The Night Ride

by J. Anderson Coats

  “Yeah well, Astrid doesn’t count as a girl.” Marcel shoves her in a playful way, and she shoves him back. “She outrides you all the time. Are we hitting the trail or what?”

  Ivar makes a rude gesture at Marcel, but they’re both smiling, and I risk a smile too. Having an older brother means you’re used to how some boys talk to each other. You’re used to hearing things like you don’t count as a girl as you’re one of us.

  Marcel heads up the aisle and into the field behind the stable. The others follow, and as Astrid passes, I try to catch her eye. If she’s one of them, that means I could be as well.

  But Astrid breezes by, calling that she has dibs on Mandalay, and I can’t help but watch her go.

  The Buttermilk boy is the one who stops in the doorway with a look on his face like I just dropped my ice cream. “I’m Lucan. I guess Deirdre did it again. Just left someone here and couldn’t be bothered to take five minutes to show them around.”

  “Deirdre had things to deal with,” I say stiffly, but the promise of horses is so tempting that it’s not worth pointing out his rudeness. Instead I ask, “Are you really going riding? That’s allowed?”

  “As long as it’s not race day and all the chores are finished, we can go riding when we want,” Marcel replies as he carries a saddle past us and into the field.

  “So you’re going right now?” I can’t help but grin. “Can I come?”

  “Since the outriders need to spend time on the trail, the guys ride pretty much every afternoon.” Lucan gestures to the pasture, where kids are catching horses or slipping bits into mouths or settling saddles onto backs. “Since you’re the new stablehand, it would be weird if you didn’t come.”

  I’m about to ask why the outrider horses need to spend time on the trail when Astrid looks up from shortening stirrups on a bay gelding and says, “Really, Lucan? Guys?”

  Lucan holds his hands out in a sorry, forgot kind of way, and in that moment I don’t care that Astrid has never had to go to bed hungry or wear hand-me-down underwear. She’s done the hard work of making it easier for girls to be stablehands here. Astrid has made a path that all I have to do is follow.

  “What horse should I ride?” I ask her.

  Greta loves being asked for advice. She can go on forever telling you what she thinks, but Astrid isn’t even looking at me. All her attention is on the saddle girth, making sure it’s tight, as she murmurs, “Oh, anybody in the outrider pasture is good.”

  I glance over the remaining horses. They’re all pretty, but sometimes it’s not easy to ride a horse that isn’t used to you.

  “How about Hollyhock?” Lucan is holding a gray gelding by the halter. “He’s got a light step and he’s not one for tricks.”

  “Thanks.” I like that Lucan talks about the outriders as if they’re friends. When he offers to show me the tack room, I follow him back into the stable.

  The saddle is unfamiliar, and I’m trying to work out the buckles when I notice that Ivar and Marcel keep glancing at me. The last thing I want is for them to figure I need help, so I wave in what I hope is a friendly way. Thankfully, they wave back and split apart toward their horses, but not before shaking hands like grown-ups.

  Once Hollyhock is finally saddled, I lead him toward the gate where the others are waiting.

  “What does your exercise course look like?” I ask, because even if I don’t look the part, I can at least sound like I know what I’m doing. “I heard Marcel say we were going to hit the trail, but he can’t mean that literally. Like, through the greenwood.”

  I grin to show I’m teasing, that I know it would be ridiculous to suggest that the king’s horses risk sharp branches and exposed roots and slippery rocks and bandits waiting to knock us down and steal our mounts, but Astrid and Ivar exchange the briefest of looks.

  “Actually, that’s exactly what it is,” Astrid replies.

  I turn toward Hollyhock and slip my foot in the stirrup, but really I’m trying to work out what to say next. I love riding, but I’ve only ever been on a proper exercise course at the royal stables. Wide green pastures. White four-board fences running into forever.

  We walk our horses in a loose cluster up the horseway. Lucan is telling me everyone’s names and the horses they’re riding, but I’m only partway listening because we’re moving into a field that borders the greenwood and I’m still not sure this is safe.

