Chapter 4
Winners and Losers
Zolotoy was not in his stall when Sahar
arrived to ready Lasair for her morning training session. It was
the day before the first race, and she and Ratter had decided to
give Lasair an easy run this morning and let her rest this
afternoon. Yesterday, when Sahar had shown for Lasair’s afternoon
session, she had been surprised to find Zolotoy in his stall, as
Aleksandr usually trained him then. She had crept into the
stallion’s stall and peeked into the antechamber, where she had
spied a sight that still made her grin. Aleksandr, sound asleep on
the cot, that shock of hair fallen over his forehead, those full
lips she could still taste slightly open, little Kiska snuggled
under his chin. He had looked so young and boyish and carefree,
something she had learned he had not been for many years.
Though she probably should have left
Aleksandr and Anya to their conversation last night, Sahar had
stayed and listened intently to every word spoken between them in
the kitchens. In doing so, she had learned more about Aleksandr in
one night than she had in the three days previous. He had been born
and raised as a prince, his father’s pride and joy, and then had it
all taken from him through no fault of his own. A son and
legitimate heir had been born, and the golden boy made a stable
boy. A motherless stable boy who had taken refuge with horses and
cats, who was fiercely loyal to his two friends, Pyotr and Serge,
for whom he had accepted a sack of food from Anya, and who was
determined to return home a self-made man with a string of fast,
leggy, desert broodmares and a wife.
When Anya had teasingly asked him if he had a
wife picked out yet, he had answered that he had his eye on a
certain young woman and then had winked at Sahar, a wink that Anya
had not missed. He had boasted about winning all three races with
their purses of one hundred and thirty- three gold pieces, as well
as breeding rights for Zolotoy, in order to further his plans. When
Anya commented on how sure he sounded about winning, he told her
that was because he was the best rider in their land, and then he
had added, with another wink at Sahar, that the best steppe rider
would always beat the best desert rider, man or woman.
Sahar had openly scoffed, but secretly she
was not so sure he was wrong. She had watched him training
Zolotoy—every rider had at one point or another—and she hated to
admit it, but he rode as well as any man she had ever seen, and she
had grown up amongst the best riders in the known world. He rode
with a strength and skill and sureness matched only by the golden
stallion beneath him, moving as one as they churned up earth with
powerful, league-eating strides and soared over jumps with ease.
And whether holding Zolotoy to a tight rein or giving him his head,
the Northern Steppes man rode with a combination of complete
control and wild abandon that both thrilled and irritated Sahar. In
truth, the more she saw of Zolotoy, the more she was inclined to
consider the stallion as a breeding partner for Lasair. A foal with
her speed and his strength would be near impossible to beat in any
race.
Sahar simply had to win the races. That way
it would be her choice, not Aleksandr’s.
Shaking her head as if she could shake both
stallion and man out of her thoughts, she peeked into the empty
stall’s antechamber and found Kiska sleeping in a box Aleksandr had
fashioned for her, curled up in the middle of one of his tunics.
The warm, musky male scent of the tunic’s owner came to her
unbidden, and she turned heel and hurried over to Lasair’s
stall.
“I was checking on the kitten,” she said to a
curious-eyed Ratter, who handed Lasair’s reins to her.
The mare was already saddled and tossing her
head, anxious to get out on the racing track. Born and bred to run,
she was one of those rare horses who truly loved it, and riding her
at a full gallop, the wind whipping through both their manes, was
one of Sahar’s greatest joys.
“Come, my beauty,” she laughed as she led
Lasair out of the stables. “Let us go stretch your lovely
legs.”
It seemed every man entered in the race
tomorrow stood along the fence rails watching them train, and she
caught the worried expressions of more than one rider, as well as a
few disdainful frowns or ogling leers, as she walked Lasair past
them cooling off the mare. Sahar pressed her lips tight and sat
straighter in her saddle. They should be worried. She had every
intention of beating each and every one of them, especially
Aleksandr, who doffed his nonexistent cap to her as she reached the
gate and dismounted.
As Sahar led Lasair to the stables, Yago
stopped her. He wore a spotless tunic and had not one oiled hair
out of place, despite the brisk, autumn breeze.
“Princess,” he said with a courtly dip of his
black head. “Would you do me the honor of sitting beside me as we
sup this evening?”
“I had not thought to…” She glanced over his
shoulder and caught sight of Aleksandr’s steady stare. “Thank you,
Prince Yago,” she said. “I accept your kind invitation.”
