To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion Read Free Page B

hairs of the palace’s itchy wool tunic. Between the sores on his wrists and the one on his back, he was collecting scars, all right. Am I a man yet? he wanted to cry out to his father.
    â€œIt’s too hard,” he groaned instead.
    An annoyed sigh preceded the rise of one of the room’s occupants. The boy, or man—it was hard to tell—swung to a sitting position and carefully lit the smoky oil lamp that served as their only amenity. Lifting it high, he leveled an impassive gaze at Soulai. An ugly, pinkish scar stretched from his hairline across an empty eye socket and past his cheekbone. “Whining won’t help.”
    â€œI wasn’t whining,” Soulai retorted, knowing he lied. He climbed to his feet, barely able to straighten in the little room. Although sunshine had yet to poke beneath the flimsy wooden door, he could already hear hundreds of sandaled feet marching across dusty tiles. Another day’s labor as a slave was dawning.
    â€œIt’s just that…that…”—he was struggling for words, sounding dangerously childish—“…five years of my life seems—”
    â€œYour life?” the lamp holder interrupted. “Your life matters not a lick. In fact, you don’t even exist.” He snorted in disdain. “Look around you, boy. You’re one of us now—no more than a shadow, no more important than dust.”
    The grim fortune, told so bluntly, stunned Soulai into silence. He felt as if hands were tightening around his throat. Rushing for the door, he shoved it open and ran out.
    But the dark morning offered little relief; the air already hung heavy with the threat of coming heat, and red-mouthed hearths belched as much smoke as bread. He bit his lip. Ducking between a parade of platters piled high with oily dates and rosy pomegranates, he stared with renewed horror at the snaking line of placid-faced servants. One after another they came, as silent and lifeless as shadows. His fists tightened. No! He couldn’t be so easily harnessed. But in his next step, one of the rigid sandals he’d been forced to strap onto his feet caught in a crack and he tumbled headlong onto the courtyard tiles. Climbing to his knees, he found himself staring into one of a dozen reed birdcages stacked beneath an alabaster colonnade. A broken-feathered creature that had once shimmered with the colors of the rainbow lay on its side, beak slightly agape, dead.
    Soulai felt his own mouth fall open, felt the same struggle for breath. Panic was beginning to take a strong hold on him when the hungry whinnies of horses broke the morning air. Ti would be waiting, he thought. The one unquenchable flame in this gray world. For Ti, he could hurry.
    Rising, he ran across the small courtyard, dashed down another flight of stairs, and sank into the musky aroma of the royal stables. Lanterns lined the brick walls, dispersing their yellow glow up to the thatched roof. The lights were reflected in the dark eyes of a thousand restless horses tethered side by side in long rows. Other stableboys like Soulai were arriving, picking up the rush-woven baskets stacked beside the doorway and sleepily heading off to the grain master to receive their allotment.
    Ten of the royal horses—three geldings, two colts, and five stallions—were assigned to Soulai’s care. In all his life, he’d never seen animals as beautiful as these. His fingers trembled just to touch them. With their chiseled heads and large, liquid eyes, these creatures were as different from the mounts that had passed through his village as peacocks were from pigeons.
    They were looking for him now, “his” horses were, heads straining against their tethers. A shiver of awe, mixed with a little fear, ran the length of his body as he approached them. Half-hiding the full basket beneath his arm, he slipped in beside the first colt, a chestnut, and cupped a hand beneath the bony jowl. The