The rest of the riders streamed in, everyone having to comment.
“A fluke,” the seniors said as the riders brought their horses in to be rubbed down.
“She cheated,” Pepper Marlovayir declared loyally to his bunkmates, joined by a chorus of agreement, as if loudness could change the facts.
“Nah.” Rat flicked his hand out, palm down. “Rode in front of me the entire time. Sheered the edges better’n me. Want to see that horse,” he added thoughtfully.
Noren, as winner, was given the choice to go first in the next competition, which was the mounted spear throw. This event was less about speed than about riding ability, as the rider had to bend to the ground, pick up a spear, then lob it at a target fifteen paces to the side, all within the length of the parade ground.
Noren could have been expected to turn it down, but instead she flashed a wide grin and signed that she was ready any time they were. Holly had readied another of their horses as Noren ran to the inside of the gate at the barn end of the parade ground.
The master in charge, already experienced in Hand, asked if she understood: she was to ride out the gate, and bend down to get the spear. Not grab it before she mounted.
She waved that she understood, and remained where she was, watched by puzzled, silent boys and girls. She motioned for Holly to release the horse—and then, to everyone’s astonishment, as the animal began an easy canter, she pelted out to intercept, vaulted up over the animal’s hindquarters, flipped in the air, and landed on the saddle. Then she locked one foot behind the horse’s neck and leaned down to snatch up the spear, whipped it around as she righted, and threw. All in one continuous motion.
It landed in the target without much force, but respectably within the inner circle.
The watchers went wild. Noren looked over at those open mouths and grinned.
Up in the stand, Arrow sighed.
“Why the sour face?” Danet asked. “She’s a terrific rider.”
“I never thought an Algaravayir would learn useless horse tricks.”
Danet’s lip curled. “Arrow, why would the Algaravayirs be any different from anyone else? Did you really think they’ve been hiding generations of Inda-Harskialdnas down there, ready to pop out and lead wars for you when you snapped your fingers?”
Arrow shot her a fulminating look, shuffled his feet, then said, “The competition is in the midden now. You watch. The boys’re going to start assing around with trick riding. Useless in battle.”
Maybe it was useless in battle, but for entertainment value, there was nothing better. The watchers shouted with excitement, thrilling hearts, nerves, brains. The boys did just as Arrow had predicted, the most flagrant being two Jayad Heseas cousins and Mouse Noth, who rode out side by side on a pair of horses, Mouse behind one cousin. The two bigger boys stood on the animals’ shoulders as the horses cantered side by side, and small, skinny Mouse scrambled up to place a foot on each of their shoulders, arms windmilling. Then they tumbled down to their animals’ backs amid frantic cheering.
Following that, the Tlennen girls rode out in a pack, leaping from one horse to the other. The next group added headstands and running dismounts. The audience adored it all.
Some insisted on a second go, until Headmaster Andaun himself put an end to that particular event. The morning was strengthening in heat, and they still had the three main horse events ahead.
First was the lance competition.
No girls had signed up for this, but most of them lined up on the wall, watching as intently as the rest of the academy boys.
No one watched more intently than Ran. All sense of competition forgotten, he writhed with jealousy. Those boys with their heels locked down and those lances leveled as their heavy horses charged...what in the entire world could be more fun than that?
But Senelaecs didn’t learn lances any more than they rode heavy horses. For the past couple of generations, they had been fighting off the increasingly organized horse thieves from over the eastern mountains, which called for fast riding and straight shooting.
Ran watched, breath held, as all the upper seniors rode out, charging hay-stuffed targets. Those who didn’t hit the red in the middle were eliminated, cutting the competition abruptly down to eight: four of the most senior of the lancers, Ghost, Rat, and both princes.
Connar looked impossibly heroic as he rode hard, contrasted with heavy-shouldered Noddy, who slumped in the saddle, but it was Ghost and Noddy who slammed their lances into the hay-stuffed targets time after time, with such strength that the targets sometimes completely burst their ties.
