Da’s hand camedown upon Deathan’s shoulder. The gesture mirrored that of Androch only moments before, yet could not be more unlike.
“Son, I do no’ think ye should take part in the competitions.”
Da did not look at him but gazed away across the turf to where the first of the races was set to begin. The footrace this was, in which Darlei would not compete.
“We want to show well, do we no’? To best the Caledonians?” Deathan questioned.
“Aye so,” Da admitted.
“I ha’ a good chance o’ doing that.”
“We want your brother to win.”
Deathan felt that. It went through him like a blade to the heart, even after all this time. Would his father not be proud if he bested the Caledonian warriors? Only Rohr?
He said quietly, “I am no’ certain Rohr can beat that front man o’ theirs, Urfet.”
Da sent him a sharp glance. “And ye think ye can?”
“I do.”
“Aye then, do it. But if ye come up on your brother in the lead—”
Deathan pulled away from his father’s hand. He did not care so much about being first. But perhaps Androch was right. There was only so much a man could cram down his craw.
“I know I can rely upon ye,” Da said. “As yer mother always tells me, we can count upon Deathan as on solid rock.”
Thick as rock, was he? Scant praise, and the equivalent of admiring how well a man took a stab in the back.
Not till Da walked away did Deathan fully appreciate what his father’s words meant. Da knew he could best Rohr. For all his apparent disfavor, he did. Else he would not feel it necessary to ask Deathan to hold back.
That caused some satisfaction. Not enough. With rebellion in his heart, he stepped forward and took his place in the line of runners.
They were to run down the length of the field where the ponies were exercised, around a small tree at the bottom of the field, and back again. Deathan hoped someone had been assigned to pick up the offerings the ponies left ahead of time.
He glanced at the tent, set on the elevated area up beside the keep. Princess Darlei was not there. Looking around, he saw her standing behind the starters.
She did not so much as glance at him, but his heart beat hard. Harder.He could make her see him.
A primitive urge it was, to want to win. To want to win in order to gain a woman’s attention. An urge he denied far too often.
At the center of the line, the members of the Caledonian guard jostled and shoved one another playfully for position. Rohr was at the far end of the row, well separated from Deathan.
King Caerdoc stepped up, raised his arm, and brought it down with a shout.
They ran.
It took Deathan a moment or two of pounding over the turf to figure out what was going on. That this was not like any race they normally ran. Indeed, the jostling at the beginning should have told him.
The Caledonians pushed one another, tripped one another—or tried to—all while laughing and leaping free of the obstacles. They shoved the Gaels also, who did not react at all well.
One of them came at Deathan, and he dodged nimbly, leaping free. That was when he realized some of the Caledonian runners sacrificed their race to take out the competition. So their man, Urfet, could win.
Indeed, Urfet was well in the lead, striking across the green turf like a bolt of lightning. Lithe of limb and full of vigor, the man looked unstoppable.
Not on my ground, Deathan thought, and took off after him.
He had to dodge two more Caledonian runners. The rest could not catch him now. He and Urfet were way out in front.
