The youth rested an arm across his horse’s back, leaning comfortably against the animal’s barrel. He was not tall; his eyes and Lydryth’s were nearly on a level as they stood together. “What brings you to the horse fair. Lady?” he asked.
Lydryth briefly explained her desire for a mount to carry her on her journeying, but admitted ruefully that her taste in horseflesh exceeded the wealth of her purse. Dakar nodded sympathetically. “There is fine stock to be had here. Lady, but only for those with the silver to purchase it. True bargains when buying horseflesh are rare.”
Lydryth sighed. “You are right. I had just decided I would be better off earning yet another night’s worth of silver, then trying again on the morrow. But I am anxious to proceed to Lormt-even a day’s delay seems an eternity!”
“Lormt?” he gave her a sharp, sidelong glance. Plainly, he had heard of the ancient stronghold of knowledge.
“You know of Lormt?” she asked, eagerly. “Have you ever been there?”
“Never within its walls. Lady. But I worked with a mountain guide for nearly a year, leading parties into Escore, and we were accustomed to camp outside Lormt’s walls on each trip. We watered our horses at the village well. The master chronicler, Duratan, gave my partner permission to do so.”
“Have you met any of the scholars there? Any who might know aught of ancient scrolls having to do with healing?”
Dakar shook his head. “No, always I remained with the party while Jon-” He broke off in midname, his mouth tightening, then continued, not looking at her. “-while my partner consulted with the scholars.”
“But still, you know the way there. Is the overland route by way of South Wending the most direct road?”
He nodded. “It is. Except that there is an old forest trail after you pass South Wending that will save you half a day’s journey. The entrance is nearly overgrown, but the path itself is dear. Look for it on your left just past a tall bank of red clay with a stream running at its foot.”
“Thank you,” Lydryth said.
“You are most welcome. I only wish I could be of more help. I can tell that your journey is … important.”
The songsmith glanced away. “You have aided me. Anything that will hasten my journeying is all to the good. I am in your debt.”
“Nonsense, my lady. I owe you far more than that, for catching Monso. Doubtless you kept him from injuring someone, or, at the least, damaging property.” Dakar stopped to gaze thoughtfully over at the oval of beaten earth where soon the races would be run. A moment later, he turned back to catch the songsmith’s gaze, hold it with his own.
“If I had coin of my own, I’d give it to you. Lady,” he said, his pleasant voice suddenly low and intense. “Regrettably, races have been few and far between here in the south of Estcarp, and at the moment I have barely enough to pay my entry fee. But if you will trust me enough to risk some of your own silver, I swear that it will profit you.”
Dakar took a brush from a pocket in his jerkin and began grooming his horse. Dried sweat rose in a dusty, salty cloud. “My beast may not be as tall, or as sleek and well groomed as these local beauties. Lady-but over a course this length, nothing can stay with him, much less pass him. Wager on us, and you’ll not lose.”
“But it’s a long way from the riverbank to the fairgrounds,” Lydryth pointed out. “He’s run himself into a lather once already today. I saw some of the racers earlier-they are fine, blooded animals, and fresh, as Monso is not. How can you defeat them?” Monso snorted explosively, then curled his upper lip, almost as though he were laughing. Dakar grinned as he curried his mount’s back. “I admit it sounds unlikely, but I know what I know. Wager on us. Lady Lydryth, and you’ll not have to sing tonight to earn extra silver.”
The minstrel gazed at both horse and master for a long moment, then nodded. “May you race as fast as ever Lord Faral did, Dakar. I will go and place my wager.”
Monso snorted again, then bobbed his head as though he understood and agreed perfectly.
An hour later, Lydryth jostled for position along the hedges dividing the racecourse from the fairground. Tucked safely into her coin purse was a flat chip of wood, marked with the amount of her wager and the odds. As she had suspected, Monso was not among those favored to win the race-too many people had seen the runaway’s mad flight across the fairgrounds. Any horse that had already spent itself so greatly was regarded as too leg-weary to prove a dangerous challenger.
The songsmith squinted, trying to make out the field against the reddish glare from the westering sun.
There! One spot of dull brown and black, contrasting vividly with the colorful caps, sashes and saddlecloths of the other entries. Dakar rode Monso onto the course, his saddle one of the light ones used by battle-couriers. Unlike the other riders with their long-legged, secure seats, he rode with his stirrups short, almost perched atop, rather than astride, his mount.
Lydryth smiled inwardly. The Kioga rode like that when they raced . . . short-stirruped, crouching over their horses’ withers, rather than sitting heavily on their backs. The young woman knew from experience that Dakar’s position in the saddle would permit his horse maximum freedom of stride, while greatly lessening wind resistance.
Around her, the townspeople ofRylon Comers also noticed the stranger’s odd seat. Several rough-looking rogues that she’d seen in the wagering tent pointed and laughed, predict- ing that the young man would find his brains spattered on the packed earth as soon as the race began.
As the horses milled behind a rope stretched across the track, the official starter took her place. She was the mayor’s wife, a greying, buxom woman who stood beside the judges on the inside of the racecourse. In her hand was a red scarf that fluttered in the wind.
Minutes went by as the horses wheeled and sidled, their riders urging them into their appointed positions on the starting line. Lydryth noticed that none of the other animals would stand within a length ofMonso. As though he had expected no less, Dakar, without being told, took up position on the far outside, where he would have the greatest distance to run-an additional handicap. Lydryth bit her lip, thinking of the silver coins she had wagered… thinking how ill she could afford to lose them. A moment later, the line of horses momentarily steadied; then suddenly the strip of red silk fluttered free.
The rope barrier dropped.
A roar of excitement erupted from the watching crowd as the racers lunged forward, trying to gain a position next to the inside hedge. Great clumps of dried mud pelted the crowd, thrown up by the thundering hooves.
Monso! Where is he?
Lydryth craned her neck, trying desperately to see, but many of the men in the crowd were taller than she. She ducked between a goodwife carrying two hens in a cage, and a blankshield whose breath proclaimed his afternoon in an alehouse. On tiptoe, fists clenched, she squinted at the course. Slowly, she was able to pick out the individual horses.
The grey in the lead, then the red chestnut… third was the dun … the golden bay was neck-and-neck with the liver chestnut, then came the dark bay with the blaze face. But no black! Fear tightened like a fist on Lydryth’s throat. Monso!
Dakar! Where are you?
Anxiously, the bard looked back along the length of the track, fearing to see a downed horse and rider. But the hoofscarred clay was clear. Puzzled, she turned back to the race. The horses, still closely bunched, were approaching the far turn. But as they reached the opposite side of the oval track, Lydryth made out a smaller, black shadow clinging like a sticktight to the side of the second-running chestnut!
“Go!” Lydryth whispered, not even hearing herself amid the din of the crowd. “Run, Monso!”
As if he had indeed heard her, Dakar guided the black horse perilously closer to the inside hedge; then there was free track before them! Lydryth gasped as Monso leaped forward so swiftly that it seemed as though he had only now begun to run. In the space of a heartbeat he was beside the grey leader. Then he was past-a length in front-two lengths-
Lydryth clapped a hand to her mouth, seeing that Dakar was holding his mount tight-reined, not allowing him to run full-out. His hands moved, pulling hard, working the steel bit against the comers of the horse’s mouth. And still the black, moving with the speed of an advancing tempest, continued to gain!