Levee’s band had set up tents that night for a show. A handful of human travelers paid for admission but left halfway through, unnerved by the rahee’s unnatural ability to communicate with their equine partners. They spit at the stage as they turned to leave, convinced their talents were born from witchcraft.
The gypsies—no strangers to such superstitions—shrugged away their insults with good humor. But that night, the men returned. Late after the show had ended, drunk and in a rage, they charged into the gypsies’ camp where they caught the whole band unarmed and off- guard. One by one, they chased down and slaughtered all but Levee, whose faithful pony had managed to help her escape the bloody massacre.
Milo never forgot the pain that haunted Levee’s eyes when she recounted the tragedy, nor the regret in her tone when she claimed her family’s lives would have been spared had they not flaunted their gift so openly.
Even now, the scars still resurfaced as Levee tried her best to bury her past and learn to fit in, only to find she was never able. Her gift combined with a taboo heritage alienated her from every social group Nevaharday had to offer.
All it took was a rumor that the prince held a similar gift to trigger a surge of hope in Levee’s naïve heart. Milo swallowed hard when he considered the lengths she had gone to in order to connect with someone like herself.
Something had to change. Levee needed to tame the yearning in her heart before it cast a load of trouble onto her slim shoulders.
“Tell me,” she insisted. “What am I?”
“You’re Levee Tensley,” Milo’s voice was so sharp, the gelding under harness jerked his head toward the two rahee. He softened his tone for the horse’s sake before continuing. “The girl my ma took in when she showed up on our doorstep, alone and darn near dead! Ya got fire in your heart, and a gift ain’t nobody can match with horses. Why can’t ya be content with that? What else matters?”
“It matters, Milo. Being a gypsy is part of who I am,” Levee countered.
Milo leaned forward and pulled the cowl away from her face. “No darlin’, it’s a part of who ya were,” his voice, a soothing baritone, did not soothe Levee’s trembling frame as she let her tears fall freely. “That ain’t your life anymore. You gave it up, remember? And not a soul would know about it if you’d stop actin’ on every whim that floats through your pretty lil’ noggin.”
Levee shook her head, her eyes trained on her empty palms as Milo urged his horse into motion. The rickety wagon jerked forward and rumbled down the dirt road toward home where her simple life under a farmer’s straw-thatched roof would continue on.
She couldn’t refute Milo’s point, or the fact that he was only trying to protect her. The living she knew as a child wasn’t as free as it used to be. Lately, the kingdom’s relationship with the northern gypsies had been crumbling into outright hatred as the nomadic folk further separated themselves from their Nevahardan kin.
They erected their own borders in a forest north of the city and started demanding a toll for use of the trade route where it overlapped their self-proclaimed territory. Nevahardans saw the toll as a form of thievery and the issue soon escalated into blood drawn fights. The gypsies were marked as unofficial outlaws, scorned and rough-housed daily within the city’s walls.
Still, Levee yearned for the days when she traveled with her family. She’d never experienced passion or freedom quite like the kind she had known as a child.
Milo ran a hand through his thick black curls and replaced his hat, his temper fading. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Sweets. It ain’t an insult, your old life. But ya gotta understand folks do things differently around here. Everyone has a class, and with ‘em comes things ya can do, and things ya can’t.”
Levee rested her neck against the backboard of the carriage, her eyes trained on the navy sky. Above her, the stars winked, mocking her with their limitless canvas.
Here in this city, females held a subservient role. One full of more cannot’s than can-do’s. What she needed was a purpose that could satiate her wild spirit.
“Your heart wants to go back to a life among your horses,” Milo guessed. Levee’s ears drifted to attention. She turned her watery eyes toward her friend. “What if I said I could get ya a chance at that apprenticeship everyone’s talkin’ about?”
“What?” The gypsy’s jaw fell slack.
“You’ve seen the posters. The royal horse mistress is scoutin’ for an apprentice, and her eyes will be searchin’ for the right fit at the annual competition a few days hence.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Levee slid farther down in her seat, dejected. “You know the kingdom never lets females compete in the main events. For three years I’ve entered that competition, and every time they find a way to disqualify me from the finals.”
