“Line up there,” the instructor said. “Straight line, and I want every horse square to it. Guard, place your mounts there—there—and down there.” He rode on, leaning over to place the first stake.
No one argued with him. Boys who argued spent the rest of that lesson on the ground with a shovel and rake, putting horse manure into a sack and dragging tools and sack around the field while their friends rode. Even princes. Camwyn’s horse lined up neatly, but pawed at the ground. On his left, Beclan’s horse shifted its rump from side to side; on his right, Aris’s danced in place. By the time the instructor rode back up the field, the turf under the line of horses was scuffed and torn. He stopped in front of them.
“Gentlemen! I told you a square halt. Yet your horses are writhing about like worms in a bucket.”
“He won’t hold still!” Beclan Destvaorn said.
“Neither would I if you were sitting on my back like that,” the instructor said. “Your toes are out; you’re playing a tune on his ribs with your heels; you’ve cramped his neck with that death grip on the reins, and you’re sitting on the small of your back, not your seat.”
Camwyn, attending to his own posture, suddenly realized that his right heel was snugger than the left; he relaxed that leg a little and his horse quit pawing. “And you,” the instructor said, pointing his remaining flagged stick at Camwyn. “Your seat bones weren’t evenly weighted and you were digging him in the ribs—good that you fixed it, but you shouldn’t have done it in the first place. That’s the same mistake you made on your first pony.”
Camwyn felt his neck getting hot, but the instructor had already moved on to the next of them, Aris Marrakai. Aris, Camwyn thought, put on airs about his father’s horses, admittedly some of the best in the kingdom. Camwyn relaxed, prepared to enjoy the next bit.
“You’re letting your horse dance without warming up properly—surely you, son of the foremost horse breeder in the realm, know better.”
“Yes, sir,” Aris said. “I don’t know why he’s doing it.”
“Do you not, indeed? Then I will tell you. You—” The horse leapt straight up, twisted in the air, and came down in a series of enormous bucks. Camwyn’s horse threw its head up and skittered sideways away from Aris’s mount; all the horses reacted. Aris rode the first few bucks with a skill Camwyn envied—Aris was the best rider in their group—but soon lost his rhythm. The instructor had ridden his own mount close, and tried to grab the horse’s rein, but it squealed and lunged, teeth snapping.
“Dismount! Now!” the instructor said. Aris flew into the air, launched as much by the horse as by his own will, and the instructor plucked him neatly by the back of his tunic as the horse ran squealing down the field, bucking and kicking. “All dismount!” the instructor said. Camwyn and the others did so. Aris, pale-faced, stood staring at his horse, now standing lathered and trembling at the far end of the field, snapping at its own sides. The Royal Guards closed in cautiously. As they watched, the horse lunged toward one of them, but fell to its knees, and then, jerking, to its side. Aris took a step in that direction, but the instructor stopped him.
“Did you saddle your own mounts today?” the instructor asked.
“No,” Camwyn said. “They were in their stalls, saddled, when we got to the stable. And we were on time!” He glanced at Aris, who stared down the field, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Aris—I’m sorry—”
“Unsaddle them now. No—first spread out. Camwyn, to that corner. Two horse-lengths between you. Then unsaddle them. Check the saddlecloths, but do not touch anything you find.”
“Should I—? Please, sir, let me—”
The instructor’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, young Marrakai; it’s too late. And I’d not risk you—let the Guard remove the tack.”
Camwyn’s own mount, another Marrakai-bred bay, had quieted. He unfastened the girth, pulled the saddle off, and set it on the ground; the horse stood quietly, as it should. He looked at the sleek bay back … with a lump on it. Lump? He reached out to feel it, and just stopped himself. “Sir?” he called.
The instructor rode over, took one look at Camwyn’s horse, and hissed through his teeth. “Don’t move,” he said. Camyn stood still. “It may not have bitten yet,” the instructor said. “Drop the reins, come hold my horse.” The instructor was already dismounted. Camwyn took the reins as the instructor spoke quietly to his horse, drawing a dagger from his belt.
“What are you going to do—” Camwyn began, but the dagger was already moving, the lump flying away from the horse’s back.
“May be too late already,” the instructor said as Camwyn’s horse shuddered and jerked its head; sweat broke out on its neck. The instructor stroked across its back with his gloved hand. The horse flinched, pinned its ears, and cow-kicked. Before Camwyn had time to ask another question, the instructor had cut its throat, dancing away from the flailing hooves as the horse fell, a torrent of blood pouring out.
“Sir!” Camwyn said.
“Poison,” the instructor said. “Yours and Marrakai’s; now we’ll see the others.”
None of the other horses showed any lumps, nor did the saddles or saddlecloths. The instructor checked carefully; the boys tried not to look at the dead horses, or at Camwyn or Aris. Camwyn, still leading the instructor’s horse, walked over to Aris.
“He said poison,” he said.
“I heard.” Aris, usually so ebullient, spoke so low Camwyn could hardly hear him.
“Who would poison a horse?” Camwyn said. “And how?”
Aris swallowed hard before answering. Camwyn realized he was trying not to cry. “Verrakai,” he said. “To kill you, or maybe me, or both. Or because the horses were Marrakai-bred.”
“But they’re all dead,” Camwyn said. “The bad ones, I mean, and Egan’s in prison.”
Aris looked at him. “If they were, our horses wouldn’t be dead. No one else would do it, but one of them or someone they controlled.” A tear rolled down his cheek; he scrubbed it away. “I’m sorry, it’s just—he was my first, that was mine alone.”
“I didn’t know,” Camwyn said.
“I was there at his foaling,” Aris said. “My father—helped me do the things you do with foals, to teach them trust. I was in Fin Panir for most of his training, but when I’d come home, I’d help. And then when I came here—Father let me bring him.”
Camwyn didn’t know what to say. Aris had not been his closest friend, in the group of boys who took instruction with him, and he himself had ridden a succession of palace ponies and horses chosen and trained by someone else. “I’m sorry” was all he could think of.
The other boys were saddling their horses. Down the field, two Royal Guardsmen, dismounted, were taking the saddle and bridle off Aris’s horse.
The instructor came back. “The other horses appear safe to me. This attack was aimed at you, Camwyn, and at Aris—and your families, of course.” He cleared his throat. “It would be best if you continued with practice; you are of an age where learning to continue in your duty past any difficulty is important.”
“You can’t just—with the dead horses lying there?” Camwyn bit his tongue and apologized.
“On a battlefield someday, you may face worse than this,” the instructor said. “So may your mounts. We all hope war stays far away, but I would be remiss in my duties as your instructor if I let you all trail back to the palace like a litter of whipped puppies. Gird has given you a challenge: will you meet it?”
“Yes, sir,” Aris said, before Camwyn could say anything. Camwyn nodded.
“Then we are but one horse short. Camwyn, you take mine. Beclan, Aris will ride your horse for a few minutes. You come with me to the center of the field. Ride two by two, that way, at a walk. Do not let your horses put a hoof in the blood or foam from the two poisoned ones.”