Summerkin Page 7

  The stables were snug and dry and smelled of horse and—Fer eyed the nearby stalls—of other kinds of animals that could be ridden but were not horses. The stall at the end hid yet another mount. That stall had high walls, closing the mount inside, but Fer could hear bumps and thumps as the mount bashed itself against those walls. It sounded fierce, whatever it was.

  She heard squishy footsteps; glancing out the doorway, she saw the tall boy, Lich, coming across the courtyard. He had his pale face turned up to the sky, letting the rain soak him from head to toe.

  “Hi,” Fer said as he entered.

  Giving a damp sniff, he ignored her, then went into one of the other stalls. To Fer his mount looked a little like a horned goat, except that it had a fish’s tail instead of back legs, and it was covered all over with glistening, mushroom-colored scales. Really, it was the perfect mount for a pouring-down-rain afternoon like this one.

  The next to come in was Arenthiel. He wasn’t wet at all—he had some magic that kept the rain off, Fer guessed, and that kept him looking perfect all the time, without a smudge or speck anywhere. He gave Fer one of his brilliant smiles as he stepped inside. “My dear Gwynnefar!” he said.

  This time, Fer did the ignoring, busying herself by putting a few twists of braid into Phouka’s mane, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. From the corner of her eyes, she watched as Arenthiel put a saddle and bridle on his mount, a golden horse with gleaming silver hoofs. As he led it out into the pouring rain, she realized that the horse was huge and powerfully muscled—so big, it made Phouka look like a shaggy pony in comparison.

  Last to come was Gnar. Fer didn’t recognize her at first; the girl from the Drylands was wrapped in a hooded cloak made of waxed canvas. As she entered the stable, Gnar threw back the hood, then stripped off the cloak and tossed it over a hay bale.

  “Lovely day for frogs,” she said dryly, with a glance at Lich and his goat-fish mount. After giving Fer a quick nod, she strode to the walled stall at the end of the stable; she opened its door and went in.

  Fer stared, hearing more bumps and thumps. Curls of smoke leaked out from under the stall doors. What was in there?

  The bear-man, Lord Artos, came in then, shaking drops of water from his furry head, clapping his huge hands together. “It is time,” he rumbled. “Come.” He led the way out into the rainy courtyard, where Arenthiel was waiting.

  Fer put on her backpack and, gripping Phouka’s mane, swung herself onto his back. Lich’s mount trot-slithered ahead of her. Fer followed them into the middle of the courtyard. The rain poured down; in a few moments, Fer was soaked.

  Last came Gnar and her mount. Fer stared. Gnar’s mount was as big as Arenthiel’s golden horse but shaped like a snaky lizard with clawed feet, coal-black scales, and a muzzle full of sharp teeth. Smoke drifted up from its red nostrils. It was wearing a canvas raincoat-like covering, just like Gnar’s cloak, and it had a rain hat buckled over its head with two holes in it for its horns to stick out of. There were holes in the raincoat for wings, too, that the mount kept folded against its sides.

  A big lizard with wings . . .

  “Is that a dragon?” Fer asked.

  A wide grin broke out across Gnar’s dark face. Fer heard a snrr-snrr snorting sound—she was laughing! As Gnar laughed, puffs of smoke drifted up from her nose. Her dragon-mount stepped into the courtyard. Steam hissed wherever it set down its clawed feet.

  The four competitors gathered around the bear-man. He had to speak loudly to be heard above the pouring rain. “You will begin the race here—” Lord Artos pointed toward the grassy area before the nathe. Through the rain, Fer could see that white tents had been set up and crowds of Lords and Ladies sheltered there, waiting for the race to begin. “You will take your mounts on the path through the forest and out to the Lake of All Ways. You will circle the lake twice, then return here.”

  Fer nodded. “Got that, Phouka?” she asked.

  Phouka tossed his head and broke into a prancing trot, leading the other competitors across the puddled courtyard to the wide grassy lawn where the race would begin.

  With the nathe looming behind them, the four of them lined up in the pouring rain: first Lich on his fish-goat; then Arenthiel and his huge horse, who were both perfectly dry, as if an invisible umbrella was open over them. Next to Fer rode Gnar and her dragon-mount. The dragon took high steps, as if it didn’t like the feel of the wet grass beneath its claws. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Fer glanced aside at Gnar and caught her casting a nervous look at the sky. The rain came down harder, and Gnar hunched into her rain cloak.

