Gwenhwyfar by Mercedes Lackey Read Free Book Online Page B

practicing just such a thing all summer. Not on a chariot with horses hitched to it, of course, but on an old one with a broken axle. She flexed her toes and then, fixing her eyes not on the pole but straight ahead, ran out along the limber pole, between the warm sides of the horses and back to the chariot.
    “Ah, king,” sighed Braith. “It is a pity this is your daughter, for I’d be taking her back with me this day and leaving you the torque in her place.”
    “And for what purpose, lady?” the King asked, with a chuckle.
    “To make a charioteer of her, as I was.” Braith turned her head to the side and looked at the king from under her shag of hair. “And I tell you this: Be giving her a horse now, and not a pony, and of her own. A wise old warhorse, too old for battle; let the old horse teach the young rider. And be giving her training; now is the time to do it, while she’s fearless. Do that, and you’ll have a warrior out of her.”
    The king pulled at his lip. “And the queen will have a Wise Lady out of her—”
    Braith shook her head. “The mark of Epona is on this one; there’s two goddesses in this one, but Epona is the stronger. ’Tis a waste to make her go to the Ladies.” Braith shrugged. “But if it is your will to send her, still, give her the horse and as much of the training as she can get before she goes; I never heard it said that warrior training did a Lady any harm. She’s only nine summers. Maybe, when she is a woman, Epona will let her go. If not, be sure you will know. The Power won’t leave her in that time, and I never heard the Ladies say otherwise.”
    “Nor I,” the king agreed, to Gwen’s joy and delight. “It will be done as you advise.”
    She was going to get everything she had wanted! A horse, a real horse and not a pony! Training with bow and knife and sword! Oh, and lance as well, because a charioteer used the lance too! She felt dizzy with happiness, more dizzy than she had the time she’d filched someone’s forgotten cup of mead.
    In her rush of happiness she did not forget her manners. “Thank you, Father,” she said, with a little bow. “And thank you, Warrior.” The king beamed down on her, his ruddy hair and beard glowing in the sunlight, his strong shoulders stretching the leather of his tunic, and the gleam of silver at his throat, wrists, and around his head.
    She watched the rest of the morning races in a glow of happiness; none of them were as exciting as the first one. Braith won all the ones she cared to enter, but she held back a good deal of the time. The chariot races alternated with ridden races, to give all the horses a chance to rest. The king didn’t enter his horses that often either; Gwen had been given tacit approval to stay, so stay she did, at the king’s side, but not getting into the way, listening as hard as she ever could as the king and Braith and the king’s war leaders discussed the horses and their drivers. They talked not about the race itself but about how the teams might perform on a hill, maneuvering around other chariots, when encountering slippery grass or mud. They talked of the riders, of whether man and horse seemed of one mind, whether a horse was uncertain of his rider, or the rider of his horse; such uncertainty could mean balks and spills on the battlefield. They discussed whether the horses had been seasoned to the sounds of combat. It was then that she realized that these weren’t just races for the sake of the holiday; this was the opportunity for the king to see his war chiefs’ best drivers and pairs, the best riders and mounts, so that he would know where to put them in a battle.
    Perhaps the only race that actually had been nothing but a race had been the one between his team and Braith’s. And even then—
    “Your pair is steadier than last year,” the king said.
    Braith nodded. “Last year I’d not have run out on the pole. They’ll go through fire and ice for me now. I reckon two more years,