Chapter 4 #2
felt the horse’s burst of energy, but it was too little too late.
Sahar and Lasair won the race by a head, and Yago and Tor finished
third by a stride.
The crowd erupted into cheers as they slowed
their horses down to a cooling trot and the other racers trickled
in. Sahar walked Lasair to where her father, the king, held the
winning purse of three gold pieces, her face split in two with a
grin for which Aleksi felt no rancor. The king handed Sahar her
winnings with a grin to match his daughter’s as chants of
“Princess, princess” and “Lasair, Lasair” filled the air.
Next the king motioned to Aleksi and Zolotoy,
and handed Aleksi a purse containing two gold pieces. “A well-run
race, Aleksandr,” he said. “And a close one.”
Aleksi glanced at Sahar and Lasair, both
rider and horse aglow with the fine sheen of victory and exertion.
“Thank you, King Asad,” he said. “It was a race well run, and our
second place hard earned.”
The king nodded, his face suffused with
paternal pride. Sahar beamed at them, her smile doing much to
assuage Aleksi’s disappointment.
Yago the Wolf drew Tor up in front of the
king and held his hand out with a scowl on his face. The king
handed him the purse of one gold piece with a terse,
“Congratulations,” to which Yago answered with a wordless dip of
his head.
Leaving the princess to enjoy her victory,
Aleksi rode Zolotoy back to the stables, where he rubbed the
stallion down, with Kiska supervising from her perch atop an
overturned bucket. A chorus of congratulations announced Sahar’s
and Lasair’s return to the stables, and Aleksi offered his as they
passed Zolotoy’s stall.
“Congratulations,” he said as she handed
Lasair over to a chuckling Ratter. He stepped out of Zolotoy’s
stall and Kiska jumped down from her bucket and yowled at him.
Picking up the kitten, he tucked her into his hold. “Kiska too says
well done.”
Sahar reached out and scratched the kitten
under the chin. “Tell Kiska thank you for the congratulations, and
for not biting my finger.”
Aleksi chuckled. “We are both of us working
on our manners,” he said. “Truly, you and Lasair ran a good race
today. You beat every last man.”
She smiled, and suddenly Aleksi did not mind
losing all that much. Besides, he was still two gold pieces richer
than he had been. He reached out and pushed a loose strand of her
hair behind her ear. “While I admit I generally do not like getting
beaten,” he said with a knot in his throat, “somehow I do not mind
so much getting beaten by you.”
“Well that much was obvious,” a sneering
voice said from behind them.
Aleksi turned and faced Yago. “What do you
mean by that?”
Yago flicked his gaze from Aleksi to Sahar
with a condescending smirk. “You should thank this Steppe bastard
for your, victory,” he said. “He was more interested in stopping me
from winning than he was in beating you.”
Sahar eyed Aleksi. “Is this true?”
“No,” Aleksi snorted. “You know it is not.”
He glared at Yago. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Yago smiled, slowly, smugly. “Why did you
swerve your horse in front of mine, blocking me from making my
break for the finish line?”
Aleksi laughed, short and harsh. “I swerved
to avoid a rock, you sniveling worm. You know you had no chance of
overtaking either of us. Admit it and accept your defeat.”
“Like you have?” Yago said. “You are little
more than a whipped cur after a bitch in heat—”
Aleksi swung without thinking, fast, hard and
sure, the smacking, sucking sound of his fist landing square on
Yago’s cheek giving him some small satisfaction, the sight of him
slumping to the ground even more. Kiska and Sahar screeched in
unison, and Kiska leapt from his arm as Sahar dropped to her knees
and felt Yago’s neck for his pulse.
“Yago was right,” she hissed. “Your manners
are those of a street cur.”
“You’re defending him?” Aleksi bellowed.
“After he insulted you?”
“It was you he insulted.”
Aleksi raked a hand through his hair. Did she
not hear what the worm said? Or was she as deaf as she was blind to
the man’s faults? He glowered at her as she cradled Yago’s head in
her lap.
“Don’t stand there admiring your handiwork,”
she said. “Help me bring him to.”
“You are the most maddening woman I have ever
had the misfortune of meeting,” he grumbled as he stomped into
Zolotoy’s stall and grabbed the bucket of water. He stood over
them, debating with himself over whether he should pour the entire
bucket over the both of them or hand her a dipping cloth when
Ratter started cackling from Lasair’s stall.
“Like father like son,” he said. “They’s both
of ‘em got jaws brittle as dry kindle, they do.” He rubbed the side
of his nose. “Now if I only had a fresh pile o’ manure.”
“Quit your jawing, Ratter,” Sahar commanded.
“Help me get him up.”
