The Wind-Witch Read Online Free

accept him unchallenged as her property. But running the poles was another matter, because success there depended upon skill and nerve as much or more than fleetness of foot. The swiftest courser might not be handy enough to navigate the tight course without striking a pole.
    There were six poles, set roughly equal distances apart, in a straight line. The goal was to dash along them, weaving in and out, then whirl and return so as to pass each pole on its opposite side. A horse that was stiff to one side, or unwilling to listen to its rider about where and which way to turn, wouldn’t be successful at it. Some began very well, but got going too fast to hold tight turns and went bouncing stiff-legged off the course, fighting their riders with their nosed poked at the sky. Some turned well to the left but not to the right, and lost advantage with every other pole. One high-headed chestnut got so excited that he sent two poles flying when he crashed heedlessly into them, then took his rider for a mad run out over the downs till he finally got winded enough to answer to the curb bit in his mouth. Each run was attended by cheers, shouts, groans, screams of encouragement from spectators and riders both.
    Valadan danced, eager for his turn. Druyan wondered if he’d run poles before, or was only excited by the activity. She’d know at the second pole, probably, whether he knew his business or was going to depend on her knowledge of the game. She patted his shoulder, begging him to settle a bit—if he became too eager, he might just bolt straight through the course the way the chestnut had. He did love to run and might forget all else.
    The stallion snorted and dipped his head, playing with the bronze bit. This game is played an the beach, at Keverne , said a clear amused voice in Druyan’s head.
    She looked up from her reins, startled, to see who spoke to her. No one was near. Druyan’s lips parted softly, as she stared at the tips of Valadan’s ears. He turned one back toward her, in case she should have something to say to him.
    But there was no time. Their turn at the poles had come. She sat deep, shortened her reins enough that she could guide the stallion with the least motion of her smallest finger. And then the word was given, and the first pole was hurtling at them, as Valadan thundered toward it.
    They passed to the left of it, then swung right to take the next. Left for the following pole, the flying strides as measured as the steps of a dance. Druyan leaned with Valadan’s turns, keeping them balanced, anticipating the next change in course. Sand showered away from them, flew up like wave spray. Surely they were the fastest yet! No one had done this well, sustained such a blinding pace.
    Almost to the last pole, already leaning into a turn that must be nearly a full circle, Druyan felt a sudden rush of fear. The pole wasn’t where it should have been! They were flying at it, in perfect accord, as they’d rushed at all the others, but they were going to hit it, for it was a yard farther away from the previous pole than any of the others had been set. The ground must have proved too hard where it ought to have been planted, and so the boys had set it where they could—no wonder most of the riders had gone wide on the final turn, lost speed or accord with their mounts!
    If she couldn’t drag him wide of it—Druyan had an instant’s cruel vision of Valadan’s slender legs entangled with the pole, of him crashing to earth and never rising again, all because she’d wanted to race.
    She clamped her hand on the right rein, not caring if she made him veer straight off the course in disgrace, so long as he was safe. The wind they made whipped her hair over her face, blinding her. She shook it off and hauled with all her might at the rein.
    She might as well have been pulling against a tree. Valadan heeded neither the rein nor the bit in his mouth that the rein was buckled to. He paid no mind to Druyan’s frantic