Page 72 of The Mirror and the Curse
Friends and fans had clustered around Eddi’s pavilion despite this year’s more restrictive rules. Among them, Maria and Ianthe called out to her, and Eddi waved, appreciating their friendly faces and encouraging words.
Annette gave her a leg up, the crowd around her pavilion made way, and soon White trotted up the sloping aisle and cut across to the access road, finding their place in the lineup—sixth—with no direction from Eddi. When their turn came and an usher waved them forward, White joined the post parade.
Eddi heard the announcer introduce Tirador and Raquel, who were currently entering the starting field, but mostly she focused on White and on Abeo, the horse directly in front of him. The fiery roan was agitated and already sweating, obviously spooked by the exuberant crowd on either side of the road, but Prince Emenike handled him with gentle words and caresses. The young stallion’s wings, still bound in restraining nets, visibly relaxed as he submitted to his rider’s will and direction.
While this action went on right in front of him, White kept his wings politely folded over Eddi’s legs and stepped along like the gentleman he was. He received a great many cheers, Eddi noticed rather smugly. Something about a pearly white steed captured hearts, and White was truly spectacular with his shimmering mane and tail and those iridescent wings.
“Number six in the field today is a promising four-year-old colt, Snow White, flying only his second race under the expert guidance of last year’s winning rider, Princess Edurne Zuri of Bilbao.”
Hearing a breathless “Ahhh,” Eddi glanced up once and stared into her own eyes, visible through her visor. The camera widened its focus to show White, looking like the mount of a fairy queen with his silky mane flowing over his shoulders and his tail brushing the ground. Muscles, tendons, and veins stood out beneath his satin skin, and his dark eyes flashed with a lordly air. To ride such a beautiful creature was truly an honor.
Eddi opened these thoughts to White, who seemed amused and returned something about her hands scratching his head better than an elm branch and her affection tasting as fresh as a mountain spring. Perhaps some depth of meaning got lost in translation between fterotá and humans, but Eddi gracefully accepted the compliments as they’d been intended.
On the starting field, she located the numeral six on the grass—magically projected. White took his place and stood calmly. Although fillies and mares had won the Cup in the past, this year the field was made up entirely of colts and stallions. Eddi, Karishma, and Raquel were the only female riders in the field of fourteen. Ruggero’s bronze wings and Tirador’s brilliant red coat briefly flashed in Eddi’s peripheral vision as they took their places. Other riders hastily removed their mounts’ wing nets and prepared for takeoff, some wrestling to keep the eager horses under control.
Eddi carefully wrapped her left hand and checked her safety strap. Then, while the last few horses entered the field, she closed and latched her flight helmet’s visor and sipped water though her straw. Doing her best to ignore the tightness in her chest and gut, she wrapped her right hand as well, preparing for the jolt that would follow the starting gun. As the final horse took its place, a hush fell over the field.
“Racers, on your marks.”
Riders crouched over their saddle bands. As required, every horse furled its wings.
Eddi felt and heard White’s breathing. He seemed ready to explode, every muscle and nerve poised. His wings quivered along his sides, their long flight feathers brushing her legs.
Crack!The starting pistol blasted, and Eddi’s stomach dropped away, her arms and core muscles straining to keep her body in place as White’s powerful haunches sent him forward in a great leap even as his wings spread and pounded the air. Her helmet protected her ears and eyes from the buffeting wind, but she couldn’t help closing her eyes anyway, willing her stomach to return to its proper place. When she opened them moments later, the ground was far below.
White claimed the highest level, which allowed several horses to pull ahead but reduced the risk of collision. The field quickly fell into a rhythm of beating wings.
Space widened between the fterotá as they skimmed along the edge of a valley, heading southwest toward the first marker, a magical pole of light extending high into the air. White’s wings cupped to catch updrafts that swept him smoothly over rocky outcroppings and jutting cliffs. When necessary, Eddi guided him with leg pressure, more suggestion than command. He responded promptly. She glimpsed a few cameramen on hillsides and on flying horseback, but this race was so long that gaps in the recordings were inevitable. Someone was supposedly videoing from above, but she couldn’t guess how detailed such a recording would be. Eddi followed her usual procedures, watching opponents and keeping track of mileposts as they flashed past.