  You can tell where the clear-cutters came through long ago to create enough open space for the track complex. The edge of the greenwood rises beyond the pasture sheer and stark like the city wall. An entrance of sorts has been cleared, rounded at the top like the arched doorway of a townhouse, and the trail disappears through it into the gloom.

  There’s not enough room for horses side by side. One at a time, the kids enter the greenwood.

  I grip and regrip the reins. I’ve only seen trees up close a few times, when Father and Mother have taken us for picnics outside the walls on rare days when neither of them has work and there are extra coppers for the road tolls. The size of these trees is unsettling, and so is the way their branches close in overhead, thick and leafy, blocking out the sun.

  As Hollyhock moves into the dim greenwood, I flinch down in the saddle so none of the leaves touch me.

  “There are no bandits this close to the walls,” I whisper aloud, to myself and Hollyhock, too. “The king would never let us ride here if there was any danger to his horses.”

  The trail feels like the greenwood made it. Not people or even horses. You wind around huge trees, bigger around than my arms held wide, and past rocks that arrived here in ways I can’t imagine.

  Sometimes the trail is only wide enough for a single horse to move along comfortably, and branches tug at my tunic and drag gently over Hollyhock’s rump.

  Sometimes it broadens so two or three can ride alongside each other.

  Sometimes I think I spot smaller trails that twist away from this one, and I’m glad that Astrid is riding several lengths ahead of me because of her red jacket that stands out so bright against the endless greens and browns.

  Before long, my shoulders relax. My whole self relaxes. Even though I wish I was with Ricochet, I am never happier than when I’m riding. Even though this is not the gentle, scenic, groomed exercise course I’m used to. Ricochet and I are in the same place now, and soon I won’t just be riding him. He’ll be my very own forever.

  Astrid’s red jacket disappears around a tight curve in the trail ahead. When I round that same corner, she’s gone.

  I pull Hollyhock to a halt. Lucan was behind me. He’ll catch up soon.

  Only he doesn’t. The chirpchitter of hidden birds and insects is the only sound. No hoofbeats. No voices.

  I’m alone.

  I mutter a swear and nudge Hollyhock forward. We take the tight turn slow, then climb a hill studded with rocks. At least the trail is clear and Hollyhock doesn’t seem worried or scared.

  We emerge in a clearing. It’s lovely here, cram-packed with knee-high grass that’s threaded through with wildflowers of every color. The greenwood rises on all sides like walls, solid and impenetrable.

  No sign of where the trail picks up again.

  No sounds but birds. No one here but us.

  4

  WHATEVER THIS IS, it’s intentional.

  Having an older brother teaches you many valuable survival skills, and one of them is when you are being teased, getting angry only makes it worse.

  Having a younger sister teaches you to keep your head. That someone is looking up to you, and even if you’re scared, you have to at least seem like you know what you’re doing.

  “We could go back the way we came,” I say to Hollyhock, but I don’t like the way it feels. Going backward.

  So I clickclick him into motion and we walk along the edge of the meadow, where the grass turns short and croppy and the greenwood rises thick and tall. There’s a break in the trees that seems like it could be the beginnings of a path, but Hollyhock gr
unts and shies away from it.

  There’s nothing about this gap that seems scary or unwelcoming, but the path angles toward the northern end of the city, through a part of the greenwood where rangers and fleet riders have found bandit trails.

  I trust Hollyhock. He’s been up here a lot more times than I have, and if there’s something about this maybe-trail to avoid, I’m going to listen.

  Which gives me an idea. I may not know where the trail picks up, but Hollyhock might. The guys ride this trail every day.

  I steer him to the middle of the clearing and give him his head. Hollyhock crosses the tall meadow grass and moves right for a not-quite gap between two trees, and sure enough, the trail appears just beyond.

  “Good boy,” I tell him, patting his neck.

  We walk the path, completely alone, around trees and past fallen logs, and splash through a shin-deep stream. It would be a beautiful ride if I wasn’t fighting panic. If I could think of anything but bandits lurking behind every tree, or being lost here forever and my parents never knowing what became of me.

