The Wind-Witch (3 page)

There’d be races run at the market fair, with prizes and wagering, and every lad with a fast horse was eager to gauge his competition ahead of the day, to adjudge the results of breeding and feeding and careful conditioning. Mostly they were testing the horses over the regular galloping spots, which varied in length and were well known. But where the soil was sandier than was general, long poles had been mounted upright, to make a course for those who wanted to test nimbleness rather than sheer ground covering.

Druyan eyed the setup with interest. She knew how fleet Valadan was on the straight—she thought there was no horse in all of Esdragon that could match him—but she didn’t want to trumpet the fact. Proud as she was of him, she deemed some caution was in order. If she allowed him to run away from every horse on the downs, someone was apt to "remember" losing a black horse and come claiming him. Best she did not show him off too boldly, till he’d been seen in her company long enough for folk to accept him unchallenged as her property. But running the poles was another matter, because success there depended upon skill and nerve as much or more than fleetness of foot. The swiftest courser might not be handy enough to navigate the tight course without striking a pole.

There were six poles, set roughly equal distances apart, in a straight line. The goal was to dash along them, weaving in and out, then whirl and return so as to pass each pole on its opposite side. A horse that was stiff to one side, or unwilling to listen to its rider about where and which way to turn, wouldn’t be successful at it. Some began very well, but got going too fast to hold tight turns and went bouncing stiff-legged off the course, fighting their riders with their nosed poked at the sky. Some turned well to the left but not to the right, and lost advantage with every other pole. One high-headed chestnut got so excited that he sent two poles flying when he crashed heedlessly into them, then took his rider for a mad run out over the downs till he finally got winded enough to answer to the curb bit in his mouth. Each run was attended by cheers, shouts, groans, screams of encouragement from spectators and riders both.

Valadan danced, eager for his turn. Druyan wondered if he’d run poles before, or was only excited by the activity. She’d know at the second pole, probably, whether he knew his business or was going to depend on her knowledge of the game. She patted his shoulder, begging him to settle a bit—if he became
too
eager, he might just bolt straight through the course the way the chestnut had. He did love to run and might forget all else.

The stallion snorted and dipped his head, playing with the bronze bit.
This game is played an the beach, at Keverne
, said a clear amused voice in Druyan’s head.

She looked up from her reins, startled, to see who spoke to her. No one was near. Druyan’s lips parted softly, as she stared at the tips of Valadan’s ears. He turned one back toward her, in case she should have something to say to him.

But there was no time. Their turn at the poles had come. She sat deep, shortened her reins enough that she could guide the stallion with the least motion of her smallest finger. And then the word was given, and the first pole was hurtling at them, as Valadan thundered toward it.

They passed to the left of it, then swung right to take the next. Left for the following pole, the flying strides as measured as the steps of a dance. Druyan leaned with Valadan’s turns, keeping them balanced, anticipating the next change in course. Sand showered away from them, flew up like wave spray. Surely they were the fastest yet! No one had done this well, sustained such a blinding pace.

Almost to the last pole, already leaning into a turn that must be nearly a full circle, Druyan felt a sudden rush of fear. The pole wasn’t where it should have been! They were flying at it, in perfect accord, as they’d rushed at all the others, but they were going to hit it, for it was a yard farther away from the previous pole than any of the others had been set. The ground must have proved too hard where it ought to have been planted, and so the boys had set it where they could—no wonder most of the riders had gone wide on the final turn, lost speed or accord with their mounts!

If she couldn’t drag him wide of it—Druyan had an instant’s cruel vision of Valadan’s slender legs entangled with the pole, of him crashing to earth and never rising again, all because
she’d
wanted to race.

She clamped her hand on the right rein, not caring if she made him veer straight off the course in disgrace, so long as he was safe. The wind they made whipped her hair over her face, blinding her. She shook it off and hauled with all her might at the rein.

She might as well have been pulling against a tree. Valadan heeded neither the rein nor the bit in his mouth that the rein was buckled to. He paid no mind to Druyan’s frantic shift of weight, or her left hand’s joining forces with the right to haul him out of the turn.