For the first half of the long race, White bided his time, never allowing the leaders to get out of reach. The other fterotá jostled and vied for position at times. Just past the halfway point, White increased his pace and took the lead, with Jackrabbit a short way behind to his left.
As they flew along a steep-sided narrow canyon, Tirador began to creep up on White’s right. In Eddi’s experience, Raquel’s horse lacked the staying power to win a Cup race, but maybe all the endurance training had corrected that weakness? White seemed unconcerned, and Eddi trusted his judgment. Nevertheless, Eddi glanced up and around in search of videographers. None were in sight. This could be one of the blackout areas . . .
When Tirador powered his way ahead, then slid over toward White as if to block him, Eddi’s guard went up. White evaded the other horse, losing speed to avoid a collision. The two ducked and darted, skimming over sharp ridges. White did an evasive spin and several rolls that had Eddi’s stomach roiling, but Tirador was relentless. Eddi sensed frustration from the red horse, so this crowding had to be Raquel’s idea. What did she intend to do, anyway?
White climbed rapidly to avoid a sharp outcropping, and Tirador, flying slightly above him, took the opportunity to close in. Just as Eddi glanced over her shoulder, Raquel sat bolt upright and flung something at White. Eddi saw a small object spin toward her, but a magicalcracksounded and Tirador went spinning out of sight behind that ridge. Moments later, a shock wave hit White from below, and when Eddi peered back she saw what looked like smoke billowing above the ridge. Had that curse, or whatever it was, boomeranged on Raquel? The magical barriers obviously worked. But . . . had Tirador crashed?
No question now about the attacker’s identity, for all the good that did.
Feeling dizzy and ill, Eddi peeked under her arm and saw golden wings flash as the chestnut fought his way out of the valley. Raquel still clung to his back. They weren’t dead!
Her relief was short-lived. Tirador had fallen behind, but Eddi sensed Raquel’s hate-filled gaze on her again.
But why? What did Raquel hope to gain by killing her? Other riders must have seen that attack. Raquel would be fined, sanctioned, banned from the sport—maybe imprisoned!
During the skirmish, a few other fterotá had slipped past and taken the lead. White seemed determined to catch them, and Eddi didn’t argue with him. She was too busy glancing back, and each time she looked, Tirador was closer, his nostrils wide and red, his eyes wild in a way Eddi had never seen before. Was he . . .? The horrid suspicion became a near certainty. Had Raquel somehow put a magic influence on her horse? Tirador could fly himself to death!
Eddi was so focused on Raquel that she’d lost track of their position on the racecourse. Had they already passed the Greif Spitze? No, there it was ahead. Ten miles to go. Observers and cameras again surrounded the racers . . .until they entered another tight valley between two ridges of rough granite cliffs.
As Tirador again drew up alongside White, Eddi saw something in Raquel’s hand, an object that glimmered and flashed in the sunlight. A mirror? Raquel sat upright, raised the mirror high—and for an instant, Eddi glimpsed her rival’s eyes through her visor—they seemed to glow with rage, hate, and murderous intent. Tirador’s face contorted with equal rage and insanity as he swerved toward White to attack.
Quick as thought, White stalled, jinked, and accelerated in a long curve along a cliff face. Tirador dropped back out of view. But might he sneak up again from a different angle? Eddi peered over her shoulder just in time to see a dark horse swoop out of the sky and . . . Did it collide with Tirador? Both horses tumbled, wings flailing, and in those split seconds, Eddi saw the mysterious object fly from Raquel’s grasp and spin, twinkling and flashing, down into the ravine. Just then, White passed over a ridge that blocked Eddi’s view.
Everything had happened so quickly, but the dark horse . . . bronze wings . . . Ruggero! What had Fidelio done? Should she go back and make certain he and Raquel and the horses were safe?
Sometime during the crisis and Eddi’s dithering, White had rounded the Greif Spitze. Now he stretched out his neck, laid back his ears, and focused everything on the race. Eddi suggested they should turn back and try to help the fallen riders, but when her fterotó didn’t even acknowledge the idea, she did her best to set aside her worries and support his quest for victory, no matter how hopeless.
In White’s mind she sensed only a concentrated drive to win. He flew in a blaze of power and speed Eddi had never experienced before, passing contestants as though they stood still. She was simply along for the ride.