  She didn’t like the rain, Fer realized. Well, that made sense; Gnar seemed to be made of smoke and flame. She couldn’t be used to weather like this.

  The High Ones had joined the Lords and Ladies under the tents.

  “Be ready!” Lord Artos rumbled.

  Fer gulped down a sudden surge of nervousness. She clutched Phouka’s mane, ready for the race to begin.

  “Be off!” the bear-man shouted.

  Phouka leaped forward so suddenly that Fer almost lost her hold on his mane. She slid sideways, then gripped with her hands and with her legs and managed to stay on. Phouka pounded away from the nathe, heading for the dark forest on the other side of the wide lawn. Beside them raced Lich, his goat-mount stepping daintily with its front feet, its scaled tail swishing smoothly over the rain-wet grass. The golden horse ran easily, Arenthiel holding the reins with one hand, looking as if he wasn’t even trying yet.

  A crackly cackle from above, and Fer glanced up to see a dark shape pass overhead—Gnar and her dragon-mount. Flying! That was hardly fair.

  But no. Nobody had said the mounts had to run the race. They just had to win it.

  Fer crouched lower over Phouka’s neck. They jolted over the grass, and then Fer found the rocking rhythm that made it feel as if Phouka was flying. They hurtled toward the forest. Ahead, Gnar’s dragon-mount touched down on the grass; it took two running steps, then leaped into the air again, its wings rowing through the rain. Arenthiel’s golden horse swerved in front of Fer, and a clod of mud kicked up by its heels hit her in the face. She ducked and scrubbed at the mud, and then they plunged into the dark forest.

  The path was so narrow that they had to go one at a time. First went Gnar and her dragon, flying low under the tree branches—to stay dry, Fer figured. Then came Arenthiel. Fer saw a flash at his heels; he gave a sharp jab, and the golden horse leaped forward with a slash of blood-red across its side. Arenthiel was wearing spurs—sharp ones. The knot of determination in Fer’s chest tightened. She and Phouka would not lose this race to somebody who would hurt his own horse to win.

  Through the forest they raced, to the rooty gray wall, which opened like a curtain as they approached. As they burst out of the forest, the rain pelted down again. Ahead, the Lake of All Ways lay gray and flat under the lowering clouds.

  “Twice around the lake,” Fer shouted, reminding Phouka. He stretched out into a run, his hoofs skimming over the sodden grass. Fer wiped straggles of wet hair out of her eyes and peered ahead. Still in the lead, Gnar and her dragon faltered, as if the dragon’s wings were being beaten down by the rain. It plunged to the ground, took a few staggering steps, and then flung itself back into the air, its wings flapping, Gnar crouched on its back, urging it onward. Just behind them came Arenthiel and his golden horse, running hard now. Fer saw more bloody slashes appear on the horse’s sides. Lich pulled even with her and Phouka. His pale face was intent; his mount panted out steamy breaths, but it didn’t slow.

  The Lake of All Ways was wide, maybe a mile around, Fer guessed. Phouka ran steadily, but even pushing as hard as they could, Arenthiel’s golden horse raced ahead of them. Fer held on and squinted to keep the rain out of her eyes. “Faster, Phouka,” she urged. Phouka responded by surging until his nose was even with the golden horse’s streaming tail. Right behind her, Fer could hear Lich’s goat-mount.

  Phouka snorted and put on another burs
t of speed and they drew even with Arenthiel. His big horse’s strength was fading, Fer saw. It was too heavy for the wet course; it was struggling to slog along the muddy bank of the lake. Arenthiel glanced aside at her and slashed again with his sharpened spurs. The big horse slowed even more, and Fer and Phouka raced past them.

  They could beat Arenthiel, she realized. She and Phouka went on, leaving Arenthiel and Lich farther and farther behind. They swept around the lake and started the second lap.

  Suddenly Fer saw, way ahead, a dark shape plunge from the sky and crash next to the lake. Gnar’s dragon. She and Phouka galloped closer. The dragon lurched to its clawed feet and stumbled on. Fer got closer, and then she and Phouka flashed past.

  As they passed the dragon, Fer looked back over her shoulder, just in time to see the dragon crash to the ground again and Gnar tumble off its back. The fire-girl lay still, a heap on the ground.

  “Phouka, wait,” Fer shouted. Ignoring her, Phouka raced on. She jerked his mane to get his attention. “She fell off,” she shouted. “She might be hurt.”