Instead, though hampered by his rider’s attempts to save him, Valadan dug his hooves into the sand for an extra stride and swung about the pole so closely that a breeze could scarcely have slipped between it and his hindquarters. He went back up the course, dancing the measure alone half the way, till Druyan managed to regain some feeling of being in harmony with him.

They exited to cheers and jogged off to compose themselves while the next horse went at the line of poles.

Very tricky course
, a dry voice observed.

Druyan slid to the ground and flung her arms round about the glossy neck, loving the horse with the whole of her heart. He was safe—and wonderful. Valadan reached over her shoulder to nuzzle her back.

Their bliss was interrupted by the arrival of a horse and rider. Robart swung down from his roan gelding, which had once more disappointed him in the matter of racing speed. Stepping over to Valadan, he patted his flank, ran a hand down each of the stallion’s legs. He glanced at Valadan’s nostrils, which were flared still but not indicating any distress to his breathing. Indeed, they promised great endurance.

“He’ll do. Give him here.” He held his hand out for the reins.

“What?” Druvan stared.

Robart shook his head at her, smiling. “You don’t want to ride a horse like this. He’s no lady’s jennet.” He gestured impatiently for the reins.

“I do so want him!” Druyan tightened her hold on the reins and wished futilely that she hadn’t dismounted. Now she could not simply ride away, as she longed to, before the discussion turned dangerous. She was trapped, caught afoot.

“Well, you can’t have him!” Robart laughed. “Father hasn’t said anything because he hasn’t paid much attention, but if you fall off this black thunderbolt and hurt yourself, he most certainly will. Now give him here.”

“Valadan came to
me
!”

Robart laughed again. “
Valadan?
Because he’s a black horse? This isn’t one of Grandfather’s prize steeds, just some chance-bred that wandered in off the moors. Your nurse told you too many legends, when you were cutting your baby teeth. What did you think you were going to do—go off hunting chimeras on him? Let go of those reins!”

Druyan was weeping, tears of frustration that she knew he mistook for fright. “You can’t take my horse!” she wailed.

Robart patted her arm. “Look, Dru, ladies don’t ride this sort of horse. You weren’t going to keep him anyway. Now let me see if I can win some silver. I’ll give you a split.”

He slid his hand down her arm, then opened her fingers one by one. Druyan turned her face away as her brother gathered the reins and shoved his foot into the stirrup. She was choking on tears, her head was aching with misery and loss.
N
o one would have let me keep him. At least Robart won’t hurt him
—she tried to console herself, and failed.

The sight of her Valadan meekly bearing Robart away did not ease the lump in Druyan’s throat. She stared with brurring eyes, trying not to hate what had been inevitable.

And stared wider yet as Valadan’s head plunged downward fast as a stooping falcon, ripping the reins from Robart’s unready fingers. As the stallion arched his back and bucked, his hind legs kicking out one way while his rider went flying in the opposite direction.

Robart rolled to his feet and went after the stallion at once, keeping a careful hold of his temper as he caught up the trailing reins. Despite a white-rimmed eye, Valadan stood still to be mounted once more. Robart glanced back at Druyan, half pleased at his victory, half saying he’d told her so and had been right to relieve her of the unruly stallion before a like disaster befell her.

And no wise ready for the run Valadan abruptly gave him. No warning dip of the black head this time. No buck to shed an unwelcome rider. Valadan simply seized the bit and bolted, and nothing Robart did troubled the stallion in the least. The boy tried to sit deep and be ready to regain control the instant the horse slackened his pace, but Valadan put on a burst of speed instead that rocked him hopelessly far back in the saddle. Two more bounds and Robart slid off over the black tail, to land scrambling.

He nearly kept hold of the reins, but he stumbled in a rabbit hole as he came to his feet and lost his grip. Druyan watched the ensuing pursuit, as Valadan danced ever nearer to the spot where she stood and Robart grew ever redder in the face as the horse continued to elude him. Finally they stood on either side of her, and she held Valadan’s reins.

“Give him here,” Robart panted obstinately.

She’d lose him in the end, no matter how she struggled. There was no other outcome possible. And the stallion would get the beating of his life if he kept fighting. She wouldn’t be able to prevent that.