The four younger boys were finally eliminated, Noddy last. Connar retired, oblivious to the cheers of the spectators, and unaware of the female gazes on his striking profile. He struggled to hide his sharp disappointment in himself—all that extra time he’d put into lance work, and he tied with Rat Noth, a year younger. Yeah, he was destined to be a commander, not a rider, except his reading made it clear that everyone naturally followed a commander who could beat them all. Like Inda-Harskialdna.
Behind him the four seniors, red-faced with heat, charged the targets another seven times, until at last the elder Mareca boy won.
Ran, who had watched intently, let his breath trickle out. Even when he gave up his braids, he’d never get to do that.
The next event irked him just as much. Out came the wooden swords, and fighting on horseback. Three girls had signed up for this event, two from the far south and one from the Fath-Tyavayir riding. No one else, as women usually didn’t train with swords. Many didn’t even bother with knife training anymore. Few even learned close combat weaponry for scouting, especially among the Eastern Alliance. Those scouts had for at least a generation been spotting trouble, then riding hot and hard on the kingdom’s fleetest horses to report. Their weapon was the bow, and the ride and shoot would be next, with the girls impatient to get started.
But Ran watched closely as the Senelaec girls muttered among themselves, hoping that those swanking Marlovayir boys would go down in defeat fast.
The contestants were released to fight in melee to make up for lost time. Each combatant carried a chalked wooden sword, so anyone with a mark on an arm had to fight with the other hand, and marks across the upper body were considered death blows, as hitting heads was strictly forbidden.
At first the melee was a confusing mob, mostly hidden by dust, but the contestants began to fall away fairly rapidly—mostly the younger ones. As the crowd thinned so did the dust, and the spectators were able to make out the best fighters dueling back and forth, sometimes three or four circling one, who either fought them off and broke the circle, or was eliminated.
Fairly early on, along with all the younger boys, two girls were eliminated. Both were sixteen-year-olds who as yet had more confidence than skill, but the third, a Noth rider who had grown up with brothers, lasted until the mass was down to fourteen. Shortly after, in a tactical rout by Ghost and Stick Tyavayir, five were eliminated one after the other (including one Marlovayir, which brought covert grins to the Senelaecs, and to Connar), before Stick was tapped. That left two seniors, Ghost, and Noddy.
As the two seniors fought each other, Ghost and Noddy dueled, mouths open, sweat flying. Ghost just missed Noddy’s neck the same moment Noddy swung from the hip and knocked the exhausted, overreached Ghost clean out of his saddle.
The audience sent up a huge shout. Noddy leaped down and held out his hand to Ghost, his regret plain to see as he helped the boy stand. They caught the reins of their horses and walked off together, Noddy deciding to disqualify himself, though what he’d done was not outside the rules—but he was a lot like the Uncle Jarend he’d never met, remorseful when his enormous strength got him into trouble.
The audience gave the prince a shout. At last there were only two seniors, who by now were too tired to do much more than clack their swords together. One finally got in a strike down the other’s back, and the crimson-faced boys retired to gulp down ladles of wa
ter as the stable hands took the animals to the water butts.
Then runners-in-training ran out to set up for the ride and shoot—the favorite event.
Anticipation gripped watchers and competitors both as the targets were set up on both sides down the length of the parade ground. Connar, brooding from the sidelines, wished he’d put more time into this instead of those useless lances. At least Noddy was even worse than he was—a thought that made him despise himself so much that he had to move, and walked along the wall to look over the girls stringing their bows. He knew how good everyone was in the upper levels of the academy, but he had no idea how these girls would measure up. He hoped they could beat Rat Noth.
Not ten paces away, Ran Senelaec readied himself. After watching, and yearning, his entire body thrummed with the need to prove himself, to win.
The elimination round was for single side, at fifty paces.
They were released to ride down the parade ground, two horse lengths apart, leaving little margin for error. The spectators quieted when Noren began her run. She was competent, but not great; it was clear that she was one of the best riders, male or female, but astonishingly, not a fighter.