  Phouka slowed, then swerved, turning back to where Gnar and the dragon lay on the bank of the lake. They trotted up, Phouka blowing hard.

  Gnar still wasn’t moving; her dragon heaved itself away, its wings bedraggled, its raincoat slipping off. Flapping like a bird with a broken wing, the dragon headed for the drier forest path.

  Quickly Fer swung off Phouka’s back, her feet landing in squishy mud, and went to the other girl. Gnar’s eyes were closed. Her skin was ashy gray, and she panted, wisps of fading smoke drifting from her mouth. She lay with her feet in the lake. Drops of rain speckled her face.

  Fer gripped the shoulders of Gnar’s raincoat and dragged her out of the water, then crouched next to her. With the back of her hand, she felt Gnar’s forehead. The other girl’s skin felt clammy and cool. Not the way a Drylands fire-girl should feel, Fer felt sure. She had some herbs that might help. She slung her knapsack to the ground and dug through it. Herbs for heating and drying, that’s what she needed. Cayenne pepper would be best, but she didn’t have any of that. Anise would work. And ginger. She had some of both, dried. With shaking hands, she found the paper envelopes with the herbs in them, crouching over to shelter them from the pouring rain.

  Phouka, who had been standing nearby, snorted. Then she heard a heavy clop-clop of hoof-beats, and Arenthiel came splashing up, very tall on the back of his huge mount. He pulled the golden horse to a halt; it stood with its head lowered, snorting, bloody foam at its nostrils. They were both still completely dry, despite the rain falling all around them, and Arenthiel was absolutely clean, not a speck of mud on him.

  “Aren,” Fer called up. “I need your help! Can you use your magic to keep the rain off of Gnar?”

  Arenthiel stared down at her. No smiles now; he looked grim and, somehow, older than he had before. “Why would I want to do something like that?” he asked, shouting to be heard above the rain.

  “She’s going to—” Fer glanced down at Gnar. The fire-girl was shivering and flakes of ash coated her face. “The rain has damped her down to embers,” Fer said. “She’s going to go out—she’s going to die.”

  “Oh, dear me. That would really be too bad,” Arenthiel said with false sympathy. “Why don’t you stay here and take care of her, Gwynnefar? I would help too, except that I have a race to win.” Spurring his horse, he rode off, the rain parting like a silver curtain around him.

  She stared after him. Aren was cold and cruel. How had she mistaken such a person for a friend, even for only a little while?

  Fer turned back to her patient. That’s what Gnar was, she realized. She wasn’t going to leave her here to die just to win a race.

  She had to get Gnar dry, somehow. Her patch-jacket might help; it had some of Grand-Jane’s protective magic in it. She shrugged out of it, shivering as the rain soaked her shirt. With one arm she tried to hold the jacket over Gnar; with her other hand, she clumsily sorted herbs. Phouka edged closer, as if he was trying to help shield them from the wind and rain.

  Lich came trotting through the rain on his fish-goat. Seeing Fer and Gnar, he stopped.

  Fer looked up, blinking raindrops out of her eyes. “Lich, can you help?” she asked.

  He was streaming with rain. He peered ahead, to where Arenthiel and his golden horse were stumbling away. If he went on, Fer knew, he might be able to catch Arenthiel and win the race.

  “Her flame is going out,” Fer told him.

  With a steamy sigh, Lich slid off his fish-goat’s back and squished over the grass to kneel on Gnar’s other side. “She looks terrible,” he said calmly.

  She really did. “Just hold my jacket over her,” Fer said, passing it to him. “Try to keep her dry.”

  Lich got to his feet and held the jacket over both of them.

  It was a relief to not have the rain pounding down on her head and shoulders. Lich didn’t seem to mind it at all. “Thanks,” Fer called to him. Quickly she dumped dried ginger and anise into her hand. Oh, and she had some black pepper, too. She added all of it, mixing it with a finger. Gnar wouldn’t want it in water, Fer guessed. She blew on her other hand to warm it up, then rested it on Gnar’s forehead. The girl’s eyes flickered open.

  Fer bent closer. “Gnar, take this.” She held her hand up to Gnar’s mouth. “It’ll help dry you out.”

  Gnar’s mouth opened, and Fer tipped in the ginger, pepper, and anise.

  A normal person would choke on such a spicy mixture, but Gnar swallowed, then coughed out a swirl of smoke and sparks. Her eyes popped open. She shoved Fer’s hand away and struggled to sit up. “What are you—” She coughed again. “What are you doing?”

