puck’s bleeding, too. But unlike Dove’s untidy bite wound, Puck’s is clean and long, the material of her breeches sliced. It was a knife that did that, not a horse. Someone angry that she was on the beach with us. To think too long on that is to be furious and to be furious is to lose focus, which I can’t afford.

Because in front of us is chaos. The worst of it is the noise — the panting of winded
capaill,
the groaning as they fight, the continuous thunder of the hooves, the hissing of the sea. The squeals and the shouts and behind it all, the screams of the crowd. The noise would drive a horse mad even if the November ocean didn’t.

A
capall
in front of us twists and wheels inward, its rider avoiding the ocean at all costs. Another two shove and squabble, slowing enough that we move past them. It’s a wall of hocks and knees and hooves, blood coating bone, teeth against teeth. They make an attempt to bring us into it, but Corr blocks them, a trembling wall between them and Dove, who is a wall between him and the sea.

We are over halfway there. Halfway means we’ve made it a little over a mile. The first half weeds out those who weren’t ready, those who weren’t tame. It’s a rite of passage. I look at Puck and she looks back me, expression fierce.

The sand blurs below us and the ocean becomes silent in comparison to the sounds of our lungs gasping for breath. We are the only two on the sand.

Blackwell’s and Privett’s mounts quarrel up at the front. They worry back and forth, teeth flashing, necks and shoulders rubbing. Just behind them, Mutt Malvern relentlessly beats Skata, the piebald. And still Puck moves up behind them, steady and even. I match Corr to Dove, stride for stride, and with each stride, we gain ground.

Corr has nothing but power left. There’s a path ahead; I could cut ahead of Blackwell and then Privett. Mutt is nothing at all as he drops back from the lead and closer to us. I could be in the lead and taking this win as easily as I snatched it last year. In three minutes Corr could be mine.

Everything I’ve ever wanted. A roof over my head and reins in my hands and a horse beneath me. Corr.

I feel the mare goddess’s breath in my face.

I told Puck I would stay until she made her move. Maybe she doesn’t have the speed to overtake the leaders. Maybe I give everything away by waiting. I tell myself I have time, still. I have time for Corr to push forward.

Dove begins to make her move.

I realize then that Mutt Malvern has pulled Skata back intentionally.

He never meant to win.

PUCK

The piebald’s attack takes me by surprise.

Between me and the sea, she rears back as if she means to plunge forward, but then she drops onto Dove. Her teeth close down over Dove’s poll, right behind her ears.

Dove staggers.

I turn my head and look right into Mutt Malvern’s ghastly grin.

I hear Sean shout, his voice unstrung, “This is between you and me, Mutt!”

Trying to keep my stirrups, I lean far forward up Dove’s sweaty neck to grab at the piebald’s ear. Her skin feels slippery and unlike any horse I’ve ever touched. Dove’s spine presses hard into my guts and my blistered hand aches, but I ignore all of that and twist the piebald’s ear sharply. She squeals and drops off Dove.

I barely understand Sean’s shout. “Get out of the way, Puck!”

Dove understands even if I don’t; as Corr presses closer, she shoots from between him and the piebald. I barely have time to drop back down into the saddle, the leather slick with blood or water beneath me.

Skata twists and leaps beneath Mutt, but we are free of her. I glance behind me and only have time to see Corr’s shoulder smashing up against the piebald mare’s. Sean’s gaze flicks toward me for a second. He’s watching to make sure that I’m moving.

I want to wait for him. I know he’s won this four times without me here, but I don’t want to leave him.

I hear Sean Kendrick’s voice:
“Go!”

I let Dove’s reins go.

SEAN

We can’t get clear.

Corr could outstrip Skata if we could pull ahead, but Mutt Malvern has seized my rein. He drags Corr’s face toward him, within reach of the piebald’s teeth. It’s Corr’s blind side and he is wild with the fear of not knowing what he’s up against. His eyes roll; his nose jerks into the air again and again. Skata snaps at him, her teeth grating against his cheek. As I fight Mutt for Corr’s rein, my knee crashes into Mutt’s, bone to bone, searing hot.

Skata and Corr gallop, shoulder to shoulder, every step taking us farther into the surf. I taste salt water; my saddle is slimy with it. Every muscle in Corr’s body shivers and shimmers. Glancing to Mutt, I see that he’s having a hard time keeping his seat.

Too late I see his knife.

I lift my arm. I cannot protect myself or Corr.

But it’s not me he stabs. He slides it along the piebald’s neck, slicing a scarlet line. She is furious with pain.

“Manage this, Kendrick,” Mutt says.

He lets go of the reins.

Skata slams into us.

PUCK

We catch up to Blackwell and Margot first. She’s a big, lean bay, long as a train car, and she fights him hard. I see that her mouth is cracked open and grinning like the black
capall uisce
that found us in the lean-to. She was breathlessly fast before, but now he holds her tightly in check. When Blackwell tries to allow her some more rein, she darts toward the ocean.

But Dove cares nothing about the sea. I lean low over her mane — her neck is sweaty and my hands are sweaty and it’s hard to keep my grip — and I ask her for more. She slides past Blackwell.

