The Withering Sword

Chapter 53: East

DEMYS

The western side of the Wagato pass

The horse reared, and Demys’ world whirled around him. He leaned forward, releasing his hold on the reins and digging his hands into the horse’s mane. Don’t pull on the reins while he’s up, Ovat had told him. You might pull him over backwards.

Whinnying, the horse brought its front hooves back down onto the cracked dry earth. Demys forced himself to release the horse’s mane and gather up the reins again.

“Straighten up in your seat,” called Ovat. “Keep him moving. He can’t rear if he’s moving forward.”

Demys straightened, nudging the horse into motion again and trying to wipe his sweaty palms off on his trousers. He couldn’t help but compare this horse’s walk to Bhoro’s. His old mare had had such a comfortable gait, and she had never reared, no matter how poorly Demys rode.

He directed the horse in a loop, focusing on his knees and heels, his hands on the reins, and shutting out his surroundings―except for Ovat’s voice. “Bring him into a trot now, there you go. Don’t be so abrubt in your turns. Give the reins more slack; you’re holding them too tight.”

A while later, Demys realized the light had vanished from the sky, and he could only see what he was doing thanks to the blaze of the fire and the lanterns nearby. An owl hooted, spooking the horse. It pranced sideways, snorting, its ears flicking back and forth. Demys nudged it again, trying to keep it moving.

“Over here,” said Ovat. He waved a lantern from the other side of the small plateau. Demys directed the horse toward Ovat. He reined in beside him and slid out of the saddle gratefully, feeling the ache in his thighs, buttocks, and arms. Ovat took the horse’s reins and grinned at Demys. “You did well. Didn’t fall off once this time, did you?”

Grumbling, Demys headed over to the campfire. His stomach growled, and he wanted something motionless to sit on.

“He rides well, our imperial prince, doesn’t he?” said the one-eyed woman, raising her voice from the other side of the fire so Demys could hear her.

“Almost as if he was born not to fall out of the saddle,” said her companion, and laughter drowned out the crackle of the flames.

Demys still didn’t know how to feel about this new form of teasing. It had started gradually, as Gyara’s riders grew more comfortable and less guarded around him. He had seen them make fun of Gyara when she had trouble with her stallion, when she missed a shot with her bow. They mocked and teased each other companionably about all sorts of things, from romantic conquests to moments of clumsiness, and every day and night seemed to pass in dozens of friendly competitions. He thought their teasing him meant they accepted him, but it still felt odd―he had spent most of his life enduring the ridicule and veiled scorn of the imperial court.

Gyara sat on the ground beside him with a tired exhale. She and a handful of riders had scouted ahead after they set up camp for the evening.

“Where are we going tomorrow?” asked Demys.

“The Wagato pass is a few hours’ ride from here.”

“Are we going there?” Demys and Gyara accepted meat hot from the spits. For a few minutes they didn’t speak, worrying the tough but flavorful antelope flesh with their teeth. Converasation swirled about the campfire, punctuated by raucous laughter.

“I thought we could go east,” said Gyara at last, spitting out a piece of cartilage.

“East? You mean… to Amrato-feg?”