  Fer shrugged and started stowing the packets of herbs in the knapsack. Phouka, curious as always, came closer and rested his nose on her shoulder. His wet mane dripped onto her neck. Brrr.

  Tall Lich bent and peered under the jacket he still held. “You were down to embers and ash, Drylands girl,” he said. “Gwynnefar helped you.”

  “She did?” Gnar turned to stare at Fer. “You did? Why?”

  Fer blinked. “What do you mean, why?”

  Gnar shook her head, as if Fer was being stupid. “You could have won the race. Why did you help me instead?”

  “Because I had to,” Fer tried to explain. Lich and Gnar looked at her blankly.

  “It must be a human thing,” Lich said.

  “Must be,” Gnar said. “Human or not, it was an extremely strange thing to do.”

  Twelve

  By the time Fer and Lich had found Gnar’s dragon and gotten it, and Gnar, safely back to the nathe, the white tents had been taken down from the lawn. The rain had stopped, finally, but the sky was darkening, and a thick layer of mist surrounded the nathe. The High Ones had gone inside. The race was over, and Arenthiel had won.

  They stumbled into the stable.

  Arenthiel’s horse stood shivering in its stall, its head lowered. It still wore its saddle and bridle, and it was soaking wet. Blood oozed from the slashes in its side. Arenthiel himself was not to be seen.

  As Lich and Gnar cared for their mounts and then left, Fer led Phouka to his stall and used some wisps of straw to dry him, then gave him water and a bucket full of oats and draped a warm blanket over his back. “Thank you,” she whispered to him. “I’m sorry we didn’t win.”

  Phouka nickered and chewed his oats, watching with bright eyes as she went to Arenthiel’s horse’s stall. It twitched as she entered, but stood still as she took off its saddle and bridle, dumping them in the corner. She crouched and examined the slashes on its sides, made by Arenthiel’s sharp spurs.

  With a sigh, she got out her bags of herbs and bottles of tincture and made up a poultice, which she smeared on the slashes. More proof of Arenthiel’s cruelty, that he could treat a horse so badly and then leave it chilled and bleeding, and without any food or water.

  When she’d finished looking after the golden horse, she said goodnight to Phouk
a and headed back to her rooms. Time to look after herself. After such a hard race, she was tired down to her bones. She was soaking wet and had dried mud all over her face, and her braid was half unraveled. Every step up the stairs to the nathe hurt. Dinner. She’d have a dinner, and then a hot bath, and then a nice long sleep so she’d be ready for tomorrow.

  At her own rooms, she opened the door; as she stepped inside, Fray and Twig pounced on her.

  “Lady Gwynnefar!” Fray panted.

  “Lady,” Twig echoed, her eyes wide.

  “It was just a short nap,” Fray said. “I only slept for a moment.”

  “And then!” Twig put in, pointing at the door.

  Fer closed her eyes, just for a second. She was so tired. She opened her eyes again. “And then what?”

  “The puck!” Fray said. “He’s snuck out. He’s been gone for hours.”

  Fer leaned against the door. Oh no. This was just what she needed. What could Rook be up to now?

  In his person shape, Rook slipped through the dark tunnels of the nathe. He’d been slinking around for a while, staying out of the nathe-guards’ way. Now it was growing late and the lights had been turned low, and nobody was about. Lucky for him. He had a crown to steal. Staying in the shadows, he made his way to the nathewyr, the big meeting hall.

  Rook surveyed the room. It seemed bigger at night. Except for one or two crystals turned low, it was dark. The side doors, the ones he’d noticed this morning, were empty and unguarded. He felt a prickle of excitement under his skin. Once he’d gotten the crown, he could get out the doors and run for the forest in his horse form, and nobody would catch him.

  He paced across the hall, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the stuffy silence. He hopped up onto the platform and went over to the pedestal. The pillow was there, but the crown was missing. All he found was a circle inscribed in the velvet, where the crown had rested.

  “Curse it,” Rook muttered to himself, and flopped onto one of the High Ones’ fancy thrones to think. With a fingernail he picked at the silver inlaid on the throne’s arm. Hmm. They must put the crown away at night, for safekeeping. He’d have to try for it another time. But his brother-pucks had planned to meet him. He’d better go tell them he’d failed, so far, to steal the crown. That decided, he got to his feet and headed to one of the side doors, making his way out of the nathe.