“Mayhap year four will be different,” Milo winked.
“What do you mean?”
“I lied when I said I was enterin’ the competition this year,” the Sarrokian confessed.
The gypsy shot up in her seat. “But I’ve been training with you for months! You even signed the papers. You have to compete!”
Milo raised his eyebrows, a sly glimmer in his cat-like eyes as he waited for recognition to spark. He saw the wheels turning in Levee’s head. Denial melted away into shock as she caught on to his intentions.
“You didn’t…” she whispered.
Milo nodded. “The stable hand directin’ the horses during the event is a friend of mine. I have it all arranged. You and I will walk into the stables with your pony where you’ll help me tack her. But when they call my name it’ll be you ridin’ out, not me.”
Levee couldn’t believe it. Milo’s plan was a bold one. The Sarrokian rarely broke the rules inside the city, careful not to give the prejudiced Nevahardan Guard any reason to look his way. For him to have gone to such lengths spoke of his compassion and courage.
It moved her deeply.
After the wagon rumbled into their village and up to Milo’s quaint cottage, he reined his horse, Danna, to a stop and stepped down into the thick grass. He then offered Levee his hand which she took. With a warm smile, Milo gently pulled her from the worn seat and set her on the ground.
“I know it’s hard for ya, Sweets,” he said. “This city doesn’t feel like home to me either.” He motioned to the small but cozy cottage and the acres of gated pasture and crops that curved around their barn. “Yet I’ve found a way to carve a good livin’ out of a bad lot. Give this place a chance. Mayhap you’ll find a spot in it for you, too.”
Levee squeezed her dear friend in a tight embrace. “Thank you,” she whispered, her nose buried against his chest. “For everything.”
The Sarrokian nuzzled her cheek. “Go inside and get some sleep. I expect ya in the saddle early tomorrow morn. Tell Ma I’ll be in once I’m done tendin’ to Danna.”
Levee gave him one last squeeze and hurried to the cottage with a bounce in her step, but paused as she grabbed the door’s handle. With an impish smile, she turned to Milo. “By the way, His Highness is a very good dancer. Maybe next time you should ask him for lessons.”
“Ugh!” the Sarrokian waved her off. “Go to bed, and take your foolishness with ya!”
Giggling, Levee disappeared behind the wooden door. Milo shook his head, unable hide his smile as he led the roan horse toward the barn. He unhitched Danna from the wagon and chuckled to himself. “That one is too full of spirit and not enough horse sense.”
Danna nodded his head as if in agreement while the Sarrokian filled the trough with sweet feed.
“You think so too, huh?” Milo patted the brawny horse's neck. “I dunno, Danna. Mayhap I overreacted a little. Ain’t nobody gonna care who the prince danced with tonight. But when I stepped out onto that balcony, my blood ran cold.
“Somethin’ about the prince just ain’t right.” The Sarrokian put away the harness and pulled a brush from a hook on the wall. “There’s a hardness in his eyes, like he doesn’t feel.”
<
br /> After cooling down the gelding, Milo let him out to pasture and made sure that Danna and Levee’s mare, Melee, had enough hay, oats, and water in their open stalls to hold them overnight. Then, with his arms rested on the gate, the Sarrokian let his eyes wander toward the heavens.
Nights were beautiful in the north. Clear skies filled with stars lit up the night like a thousand tiny candles. He breathed in the cool air, letting it fill his lungs and calm his nerves. Then, with his eyes closed, he exhaled, releasing with that breath the load of stress housed inside his heart.
The wind blew against his brow, swirling his raven curls and tickling Milo’s nose. He reveled in the comfort, remembering the old folklore about an immortal spirit who once moved among the rahee.
They called her Tennakawa, which roughly translated to “Wind Prancer” in the common tongue. His people once revered her as a goddess that gave them ears to hear the voices of horses.
Milo wasn't sure he believed in such things. The way his own people treated him made the Sarrokian doubt whether anything was guiding the hearts of the horse folk these days. But it was a pleasant notion, nonetheless.
Danna breathed against Milo's shoulder and the rahee laughed when he turned to find his horse staring back at him. “I'm alright, Danna.”