When everyone had gone, those who had not hit the center mark every time were eliminated, as by now the sun had nearly reached noon, and they still had all the standing competitions yet to go.
Headmaster Andaun sent one of his twelve-year-old runners to give the command to set up a second set of targets on the other side—a sight that dismayed many of the competitors, most of whom practiced only on one side.
Eliminate, eliminate, eliminate, cheer! That was Rat Noth; one of his left side shots was barely on the edge of the center mark, but anything touching was ruled good. He rode back, shaking his head. Pony Yvanavayir had worked her way up to follow Ghost in hopes of catching his attention. Ghost rode down the parade ground, every shot strong and true.
Pony followed. An excellent shot right-side, which was the customary side for competitions, she rarely shot left-side, and even more rarely both, but she was furiously determined, and her first three shots were straight and true. But then she ran into difficulty: you can’t slow, or the following shooter will be on your horse’s rump, and if you lag for a heartbeat to align your arrow, each shot puts you shooting backward just that much more.
Her next few shots hit the target, but not the mark, and the last, to the left, flew entirely over the target. She rode back, furious—until she got to the gate, and Ghost, who had just finished drinking, handed Manther’s sister a cup, smiled, and said, “Good try.”
Pony’s fury turned to euphoria, just like that. She walked her horse to the waiting runners, her mind full of anticipation, and she didn’t see the rest of her riding’s competition.
Just as well. To a girl, all their right-side shots were true, but the left made it clear where the weakness in their drills lay.
Several Marlovayir girls went next, mixed among academy boys. No one from their team was disqualified. The Senelaecs, watching with disgust, moved up in the line, and Ran found himself motioned in behind one of the Marlovayir twins, who looked back and gave him a curled lip.
Ran was incandescent. Ink, knowing him well, sidled her horse up. “Just take the targets. Nothing fancy,” she cautioned.
She might as well have saved her breath. Ran had just finished watching two contests that filled him with longing—after a morning in which the Senelaecs had won nothing.
They were all hot and sweaty, their cotton-linen clothes clinging damp to their bodies, grimy with dust. Pepper Marlovayir rode down the ground, his arrows striking true, true, true, true, left and right—and then an arrow slipped in his clammy grip. Just for a heartbeat and he recovered, but he was shooting backward now, as Ran began his ride.
All that pent-up emotion cooled into deliberation. He had been practicing both-side targets since he was small, and this last year, as his strength increased, he’d played with shooting two arrows at the same time.
The crowd went wild as his arrows flew, straight and true, to the center mark, twang, slam! Twang, slam! Twang, slam! Halfway down, the danger mark for everyone, he felt his rhythm slow less than a heartbeat, his breath crowing in his throat. Every muscle in his body tightened as he stood in the stirrups, his sweat-damp shirt and trousers molded to his body, and his robe flapping behind him on the horse’s flank as slam, slam, slam, the arrows flew fast and hard, smacking into the center mark—
Five rows above the king and queen, a teenage journeyman cobbler, who had been enjoying the contestants’ tight young bodies rather than their shooting, pointed as he bellowed, “Heyo! That girl’s got a prick!”
Arrow—whose sense of humor had not changed much since he was a teen—let out a guffaw, which spread among those who heard. The king laughed, so did everyone else, as those who heard the laughter but not why nudged their neighbors to find out what the joke was.
Ran heard none of it. His focus was entirely on his form, which was stunning—hand snapping out and down, nipping the arrows from the quiver angled at his side. Aim and strength perfectly matched. Thunk, thunk, the final two arrows slammed dead center into the last left, the downfall for so many.
The crowd roared.
Arrow’s laughter had died, hilarity replaced with a question. “Who is that?”
“Ranet Senelaec,” Danet said dryly.
Arrow slewed around to stare at her. “Connar’s wife?” His eyebrows met in an angry line over his brows as his neck flushed.
Before he could begin barking questions, Danet murmured, “Not now.”
