The Curse of Chalion Read Online Free Page B

there who might, or might not, turn out the warder for this stranger. He’d not paced halfway back to his post before his comrade stuck his head around the gate to call, “The royse returns!”
    The sergeant turned his head toward the servants’ quarters to take up the bellow, “The royse returns! Look sharp, there!” and quickened his march.
    Grooms and servants tumbled from various doors around the courtyard as a clatter of hooves and halloing voices sounded from outside the gates. First through the stone arches, with a self-supplied fanfare of unladylike but triumphant whoops, rode a pair of young women on blowing horses belly-splashed with mud.
    “We win, Teidez!” the first called over her shoulder. She was dressed in a riding jacket of blue velvet, with a matching blue wool split skirt. Her hair escaped from under a girl’s lace cap, somewhat askew, in ringlets neither blond nor red but a sort of glowing amber in the shaft of setting sunlight. She had a generous mouth, pale skin, and curiously heavy-lidded eyes, squeezed now with laughter. Her taller companion, a panting brunette in red, grinned and twisted in her saddle as the rest of the cavalcade followed.
    An even younger gentleman, in a short scarlet jacket worked with beasts in silver thread, followed on an even more impressive horse, glossy black with silken tail bannering. He was flanked by two wooden-faced grooms, and followed by a frowning gentleman. He shared his—sister’s? yes, surely—curly hair, a shade redder, and wide mouth, more pouting. “The race was over at the bottom of the hill, Iselle. You cheated.”
    She made an Oh, pooh face at her royal brother. Before the scrambling servant could position the ladies’ mounting bench he was trying to bring to her, she slid from her saddle, bouncing on her booted toes.
    Her dark-haired companion also preceded her groom to the dismount and handed off her reins to him, saying, “Give these poor beasts an extra walk, till they are quite cool, Deni. We have misused them terribly.” Somewhat belying her words, she gave her horse a kiss on the middle of its white blaze, and, as it nudged her with practiced assurance, slipped it some treat from her pocket.
    Last through the gate, a couple of minutes behind, came a red-faced older woman. “Iselle, Betriz, slow down! Mother and Daughter, you girls cannot gallop over half the hinterland of Valenda like a pair of lunatics!”
    “We are slowed down. Indeed, we’re stopped,” the dark-haired girl pointed out logically. “We cannot outrun your tongue, good heart, no matter how we try. It is too fast for the speediest horse in Baocia.”
    The older woman made a moue of exasperation and waited for her groom to position her mounting bench. “Your grandmother bought you that lovely white mule, Royesse, why don’t you ever ride him? It would be so much more suitable.”
    “And so much more sloooow,” the amber-haired girl, laughing, shot back. “And anyway, poor Snowflake is all washed and braided for the procession tomorrow. The grooms would have been heartbroken if I’d taken him out and run him through the mud. They plan to keep him wrapped in sheets all night.”
    Wheezing, the older woman allowed her groom to help her dismount. Afoot again, she shook out her skirted legs and stretched her apparently aching back. The boy departed in a cluster of anxious servants, and the two young women, uncrushed by their waiting woman’s continuing murmur of complaint, raced each other to the door to the main keep. She followed, shaking her head.
    As they approached the door, a stoutish middle-aged man in severe black wool exited, and remarked to them in passing, in a voice without rancor but perfectly firm, “Betriz, if ever you gallop your horse home uphill like that again, I will take him from you. And you can use up your excessive energy running after the royesse on foot.”
    She dropped him a swift curtsey, and a daunted murmur of, “Yes, Papa.”
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