The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,49

might choose to marry her. He could never marry me.

Now I have to struggle not to cry. The cold wind bites at my cheeks, and I pull the hood closer to my face. The sky’s blue is cruel, promising sun but delivering no warmth. I’ve changed my mind: I’d rather be in my chambers watching the Obsidian Monk dance in my fireplace than out here in the frigid town square, pretending to be happy.

The races begin, the first set with groups of six horses and riders, colored ribbons fluttering, each jostling for position before they take off around the square and then down a narrow street that leads toward the river. People are packed too tight in these streets, and collisions are inevitable. During the second race, screams and gasps filter up to us, along with the wild neighing of a horse.

“Someone’s got squashed!” shouts the Duke of Auvigne, as if this were the happiest possible outcome. Last year, my ladies have told me, three onlookers were killed and two horses needed to be put down. The duke was delighted. Montrice is a strange place. I had no idea that horse racing could be a blood sport.

The sun is low in the sky before the final race is scheduled to begin. I know that my new white horse will be racing, and I assume that Lady Cecilia’s black horse will be running as well, because both animals have yet to make an appearance.

What I don’t realize until the crier makes the announcement is that they’ll be running head-to-head, with no other horses in contention. It’s also been decided, at the last minute, that they’ll be making six circuits of the square, rather than dashing through town like the others. The horses are expensive thoroughbreds, and I wonder if neither Hansen nor the duke wants to see his investment run into an unruly crowd down by the riverbanks.

“Six is my lucky number,” Hansen informs me. He’s spent much of the afternoon alternately crowing about the winning horses on which he’d placed bets and sulking after the races when his pick lost—or, in one case, not finished at all. The rider straggled up the hill without his horse, and the lord who owned it looked furious.

The white horse and the black horse, ribbons fluttering and riders crouched low on their backs, stamp and circle at the start line.

“That’s my horse!” Lady Cecilia cries over and over, in case anyone could have any doubt. “His name is Raven.”

Raven—Raven—Raven: The name is passed through the crowd, and I can hear it murmured from all sides of the square.

Lady Cecilia is entirely dressed in black apart from a green sprig pinned to her hood—obviously a reference to Hansen and his own royal colors. I hope my own white horse flies around the course like a blizzard, beating every possible record.

“What’s your horse called, my dear?” Hansen asks me, pretending to be interested.

“The winner,” I reply, and he looks away. I hope he’s placed a lot of money on Lady Cecilia’s horse, and that he loses every penny.

Even before the race begins, it’s evident that the crowd has decided to cheer for Raven rather than my horse. The murmurs have grown into shouts. There’s no doubt who the people of Mont are supporting in this race. It’s the black horse that belongs to a minor member of the nobility, not the steed in the queen’s colors. They have not forgotten the attack in Stur and the way I was implicated. They still don’t trust me, let alone love me. If I need any proof of the lack of affection for me here, the lack of respect, then today’s providing it yet again.

Off the horses race, clattering on the stones of the square, necks stretched forward. The corners are dangerous: Both horses skid and slide, and the crowd gasps. I rise from my seat, too excited to sit still. The horses are fine runners, and they’re neck and neck for the first circuit, the second circuit, the third. The crowd is still calling out to support Raven, but horses, I’ve long believed, don’t care much for what people think of them. They race because there’s a wild spirit inside of them. They race for the thrill of the gallop. They race because they want to be the fastest.

By the fifth circuit I think the horses must be tiring. Their riders are hanging on, gripping the striding, leaping bodies. Raven’s rider almost falls at one corner, then my