that he was not going to mysteriously wake up one day in a strong, capable body like his brother’s—he had done everything possible to avoid putting himself in any position where those advantages were worthless. And yet, here he was. The horse under him ran. He tried to keep from flailing and falling. It was the best he could do.
The hounds barked. The deer, limping badly, wheeled on its good leg, and just as it did another arrow flew, this one fletched in red. It landed deep in the other flank. A cheer went up. Blood drops falling from the first wound were joined by drops from the second. The hounds were deranged, slavering and snapping at the deer. Theron was baffled. What was happening, what was going on? They had come to kill the deer, and he knew there must be depths to kill that he didn’t understand, but why weren’t they even trying? Why were they doing such a bad job?
“Run!” Elban cried, and bellowed something at the hounds, and the hunters roared. Up ahead, Gavin bent down low over his horse. Theron’s own mount seemed to lift under him; suddenly the world flew past. The motion was smooth and terribly fast and he could see nothing, not even with his glasses.
He heard Elban’s voice again, cold and severe: “Hold!” The horses in front of Theron reared and stopped and Theron’s did, too, nearly throwing him in the process. Just hang on. He found himself next to Gavin, Elban on his brother’s other side. Again, Gavin risked a quick glance in Theron’s direction, the same old question in his eyes: Okay? Theron found himself in a tangle of reins and straps; they had seemed orderly enough in the beginning, but now they’d all come loose, and Theron felt like a fool, trying to assemble himself into the easy effortlessness his brother managed by nature. But he nodded. He was okay.
In front of them, the hounds had circled the deer, growling. The deer’s injured back half trembled on legs oddly splayed. Theron saw that it was holding itself up on its bones because the muscles weren’t working. It was a doe, or at least antlerless; her wide eyes were terror-stricken, her mouth open and panting.
The hounds would take it now. They would leap for the throat. It would be bloody. He must not flinch.
“Take it,” Elban said.
The biggest hound leapt—but not for the throat. Instead, the sleek gray beast went for the deer’s midsection, tearing loose a flap of skin. The deer squealed. Another hound went for one of the delicate forelimbs, and with a twist of the great head and an appalling snap, the deer went down to one knee. The courtiers cheered again.
“Mark the time, Seneschal,” Elban said, a muted delight in his voice. The Seneschal took out a pocket watch and flipped it open. “Gentlemen, give your bets.”
“Three minutes, Lord,” a courtier called out.
“Five!” said another, and then all the men on horseback were shouting out numbers. Two. Three and a half. Seven. A dozen or so courtiers rode with them; every face matched Elban’s, in excitement and pleasure. Only one courtier was silent, a tall man with glittering onyx earrings who kept to the back, and he seemed to be watching his fellow hunters rather than the deer.
“Heir,” Elban said. Heir meant Gavin. Theron had no idea what word Elban would use to address him. “What’s your bet?”
Staring at the deer—who still struggled to stand, on two wounded legs and one broken one—Gavin was made of stone. “Eight minutes,” he said.
Theron, with revulsion, realized they were betting on how long the deer would live. “Fifteen minutes,” Elban pronounced.
Minute after minute passed: hard, gory minutes; minutes loud with horrendous animal screeching. Great spurts of blood shot toward the courtiers, making them crow with delight, as the hounds tore the deer apart, bit by bit. They ripped her legs out from under her and tore them off when she fell; they chewed off her ears and her tail, and Theron didn’t understand why the deer didn’t die of fear and pain, why no part of the deer’s brain called the battle for the hounds and let her suffering end. He didn’t understand how the courtiers could stand and laugh as the deer tried to put her least broken leg under her. His own mouth was dry, his skin cold. Gavin remained stony.
“Why—d-doesn’t it die—” he finally muttered, drawing his horse close to his brother’s.