  Ahead, there’s a mouthful of brightness that can only be daylight. I rush Hollyhock into a trot, and soon we emerge from the trees into a strip of cleared space behind a big fenced pasture. Beyond the field, I can see the track grandstand, and beyond, tiny in the distance, the city wall of Mael Dunn with the castle rising on its mound.

  The racing complex. Astrid letting her gelding browse. Marcel and Ivar craning their necks toward the greenwood. The other stablehands gathered around a water trough.

  We made it. I slide down from the saddle onto shaking legs and give Hollyhock a long hug.

  When I let go and turn from him, Ivar and Marcel are peering into my face. Brows furrowed. Jostling to get closer. Like they’d been worried and wanted to be sure I was okay.

  Having an older brother means you know sometimes boys show you their feelings instead of telling you, and I fumble for a way to say thank you without actually saying it, which would make things weird.

  Then Ivar laughs, long and cackling, and holds out his hand at Marcel, who starts grumblingly digging through his pockets. Marcel pulls out a handful of coppers, pokes through them, then pours them into Ivar’s palm.

  I’m staring. Openmouthed. Then I snap, “Are you wagering on me?”

  “Five coppers that you’d turn back.” Ivar pockets the money. “Three that you’d finish the ride, but you’d be crying.”

  So it was a prank. I know for a fact that I wasn’t the last in line. Lucan should have come up behind me.

  He’s in on this.

  Having an older brother and a younger sister means you’re pretty hard to tease, but this doesn’t feel like teasing.

  “All that just from looking at me?” I smile to show I refuse to be upset. “You didn’t even check my teeth or see a breezing run.”

  Ivar laughs and leads his horse toward the trough. The other boys don’t look happy to see him. One pulls out a coin purse before he even arrives.

  If they’re paying Ivar, it means they bet against me. They thought I’d turn back or straggle in crying.

  They clearly don’t know what it takes to grow up in the lanes.

  I clickclick to Hollyhock and lead him in the direction I saw Marcel and Astrid go, hopefully toward the outrider stable. The gelding’s footfalls are rhythmic and calming, and I put myself back in order.

  I was never in any danger. Hollyhock knew the way the whole time. It was just a prank.

  Which means I doubt the stablehands will invite me to go riding again. A prank is only funny the first time, before the mark knows to expect it.

  I’m not sure I’d go if they offered. Not if this is how it’s going to be.

  I pay no attention to the hooves echoing behind me till they stop at my elbow. Lucan slides down from his mare and walks beside us.

  “How much did Ivar cut you in for?” I ask. “Or did you do it just for fun?”

  Lucan flinches. “Did you ever think I was hanging back to make sure you got through safely? That if you did turn around, there’d be someone to guide you? Happens more often than you’d think.”

  “You could have ridden with me.”

  “You’d have never heard the end of it. If it turns out that you keep riding with us, you don’t want any of the guys—or Astrid—thinking you can’t handle the trail. Do you?”

  If it turns out that you keep riding with us. I peer at him, not sure what to make of all the maybes in it. “Well. All right. Thank you.”

  “Besides, I learned my lesson a while ago when it comes to Ivar. Guy doesn’t like to lose.”

  Paolo said something similar. “Lose what? Wagers?”

  “Anything.”

  When we arrive at the outrider stable, a few stablehands are already untacking their horses and giving them a currying. Hollyhock’s coat is warm to the touch, not too hot, so he doesn’t need any more walking to cool down. I give him some water, then remove his saddle and bridle, wipe them clean, and put them where they go in the tack room. Then I get a wooden box of grooming brushes and set to work.

  Stiff bristle. Soft bristle. Brush and detangle.

  My eyes sting, but the worst thing I can do now is let slip how much their prank hurt.

  I shouldn’t be too surprised. Marcel, Ivar, Astrid—those kids are clearly from caretaker families, and they took one look at my thirdhand barn jacket and falling-apart work boots and realized I would never belong.

