The Scorpio Races

remember the uisce mare leaping from the edge of the cliff. The secret is to remember the race while the others forget everything but the ocean. I can be steady.

SEAN

There’s a newcomer on our right, and Corr, mad at the touch of the sea, snakes his head to bite at them. I check him and the horse beside us jerks but holds steady. Black-tipped ears. Smaller than Corr. Smaller than any of the horses on this beach. Ordinary muscles pumping and moving beneath her skin.

It’s Dove, matching us stride for stride, feathers fluttering on her saddle pad. I glance, once and then again, at Puck and then Dove. Dove’s been bitten, but not deep. Puck’s bleeding, too. But unlike Dove’s untidy bite wound, Puck’s is clean and long, the material of her breeches sliced. It was a knife that did that, not a horse. Someone angry that she was on the beach with us. To think too long on that is to be furious and to be furious is to lose focus, which I can’t afford.

Because in front of us is chaos. The worst of it is the noise – the panting of winded capaill, the groaning as they fight, the continuous thunder of the hooves, the hissing of the sea. The squeals and the shouts and behind it all, the screams of the crowd. The noise would drive a horse mad even if the November ocean didn’t.

A capall in front of us twists and wheels inward, its rider avoiding the ocean at all costs. Another two shove and squabble, slowing enough that we move past them. It’s a wall of hocks and knees and hooves, blood coating bone, teeth against teeth. They make an attempt to bring us into it, but Corr blocks them, a trembling wall between them and Dove, who is a wall between him and the sea.

We are over halfway there. Halfway means we’ve made it a little over a mile. The first half weeds out those who weren’t ready, those who weren’t tame. It’s a rite of passage. I look at Puck and she looks back me, expression fierce.

The sand blurs below us and the ocean becomes silent in comparison to the sounds of our lungs gasping for breath. We are the only two on the sand.

Blackwell’s and Privett’s mounts quarrel up at the front. They worry back and forth, teeth flashing, necks and shoulders rubbing. Just behind them, Mutt Malvern relentlessly beats Skata, the piebald. And still Puck moves up behind them, steady and even. I match Corr to Dove, stride for stride, and with each stride, we gain ground.

Corr has nothing but power left. There’s a path ahead; I could cut ahead of Blackwell and then Privett. Mutt is nothing at all as he drops back from the lead and closer to us. I could be in the lead and taking this win as easily as I snatched it last year. In three minutes Corr could be mine.

Everything I’ve ever wanted. A roof over my head and reins in my hands and a horse beneath me. Corr.

I feel the mare goddess’s breath in my face.

I told Puck I would stay until she made her move. Maybe she doesn’t have the speed to overtake the leaders. Maybe I give everything away by waiting. I tell myself I have time, still. I have time for Corr to push forward.

Dove begins to make her move.

I realize then that Mutt Malvern has pulled Skata back intentionally.

He never meant to win.

PUCK

The piebald’s attack takes me by surprise.

Between me and the sea, she rears back as if she means to plunge forward, but then she drops onto Dove. Her teeth close down over Dove’s poll, right behind her ears.

Dove staggers.

I turn my head and look right into Mutt Malvern’s ghastly grin.

I hear Sean shout, his voice unstrung, “This is between you and me, Mutt!”

Trying to keep my stirrups, I lean far forward up Dove’s sweaty neck to grab at the piebald’s ear. Her skin feels slippery and unlike any horse I’ve ever touched. Dove’s spine presses hard into my guts and my blistered hand aches, but I ignore all of that and twist the piebald’s ear sharply. She squeals and drops off Dove.

I barely understand Sean’s shout. “Get out of the way, Puck!”

Dove understands even if I don’t; as Corr presses closer, she shoots from between him and the piebald. I barely have time to drop back down into the saddle, the leather slick with blood or water beneath me.

Skata twists and leaps beneath Mutt, but we are free of her. I glance behind me and only have time to see Corr’s shoulder smashing up against the piebald mare’s. Sean’s gaze flicks toward me for a second. He’s watching to make sure that I’m moving.

I want to wait for him. I know he’s won this four times without me here, but I don’t want to leave him.

I hear Sean Kendrick’s voice: “Go!”

I let Dove’s reins go.

SEAN

We can’t get clear.

Corr could outstrip Skata if we could pull ahead, but Mutt Malvern has seized my rein. He drags Corr’s face toward him, within reach of the piebald’s teeth. It’s Corr’s blind side and he is wild with the fear of not knowing what he’s up against. His eyes roll; his nose jerks into the air again and again. Skata snaps at him, her teeth grating against his cheek. As I fight Mutt for Corr’s rein, my knee crashes into Mutt’s, bone to bone, searing hot.

Skata and Corr gallop, shoulder to shoulder, every step taking us farther into the surf. I taste salt water; my saddle is slimy with it. Every muscle in Corr’s body shivers and shimmers. Glancing to Mutt, I see that he’s having a hard time keeping his seat.

Too late I see his knife.

I lift my arm. I cannot protect myself or Corr.

But it’s not me he stabs. He slides it along the piebald’s neck, slicing a scarlet line. She is furious with pain.

“Manage this, Kendrick,” Mutt says.

He lets go of the reins.

Skata slams into us.

PUCK

We catch up to Blackwell and Margot first. She’s a big, lean bay, long as a train car, and she fights him hard. I see that her mouth is cracked open and grinning like the black capall uisce that found us in the lean-to. She was breathlessly fast before, but now he holds her tightly in check. When Blackwell tries to allow her some more rein, she darts toward the ocean.

But Dove cares nothing about the sea. I lean low over her mane – her neck is sweaty and my hands are sweaty and it’s hard to keep my grip – and I ask her for more. She slides past Blackwell.

There is only Privett and Penda ahead of us now. He’s keeping a good distance between him and the surf, and I could move up between them. But if I could push Penda closer to that November water, maybe I could distract him long enough to hold the lead. It would mean getting very close to a capall uisce without any escape plan, and Dove is already frightened to the breaking point.

It’s not much farther. Only three furlongs, maybe. I don’t want to hope, but I can feel it pumping through me.

Only – Corr should be here now. I shouldn’t be up here with Penda by myself.

When I glance behind me, I can’t see him. I can see Margot gaining on us, fast. And the feathers of Dove’s makeshift saddle colors flapping crazily in the wind.

I hear Sean’s voice saying that this is possible. And Peg Gratton telling me to show them who we are. I know