“Go with him,” she wished, and turned her face away as Robart swung up once more and gathered the reins in an iron grip that pulled the stallion’s mouth wide open. Fool horse, to come back to one who hadn’t the power to protect him. A little bitter wind curled about her toes, through the long grass.

She heard the thud of hoofbeats—Robart was ready this time and had sent Valadan away at a gallop, teaching the horse who was master. In a moment he’d reached a cluster of four other riders, who waited upon him beside one of the courses.

Druyan decided that if she was fated to walk home, she might as well begin the journey. There’d be rain later—the cool wind pledged it. She could have taken Robart’s castoff roan, but she preferred to leave it for him to cope with—he’d have a job ponying either it or Valadan home, and richly deserved the trouble.

The racers were dragged into a raggedy line. Someone shouted the signal to begin. Hooves thundered, like a presage of storm. Dru told herself not to look back, but she could not resist watching Valadan run, even with another rider on his back. He carried himself so proudly, his sculptured head so high, his tail an outflung banner. . .

He leapt to the lead, like a black wave breaking on the shore. So lovely he took her breath, and for a moment Druyan forgot her loss in admiration. There was no horse his equal!

A black-legged gray had its pink nose at his flank. Druyan waited for Valadan to accept the challenge and draw away with quickened pace—instead, the gray unthinkably gained ground with every stride. Valadan ran steadily, but now the gray’s head was at his neck. And a dark chestnut was overhauling the stallion from the other side, with a bald-faced bay gaining ground on all of them just behind.

They raced over a full league, and Valadan was the last to make the distance. Druyan watched open-mouthed as he came jogging slowly back, tossing his head. The expression on Robart’s face was one of the purest disgust.

“Hasn’t got the staying power of a sheep,” he snarled, flinging the reins toward his sister as he vaulted down. “You might have said so.” He walked away.

Druyan looked into the stallion’s dark eyes, saw swirls of rainbows like laughter deep within. Valadan nuzzled ticklingly at her palm and blew upon her contentedly. He wasn’t even sweating.

“Smart horse,” Druyan said dryly.

The black head dipped in agreement.

Splaine Garth was as much salt marsh as cropland. Druyan could ride half a day—on any ordinary horse’s back—and never be off her husbands land. The marshes looked wild beyond hope of farming, but in fact a substantial quantity of hay was taken from them each year, and cows, pigs, and sheep throve alike upon the spartina grass pastures. Waterfowl were plentiful, too—a heron turned its spear-beaked head to watch Druyan ride by, and she heard a swan calling overhead.

Many a husband would have found objection in a young wife’s riding out alone as often as Druyan did, but Travic had trusted her. It had not been a cynical assessment that an old horse and a less-than-attractive woman were unlikely to come to harm or mischief—it had been her husband’s respect of her need to take the air for an hour or so most days, his kindness in allowing her a pleasure from the very first days of their marriage.

And now Travic was dead, of duty and a stray arrow.

Dalkin had brought the news that morning, after walking alone a day and a night alongside the horse that bore his master’s lifeless body. He was the only one of the little company to return—the rest of Splaine Garth’s men, without a living lord to order them home after a reasonable period of service, had been conscripted into the duke’s army for an indeterminate span of months. But Dalkin was barely ten, old enough to accompany his lord and run messages for him, not grown enough or expected to fight. So home he came, on one last service to his master.

Seaborne raiders had been harrying Esdragon’s dangerous coasts for the past hand-span of years. Darlith had mostly escaped the attentions of the men in the long black ships, boasting few towns where riches would be clustered for easier plundering; but eventually even quiet Splaine Garth’s luck had run out. It was late in the season, they had begun to hope themselves spared for another year, but the ever-prudent Travic had not relaxed his vigilance while there was still sailing weather and danger to come with it.

Ready for trouble, he and his farmhands put the raiders to flight in wonderfully short order, and penned those they took captive within the farm’s root cellar. Then Travic had marched every able-bodied man beholden to Splaine Garth downcoast to join the ducal army defending one of Darlith’s scarce port towns, expecting to return in a sevenday. Instead, he met his fate, fletched with goose feathers gray as the sky. Ironically, the arrow was a stray come from his own side—the raiders were not even thought to fight with bows.