  Girls like me scrub washbasins in houses that kids like them grew up in. We bring their lamb chops and soap their underwear.

  We lead their pony rides.

  When Hollyhock’s coat is shining, I turn him loose into the outrider pasture. The big green space backs to the three-quarters turn of the racetrack, and at the farthest corner, there’s a shelter where horses can stand to get out of the weather.

  The stablehands are in there now, sitting on upturned buckets and eating something from a bag they’re handing around.

  I could quit. There’s nothing wrong with giving pony rides. Buttermilk is the best pony in Mael Dunn, and one copper in every twenty is a sure thing.

  Only maybe I’m Deirdre’s big ask, like Torsten was Master Harold’s. Maybe she convinced the trainers—the track stablemaster himself—to give me a chance.

  I glance at the sun. If I start now, I can get home by supper and tell my parents everything, then walk through the night and be back in time for morning chores.

  I’m heading up the horseway toward the city gate when someone shouts my name. Marcel waves from the pasture fence like he wants me to come over. I really don’t have time for someone who wagered on me crying, but I veer off the horseway and trot near.

  “Going to tattle on us?” His voice is as bland as porridge.

  “For what?” I smile. “I got to go riding today. The worst day in the saddle is still a good day.”

  “Then why are you heading toward the track sidelines?”

  “I’m not. I’m going to my house.” I nod at the city walls. “I didn’t know I was taking a stablehand job when I got here this morning. My parents will be worried if I just disappear.”

  Marcel nods slowly. “Good. Come with me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It works better when everyone’s in.” He points at the pasture shelter where the other stablehands are gathered.

  Whatever. I’m not falling for another prank. It’s already going to take hours to get home through the lanes. They can hardly be called roads, twisting and dead-ending every which way through neighborhoods into alleys and around shop fronts, but unlike the toll roads that cut straight through town, they don’t cost anything to use.

  “Sonnia!” Marcel tosses me something small and metal. A toll road token. These might be made of cheap tin, but each one gets you inside the walls and through as many tollbooths as you need. I’d be home in the time it takes to cook rice.

  I’m stunned silent. I just met this kid and a gift like this feels out of all me
asure.

  “Will you come now?” he asks, and I nod numbly. I hold the token tight in my fist as I climb the fence and cross the pasture toward the stablehands in the shelter.

  When we get there, Marcel takes a seat on the only empty bucket, and I’m left standing awkwardly in the big space that passes for the entryway.

  “There are two things you need to do to join the junior racing cadre,” Marcel says. “You ride to win and you go the way the wind blows.”

  “Which is why there’s a test,” Lucan adds helpfully. “Which you passed, by the way.”

  Cadre. Like they’re bandits. These kids can’t be foolhardy enough to be given the chance to work at the racetrack and throw that word around like it’s meaningless.

  “You didn’t turn back when you were alone and you didn’t run squealing to adults,” Astrid clarifies. “If you hadn’t passed, we wouldn’t be talking now.”

  “I didn’t cry, either.” I glance pointedly at Ivar.

  “Ahhh, that was just a side bet.” He makes a no big deal gesture. “Crying doesn’t disqualify you from the cadre. It just happens often enough that it’s worth making a few coppers on.”

  “I thought for sure a girl would cry,” mutters Roland, who’s glumly toying with a sagging money pouch.

  “Junior racing… cadre?” I repeat, just to be sure.

  Astrid nods. “We’re training to ride racehorses for the king. All of us have our eye on a spot among the king’s jockeys.”

  “And a room in the jockey house, and a spot on the pay table,” Marcel adds.

  Lucan must figure I’m confused instead of skeptical, because he says, “There’s a public list of which jockeys are riding which horses, and what odds they have to win, place, or show in a race. That’s the pay table. Jockeys get a cut of any purse their horse earns.”

  “There’s a bonus, too, if a horse wins with long odds.” Ravik has the aristocratic down-the-nose look of a prize thoroughbred. “When the king wins big, he does not forget his jockeys.”

  I turn the toll road token over and over between my fingers. It gives me time to think.