Before Ratter could even open the stall gate,
Aleksi emptied the bucket over her head, grinning as her curses
mingled with the sputtering Yago’s.
Sahar took her seat of honor in the middle of
the long table as Aleksandr took his seat to her right and Yago to
her left. The other riders were able to sit where they chose, with
seven of the riders choosing to sit on Yago’s side of the table and
the other ten and two, including Munir, sitting on Aleksandr’s.
Sahar eyed her empty seat beside her mother at the royal family’s
table with a mixture of pride and regret, for though she was proud
of her victor’s seat, she would have much preferred to be amongst
her loving family than between two men who could not look at each
other without baring their teeth and fisting their hands.
“So, Prince Yago,” Feroz, the merchant’s son
said loudly. “What happened to your face?”
Yago sneered, though whether it was
intentional or a one-sided grimace due to the swollen mass of
bruising that was his left cheek, Sahar could not tell. “I had an
argument with a spilled bucket of water,” he said.
“And lost,” Aleksandr added to raucous
laughter. “For the second time today.”
Sahar glared at Aleksandr before giving Yago
a quick grin of sympathy. She and Ratter had not been the only
witnesses to what had happened in the stables, and she was sure
every person at the table, if not the palace, knew the story by
now, which Yago had to be aware of as well. He did not return her
grin, but turned away, the good side of his face impassive. She
didn’t blame him. His pride had taken a beating today.
But then so had hers.
Yago’s accusation that Aleksandr had thrown
the race in order to assure her the win had left her, and likely
everyone else, doubting her victory. She was not insensitive to the
fact that in denying it, Aleksandr had stood up for her, but she
could not find it in herself to be grateful for his reaction, which
was more likely due to Yago calling him a whipped cur. The man
really was an ill-mannered ass, who rode like the wind and whose
kiss still gave her fever dreams.
“And now a toast.”
At the sound of her father’s voice, Sahar
yanked her gaze from Aleksandr’s mouth, flushing a little as the
corners of his full lips twitched up.
“To Princess Sahar,” her father said,
standing and raising his goblet, “and her mare, Lasair, victors of
the one league race.”
Sahar flushed even more as cheers of “To the
princess and Lasair” filled the courtyard. She stood and raised her
golden goblet to her father and then to the rest of the gathering
and took a long draught of wine, feeling the warmth spread from her
belly to her shaking legs. Fortified with liquid courage, she
cleared her throat and held her half-empty cup up.
“To my father and mother,” she said, relieved
that her voice did not crack. “Who raised me to always do my best.
To Storm Chaser and Cloud Dancer, who bred the love of racing into
their daughter, Lasair, the last and fleetest of their
offspring.”
She finished the last of her wine to more
cheers and whistles and sat down, grateful to be done with the
required toast, and that her backside found her seat the first try.
She wiped a fine sheen of sweat from her nose and forehead as a
servant quickly filled her goblet and the king held his up
again.
“To Aleksandr and Zolotoy,” he said. “Who ran
a good race and placed a close second.”
Aleksandr stood, grinning broadly as he held
his silver goblet up to the king. “To King Asad and Queen Oona, for
hosting these events.” He held his goblet up to the gathering. “To
my father, King Maksimillian, for gifting me with my stallion,
Zolotoy, the fastest and strongest of a long line of Steppe
horses.” He turned and held his cup up to Sahar. “To the victor,
Princess Sahar, who made my second-place finish truly hard earned.”
He grinned as she dipped her head in acknowledgement and he dipped
his in return. That damned shock of boyish hair fell over his
forehead. “Who I plan to beat soundly the next race.”
Laughter mixed with applause as he took his
seat and she grinned at him despite herself. He was a natural
showman. He had spoken with a strong, sure voice, winning the crowd
over with his easy charm and wit, and all without raising so much
as a single bead of sweat on his handsome face, whereas she could
dance and fight and ride in front of thousands without hesitation,
but speaking in public made her go clammy from head to toes.
When the laughter and ribbing died down, the
king held his cup up to Yago. “To the Wolf,” he said in a voice as
formal as his use of the Wolf’s name. “Congratulations on placing
third.”
Yago stood stiffly to polite clapping. He
held his goblet of copper up to the king with a slight dip of his
head and then to the gathering, the unbruised side of his face a
mask of princely propriety. “To my father, King Ox, and my mother,
Princess Fox,” he said, “who taught me to persevere.” He turned to
Sahar, and the thin smile on his face did not reach his black eyes.
“And to Princess Sahar on a well-run race.”
He resumed his seat as stiffly as he had
stood while those riders on his side of the table clapped a little
too loudly and grumbled under their breath about cheaters and
tainted victories. Instinctively, Sahar leaned away from Yago’s icy