City of Sorcerers Read Free Page A

ugly temper for one reason: the horse could race. When he channeled his anger into competition, he was as surefooted as a goat and as fleet as the wind. Few Harachan horses could beat him.
    The trick was to stay with him long enough to get him started. For Kelene that was sometimes tricky. Unlike the other riders, she had no saddle or stirrups, only a saddle pad strapped to Ishtak's back. She had learned the hard way that her crippled foot and ankle were too weak to bear her weight in a stirrup or remain in a bent position. The pain had finally forced her to ride bareback and to develop the balance, strength, and firm seat needed to help her control a recalcitrant horse.
    She had learned too, that the usual women's skirts were a hazard on a cross-country race. Today she wore the special split-legged skirt her mother had made for her, a gold tunic, and soft boots. Her thick, dark hair was braided and coiled on the back of her head.
    The girl cursed as the gelding crow-hopped out of line again, jarring her teeth.
    There was no way to cajole this foul tempered beast with soothing words, encouraging pats, or treats. Nothing pleased him except getting the best of his rider or winning a race---whichever came first. Kelene pulled his head up and forced him back into the milling line of riders waiting for the start of the race. Just another moment or two and they would be away.
    Twenty-five other horses waited with Ishtak, some of them prancing with excitement, some of them quiet and unimpressed by the crowds, the noise, and the mounting anticipation. There were no Hunnuli in line since the race was no contest to the big blacks, but some of the finest Harachan horses on the plains were there to represent the different clans. Dust billowed up under their stamping hooves, and the clan colors on the riders' tunics gleamed in the morning sun.
    It was a perfect day for the Induran race: clear, warm, and dry---a typical summer morning. The sky arched over the river valley in a flawless dome of blue; a light breeze stirred the grass. The bazaar and the camps were quiet that morning and the council grove was empty. Everyone had gone to the flats to see the start of the most important race of the gathering.
    The Induran was a cross-country endurance race that tested the stamina, skill, and courage of horses and riders alike. There were very few rules, and the race was open to anyone with the desire and the horse to ride. The fact that women rarely rode in the rough-and-tumble race was only an added challenge to Kelene. The year before she had entered and ridden well only to lose her favorite mare when the animal stepped in a hole and shattered its leg a league before the finish line. This year Kelene had Ishtak and was more determined than ever to win.
    The girl glanced toward the starter on her right, but he had made no move to raise his horn. He was still waiting for last minute entries. Someone several horses away caught her eye: a slim, young man on a chestnut horse. He grinned mockingly at her and waved. Rafnir, Sayyed and Tam's only son, was as fine a rider as the clans had ever produced and one of the few serious contenders who could beat Kelene in this race.
    Rafnir was laughing at Ishtak's tantrums, but Kelene refused to give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she concentrated on the open stretch of land in front of them.

    From the corner of her eye she saw the starter raise his horn. The twenty-six horses were abreast of one another and the riders were ready. The crowd roared with excitement.
    Automatically Kelene wrapped her hands deep into Ishtak's mane and leaned forward over his neck. Ishtak had been known to bolt out from under her at the start of a race, and she did not want to end up ignominiously in the dust before the Induran really began.
    The horn call came loud and sweet, and the horses sprang forward almost as one.
    Except for Ishtak. For once the gelding did not leap forward but threw up his head and dug in