Chapter 2 #3
his arm and escorted her back to her family’s table, and more than
a little embarrassed. That must be why she could not recall any
physical reaction to his nearness as she did with Aleksandr, for he
was surely as good looking in his way, and, as a prince, much more
suitable. Except for the fact that he was the son of her parents’
hated enemies.
But Sahar had no desire to marry anyone. Not
yet. Not now.
“Neither,” she said. “I intend to make my own
way. To be the first woman ever to ride in, and win, the races, to
fill my own stables with the offspring of Lasair, and to be a
doting auntie to all ten of your and Munir’s children. What use
have I for a husband?”
Aleksi breathed in the fresh morning air
mixed with the earthy smell of horse and hitched a foot up onto the
lower rail of the fence to the racing kraal. Resting both elbows on
the top rail, he and about twenty other men lined the railing to
watch the princess training Lasair, a deep-chested, long-legged
beauty of a blood bay mare with a mane and stockings as black as
pitch. Dressed in a plain brown version of the wine-colored tunic
and leggings she performed the Dance of Blades in last night, Sahar
hunched over the mare’s flexing withers, knees high and head low,
the mare’s black mane billowing out around her face as they sailed
across the earthen track.
“By the gods,” he swore half under his
breath. “It’s as if they can fly.”
Beside him an old man with a bald pate and
bowed legs chuckled. “An’ what else would you ‘spect from the
firstborn of the Black Mane an’ Swan an’ last born of Storm Chaser
an’ Cloud Dancer, eh? They was born and bred for each other, they
was.”
“You speak as if you know them well, old
man,” Aleksi said, and was rewarded with a beady-eyed stare.
“An’ ‘aven’t I known the princess since she
was a gleam in ‘er father’s eye,” he chided. “An’ wasn’t it me who
pulled Lasair from ‘er dam’s womb an wiped the snot from ‘er
nostrils so’s she could breathe ‘er first breath?”
“I do beg your pardon, sire,” Aleksi said. “I
am Aleksandr—”
“I know who you be, Maksimillian’s young
bastard.” The man grinned and touched the side of his stubbed nose.
“I know everthin’ what goes on around my master’s palace.” His grin
widened, showing as many gaps as teeth. “I be the king’s stable
master. You kin call me Ratter.”
Aleksi dipped his head to the old stable
master. “The mare’s name, Lasair,” he said. “I am not familiar with
its meaning.”
“An’ why would ye be?” Ratter answered. “It
be the word for flame in the queen’s Northern tongue.”
“Flame,” Aleksi repeated and nodded as mare
and mistress raced past, legs stretched and mane and tail flying.
“It fits her, and the princess.”
“Aye, she’s a ball o’ fire, our Sahar, always
‘as been, ever since the day she came into this ‘ere world,
squallin’ at the top o’ ‘er lungs ‘til ‘er brother was laid in the
cradle alongside ‘er.” He grinned and rubbed his bald pate. “She
was ever a beauty too, all rosy cheeked an’ bright eyed an’ curious
as a kitten since the day she were born.”
“Kitten?” Aleksi eyed the old stable master,
looking for claw marks on his leathered face.
Ratter chortled. “Don’t ever be callin’ ‘er
that,” he said. “She ‘ates bein’ called that by anyone, but ‘er ole
uncle Ratter that is.”
Aleksi gave a soft snort. “Of course she
does.”
“Yer gold stallion…”
“Zolotoy.”
“I was watchin’ you ride ‘im earlier. ‘E’s
fast an’ strong.”
“With the stamina of his Steppe
ancestors.”
“You plan on ridin’ ‘im in all three
races?”
“I do. And I intend to win all three.” Aleksi
glanced across the track as Sahar took Lasair over a belly-high
jump of stacked logs at a full gallop, never breaking pace. “Other
than Lasair and her mistress, which horses and riders should I be
concerned about?”
Ratter puffed up and out. “Well now, I
‘aven’t seen ‘em all run yet.” He pursed his lips and rubbed his
jaw. “But without prince Asim racin’, asides from Lasair an’ Prince
Saqir’s stallion, much as it pains me to say it, it’s the Wolf’s
black stallion, Tor, you need be watchin’ out fer, as well as ‘is
master.”
Aleksi had watched Yago training with his
stallion earlier that morning, and he did not disagree with
Ratter’s assessment of horse or rider.
“Betwixt you an’ me,” Ratter said in a low
voice, “‘is mother’s brother, the Falcon, tried to poison Storm
Chaser once afore a race. The Black Mane caught ‘im red ‘anded, ‘e
did. Shoulda beat ‘im bloody, but ‘e was still tryin’ to protect
‘is lady Swan an’ keep the peace atween the tribes back then. At’s
why the Black Mane invites every rider to stable ‘is mount in the
royal stables, under royal guard, as well as to make sure they’s
all fed well and kept out o’ any weather. ‘E don’t want any rider
‘aving unfair advantage. ‘E’s a fair king, the Black Mane is, in
all ways.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“An’ you’ll be stabling yer stallion in the
royal stables?”
