mounts.
“But how will we beat them, united or not?” asked the Transylvanian, Petre.
“I have some ideas about that,” said Vlad. “Remember we need one score. Only one.”
Around him, his fellow hostages were mounting, each controlling their horses in their own way. All had strapped on spurs, jabbing in, pulling hard on the bits, mastering the beast. Vlad knew a horse could be bidden that way, with pain and cruelty. They would follow their rider’s commands. But they would not truly strive for what they did not love.
Unlike Kalafat. Every time he saw his horse there remained a trace of the wonder he’d felt at their first meeting. He’d been allowed to choose from Murad’s own stables—and been mocked for his choice, for she was a mare, not even quite grown, and of the Turcoman breed; thus far smaller and slighter than the male destriers, the huge war-horses, that other hostages chose. But it was not for her beauty that he picked her, though her coat was a dappled gray and her mane a thick white shock that gave her her name— Kalafat , the gaudiest of headdresses. He’d picked her because he recognized in her what he had sought in a horse from the moment he began riding—about a week after he started to walk—spirit. He did not seek a dominance, but a partnership. When he climbed onto her, it was as if he merged with her, becoming Centaur, not man and horse. His hands were a whisper on her reins, his thighs a caress along her flanks. And he wore no spurs.
The others passed the racks of javelins, each leaning down to snatch one up, moving out onto the field. Vlad was about to follow, when Ion grabbed his sleeve, pulled him back. “Why are you doing this?”
Vlad stared into the distance, to where a cloud of dust showed the circling, prancing Turks. “ Kismet .”
“What?”
“We spoke of it last week.”
“I remember you and Hamza talking of it. The conversation swiftly put the rest of the orta to sleep.” Ion grunted. “It’s destiny, is it not?”
“A form of it. Each of us is born with our kismet foretold. We cannot alter it. But we can prepare for it.” He pointed into the dust cloud. “Fighting Turks is the fate I was born to. And Mehmet, who is the same age as me, will lead them.”
“What has that to do with jereed ?”
“I have to learn to beat him. It will always require great risk. More, some day, than a small piece of skin. I may as well begin now.”
Ion shook his head. “You are mad.”
Vlad smiled. “When did you first guess?”
He moved forward, bent low over Kalafat’s neck, snatched up a javelin. He threw it high into the air, watched its unwavering descent, raised his hand to catch…and dropped it.
Ion lifted his eyebrows. “Vlad!”
His prince smiled at him. “Just because I’m mad doesn’t mean I am not afraid.” He called out to his horse, a series of clicks in his throat. Immediately, Kalafat bent to the ground, picked the javelin up between her teeth, lifted her head. Leaning down, Vlad took it from her.
“To the field,” he said, to his horse and his friend.
– FOUR –
Jereed
They rode onto the equestrian grounds, a dusty, rough rectangle running from the walls of the kolej ’s outer court to the first of Edirne’s houses. It was about a hundred and twenty paces long, half that wide. Heading back towards the kolej ’s walls, they passed the red post that marked the small neutral zone, where no competitor could be struck.
The other hostages formed a semi-circle within it. Vlad rode into the middle of them. “Listen well,” he said urgently, gesturing to the far end of the field where Mehmet and his seven were gathered behind their own red post, in safety, “for I have a simple way to beat them.”
He dropped to the ground, thrust the butt end of the jereed into the dry dirt, drew the rough rectangle of the playing field, the small neutral zones slashed across their ends. “We all know the Turkish method. In jereed , as in war,
“But how will we beat them, united or not?” asked the Transylvanian, Petre.
“I have some ideas about that,” said Vlad. “Remember we need one score. Only one.”
Around him, his fellow hostages were mounting, each controlling their horses in their own way. All had strapped on spurs, jabbing in, pulling hard on the bits, mastering the beast. Vlad knew a horse could be bidden that way, with pain and cruelty. They would follow their rider’s commands. But they would not truly strive for what they did not love.
Unlike Kalafat. Every time he saw his horse there remained a trace of the wonder he’d felt at their first meeting. He’d been allowed to choose from Murad’s own stables—and been mocked for his choice, for she was a mare, not even quite grown, and of the Turcoman breed; thus far smaller and slighter than the male destriers, the huge war-horses, that other hostages chose. But it was not for her beauty that he picked her, though her coat was a dappled gray and her mane a thick white shock that gave her her name— Kalafat , the gaudiest of headdresses. He’d picked her because he recognized in her what he had sought in a horse from the moment he began riding—about a week after he started to walk—spirit. He did not seek a dominance, but a partnership. When he climbed onto her, it was as if he merged with her, becoming Centaur, not man and horse. His hands were a whisper on her reins, his thighs a caress along her flanks. And he wore no spurs.
The others passed the racks of javelins, each leaning down to snatch one up, moving out onto the field. Vlad was about to follow, when Ion grabbed his sleeve, pulled him back. “Why are you doing this?”
Vlad stared into the distance, to where a cloud of dust showed the circling, prancing Turks. “ Kismet .”
“What?”
“We spoke of it last week.”
“I remember you and Hamza talking of it. The conversation swiftly put the rest of the orta to sleep.” Ion grunted. “It’s destiny, is it not?”
“A form of it. Each of us is born with our kismet foretold. We cannot alter it. But we can prepare for it.” He pointed into the dust cloud. “Fighting Turks is the fate I was born to. And Mehmet, who is the same age as me, will lead them.”
“What has that to do with jereed ?”
“I have to learn to beat him. It will always require great risk. More, some day, than a small piece of skin. I may as well begin now.”
Ion shook his head. “You are mad.”
Vlad smiled. “When did you first guess?”
He moved forward, bent low over Kalafat’s neck, snatched up a javelin. He threw it high into the air, watched its unwavering descent, raised his hand to catch…and dropped it.
Ion lifted his eyebrows. “Vlad!”
His prince smiled at him. “Just because I’m mad doesn’t mean I am not afraid.” He called out to his horse, a series of clicks in his throat. Immediately, Kalafat bent to the ground, picked the javelin up between her teeth, lifted her head. Leaning down, Vlad took it from her.
“To the field,” he said, to his horse and his friend.
– FOUR –
Jereed
They rode onto the equestrian grounds, a dusty, rough rectangle running from the walls of the kolej ’s outer court to the first of Edirne’s houses. It was about a hundred and twenty paces long, half that wide. Heading back towards the kolej ’s walls, they passed the red post that marked the small neutral zone, where no competitor could be struck.
The other hostages formed a semi-circle within it. Vlad rode into the middle of them. “Listen well,” he said urgently, gesturing to the far end of the field where Mehmet and his seven were gathered behind their own red post, in safety, “for I have a simple way to beat them.”
He dropped to the ground, thrust the butt end of the jereed into the dry dirt, drew the rough rectangle of the playing field, the small neutral zones slashed across their ends. “We all know the Turkish method. In jereed , as in war,
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