The gelding’s chestnut eyes glittered in the moonlight, their depths full of concern. It was moments like these where Milo wished he could hear the roan’s voice like Levee claimed she could. Yet even now in the shared silence there was something inside of him that could feel what Danna was trying to say.
The horse rested his muzzle against Milo's neck and the Sarrokian rubbed it affectionately. Danna just wanted him to be happy.
“I think it's time to call it a night, buddy,” Milo told him. He climbed over the gate and started for the house, turning around just long enough to tip his hat to his horse. “Sun won’t wait up for us.”
To Lean is To Fall
Milo reined his stallion back as a flash of palomino legs galloped through the entry gate, Levee’s hair waving like a barley banner behind them. Her lithe pony was fast—deceptively fast. Although only fourteen hands, Melee had a long set of legs that drove hard against the soft dirt, pacing Milo’s stallion. The Sarrokian whistled in admiration.
But speed was only part of the formula here. He watched carefully as Levee and her mare twisted around the first barrel, nearly knocking it to the ground.
“Focus on the pocket, not the barrel!” Milo barked. Hat dipped low over his brow, he squinted to see Levee round the second barrel, her figure glowing against the bright morning light. The dust of the arena puffed into little clouds beneath Melee’s hooves as she galloped toward the next marker. This time Levee listened, giving her mare extra room to snake around the turn. “Atta girl! Now give ‘er neck! Let ‘er run!”
Levee’s arm extended out, loosening the reins. A whoop sounded from her lips while her heels gave a few motivating kicks that sent Melee into a dash around the third and final barrel. Four poles set in the center of the arena marked the final challenge, and the pair slithered through them with fluid grace.
“Well done! Now bring ‘er home!” Milo galloped Danna parallel to Levee’s mare, shouting out directions that spurred them along. He herded her back out the gate, and Melee spun around as soon as she left the arena, her nostrils flaring.
I’d like to make him run.
The words sounded as clear as Levee’s own thoughts inside her mind. She smiled and patted the panting mare’s neck. “Be nice. He’s only trying to help.”
Milo trotted over to them, his head already swaying in a disapproving shake before he came to a stop. “She’s still not quick enough,” he sighed. “Melee’s good, but her size is puttin’ her at a huge disadvantage against the bigger horses. If you wanna pace ‘em, ya gotta tighten up those turns and lengthen your stride.”
A whinny broke their conversation and Milo rolled his eyes when a rahee mounted on a high-stepping paint strode up to meet them.
“Kotu,” he tipped his hat in greeting, but it did little to deflect the disdain in his amber eyes. Kotu was part of the royal cavalry, and a leading voice in the jury for the royal competitions three years in a row.
All three years Levee had been disqualified.
“Well if it isn’t the Sarrokian and his pet gypsy,” he rode his proud mare in circles around the pair as his entourage closed in around them. “I’m afraid the two of you will have to take your little riding lesson somewhere else. The real competitors are here to practice.”
Milo scowled. “My name is on the roster, Kotu. We have just as much right to be here as you and your friends.”
“Oh, but I don’t see you running barrels, Master Kasateno. Or perhaps your lady friend is giving you lessons?”
Kotu’s taunt sparked a wave of chuckles from his party. Milo snarled. His ears switched back, which only inspired the soldier to laugh even harder.
“Now, now, no need to act feral. I know that’s hard for you Sarrokians, but do try to muster a little courtesy,” Kotu unsheathed his sword and admired the etchings on its blade. “Especially in front of the new captain of the Nevahardan Guard.”
Levee groaned. “I thought General Mendeley had better taste than that.”
The tip of the rahee’s sword swung in Levee’s direction only to halt just before the hollow of her neck. Melee tossed her head with an angry whinny, but Levee didn’t budge, her head poised high with fearless eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“You ought to put a bit in this one’s mouth, Sarrokian,” Kotu remarked. He twisted his sword so that the flat of his blade could lift Levee’s chin even higher. “I could easily cut out her tongue for blasphemy.”
