Exile's Challenge by Angus Wells Page A

first equestrian ventures. The pony had seemed gigantic, the ground too far below him. And that little animal, he reminded himself, had been equipped with proper saddle, stirrups, and full harness. Then Flysse heeled her animal closer and smiled fondly at Davyd.
    â€œIt’s really not so difficult.”
    Davyd refused to meet her eyes, his cheeks growing red. “How do I get on?”
    â€œMount,” Arcole said unthinking. Then frowned—how, indeed, without Davyd be subjected to further embarrassment? He said, “I’ll help you. Look, take the rein and the mane …” He set Davyd’s hands in place and cupped his own, stooping. “Now put your foot here.”
    Davyd obeyed and Arcole took his weight, seeing him settled astride the buckskin.
    â€œHold with your knees.”
    The horse turned and Davyd swayed precariously, cryingout as he lost his seat and fell to the ground. His shout was followed by a stream of curses that fouled the morning air.
    Flysse said, “Davyd!” Then, “Are you hurt?”
    â€œNo.” He clambered upright, rubbing at his shoulder. His face was flushed and sullen. Arcole was grateful neither the Matawaye or the Grannach laughed. “Do we try again?” he asked.
    Davyd hesitated, scowling, then nodded and came warily around the buckskin. Morrhyn brought his own horse alongside, Kahteney on the other flank, so that the buckskin stood quiet and the two wakanishas were positioned to support Davyd. Or catch him, Arcole thought as he lifted the youth back onto the saddle. This time Davyd kept his seat.
    Arcole turned to his own animal. It was a rangy-looking gray that swung its head to study him as Kanseah passed him the rein. He stroked the animal’s muzzle, murmuring softly as he braced himself to mount. I can do this, he told himself. I must, for I’ll not be helped into the saddle like a child. Even so, he was less than confident. He took the rein and the mane as he’d shown Davyd and launched himself up. The gray snorted and skittered as he landed, and he clamped his thighs tight on its ribs, aware of the Matawaye watching, and Flysse. He gritted his teeth, determined to retain his dignity, and was thankful he stayed astride. Managing the horse, however, was another problem: the simple saddle was surprisingly comfortable, but he found the absence of stirrups disturbing, and could not at first decide how the single rein could guide the animal.
    Then Kanseah touched his arm, smiling shyly, and showed him how the single length of rawhide might be drawn to the left to turn the horse in that direction, and how its laying against the neck turned it the other. Heels came into it, but such nuances he would leave for later—for now he was satisfied just to remain seated.
    â€œYou see,” he heard Flysse call, “it’s not so difficult.”
    The gray had begun to curvet and he was concentrated too much on holding his seat to answer, so he only offered what he hoped was a nonchalant smile until the beast calmed, accepting his weight and unfamiliar smell. He looked to where Davyd sat, still flanked by the Dreamers, and wondered howfar they would travel this day, and how the youth would feel at journey’s end. Pained, he guessed, and likely he not much better: it had been a long time since he’d sat a horse.
    Then Rannach spoke, pointing to the east, and the Matawaye called to the Grannach and the Grannach answered. Hands were raised in last farewell and the horses heeled forward. Arcole chanced a last glance back, and saw Colun wave even as the squat little man roared laughter.
    Rannach and Kanseah took the lead as they rode slowly down the valley, and Yazte the tail. Morrhyn and Kahteney held the nervous Davyd in his saddle, talking the while. Arcole and Flysse came behind. Arcole thought she rode better than he.
    â€œI’m not used to this,” he said.
    â€œYou’re a gentleman.” Flysse