Alethea’s new stallion was nothing like her Silver. He was bigger, for one thing, and wilder, and a glossy, obsidian black. She watched him contemplatively as Milton tightened his girth, pawing and snorting, dragon-like, with every muscle coiled for action. “You mother has...interesting taste in livestock,” Milton commented, sidling quickly to the left as the Black threw his weight toward the wall, intent on crushing him. Alethea giggled. “Flash was her doing, too. Maybe this one just needs a bit of time to get his bearings.” As if on cue, the stallion threw a sudden kick that clanged against stall door behind him, deafening. Chickens erupted across the yard with frantic squawks, and every stable hand jumped. Alethea crossed her arms over her chest. “Well. Shall I tire him out?”
Tiring him out was a several hour affair. The lady galloped him across open fields, wound through the King’s orchards, put him through his paces along the banks of the lake. By the time they were returning home at a collected canter, Alethea felt almost as lathered as the horse; her blouse was stuck to her back with sweat, and she didn’t want to think about the state of her breaches. Leto trotted up to them, having kept her distance from the unpredictable hooves for the length of the exercise. How did it go?
“He’s as fresh as a winter morning. A wind-foal, if there ever was one.” Her voice came out in short bursts, ragged with heavy breathing. “I can’t imagine where mother found him.” The she laughed, bright and airy, and shook her damp hair out of her eyes. It was the most fun she had had in months. Oenone always seemed to know just what would cheer her daughter up.
I think your friends are gathered over there, by the dock.
Alethea turned, squinting against the bright afternoon light. Tarquin’s little band of followers, by the looks of it – her mouth pursed with suspicion. Someone was splashing in the water, and the girls were cheering and laughing. With a strong leg, the little lady amended her stallion’s course, trotting toward the group of children with an authoritative air.
But it was not Thoth, in the water. It was Tristan, soundly beating Tarquin at a race. Thea’s face relaxed as she reigned in the Black, resting her hands on the pommel. “Good show, your Highness,” she congratulated formally, raising an eyebrow. She had not yet recovered from her irritation at the events of the party, and her tone was nowhere near as warm as it typically was. “Tarquin,” she greeted, nodding, “perhaps you’ll have better luck, next time.”
“My foot was caught in some lake grass,” Tarquin explained, hoisting himself out of the water and standing, mostly naked, on the bank. He gave her his usual look – all obvious, teen-aged desire – and Alethea laughed lightly. “I’m sure.” Her eyes flicked back to Tristan, appraising, then darted away. Color rose in her cheeks. “Enjoy your sport,” she murmured, distracted, and spurred her horse toward the stable.
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