Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [112]
Yet sleep eluded her. Liriel opened her door and gazed toward the mountains, drinking cold tea and watching the sky brighten to silver. A single howl wafted down from the forested slopes, a wild voice that sang alone. Liriel remembered the witch's words and lifted her mug in silent salute to a kindred spirit.
The sun was well past its zenith by the time Fyodor stood near the top of Snowcat Mountain. The young people of Dernovia had left before dawn to make the long trek up the mountain. He sought the small smudge of brown and gray far below that marked the village walls and wondered how Liriel fared.
She would love this, he decided, glancing back at the band of men and maidens he had known all his life. They laughed and teased, flirted and boasted, reveling in the fine day and the bracing shock of wind-blown snow against their skin.
Fyodor had already stripped down the traditional doeskin loincloth and strapped the racing shoes to his boots. He helped Petyar stuff the discarded clothes into sacks and load them onto the pack animals-sure-footed, shaggy little ponies that seemed more goat than horse.
Everyone was dressed in similar fashion, men and women alike. All of them, even young Petyar, were well accustomed to this. There was little shame in Rashemen regarding the body, and none of the Rashemi confused sport with courtship.
Even so, Fyodor couldn't help contrasting the sturdy Rashe-maar women with the tiny drow and envisioning Liriel's lithe black form against the setting of white snow.
Petyar elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Now who's watching?" he said with a grin.
The warrior chuckled and tossed his head toward the ribbon that last year's winners held between them. The starting line could not be tied to trees, as they had left the tree line behind perhaps two hours ago.
They joined the group and waited for the ribbon to drop, then all of them hurtled down the mountain in huge, sliding steps. A fast start was important. Once they reached the forest, the paths narrowed and the lead was difficult to take. Frontrunners could be expected to protect their positions with their fists and staffs. Competition among the swiftest racers often developed into impromptu duels, which opened the door for less-favored contestants and added the possibility of an unexpected win. It was this that lent the race much of its excitement. All shared the likelihood of friendly battle. Any man or maid might win honors.
Petyar shouldered his cousin out of the way, sending him into a tumbling roll. Fyodor found his feet and took off after the boy, loudly promising vengeance.
They would neither of them win this way, but the young man's playful mood suited Fyodor. Better this than a senseless quest for a black wolf that had harmed no one and was best left alone.
Fyodor scooped up a handful of snow and slung it at the boy. It slapped into the back of his head. He turned and hurled a missile of his own. Fyodor leaned away from the snowball and quickly closed the distance between them. He stooped as he neared the boy and grabbed a handful of snow. With this he briskly washed Petyar's face.
The boy yelped and gave pursuit. Fyodor leaped over a snow-covered boulder and slid along the trunk of a fallen log. The younger warrior, though, had the longer legs, and on this steep slope his stride was nearly the match for a hill giant's.
They raced only each other, leaving the prize to others. After a time, however, Petyar seemed to lose interest. He did not increase his speed when Fyodor drew abreast with him, did not return his cousin's cheerful insults. As they neared the tree line the boy lengthened his stride and veered off the path. He disappeared into the trees.
Fyodor set his jaw and followed the big-footed trail.
Suddenly there were two trails.
He did not see the second trail at first, for Petyar's prints had obscured the delicate