Arrow remembered the audience around them, and straightened, his hands gripping his knees. Below, Ran rejoined the Senelaec girls in the spot they had adopted as theirs. He became aware of a different quality in the noise then, and a lot of stares.
He turned, bewildered—he was not unfairly expecting a mutual whoop of celebration, as not only had he hit every target with two arrows, but that Marlovayir strut had been eliminated. But the girls seemed more uncertain than celebrative, and they drew closer in unconscious protection.
From habit, Ran turned to find Ink, but right then she was making her run, every shot smacking true into the center.
Young Pan whispered to Ran, “I think they know.”
Ran blinked dust-gritty eyes. “Know? What?”
“About you.”
“What? No, impossible. Who blabbed?”
Fnor bit her lips against the snicker that wanted to escape, and said in an unsteady voice, “Someone. Yelled out. Said you’ve got a prick.”
“Of course I do,” he said with an impatient glance down his length, then the implications began to hit him, piling up in all their disastrous probabilities. He turned his head toward where the king and queen sat, the former looking like thunder even from this distance.
“Oh. Shit,” he whispered.
Ink had finished—hitting every target—and came riding back. As she rejoined them, Tdor whispered to her, and her expression turned grim. The last three of the Senelaec riding made their runs, and all three hit the targets, but there was no sense of celebration as one by one they rejoined the group, were surprised at the grim faces, and were filled in.
The nine of them stood together, every wondering, mirthful, or simply amazed glance from those around them as painful as a whiplash. Ink wondered when the king’s guards would come to haul them off to the royal dungeon, as the youngest girl—who had just finished a ride as lethal as any of the seniors’—wondered if they’d be shot right there in the parade ground.
By then Headmaster Andaun had caught the rumor, and sent a glance at Commander Noth, stationed at one end of the parade ground, where he was in reach of any runners from the garrison sentries. Noth gave his head a tiny shake. Andaun turned for clues to the king and queen. Arrow stared straight ahead, his mind working furiously, but Danet had been expecting that unspoken question, and her fingers flicked in the Carry on sign.
The last four contestants compl
eted their rides, every one of them eliminated, and then, in a dry voice, Commander Andaun read out the names of those who would participate in the second round, with the targets removed now staggered, some closer, some at a far remove, and shifted laterally as well.
When Andaun got to Ran’s name, someone in the crowd of academy boys commented loudly, “Shouldn’t that be Rana?”
Some laughter rose, drowned by a buzz of conversation as everyone wondered what, why, when, was it some kind of ruse, as the Senelaecs trooped off in a tight pack toward the horses.
This time all the seniors, who worked hardest on lance and sword, were eliminated, and more than half of the academy boys; as future captains they were more likely to be commanding the archers, rather than shooting themselves.
It was the distance shots that did in the younger boys, who didn’t quite have their strength yet. More than half the girls found themselves riding back in defeat. Among the Marlovayirs, the oldest three girls were the only ones who survived, one barely, the arrow in the farthest target drooping at an angle. Ink, Ran, Young Pan, and Tdor made it from the Senelaecs, the younger girls all defeated by the distance shots.
The third round had all the targets moved back, the last two at a hundred paces. This time, a Sindan-An, a Tlennen—both cousins to Ran—and Ran were left, Ink disqualified by a heartbreaking finger’s width on the last shot, her arrow drooping as if ashamed of having not flown true.
The three final contestants met to get their horses. Tall, dark-haired Marda, born a Sindan and adopted heir to the Tlennens, said to Ran, “I wondered why Cousin Ran moved in with you at Senelaec. How long you been a girl?”
“Since I was born.”
Baldy Sindan-An flashed a grin. “What a prime ruse! Cub shoulda let us in on it.”
All three turned when one of the headmaster’s small runners panted up and squeaked, “Headmaster wants you.”
They followed him back to the command post. Headmaster Andaun turned their way. “We’re awarding the three of you a tie,” he said. “We’re running very late, and we still need to get to the standing competitions. Go get something to eat.” He pointed to the mess tent.
Time of Daughters I Page 47