He lifted her hand and placed his cool, dry
lips on the back of her fingers. “I await this evening with eager
anticipation,” he said, smoothly returning her hand.
Sahar glanced over at Aleksandr, whose glare
emitted more heat from ten paces than the Wolf’s courtly lips on
her skin. With a shrug of her shoulders and a saucy tilt of her
head, she turned on her heels and gave him her back.
“Easy, Z.” Aleksi patted the dancing
stallion’s straining neck as the horse pranced and pawed at the
starting line. “Soon I will give you your head and we will show
these desert horses and their riders a lesson they will not
forget.”
He held Zolotoy’s reins in a tight grip,
watching the flag flap in the brisk autumn air. It depicted a black
stallion and a snow-white mare against a green field under a blue
sky. A horse’s high whinny and the shouts of men turned his
attention to where Yago’s black stallion, Tor, reared and pawed at
the air, while the gelding next to him broke from the line, a
bloody gash on his ear. The gelding’s rider brought the frightened
horse under control and inspected the bleeding ear, loudly cursing
Yago and his “black demon of a mule” for biting his horse. Aleksi
shook his head. Horses were not inherently mean-tempered creatures,
yet he had seen more than one made so by their masters.
The gelding’s rider declared him fit to race
and resumed a place in the starting line away from Yago and Tor, as
did the other riders, keeping their horses at a safe distance from
Tor’s teeth and hooves. Aleksi glanced over at Sahar, who was
speaking softly into Lasair’s ear. She had not spoken one word to
Aleksi since the evening before last, when they had been in the
kitchens with Anya, though he had found her contributions of a
boiled egg and pieces of unseasoned fish to Kiska’s growing larder
yesterday morning and evening.
Probably for the best they hadn’t spoken. The
sight of her sitting beside Yago at supper last evening, at her
laughing and blushing at his slavish attentions still had Aleksi
seeing red. Her father had not seemed amused either. He’d worn a
furrowed brow through most of the meal. Aleksi understood the
necessity of maintaining politeness and royal manners well enough,
but what he did not understand was Sahar’s inability to see what a
worm the Wolf was. Her mind was as quick and sharp as her blade
hand, yet she not only tolerated, but encouraged the man’s fawning
behavior.
The horses back in line and at the ready, the
king held the flag high, and then slashed it down.
Aleksi gave Zolotoy a quick squeeze with his
knees and hugged the stallion’s barrel sides as the horse surged
forward. He leaned over the stallion’s bunching withers as they
thundered past the other horses, glancing behind them to see the
bulk of the racers dropping further behind. That morning, they had
all been given the opportunity to walk the course with their
mounts, which ran in a looping circle from the palace gates down
into the city and along the waterfront and back up to the palace
gates where the starting line became the finish line. The city’s
wide, main road had been cleared and laid every hundred paces or so
with jumps of varying heights that the riders were required to
take, and spotters were set at each jump to disqualify those who
thought to cheat. Aleksi grinned. Zolotoy hated to lose a race
almost as much as Aleksi did, and needed no tricks or crops to
overtake any horse running ahead of him, which, as they neared the
city, was only one long-legged blood bay mare whose rider’s shapely
seat Aleksi would recognize anywhere.
They turned into the city to the roar of the
crowd watching along the roadside, and Aleksi glanced back over his
shoulder and growled low in his throat. Yago’s black charger was no
more than four strides behind them. Zolotoy picked up speed as the
road straightened out along the waterfront, eager to close the
three strides between them and Lasair, and Aleksi gave Zolotoy his
full head. They closed the distance to two strides. The first jump
was coming up, and Aleksi slowed Zolotoy’s breakneck speed and
crouched higher and tighter in preparation for the jump of stacked
logs. Lasair sailed over the jump without even breaking stride, and
Zolotoy followed, though the big horse did not land as smoothly as
Lasair had, and they lost the stride they had gained on the
straightaway.
And so it went, Aleksi and Zolotoy nipping at
Lasair’s hooves along the straightaways and falling behind again
each jump. When they made the road leading back up to the palace,
Zolotoy was only two strides behind Lasair, and Tor was only two to
three strides behind Zolotoy. Aleksi urged Zolotoy on, but Lasair
held on to her slim lead. The mare truly could fly, and Sahar was
as good and fearless a rider as Aleksi had ever seen. He swerved to
miss a rock in the road and heard Yago’s muttered curses behind
him. Gritting his teeth, he willed his strength into Zolotoy and