Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [50]
Gwen herself was far more concerned with another person among the guests. Braith was here, and Gwen was very anxious that her idol be satisfied with her protégé’s progress. She didn’t want Braith to think that her trust had been misplaced.
So, in these moments before the race, now that she had gone over every bit of the harness and chariot five times over, she was standing between her two charges, as she had seen Braith do, breathing in their breath and letting them breathe in hers, scratching gently along their jaw lines, whispering nonsense to them. They were old hands at this game, of course, and were far less nervous than she was. They were properly warmed up, and she could sense the readiness of their muscles under her hands when she slid her palms down along their chests. They eyed the other teams nearest them, as if they were measuring their opponents, and then turned their attention back to her.
The starter was an old, scarred fighter from one of the guest contingents; he stopped chatting to a group on the sidelines and stepped up to the starting line. “Drivers!” he barked. “Take your places!”
With a final pat and a whispered word, Gwen left her horses and hopped up into her chariot, taking up the reins. The leather reins felt alive in her hands, as if the horses were speaking to her along them. She saw their haunches bunch as they prepared to leap forward on her command. “Get ready!” the old man shouted, and she flexed her knees, and braced herself for the start.
“Go!”
The horses didn’t wait for the reins to slap their backs. They were off as soon as they felt her lift them—or maybe they had responded to the starting shout. No matter—they were off. The chariot lurched forward, Gwen bounced a little against the curved back of her vehicle and habit took over as she regained her balance and crouched down even with the rumps of her horses.
She glanced quickly to either side and saw that she was dead even with the chariots on either side of her. Farther than that, she could not see, and she turned her attention back to the course. Beneath her feet, her chariot bounced and rattled; in front of her, the firm haunches of her horses rose and fell, their heads bobbing as they ran, their hooves flashing within a foot of her head. All around her was the thunder of hooves on the hard-packed earth, and the turf flew past in a blur just beyond her feet. Clods thrown off by the horses’ hooves pelted the bottom of the chariot.
And for a single moment, there was nothing but sheer terror.
Then, as always, everything settled into place. She didn’t really have the words to describe it. Calm descended, and she felt as if the reins, the chariot, even the horses were part of her. That she was wheel-to-wheel with the other chariots didn’t matter. She knew that things were going to happen an instant before they actually did, just enough time to avoid trouble. And she didn’t have to think about it, her body reacted before her mind actually registered what was about to happen—
Suddenly she knew that, as they wheeled for the turn, the team on her right was going to veer toward her a little too far and that the only two ways to avoid a collision were to pull back a little or try and get her team to shoot ahead.
And she knew that, as game as the team was, their strength was in endurance, not bursts of speed. They were too old for that sort of burst of speed. So she held them back. They fought her a moment, then yielded and dropped behind the other chariot.
The other team blundered into the space where her horses would have been; the driver shot her a look of