“You keep the temples from exploding. What else you do with them, I don’t know. Their power certainly doesn’t help the rest of the Kencyrath. And you must be part Highborn yourself if you’re a Shanir priestling.”
“Lies,” he said, backing away. “Lies. Who is our lord? No one. Whom do we serve? The high priests. Who is our family? Each other. On whom do we spit? Our cruel god, who has forsaken us. The temples are ours, I tell you! No one else serves or deserves them.”
Jame watched him go, almost running. It seemed to her that she had let an unwelcome light into his world, or maybe she only hoped that she had.
Priests, she thought in disgust.
Midwinter came with a spate of rain, drumming on the baked ground. The Amar ran swift between its banks around the city and in channels through the Undercliff, fed by mountains to the north. Winter crops in the Betwixt Valley neared harvest.
At Tentir, the Winter War was being waged between the new first-year cadets and those who had returned for a second year.
In two three-hundred-yard pitches established in the training fields south of Kothifir, randon officers and cadets competed against regular Kendar in an all-barracks match that took three days to complete.
Thus late on Midwinter’s afternoon, Jame found herself and her ten-command waiting to face their regular counterparts in the east field, surrounded by thousands of noisy spectators who had already played their own sets.
The game was called kouri, a native favorite usually conducted on fleetfoots with a headless goat carcass. The Kencyrath, however, preferred horses and a sheepskin ball. The object was to carry said ball between the opponent’s goalposts. There were few other rules and many casualties, for it was a rough sport.
Timmon rode up, his horse lathered and his jacket stained with sweat.
“Whew,” he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Those regulars take this seriously, and they’ve had a lot more practice than we Riverlanders.”
“I suppose this is their chance to show that they’re our equals or better in something,” said Jame. “What’s the score?”
Timmon glanced toward the western field where dust rose like smoke and the crowd roared. “Counting senior matches, two hundred thirty to two hundred ten in their favor.” He stood up in his stirrups to survey the opposite side of the pitch. “It looks as if you’re going to be matched against a Caineron ten-command. Who’s that blond Kendar? She looks formidable.”
“That’s Amberley,” said Brier on Jame’s other side. “And she’s carrying a crook-whip. Watch out for her.”
Jame eyed that instrument. It was exactly what its name implied, a short length of springy wood with a metal hook bound at one end and a cluster of braided leather thongs at the other.
“That hook can be used to trip mounts as well as to pull down riders,” Brier said, addressing the rest of the ten-command over her shoulder. “Look to your horses.”
Jame patted Bel-tairi’s neck. She wished she were mounted on Death’s-head instead, but the rathorn had seemed rather much for what she had assumed would be a friendly match. Bel might be more nimble, but she was also the smallest, lightest equine on the field. Trinity, what had she been thinking of to risk a priceless Whinno-hir in such a game?
The set before hers was about to conclude, the judge trotting on the sidelines, lips moving as he counted down. Ten skirmishers seethed close to the randons’ goal where a cadet guarded the set of posts and four of his peers ranged back and forth waiting to intercept, intercepted in turn by four regular rangers who sought to block them. A cadet had the ball and was trying to break free while his teammates attempted simultaneously to shield him from the regulars and to open a way to the rival goalpost. He saw his chance and plunged out of the scrimmage, closely pursued. One of the regular rangers lunged for him. They ran several paces side by side before the regular wrestled away the ball, unseating the cadet who held on a moment too long and so lost both stirrups and seat. Jame winced as he fell under pounding hooves. The regular threw the shaggy ball to one of his mates, and he to another who dodged the goalkeeper and cantered between the randon posts with it held high. Watching cadets groaned and regulars cheered as the judge brought down his baton to signal the end of the set.
“Another loss for our side,” said Timmon. “Watch yourself out there.”
At the judge’s signal, they trotted out onto the pitch and lined up opposite their opponents. Amberley absentmindedly tapped her crook-whip against her boot as she waited for the baton to drop. Jame was aware of Brier Iron-thorn on her right, riding her tall chestnut gelding. Her former friend was the ten-commander of her troop while Brier was only five-commander under Jame, although for this match Jame had designated Brier as the captain of the team, given her knowledge of the game. Regarding the two Kendar, Jame wondered again about their past relationship, how close they had been, how potentially bitter their estrangement.
Tap, tap, tap went Amberley’s whip.
A passing spate of raindrops pattered against the earth, helping to lay the dust.
Brier edged her gelding closer to Bel-tairi.
The judge dropped the sheepskin ball between the two lines and retreated. Down came his baton.
Two riders wheeled to protect their respective goals while four on each team spread out to cover the middle field as rangers. The remaining ten skirmishers charged each other.
Dar swung down from the saddle to grab the ball by its long fleece, but jerked back and swerved as a regular thundered down on him, cutting him off. The other team had the ball. Cadets pressed in to prevent it from being thrown to an enemy ranger. Horses clashed, squealing. Amberley slashed at Brier’s face with her whip, again and again, until the Kendar reached up and wrenched it out of her grip. Jame saw the white, furry ball pass from rider to rider under the confusion.
Suddenly it flew free.
Mint and a regular raced down on it. The Knorth got it, but the other horse crashed into her own and she dropped it. Now the regular was coming straight at Jame, the ball under his arm. No fool, Bel jumped out of the way, to a groan from the onlookers. The regular pelted on toward the goalposts and tried to throw the ball between them; but Killy, the cadet guard, caught it and threw it back into play. Now the field was thundering back toward Jame.
“Here!”
Ranger Quill tossed her the ball, which nearly knocked her out of the saddle. Trinity, but the thing was heavy. What did they stuff it with anyway? Bel wheeled and sprinted toward the opposite goal, but regulars intercepted and shoved her nearly into the crowd of onlookers. Faces flashed past, split open with shouts. Bel shied, uneasy at so many people on her blind side. Jame tried to pass the ball to ranger Erim, but it was caught by a Caineron skirmisher. The regulars formed a flying wedge around him. They swept aside Killy and plunged across the cadets’ goal to a roar from the crowd.
Both sides huddled to plan their next assault.
“I’m no good at this,” Jame said. “I only weaken the team.”
“Too late to replace you,” said Brier, speaking with the ruthless preoccupation of the team’s captain. A welt ran down her face where Amberley had struck it and one eye was turning black. “Stay on the edge of the action. The rest of you, pass to her only if no one else is in the clear.”
Chagrined, Jame retreated to her post as a ranger.
Again the horses clashed, but this time Niall and Mint were brought down. Amberley wasn’t the only one carrying a crook-whip. One of the horses scrambled to its feet or rather to three of them as the fourth dangled useless with a shattered canon bone.
Too rough, Jame thought. Too rough. What do they want—blood?
Damson rode up next to her. “Ten, they aren’t playing fair. What should I do?”