Maggie Stiefvater: The Scorpio Races

I remember, too late, that I’m supposed to be conserving Dove’s energy and I check her speed. Horses charge by us; the green of Ian Privett’s colors, the light blue of Blackwell’s, the gold of the piebald mare. No red stallion under dark blue, though. I have no idea if he is so far ahead that I can’t see him or if he is behind me.

I look for Puck or Dove, but I can’t see anything in this crush of bodies. Corr’s strong in my hands; my exhausted shoulders already ache from the weight of him. My calves burn with the friction of the stirrup leathers. I’m not sure how long I should hold Corr back behind the pack to look for her. The back is the worst place to be; the capaill back here lag not because they’re slow but because they’re fighting with each other or fighting with the sea. The hooves in front of me kick sand into my face. My eyes sting, but I can’t spare a hand to swipe at them.

To my left are a gray and a chestnut tearing at each other. They try to incorporate Corr into the skirmish. I hold him true and press him forward: not too far, because if Puck is behind me, I don’t want to leave her behind. My hands are buried in the sweaty mane at his withers, and I feel his muscles shaking at the touch of the November sea. I whisper at him to be steady.

I look under my arm to the right for Puck; there’s nothing but the gray halfway into the surf. He’s already mostly a creature of the sea. His eyes are slits in his lengthening head. The gray twists and scrabbles, more anxious for the rider on his back than the race before him. Seawater sprays from somewhere, the cold of it like claws on my cheek.

Another capall pushes on my left side; she snaps out and grazes my leg before her rider jerks her away. I can’t stay back here. I’ll get out in the open and find Puck. If she’s not out of this rabble by now, she might already be dead.

I lean over Corr’s neck to whisper to him, but for once, I can’t think of what to whisper.

But it doesn’t matter. Corr knows what I want without me having to speak, and he surges out of the bunched capaill in the rear.

There is a narrow corridor open right to the very front where the three front-runners are fighting it out. Last year I would’ve been through that hole with Corr and they would have been counting the lengths between the rest of the pack and Corr for the remainder of the race.

But I don’t take that move.

I wait.

It only takes a minute for Dove to be bitten and another few seconds for me to be cut by some razor-sharp edge that I don’t think can be horse teeth. I don’t have time to look at the wound or guess what has cut me. We’re trapped in a crush of bodies. Even over the rush of the wind in my ears, I hear their squeals and roars, the clucks and growls as they fight.

From the slice in my thigh, I feel the disconcerting heat of blood running down my leg but no pain, yet. Whatever cut me was sharp enough that the wound was clean.

Dove is beginning to panic. Movement to her right makes her jerk her head sharply enough that the rein rips open one of the searing blisters on my palm. I see white all the way around Dove’s eyes.

I need to get out of here. Sand stings my cheeks and the corners of my eyes, but I can’t spare a hand to swipe my skin. I don’t see how we can move forward until the capall uisce to my right charges into the ocean, tripping over the waves, twisting in the air before throwing its rider.

It’s Finney. I see his eyes meet mine for a bare second, his hands pedaling through the water, and then his bay capall ’s dull teeth snap shut on his cheekbone.

Then I’m past them and they’re gone and it’s only seething water that sprays a dark pattern on Dove’s shoulder. And I’m sick, sick, sick.

Suddenly, there is a narrow path where before there was a capall uisce. If I pull through the right, using some of Dove’s precious strength, we might get clear.

It won’t do any good to save her speed if we die in this fight. I press my calves into her hot sides and suddenly, it clicks. Dove finds her stride and we pull free of the little tempestuous pack that we were trapped in. And there, hanging behind the leaders, I see a red stallion under blue colors, and Sean Kendrick folded neatly on top of him.

I sweep blood off the bite on Dove’s shoulder. It’s not deep, but guilt pricks me anyway. I say sorry to her and she flicks a trembling ear back. I let out a barest length of rein. She’s still terrified, but for a moment, I have her attention.

Focus. I think about riding on the cliffs, holding her steady, keeping her even. I remember the uisce mare leaping from the edge of the cliff. The secret is to remember the race while the others forget everything but the ocean. I can be steady.

There’s a newcomer on our right, and Corr, mad at the touch of the sea, snakes his head to bite at them. I check him and the horse beside us jerks but holds steady. Black-tipped ears. Smaller than Corr. Smaller than any of the horses on this beach. Ordinary muscles pumping and moving beneath her skin.

It’s Dove, matching us stride for stride, feathers fluttering on her saddle pad. I glance, once and then again, at Puck and then Dove. Dove’s been bitten, but not deep. Puck’s bleeding, too. But unlike Dove’s untidy bite wound, Puck’s is clean and long, the material of her breeches sliced. It was a knife that did that, not a horse. Someone angry that she was on the beach with us. To think too long on that is to be furious and to be furious is to lose focus, which I can’t afford.

Because in front of us is chaos. The worst of it is the noise – the panting of winded capaill, the groaning as they fight, the continuous thunder of the hooves, the hissing of the sea. The squeals and the shouts and behind it all, the screams of the crowd. The noise would drive a horse mad even if the November ocean didn’t.

A capall in front of us twists and wheels inward, its rider avoiding the ocean at all costs. Another two shove and squabble, slowing enough that we move past them. It’s a wall of hocks and knees and hooves, blood coating bone, teeth against teeth. They make an attempt to bring us into it, but Corr blocks them, a trembling wall between them and Dove, who is a wall between him and the sea.

We are over halfway there. Halfway means we’ve made it a little over a mile. The first half weeds out those who weren’t ready, those who weren’t tame. It’s a rite of passage. I look at Puck and she looks back me, expression fierce.

The sand blurs below us and the ocean becomes silent in comparison to the sounds of our lungs gasping for breath. We are the only two on the sand.

Blackwell’s and Privett’s mounts quarrel up at the front. They worry back and forth, teeth flashing, necks and shoulders rubbing. Just behind them, Mutt Malvern relentlessly beats Skata, the piebald. And still Puck moves up behind them, steady and even. I match Corr to Dove, stride for stride, and with each stride, we gain ground.

Corr has nothing but power left. There’s a path ahead; I could cut ahead of Blackwell and then Privett. Mutt is nothing at all as he drops back from the lead and closer to us. I could be in the lead and taking this win as easily as I snatched it last year. In three minutes Corr could be mine.

Everything I’ve ever wanted. A roof over my head and reins in my hands and a horse beneath me. Corr.

I feel the mare goddess’s breath in my face.

I told Puck I would stay until she made her move. Maybe she doesn’t have the speed to overtake the leaders. Maybe I give everything away by waiting. I tell myself I have time, still. I have time for Corr to push forward.