There is only Privett and Penda ahead of us now. He’s keeping a good distance between him and the surf, and I could move up between them. But if I could push Penda closer to that November water, maybe I could distract him long enough to hold the lead. It would mean getting very close to a
capall uisce
without any escape plan, and Dove is already frightened to the breaking point.

It’s not much farther. Only three furlongs, maybe. I don’t want to hope, but I can feel it pumping through me.

Only — Corr should be here now. I shouldn’t be up here with Penda by myself.

When I glance behind me, I can’t see him. I can see Margot gaining on us, fast. And the feathers of Dove’s makeshift saddle colors flapping crazily in the wind.

I hear Sean’s voice saying that this is possible. And Peg Gratton telling me to show them who we are. I know that it is not about Dove being brave, in the end. It’s about me being brave for her. I lean over Dove’s neck — Dove, my best friend — and I ask her for one last burst of speed.

SEAN

I am holding Corr, but I am holding nothing. Somewhere, there is a high, clear scream, and then I’m falling.

In the moment between Corr’s back and the surf, I think first of the dozens of horses behind us and then of my father’s death.

My only chance is if I can get clear. To hope that when I hit that ground, I hit it so that I can roll free of most of the hooves to come. If I stay conscious, I might survive.

For one moment, I see everything with perfect clarity: Corr, his face a mask of red, one of his nostrils torn; the horizon stretching away, far out of reach; the blue, blue November sky above us.

The piebald’s knee lurches up to strike my head.

When I hit the sand, my vision breaks like a wave. I have the surf in my mouth and the sand beneath me rumbles with hoofbeats, and there is red, red, red above me.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

PUCK

The moment we pass Ian Privett and Penda, Ian meets my eyes, and I see that he doesn’t believe it.

But then the race is over.

Even when I see that we have crossed the line first, even when it’s another half second before Margot flashes by, and another second before Ake Palsson and Dr. Halsal crash by nose to nose, I can’t believe it.

I slow Dove, patting her neck, laughing and rubbing away tears with the back of my bloody hand. All of my pain’s melted away; all that remains are ceaseless shivers. I stand shakily in my stirrups, steering her away from the other
capaill uisce
as they cross the finish. Grays and blacks and chestnuts and bays.

I don’t see Sean.

My ears won’t stop hissing. It takes me a long moment to realize that it’s the audience roaring from up above.

They’re shouting my name and Dove’s. I think I hear Finn among them, but maybe I imagine it. And still there are the water horses at the end of the race, milling and rearing and twisting.

But I don’t see Sean.

A race official comes toward me, his arm out toward Dove’s bridle. My hands won’t stop shaking; I have a terrible feeling inside me.

“Congratulations!” the official says.

I look at him, waiting for what he just said to make sense, and then I ask, “Where’s Sean Kendrick?” When he doesn’t answer me, I turn Dove back the way we came. The beach at this end is a mess of sweaty
capaill uisce
and tired riders. The beach looks nothing like what it looked like to me galloping the other direction. It is nothing but a stretch of sand when I’m trotting. The ocean is only wave after wave, not a hungry, dark thing. I direct Dove back the way we came, scanning the wet sand. There are smears of blood where fights went down and a dead chestnut
capall
lying very close to the water. They’re putting a sheet over someone farther inland, which makes my stomach squeeze, but it’s too big to be Sean.

And then I see Corr, standing at the edge of the surf, reflected red in the wet sand beneath him. One of his hind legs is crooked under him, resting on the toe of the hoof. His head is curled low and as I get closer, I see that he’s trembling. His saddle has been pulled around so that it hangs nearly upside down.

There’s a dark, slender form beneath him, the reins all tangled around it. Even filthy, I recognize the blue-black jacket. And the red I mistook for reflection is merely blood, slowly being washed away with each wave.

I think, suddenly, of how Gabe said that he
could not bear it
and I didn’t believe him, because of course you could bear anything if you decided to.

But just then I understand him perfectly because I cannot bear it if Sean Kendrick is dead. Not after all this. Not after everyone else. It is bad enough to see Corr standing there with a leg I think is broken. But Sean cannot be dead.

I slide off Dove. There’s another race official, and I press my reins into his hands. I scramble across the sand toward Corr. I slow for a moment as a gull swoops close to my face. They’re already gathering around the carnage on the beach — why doesn’t someone chase them away?

“Sean.”

As I get close, I startle backward at a sudden movement. It’s Sean — he reaches up an arm, fumbling. Finding the stirrup, he uses it to heave himself up. He’s unsteady as a new colt.

I throw my arms around him. I can’t tell which of us is shaking.

Sean’s voice is hoarse. “Did you do it?”

I don’t want to tell him, because it was only half of what was supposed to happen.

He pulls back and looks at my face. I’m not sure what he sees there, but he says, “Yes.”

“Penda was second. Where were you? What happened?”

“Mutt,” Sean says. He looks out to the ocean, his eyes narrowed. “Did you see him? No, I didn’t think so. She took him. The piebald took him.”

My wounds are starting to hurt, and my stomach feels tight. “He never meant to win. He just wanted you —”