Exile's Challenge by Angus Wells Page B

chuckled. The wind coming down from the hills blew out her golden curls and her eyes sparkled: Arcole thought she looked lovelier than ever, as if this wild free life suited her. “You’re accustomed to fancy riding.”
    â€œI’m accustomed to civilized tack,” he returned, aware he sounded a little grumpy.
    â€œAnd a stableboy to groom your horse at day’s end,” she gave him back, “and hand you a stirrup cup, and pull off your boots.”
    He affected an expression of puzzled solemnity. “Shan’t you tend to those matters? Are they not wifely duties?”
    Flysse said “No!” and pranced her mount close, threatening to dislodge him.
    â€œGod, woman!” he cried, his alarm not entirely feigned. “Shall you knock me down?”
    â€œDo you expect such services of me,” she answered, smiling, “yes.”
    His face grew serious a moment and he reached to touch her hand, then snatched it back as the gray skittered. “Those things are gone,” he said. “I’m not that man now.”
    â€œNo.” Flysse beamed and shook her head, so that sunlight danced in her hair. “And better for it, I think.”
    â€œYes.” Arcole nodded. Then indicated Davyd, ahead of them. “But I believe he’ll need tender ministrations thisnight. Do I recall my first venture ahorse, I could not believe so much of me ached.”
    â€œYes, poor Davyd,” Flysse said, her expression grown solemn. “I hope our new friends carry balms with them.”
    The People lived largely on horseback, and children were set astride their parents’ mounts when first they began to walk; for them, riding was natural as walking. What was a man without a horse? It had not occurred to any of them, that there could exist any folk other than the Grannach who did not ride, or would suffer pain from the experience.
    Davyd did. Indeed, had Morrhyn and Kahteney not ridden beside him, and the pace not been slow, he would have flung himself from the saddle simply to escape the agony of the buckskin’s bony spine driving like a hammer against his buttocks, whilst its ribs heaved between his legs, threatening to stretch his thighs and split him apart. He could not believe riding was so painful, or so uncertain. It seemed to him as unnatural as committing a ship to the unknown depths of the sea, and through all that long day he need tell himself he had overcome his fear of water, and therefore must surely overcome this newfound torture. Besides, Flysse was witness to his efforts, she apparently quite at ease on horseback, and it embarrassed him that he was so ungainly and felt so nervous. He’d not look a fool in her eyes, or in Arcole’s, and so he struggled to ignore his discomfort and learn to master this unlikely new skill.
    The pain helped in that: it consumed him, so that as the morning passed into afternoon and they did not halt, he began to forget his apprehension in the encompassment of the overwhelming ache that possessed his entire body. It was not so much the falls—for despite all the ministrations of Morrhyn and Kahteney, he still tumbled from time to time—as the unnatural position and the constant collision of his body with the horse’s. He thought he would prefer the swaying deck of a ship to this, and that likely he should never learn to ride with the casual elegance the Matawaye displayed. But he gritted his teeth and determined not to give in to the pain, and must he sometimes blink tears from his eyes, then at leasthe did not cry out—save when he fell—and told himself he was not a child to whine and whimper at discomfort, but a man who would suffer his fate in silence.
    Still, he was mightily glad when they halted. He watched the Matawaye spring lithe from their saddles, Flysse and Arcole dismount slower, and endeavored to emulate them only to find himself seemingly paralyzed. His legs would not move; they