Through the Skora opening now, and fast, unevenly fast, for our impetus had been smashed. Yet we were one of the few to be stopped still in the Sirkunix, and live. The crowd, which had yelled its fascinated horror at our leap, now roared and bawled for us.
Soils behind us. Ahead—greatly ahead—Essandar, and before him, Barl, running too fast to cling to his lead. Already he was slowing. Through the water, by the pits of air, between the flames—and it was the flames that ended him. His team hated the fire. Each time they passed they hated it the more, and now, his lash merciless over them, they ran mad, careened around, and bolted back the way they had come. I saw Essandar’s whip rear out and slash them as they passed him—the crowd saw too, and growled. We were at the Pillars of Air when that fire-crazy team ran at us.
Darak pulled aside, the screaming horses fled past, their eyes rolling, and then the wheel tipped back from under us. We had caught in the pit, would be over in a moment. I leaped forward beside Darak, throwing the little weight I had off the sinking wheel, and in the same instant Darak’s lash—for the first and last time—flared on the black satin backs. Again they leaped forward, almost as if in flight. The wheel ground free and we were out. I glimpsed Darak’s face in that second—white, but whiter than that white, the teeth grinning. The crowd was howling for us, and behind, the Andumite team had slowed trembling in the middle of the Straight, facing the wrong way, and grooms had run out to hasten them from the track.
Only Essandar now; Soils was not in it. And the blacks had their speed again, that second speed that a charioteer can love out of his team in the white bloody dust. Through the fire, past the still burning wreck of Sogotha, and around, across the String, and our four scarlet arrows taken down, along with Essandar’s blue. Two more laps. He was half a length ahead but he would not keep it. The dust, which slows every wheel, would slow his too, and we had time to take him.
We took him—Earth, Water, and Air, and we were near. At the turn, the fire ahead, we were one and one, the blue and the scarlet.
The fires dim near the end of the Sagare as the tar is burned out. But there is a lot of smoke, more than ever, thick and black as a cloak. Under that cloak, as Sogotha would have done, the blue archer tried for us. But eyes water from smoke—his aim was nothing.
And then I heard Essandar—clear, so clear: “Do as the bitch did—dip your arrow, boy, and hit one of the horses.”
The archer laughed. It would be easy. The fire would burn straight down the shaft into the black hide, leaving no trace, only the flames. Had Darak heard? He seemed not to have done.
So fast now, and so dark. The speed incredible, everything a blur. But I ripped the shield off my arm, half my skin coming with it, and as I saw that bright orange dart go over us, I flung the shield and brought it and the arrow down, harmless, and in their path.
The shield jounced and broke under the horses’ hooves, and slowed them as they avoided the Sogothan wreck. Now, on that fifth lap, we were ahead.
We broke from the smoke first, and the terraces pounded their hands and yelled. I saw the red flags waving—many more than at the start. Around, and near the String, wholly stretched now. But we must not go past that fire with them again.
Bellan, where do you sit? With your master Raspar, who is near the Warden? Give me your hate, Bellan. And I will do it. I must not hit the man, the horses, the archer—that is the law of the Sagare, though who would guess it? But the chariot, and the things of the chariot, are all mine.
Amusing—I noted dimly the Soilish car was so far behind, it was in front of us on the Straight.
I turned, and stared backward, leaning on the bar, the plain-flighted arrow already set.
One hope only. I am more than you. Bellan, watch—! I shot. The arrow ran up, silver against blue, dipped over, fell. I guided it more with the eyes than with the hands which had loosed it.
And it struck.
It struck.
A scream, a roar from the terraces, men and women leaping to their feet, howling their savage joy, for I had it—the classic shot of the Sagare—I had sliced Essandar’s reins in two.
It is possible for a man to save himself when his reins snap, but not easy, and now impossible. He was moving too fast, leaning out across his team. The thrust, which had held him steady, now, pulled him forward. The one rein still wrapped around his fist dragged him up, over the boss, across the backs of his team, a tumbling, blue, shrieking thing, held a moment between the running horses, then down beneath their hooves, and after that, beneath the wheels of his own chariot.
The bays ran a while, then stopped, shivering, until the grooms came for them.
We rode that last sixth lap alone, fast for the joy of it, not because we must, and the crowd sang for us as we ran.
If there are gods of the Sagare, how they must laugh. Darros of Sigko, scarlet for Ankurum, the Victor.
And his second, Gillan of Soils—second because there was no other left to ride for it.
9
MORTAL, NOW YOU ARE GOD
It is hard at first to believe you are not, after you are named Victor. They will not let you remember your clay. Naturally, it is the charioteer who is king, but I had leveled with Darak in my own way—with that last shot.
“Trust the bitch to undermine me,” Darak remarked, grinning, to Maggur, when at last we were free of the cheers, ovations, thrusting crowds, golden wreaths, and had come away with our prize money. Much had happened since the end of the race, but it was cloudy and unreal. Now Darak was taking me to one of the physicians’ rooms—taking, for I did not want to go. I imagined there might be others there—the remains of them, groaning and shrieking, but in fact it was very private. We were, after all, the Victors.
One empty clean room, and one physician. He peered at my left arm. The skin was already almost closed around the broken-off shaft, but the head was in deep. He frowned over the fast healing wound, and sterilized his knife. Strange, I had scarcely been a woman in that race, and had not felt the pain. I sat and held my arm for him quite thoughtlessly, and the moment the knife slit open my flesh the agony struck through my whole body like a white-hot spear.
I opened my eyes again, and found he was done with me, having bandaged both left arm and right, where I had ripped the skin tearing off my shield. Darak and Maggur were gone.
“I sent them out,” the physician said sternly. “They made more fuss than you, young woman. When it was bad, you, at least, had the good sense to faint and save me the trouble of holding you down.” He was straightening his things and washing his hands. “There’s your arrowhead. You could sell it for ten silver pieces. And your hair, an inch or so would fetch a good price. The classic shot.” He grunted and did not look very approving. I suppose he had worse cases than I as a result of Ankurum’s Games.
When he was gone, I lay still, in a kind of torpor, heavy, not sleepy, melancholy after the passion and fear. After a while I unclipped the left armlet, which was bothering me, and the little dry vine leaf fell onto the couch. I picked it up and at once it crumbled in my fingers. I had prayed to her in the manner of men, and she—had she heard? Was it she who had granted us the race, and granted me Barak’s life? Yet I had killed Essandar. I had known he would die. What did she think of me now, that little doll-goddess in the hills?