His answer was the barest tensing of his thighs. The horse immediately responded, moving faster. Yvenne desperately gripped his legs as she was jolted and bounced in the saddle.
His voice hardened. “You strike like a hammer upon your mount’s spine.” Forearm across her stomach, he raised her higher against his chest, until she was rocking smoothly with him. “Feel her rise and fall through each stride. Sit tall and use your hips to rise and fall with her. You have no stirrups, so let your legs hang loose, steady your weight upon the insides of your thighs, and find your balance. Do not squeeze her sides with your legs to remain seated.”
Though loosening the secure grip of her legs was terrifying, Yvenne did as he commanded. Her balance shifted, her weight sinking deeper into her seat. Pain shot through her stiffened hips when she tried to move as he did, but she gritted her teeth and persevered, until the pressure of his arm around her waist eased and she was not relying on his strength to keep from bouncing upon the horse’s back.
“In that way,” he said approvingly, and the horse slowed to a walk again. “We do not often travel at that pace, but you must know how to ride at it.”
Breathless from exertion, Yvenne nodded. “It was easier,” she panted, “on the first night. When my horse was running.”
And was probably the only reason she had remained on its back. Had they trotted, she’d have bounced off before they’d traveled a sprint.
“Running is smoother,” he agreed.
As was walking. Though she still did not feel as one with the horse. “I have heard legends of Parsathean riders who truly became one with their mounts.”
“No.” They had slowed, yet his arm remained around her waist, holding her securely against him. “Though it is almost a truth.”
“How?”
“Because we are as silver-fingered Rani.” Lightly he dragged the tips of his silver claws up over her forearm. Amusement deepened his voice again when a shiver raced through her. “There is no greater warrior than she.”
That was not what Yvenne’s mother had claimed. “It is Vela who is goddess of warriors.”
“And Rani is the finest of them all. The strongest warrior, the keenest hunter—for no one has ever defeated her, and no one has ever escaped her. When she comes for you, it is the end.”
For she was death. On that Yvenne could agree. “Yes.”
“And after Rani claims you, she flies upon her dragon to deliver you into Temra’s arms,” he said, and each word seemed to swell through Yvenne’s chest. “That is what the warriors of Parsathe do—we are as silver-fingered Rani, delivering our enemies into Temra’s arms. And when we ride into battle, one with our mounts . . . it is as if we fly.”
Heart thundering, Yvenne whispered, “I would do that. I would learn to ride simply for that.”
“Would you? Race into battle, even if it is into death?” His silver claws grazed the side of her throat before he pressed forward against her back and said roughly, “Hold fast to her mane. Crouch low over her neck.”
She did. Maddek’s legs tensed and the mare sprang forward. Then they were racing, racing with the wind whipping tears from Yvenne’s eyes and the warriors racing with them, all around her, the hoofbeats pounding like the pounding of her heart.
And it truly was like flying—though not into Temra’s arms. Not when Maddek held her so tightly in his. Everything hurt, yet there was no pain. This could not be like death.
Not when Yvenne felt alive for the very first time.
CHAPTER 10
MADDEK
For two days they rode beneath a blue sky shimmering with the heat of a glaring sun. On the third day, they started out when dawn was a distant gleam upon the jagged teeth of the Fallen Mountains to the east. Above the flat grasslands to the west, sullen clouds swept toward the riders on a hot wind swollen with the promise of rain.
That promise was delivered before midday. A deluge fell in torrents from leaden skies. Blinded by the downpour lashing his face, Maddek bowed his head against the onslaught. His mare did the same, head hanging low as she walked, her great hooves wading through the muddy slop of a road.
They traveled too slowly. Yet a faster pace through the slop risked injuring the horses’ legs.
Any other day, Maddek would have found shelter and waited for the storm to pass, but they could not delay. No doubt yesterday Cezan’s body had been delivered to the alliance council. Bazir would immediately send word to his father in Syssia and brother in Rugus, but would also order his soldiers in all directions to search for Yvenne. She and Maddek’s warriors were but a single day’s ride beyond the bridge over the Ageras—barely three days ahead of any soldiers sent in pursuit.
That lead would not last. Not at the slow pace they’d traveled the past two days, after purchasing a mount for Yvenne. Not at the much slower pace they traveled now.
A powerful gust flapped Maddek’s sodden linens against his legs, the heavy weight of his braids whipping his shoulders. Swiftly he looked back, half expecting that Yvenne’s slight form had been blown out of her saddle.
But she still rode tall—taller than any of his warriors, who sat low in their saddles, heads bent and bodies braced against the wind. Loosely she held the reins in her two-fingered hand. Her left hand she’d wrapped around the saddle’s pommel, anchoring herself.
She did not return his gaze with a questioning arch of her eyebrows, as she had almost every time he’d looked back at her in the past few days. Instead her eyes were closed, her face lifted to the rain, her mouth curved into a soft smile.
Another gust tore at her black hair, the long strands streaming out behind her in a wet silken banner. Heavy over her slim shoulders lay the homespun cloak he’d purchased for her at the same village where he’d bought her short-backed dullard of a horse. The coarse cloth was saturated, water dripping in a steady stream from the hem—just as it dripped from her exposed brow, her nose, and her chin.
Frowning, he glanced at Banek, who rode beside her. They traveled the road two abreast, with Maddek and Kelir in the lead. Banek and Yvenne followed a few paces behind. The older warrior had appointed himself as her companion these past days, patiently teaching her how to sit a horse—and, by unspoken agreement, serving as her guard while Maddek rode ahead. It was Banek who alerted Maddek when she needed to rest or eat, and it was Banek who reminded her to drink often beneath the hot sun.
Yet now she was soaked from head to toe and the older warrior had his face down.
Maddek looked to her again. He had to raise his voice over the short distance and driving rain. “Draw up your hood, Yvenne.”
At the command in his tone, each of his warriors snapped to attention, faces lifting and bodies tensing before the words themselves registered. When his meaning sank in, they all looked to her.