The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [134]
I swallow. Who I am is crouched down inside this girl named Puck Connolly, praying that I’ll make it through the next few minutes.
“Riders, line up!”
How can it be time to line up? We’ve only just gotten down here and I haven’t seen Sean before the race. I swing onto Dove and stare over the capaill uisce, looking for him. If I can just see —
On the other side of the line, I see him lifting his chin and looking at me as well. Corr, wearing dark blue colors, is slicked with sweat already. Sean’s still looking at my face so I lift up my wrist for him to see his ribbon on it.
“Riders, line up!”
I wish I were next to Sean and Corr, but there’s no time. Three race officials are pressing us back into lines behind great wooden poles. The lines ring and shrill with hundreds of bells on dozens of hooves. The capaill uisce snap and snort, paw and shudder. I keep Dove as far from her neighbors as I can. Her ears are flattened back to her head. She’s surrounded by predators.
Beside me, the capall uisce shakes its head and foam cascades down its neck and chest.
They’re counting down.
The ocean says shhhhhhhh, shhhhhhhh.
They lift the poles.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
PUCK
We explode into action. There’s no rhyme or reason; the only thing I can remember is to pull Dove to the inside. No one wants to be near that November sea unless they have to be. Dove’s hooves touch the edge of the surf, and salt water mists my face. Somehow there is salt between my fingers and the reins, and the crystals burn and grate.
Something crushes my leg, hard, the buckle of my stirrup leather grinding into the bone, and I turn in time to see a great bay capall uisce pressed against me. I jerk Dove farther into the surf just as the bay twists and snaps at her. Her ears flatten all the way back into her mane just as I see that it’s Gerald Finney. His fists are white-knuckled around his reins and he doesn’t glance at me. I can tell by the shiver working through the saddle that Dove recognizes his capall. I clamp my legs on either side of her. Don’t be afraid yet, Dove. We have a long way to go.
I remember, too late, that I’m supposed to be conserving Dove’s energy and I check her speed. Horses charge by us; the green of Ian Privett’s colors, the light blue of Blackwell’s, the gold of the piebald mare. No red stallion under dark blue, though. I have no idea if he is so far ahead that I can’t see him or if he is behind me.
SEAN
I look for Puck or Dove, but I can’t see anything in this crush of bodies. Corr’s strong in my hands; my exhausted shoulders already ache from the weight of him. My calves burn with the friction of the stirrup leathers. I’m not sure how long I should hold Corr back behind the pack to look for her. The back is the worst place to be; the capaill back here lag not because they’re slow but because they’re fighting with each other or fighting with the sea. The hooves in front of me kick sand into my face. My eyes sting, but I can’t spare a hand to swipe at them.
To my left are a gray and a chestnut tearing at each other. They try to incorporate Corr into the skirmish. I hold him true and press him forward: not too far, because if Puck is behind me, I don’t want to leave her behind. My hands are buried in the sweaty mane at his withers, and I feel his muscles shaking at the touch of the November sea. I whisper at him to be steady.
I look under my arm to the right for Puck; there’s nothing but the gray halfway into the surf. He’s already mostly a creature of the sea. His eyes are slits in his lengthening head. The gray twists and scrabbles, more anxious for the rider on his back than the race before him. Seawater sprays from somewhere, the cold of it like claws on my cheek.
Another capall pushes on my left side; she snaps out and grazes my leg before her rider jerks her away. I can’t stay back here. I’ll get out in the open and find Puck. If she’s not out of this rabble by now, she might already be dead.
I lean over Corr’s neck to whisper to him, but for once, I