Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Twelve: The Snow and the Sea

The horse didn't like him.

Lasura came to that conclusion as he stood pretentiously tall in the stable, staring at the colt Djari had picked for him whose agenda that afternoon, he was certain, involved making his life exceptionally miserable. Not that he was in any way new to the situation. Most people took pleasure in making him miserable for reasons he no longer tried to understand. In a way, he and the Sparrow had some things in common, except the prick usually got paid outrageously for getting fucked (and paid per hour, mind you), while he pretty much had to pay them to not fuck him twice.

And now he was going to have to prove himself a better man than the Sparrow, accept the offering of this horse to ride, and the foreseeable future of being thrown off its back then trampled to an embarrassing death without complaints. No one was forcing him to, of course, but with Djari standing there nitpicking him from the shape of his ankle to the dirt in his nails–– most likely against the memory of her appallingly perfect swornsword––his wretched male ego was inflated enough to make him jump off a cliff and die trying to show off he could fly. Which was, technically, what trying to trump the Silver Sparrow of Azalea felt like. The man would probably look better than him trampled to death by a goat wearing some secondhand rags thrown out by a beggar. Still, it did nothing to stop him from trying. Ego had its uses, he supposed, in these situations. Like making you suicidal enough to commit suicide when suicide is needed. That sort of thing.

And so he stepped toward the horse, feeling Djari's measuring gaze like a spear on his back forcing him to walk off a plank to his doom. He sucked in a breath, puffed up his chest to appear large and intimidating in front of the colt. The horse––Summer, he was called––raised its hoof to strike at the ground, pinned back its ears and bared at him a full row of gleaming white teeth.

This is not going to work, Lasura thought, looking over his shoulder toward Djari for some suggestions. She replied with an expression akin to that of his grumpy geography tutor waiting to see if he would misspell a country or a river during examination, only his tutor never had a whip in his hand and looked so ready to use it.

He reached over with the bridle and Summer lunged forward, snapping. At the same moment, the sound of Djari's whip cracking from behind ripped apart the silence of the stable, and straightening every horse in it along with the two stable boys and a dispossessed prince of the Black Tower. One of those might have pissed his pants, judging from the stench he was getting. Lasura looked down between his legs and thanked Rashar it wasn't him.

Ravi, he reminded himself. He was in the White Desert now, thanking Rashar around here might get him castrated, and he wasn't going to lie, Lasura, Eunuch of the Black Tower, did have a nice ring to it for some disturbing reason he'd rather not explore.

"Open the gate and stand back," she said.

He thought of defying that order, only his limbs had already obeyed the command without his consent.

"Summer." The name came from Djari like a spear, matched by the index finger of her free hand pointing down, sinking its imaginary tip with surgical precision into the ground in front of him. The horse stiffened, tilted its head slightly to the side to avoid eye contact but didn't have the nerve to completely turn away. "Come."

It could shut up a crying baby, that tone, and it didn't take long for Summer to walk out of his stall to stand in the exact spot she was pointing toward. "Try again, Prince Lasura," Djari said, nodding for him to put the bridle on.

The horse, this time, stood obediently still from start to finish, after which time she reached over to rub its neck and slapped it gently in approval. Summer, who immediately relaxed from the small gesture, nuzzled her affectionately in return. It was a combination of love and respect every experienced horse trainer struggled to achieve, and Djari iza Zuri, at sixteen, mind you, had it down to perfection.