He was a man of such contrasts—a harsh taskmaster, but thoughtful. His mother’s cane, these shoes, the treats and tiny things he was constantly doing for her. The way they’d fought together at River’s Edge. There was hidden gentleness inside him.
“Thank you.”
“Please, try them on. If they don’t fit, you’ll be running in your boots.” He laughed, his face open and free.
She put them on and pulled the leather laces. “They fit perfectly.” Ezaara took a few steps. They were light enough to dance in.
§
Hundreds of dragons settled on the ridges above the clearing, their rustling wings and restless feet sending stones skittering down the mountainside. Although riders were scattered among them, perched on outcrops or ledges, most of the crowd were gathered at the edge of the clearing and along a track leading through the meadows to the forest.
The race was due to start at any moment. Stretching her calves, Ezaara evaluated her competitors, all in cut-off breeches, stones crunching as they limbered up. Sofia was flexing her thighs, her vivid pink scar puckered over the awful bump on her leg, as if she was deliberately reminding everyone of Ezaara’s blunder. Although Ezaara had several remedies that would help that scar tissue, she doubted Fleur or Sofia would want to know.
Sofia ignored her, but Alban scowled enough for both of them, shooting her dirty looks. Due to Roberto’s rigorous training schedule, she hadn’t seen much of Sofia or Alban—almost as if Roberto had intentionally kept her away. But whenever she had seen them, they’d snapped or muttered insults. So much for the Queen’s Rider being respected. Alban was deliberately frosting her.
If she did well in the race today .... No, she’d scarred Sofia’s leg. Nothing would help. She swallowed, missing the easy banter she’d enjoyed when she’d first met Sofia.
Rocco gave her a wave. He jogged on the spot, the breeze ruffling his dark curls. They looked fit, all of them. Henry had a much smaller stride than hers, so she should be able to beat him, but the others …. She’d messed up so many times, she had to prove herself today.
Bright laughter echoed around the clearing—Kierion was here. Lucky he wasn’t running, or everyone would’ve found lizards in their shoes, or their boots nailed to the floor. Ezaara rotated her ankles. Shards, her new shoes were light.
Gret was the only one who approached her. Shaking her hand, she said, “Good morning, My Honored Queen’s Rider. It’s a privilege to be running beside you.” Her voice carried across the clearing. Standing tall, Gret met the gaze of every competitor, including Alban and Sofia.
Ezaara clasped Gret’s hand. “Thank you, Gret. Run well.”
“Good luck. Here, at Dragons’ Hold, it’s tradition that a master also runs in the Grand Race.” Gret flashed a grin. “They draw straws.”
Beyond Gret, lanky Mathias gestured. “Here they come now.”
Lars was talking with the masters as they approached. When they were alongside the competitors, Roberto sounded the horn. The crowd quieted.
“Good morning, riders, trainees, and gentle people of Dragons’ Hold,” Lars boomed. “Our trainee riders are participating in the Grand Race as part of their evaluation. There is only one rule: if there’s any foul play, the perpetrator will be disqualified and banished.” Ezaara could have sworn his gaze lingered on Alban. “Now,” Lars said, pausing theatrically, and waving a bunch of straws in his fist as he scanned the competitors. “One lucky master will be racing with you. Masters, choose—the shortest straw runs.”
Ezaara’s stomach knotted. Who would it be? Tonio, always skulking on the edge of every crowd observing everyone? Or Lars himself? Hopefully, not Roberto—he beat her every time they ran. In Lush Valley she’d won a few races, but here, everyone was tougher, fitter, older. She wasn’t racing the village littlings or Tomaaz and Lofty.
A hush enveloped the crowd. The masters drew straws. One by one, they held them up. Not Lars. Nor Tonio. Not Hendrik, who’d made these wonderful shoes. Ezaara flexed her feet. Alyssa held up a long straw, then Fleur and Bruno. Roberto had the short one.
Racing against him? She’d never win. So much for proving herself.
She’d have to get out in front early, or she’d be chewed up and spat out. Using the old techniques Pa had taught her, ignoring the tightening in her throat at the thought of her family, she visualized herself speeding ahead of everyone. Good thoughts speed us, he’d always said. A shame he wasn’t here. “Zaarusha, Handel and Liesar left ages ago to get Pa and Tomaaz. When will they be back?”
“I don’t know, Ezaara. Now, focus.”
Lars stepped up to the mark, motioning the racers forward. Roberto gave her his usual nod of acknowledgment and joined them. Ezaara placed her hands on the ground and bent her front leg, ready.
“We’ll start at Queen Zaarusha’s roar,” Lars announced. “May your feet be like wings of air.”
Zaarusha melded, “Good luck, Ezaara. Win by a decent margin!”
Win?
Zaarusha was already roaring. The other runners were off, gravel hissing as they sped across the clearing toward the fields.
She’d missed the cue. Startled, Ezaara stumbled. Gaining her footing, she leaped forward.
Adelina cheered her on. “Go, Ezaara. Catch up!”
Ezaara pounded after her competitors.
Henry was clutching his side. “Cramps.” His face was a tight grimace. Ezaara shot him a sympathetic look as she passed. As a healer, it didn’t seem right to leave him, but she had to catch up to Roberto and the others. They were already through the first wheat field, and she was only halfway across.
Ahead, Roberto broke away from the main group. Someone followed—Alban. Sofia’s mass of wild curls, the same hue as the golden wheat, bounced as she loped with the group, favoring her leg. Thankfully, she could still run. Ezaara swallowed the thought. She had to focus.
She caught the main group