“Only General Mendeley and His Highness have that kind of power,” Milo shot back, his own hand on the hilt of his dirk. “And there ain’t nothin’ noble about ya, so quit your tauntin’ before ya force me to raise a blade of my own.”
“Are you threatening me?” Kotu scoffed.
Milo urged Danna between Levee and the haughty soldier and swatted the teasing blade aside, his eyes narrowed. “No, I’m warnin’ ya.”
Levee bit her lip as the two feuding males stared each other down. She knew Kotu was baiting Milo. All he needed was to incite a reason so he could throw the Sarrokian in the stocks.
She tugged on Milo’s sleeve. “Let’s go. This isn’t worth the fuss.”
“Listen to your gypsy, Sarrokian,” Kotu goaded. He cocked his head to the side with a wily grin. “It’d be a shame for her to be left alone while you paid your dues.”
The muscles in Milo’s shoulders tensed, drawing creases along his leather jerkin. Kotu was reckless in his taunts, his ego underestimating the Sarrokian’s prowess.
Levee knew better.
She saw the signs: Milo’s all-too-calm stare as he marked several gaps in the cocky soldier’s defense; the white knuckles over the hilt of his dirk. Her friend had grown up on the harsher streets of Hikayah, the maritime district in Sarrokye. He had walked the alleys that gave the area its dangerous reputation and defended himself against thugs and pirates much more dangerous than Kotu and his comrades.
Now seconds stood between him and the soldier. Crucial, fleeting seconds that would turn this heated banter into a brawl.
“Let him go, Milo,” Levee interjected. Thinking quickly, she added, “I doubt His Highness would be pleased to find you were late because of a scuffle we could’ve easily avoided.”
Kotu stiffened in his seat. “What are you boasting about?”
“Milo was granted an audience by the prince just yesterday,” a coy smile spread across the cunning gypsy’s lips. She looked up at Milo and gave an innocent shrug. “Perhaps while you are there you’ll tell him about the bullies assigned to his precious Nevahardan Guard. After all, what kind of city is this if a poor, little rahee like myself doesn’t feel safe on her own?”
“What kind, indeed?” Milo zeroed in on Kotu’s guilty visage.
The
boastful captain looked to his entourage for support but none of the other soldiers wanted to risk the prince’s ire, so they offered none.
“Your friends should make the most of their time in the arena, Kotu,” Milo kicked his roan steed into a trot before the troublesome soldier could start the fight anew. “They’re gonna need it more than we do.”
The spew of incoherent syllables that slid from Kotu’s lips brought smiles to the departing rahee. Levee and Milo continued their calm exit, stifling their laughter until their mounts passed through the outer gates of the arena.
“Did ya see his face?” Milo chuckled. “It was redder than my tomatoes!”
Levee elbowed Milo’s thigh, her eyes bright with mischief. “I think Kotu will think twice before messing with us for a while.”
“You can bet on that,” Milo reined Danna to a halt as he and Levee came upon the fork in the path where they would part ways. The gypsy lingered, her palomino shifting from hoof to hoof in a reflection of Levee’s apprehension.
Her eyes strayed to Milo whose pensive stare rested on the hill above Nevaharday’s fortified walls. There, the castle stood as if awaiting his arrival.
“Do you believe General Mendeley and the prince will listen?” she asked.
Milo didn’t glance her way. He couldn’t. Not while her eyes remained upon him. Levee’s hopes drew a long sigh from the young Sarrokian, who could only offer a shrug in response.
“They can’t be that cruel,” the gypsy reasoned. “It’s our home, Milo…”
Staring up at the castle, so high and removed from the world they knew, the Sarrokian doubted the prince and his steward housed such empathy. He offered Levee a smile, albeit strained. “We will see, darlin’.”
* * * * *
“Rise, Prince,” Diego nudged Jaycent with a hoof, his expression teetering dangerously toward irritation. “The sun has passed its peak. While the palace is growing accustomed to your late night escapades, I doubt they will tolerate you skirting your duties.”
Moaning, it took all of Jaycent’s willpower to pry himself from the hay-covered floor. Shielding his eyes from the piercing sunlight, he took in his surroundings with a questionable stare.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 3