“I will.” Aleksi had been surprised at the
invitation, and impressed. In his experience, most men, kings
included, would do anything to ensure their own victory in a
contest, any contest, from a friendly game of chance to all-out
war, which was why several of the riders had been suspicious of his
motives and refused the king’s generous invitation. With Serge and
Pyotr at their tent to watch over their string of two geldings and
four broodmares and tending to the trading of the horses, Aleksi
would be able to stay in the royal stables with Zolotoy, where he
could concentrate on training the stallion for the races, and
winning them.
“‘At’s smart o’ you, young Aleksandr. You
know, ever horse ‘ats won the races as stabled there. They gets the
best care under my watch, they do.”
“I am sure they do. Will the princess be
moving Lasair to the racing stables?”
“O’ course.”
“What about Prince Yago?” Aleksi jerked his
head toward the track’s gate, where the prince stood and bowed low
to Sahar as she dismounted from Lasair. He reached for Lasair’s
reins, and Aleksi snorted as Lasair reared her head back and away
from the Wolf, who slunk aside as Sahar calmed the mare.
“You don’t like ‘im much, do you?” Ratter
asked.
“No,” Aleksi said as the prince walked beside
Sahar and Lasair. “I don’t like the preening worm any more than he
likes me.”
Ratter chortled. “I knew it. I knew it last
night at the feast, when you was glaring daggers at ‘im in the line
o’ riders fer takin credit fer letting the princess in.”
“You saw that?”
Ratter touched the side of his nose. “I see
everthin’,” he said. “I see that Lasair, smart mare that she is,
she don’t like the Wolf none neither. I see ‘at it’d be wrong o’ me
to situate ‘er stall next to the Wolf’s an’ ‘is stallion, as he
demanded o’ me this mornin’. An’ seein’ as ‘ow I’m in charge o’
makin’ sure everone is comfortable as can be, I’m thinkin’ Lasair
would be appreciatin’ yer golden stallion next to ‘er, an’ the Wolf
clear on the other end.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Cos yer good with horses, anyone kin see
‘at,” Ratter said. He started walking off toward the stables. “An’
anyone brave enow to call Sahar ‘kitten’ an’ come away unscathed’s
all right by me,” he chortled over his shoulder.
Sahar was in the palace kitchens rummaging
through the basket of bruised apples set aside for pressing into
sauce when Anya, the head cook, approached her.
“Yes, Anya?” Sahar said as she stuffed three
of the least-bruised apples into her sack, which also held a tub of
easing balm Ratter had requested from the palace physician.
Anya stood with her lips pressed together for
a long moment, as if trying to form her words, which was unusual,
for though she was not native to these parts, she had lived here
long enough to speak the language with ease.
“Is there a message you wish me to give my
mother?” Sahar asked.
“No, it’s you I wish to ask a question
of.”
Sahar waited for Anya to continue, curious,
for Sahar had little to nothing to do with the running of the
kitchens. These were the queen’s and the head cook’s domain. Before
Anya said anything more, the king walked in.
“Daughter, I would have a word with you.” He
wore his robes, which meant he had spent the morning cloistered
with the other visiting kings and their counsels discussing the
business of running their cities and trade routes. He nodded at her
sack. “Heading back to the stables?”
“Yes, Father. I want to make sure Lasair is
comfortable in her new stall.”
He smiled. “I am certain Ratter will make
sure she has every comfort.”
“I know. But she’s my horse, my
responsibility.”
“As you are mine and your mother’s.”
Here it came. Sahar had been expecting it
since last night, her parents’ loving, rational reasonings against
her riding in the races. She stood, ready to listen, and to argue
her well-rehearsed defense.
“I, we, wish to warn you against—”
“I can ride as well as any man, Father, you
yourself—”
“Yago the Wolf.”
“Oh, I, oh.”
“I do not trust him, daughter.”
“Why not?” Sahar said, not giving her father
a chance to answer. “Because of his parentage? As he pointed out
last night, you yourself have said that you do not think a man
should be blamed for his father’s actions.”
“That is true enough,” he answered in his
calm, sensible voice. The voice he had lectured her with too many
times to count through the years. “But wiser men than I have also
said that an apple does not fall far from the tree, and his
parents, how he must have been raised…” He shook his head.
“What of your father, of how the Panther
raised you?”
“I had my mother, who was as reasonable and
as goodhearted as my father was not.”
“Well,” Sahar huffed, not quite certain why
she was defending Yago to her father. “I prefer to give him the
benefit of the doubt.”
Her father gave her a rueful smile. “As did
your mother his father. She almost died for it, twice.”
Chastised, Sahar said nothing.
“Keep your guard up, my daughter,” her father
said. “And not only toward the Wolf. Our city will be teeming with
strangers for the next moon.”
“I will, Father,” she promised.
He nodded and tugged at the neckline of his