made it. Everyone squinted for a last look as the horses topped a rise before vanishing.
Sioned listened to the shouted wagers and wished she had the courage to ride the sunlight and follow the progress of the race. She cared nothing about Rohan’s winning; she simply prayed he wouldn’t break his neck. She intended to perform that service herself to repay him for this insanity.
“Will you not wager on Prince Rohan’s success, like the rest of us?” Ianthe’s’ voice was smooth as warm honey.
“I have nothing of value,” Sioned began, spreading her hands to indicate her poverty—then caught sight of the emerald. “What will you wager against this emerald, your grace?”
“You’d bet against the prince?”
She smiled, wondering if some of Rohan’s recklessness had infected her as well. “I doubt him as a man, not as a rider. I had another wager in mind.”
“Yes?” The dark eyes were wary, and the lips Rohan had complimented were stretched into a false smile.
“My emerald against whatever you like that neither you nor your sister will win him.”
“How dare you!” Ianthe hissed.
Sioned laughed. “Your grace! Never tell me you doubt yourself as a woman!”
“I doubt your manners, Sunrunner! But I cannot lose, for there is no one else worthy of Rohan—as you of all people must know. Do you want him for yourself?”
“I haven’t yet decided,” she lied easily. “But if you’re unsure of yourself in the matter . . .”
“Done!” the princess snarled. “Your emerald against all the silver I wear!”
“Done,” Sioned nodded, and insulted the princess further by taking visual inventory of the necklet, earrings, bracelets, and belt. Ianthe crimsoned with rage and turned her back on Sioned.
She gazed down at her emerald, not believing for an instant that she might lose it, but knowing all at once how much it meant to her. Biting her lip, she glanced quickly around at her companions. They followed Ianthe’s lead in ignoring her. Sioned made her decision, rose, and edged her way to the outer stands where the sunlight was unshaded by the green silk awning.
She felt the sweet warmth on her skin, permeating her bones and blood. Lacing her fingers together, she felt the rings grow warm—even the emerald—and she was reminded of the night in the Great Hall at Stronghold, and Tobin’s assurance that this ring had a magic all its own. She faced in the direction Rohan had gone and her gaze darted down the sunlight until she saw him clinging close to Pashta’s neck as they neared the wood. Her breathing quickened in response to his; she winced along with him as, entering the trees, branches whipped at his shirt and hair. The cliff trail ahead of him was murderous, and Sioned’s heart began to beat very fast.
Rohan cursed as a sharp branch tore his shoulder. Cries of alarm came from all around him and set his palms sweating inside his riding gloves. He wrenched his horse around a fallen rider, thanking the Goddess for Pashta’s years in the Desert which had made him swifter of wit and hoof than most of the other horses. Out of the wood now, they made the turn up the steep slope that culminated in a green pylon near the cliff edge. Behind him, Rohan heard an anguished scream and there was a crunch that sounded like cracking bones. But he had no time to look back, for the pylon loomed up—and the horse beside him, its rider wearing Lord Reze’s colors, had left him almost no room to make the turn. Pashta’s ears were laid back threateningly; the other horse faltered slightly on a slippery patch and Rohan took the chance presented, urging Pashta through the narrow gap and closer to the pylon. He rounded it in a tight curve—and an instant later heard a terrible cry followed by a heavy splash in the surf below. Rohan winced; it could have been him and Pashta. His sole ambition now was to emerge from this wild ride alive.
The field was down to twenty. Nineteen too many in Rohan’s opinion, and in Pashta’s, too; the stallion, never one to allow another horse precedence, made for those ahead with single-minded fury. Rohan pressed his cheek to Pashta’s neck, branches slashing his shirt to ribbons, and simply hung on.
A dun-colored horse came out of nowhere and plowed into them from the right. Rohan nearly toppled from his saddle. The other rider wore the pink and crimson of Lord Tibayan of Pyrme—but the face that grinned viciously at