To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion by Diane Lee Wilson Page B

Answer
    Each night, the constellation of the great bird soared a little farther across the night sky. Each day, from the month of Ab to the month of Elul, burned a little hotter. Nineveh’s palace shimmered in the stifling heat. Yellowed leaves fell from the potted trees and lay motionless until a sudden hot wind swept them, tinkling, across the tiled courtyards. Dry as the desert, the wind and the heat sucked life from every living thing, and the normal palace bustle died to sluggish steps.
    The horses and soldiers continued to train, however. Word had come that the Medes were mounting a challenge to Assyria’s borders. As Soulai looked over the armory’s training grounds one afternoon, he saw and heard a heightened urgency that defied the heat. His eyes scanned pairs of lathered horses pulling heavy, two-wheeled chariots, the drivers’ shouts of encouragement punctuating the slap of reins. Raucous barking and growling caught his attention as the royal keeper of the hounds tossed chunks of meat over the heads of his mastiffs. But Soulai was searching for something else—someone else, actually—and he knew he was within sight.
    â€œWe’ll take them over there,” Mousidnou interrupted. Soulai followed the stable master toward the dappled shade of a large acacia bush. The horses they were leading lowered their heads to nibble the scant grasses.
    Shielding his eyes from the dust and sun, Soulai continued to survey the center of the grounds where hundreds of soldiers, horses, and slaves milled about between scattered piles of weapons and shields. Some of the men practiced hand-to-hand combat under the watchful eyes of instructors. Others took turns on the horses, spearing targets with their lances, then charging each other with blunt poles. In one of these clusters, the young men were outfitted in the pale blue and white of royalty. That was where Soulai picked out the boy who owned him.
    â€œLook at him,” he muttered as he watched Habasle aim his pole at a mounted opponent and spur his horse into a charge. “He’s practically gagging that horse.”
    Mousidnou observed, but didn’t say anything. The combatants missed each other on the first pass, spun, and charged again. In the next clash Habasle’s opponent grabbed the wobbling end of Habasle’s pole and flipped it skyward, knocking Habasle off his horse. Habasle jumped up, yelling, and a commander galloped over to intervene.
    Mousidnou grunted. “Loudest of the litter he is, always yapping he didn’t get a fair chance at the teat.”
    â€œFair chance?” Soulai complained. “He doesn’t know what fair is. He owns people and horses and dogs, and…and he doesn’t care if they live, or die a slow death, as long as he gets his way.” He watched Habasle vault onto his mount, jerk the reins so hard that the horse’s mouth gaped, then cockily trot back toward a servant who handed him a new pole. Soulai turned away, his face flushed with anger.
    He focused his attention instead on the horse he led—Ti. Although gray scabs curled from the cuts on his flanks, the wound at the base of his neck continued to fester and the stallion moved stiffly. For the first weeks of the month of Ab, weeks without sleep, Soulai had cared for Ti. At least four times a day he had lugged fresh water from the courtyard trough and, between chores, had sneaked away to pull tender grasses from the canals. He’d once even risked losing a hand by stealing an apple from a silver tray. Ti had barely fluttered his nostrils at the treat.
    While the gods of life and death had fought over his spirit, the horse’s body had sweated and shivered in endless rounds. He had finally fallen so weak that even when the battle was over and won, he could hardly nibble the handfuls of grain Soulai had cupped beneath his muzzle. His hide had shrunk to reveal ribs and hips and each bumpy bone of his spine. Soulai had