The impact as she hit the snow was enough that it took her a second too long to jump up and run after the horse. She had just reached the shrine when Carasta caught her around the waist.
“You’ll... share!” he panted, shaking her as he spun her around. He was almost completely out of breath, which was the reason, Polijn knew, that she was being shaken and scolded. Carasta was an easygoing soul, not one to make life unpleasant for himself by pursuing retribution in time-consuming ways. A good thump to the head or kick in the stomach were quicker and more satisfying.
He’d get around to those eventually. For now he shook her and sputtered, “Wrong way... anyhow. Shelter... too small. No reward.”
Polijn hung her head as though this regrettable oversight had just occurred to her and hugged his pack, which she had attached to the front of her tunic. Her plan now was to take any reprimand he wished to deal out, perfectly docile, until his guard came down and his grip loosened. He could chase her, but he could hardly catch her. Though she was stiff from her unaccustomed position, she had most of her running strength left. The one-eyed minstrel was all but worn out.
This plan was canceled, however, when a third hand, a rather rough and heavy hand, grabbed her from behind. Polijn could tell by Carasta’s face that he had not been expecting reinforcements. The goblin must have been coming behind her on the eastern road.
“Lookin’ for a nice, quiet place, huh?” he demanded. “No need for that. They were all gettin’ ready to leave.”
This complicated matters all around. Polijn was pretty sure she couldn’t outrun Dirklad as well, at least not without the horse, which had continued to stroll east after she dropped off. And Carasta was utterly unprepared for company.
“Why, er, um,” said the minstrel, “why, yes, but... er, this way you... can get started... early. And we can... rejoin the procession... when they get here.”
But now the goblin had noticed she wore two packs, one on the back and one in front. “Carrying for both of you, eh?”
Carasta set Polijn on the ground. “Why, um, yes. We, er, often do this. Kind of a friendly... wager, um, on...”
Dirklad scratched himself under the nose. “Now, an odder thing I haven’t seen all year,” he said, “and I saw a crow eat a bottle. My folk, we all carry our own packs because you never know when some sneaky snake might slip out something that don’t belong to them. You’d better check.”
“Um,” said Carasta, not at all willing to open his pack while Dirklad was watching.
But the merchant had unslung his own bundle. “That is yours, isn’t it?” he demanded. “Nobody thought about switching with me, eh, and maybe dealing in spices instead of song for a while?” Both eyes studied the minstrels as the hands slid into the pack. He suddenly looked to Polijn much more like the goblins of song and story, who preferred tearing into their foes with their teeth than with any artificial weapons.
“No,” grunted Dirklad. “This’s mine, right enough. She must’ve just took yours. Better check. Say!” The goblin lifted a little pot from his pack. “Oil of peppermint! You know what that’s good for?”
Polijn knew several uses and started to slide a little to the east. Carasta was moving to block her when they heard the horn.
Torchlight from the two racing processions fell on three expressions of dismay. Polijn could not regard this arrival as a rescue; it would not do to explain that she was in danger from Carasta because of this ruby horse she had. Carasta, for his part, couldn’t complain that Polijn had stolen the horse from him. And Dirklad’s plan for the evening had been interrupted. Polijn could see, though, that while Carasta and Dirklad were suffering setbacks, she was in deep trouble. Whatever happened next, she must wind up being carried along to the religious shelter or off to the south.
“I’ll have it!” cried the duke, running at the head of the parade.
“Not this year, brother!” exclaimed the other leader, running next to him.
“Look!” shouted their sister. “You’re both too late! Somebody’s there now!”
And then, of course, Polijn knew what to say. “Behold the Kings of the Crossroads!” she exclaimed, striding forward so she could wave a hand back at the minstrel and the merchant. “How fortunate that Lord Carasta, an adept in the worship of Our Lord Horse, should be one of them!”
“You were here first!” protested Carasta, over the cries of the crowd.
Polijn spread a hand on her chest, appalled. “A woman be King of the Crossroads?” she demanded.
“Why not?” roared Chilia. The duke gave his sister a shove.
“Not that again,” he ordered. “We’ve never had a Queen of the Crossroads yet. Well, Miskey, bring the two crowns. I don’t say they beat us fair and square, but they did beat us. And, Miskey, find out who was supposed to be guarding the gate.”
“Now, wait,” Dirklad began.
“You’ll have the twin stipends paid to you in the morning, on our way back,” the duke informed him.
The goblin slapped Carasta on the back. “Why, then, my lord, we wouldn’t think of insulting you by refusing the honor.” He leaned toward the minstrel to whisper, “Time enough tomorrow to show the little pillow how peppermint’s used.”
Polijn cleared her throat. “I’ll just hurry on and explain things to Abbot Anderal.”
“Tell him we’ll be there — both of us — as soon as this ceremony’s over,” said the duke, with a glower at his brother.
Polijn bounded off into the snow. She found the horse some forty yards along, mainly by running smack into him. He’d been standing in the shadow of a bare tree. The big eyes turned toward her seemed somewhat amused.
There were no milestones handy, nor any other trees for yards, so Polijn got a grip and climbed this one. A reasonably solid branch hung out over the horse, enabling her to lower herself gingerly into her previous place. After calling the horse a few names, only partly so as to get it moving again, she rode on to the shelter.
Anderal, looking fresh from an afternoon’s nap, stood outside the door with all the fellows of the establishment. They raised their torches and cheered at the sight of her.
“All praise!” cried Anderal, even though they were already praising to the fullness of their lungs. “The lad’s returned!”
“We should have had faith, as you said!” agreed one of his subordinates.
They did not, at least, seem to regard her as a criminal, unless they were cheering that now they had someone to sacrifice on the altar. Polijn reached into Carasta’s pack, but then thought better of it. Producing the idol only to break it as she dismounted would do her no good.
A dozen hands were raised to help her dismount, and she was glad of the help. Once she stood, a little awkwardly, on the ground again, she said, “I have brought...”
But Anderal had one hand on her shoulder and another on the horse’s makeshift halter. “This way, lad,” he said. “Time enough for the story once we’re inside.”
Instead of leading them into the shelter, though, he took Polijn and the horse around behind the building. Not knowing quite what was up, Polijn felt it was time to show what she’d done. Spilling Carasta’s trinkets right and left, she brought up the heavy red statue.
“Sir,” she said, as they stopped before a large wooden door, “I have brought Our Lord Horse.”
The abbot glanced down. “Oh, that. Just hold it a while, would you, lad?” He swung the big door wide.
Behind it lay a large, well-appointed stable, brightly lit. He led the Rossacottan warhorse to the single stall. Polijn followed, envying him his ease. But the way he led the horse told her he’d done this before.
“You must’ve misheard, lad,” Anderal said, dropping the makeshift halter. “This is not the shelter of Our Lord Horse, but of Our Lord’s Horse. It’s an easy mistake to make. Here we stable a horse for the Almighty, should He take it into His head to leave Heaven and return to Atfalas.”