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Children born of one of the Five and a mortal, just walking around among everyone else, totally unaware of the power within them. Until they ate something they shouldn’t, or touched something they shouldn’t and bam, they awoke! Cursed to wander the earth, changing into a beast each sable moon. Or worse! Sometimes they would be permanently changed! Creating terror or passion or mischief wherever they went.
Their stories appeared in tons of scrolls, and even more so in plays and music. And Teigra could see why. The idea that such creatures could be right here in the city. Just over there. Just over anywhere! Behind any of these doors and windows. Walking among the regular citizens. Living otherwise normal lives, without even knowing what they were? Without even knowing what they could be.
That thought made the familiar streets and familiar doorways just a little bit more exciting. The idea that behind every portal was potentially a touch of the divine!
Aurelius might not believe in them. Lots of people didn’t in Mestibes, treating those tales as mere bedtime stories to scare obedience into children. But Teigra believed them. Not having seen a therian was no reason to believe they didn’t exist. After all, she hadn’t seen a gryphon until yesterday. Or their homeland of Rinath either. Or Ondocis. Or Ardora. Or Vaticily. Or even another polity within Greater Mestibes. She had never even left the city—not more than a few miles anyway. But she still knew that all those places existed.
Just like she knew the therians existed.
Just like she knew the gods existed.
Eventually, her daydreaming brought her to her destination: the Alogo Machy, the greatest hippodrome in all Dynosia. Home of the famous Mestibian relay.
The place where a different kind of hero is made.
And a different kind of beast.
The high, oval-shaped stands were silent now, the only sound the low chatter of some white-tailed kites in the distance. And yet, Teigra could practically feel the hum of the place.
By midday, the white marble seats, worn smooth by centuries of backsides, would be echoing with the chaos of the relay, one of the few times the staid citizens of Mestibes allowed themselves to reach full voice. There would be the grunts of the centaur superstars pounding along their oval track for the first lap; the splash of the hippocamps, weaving through their chicane of narrow canals dug all up the center of the stadium on the second lap; and finally, the great thwump of pegasus wings streaking through the air on the third and final lap, all played to the deafening roar of five thousand spectators, abandoning their usual stoicism for the thrill of the race.
Pale yellow sand filled her sandals as she passed the stables of other horse-rearing families, all nestled in the foundations of the stands: House Samari, House Chalin, and House Anavoleas.
She gave a little smile toward their sleeping steeds, absent any attendants. Even though it was a race day, they’d probably still be sleeping off the feast, rather than heading to bed at a reasonable hour and rising early, as she’d done.
As she always did.
And that was why House Cosmin was so dominant. This wasn’t a hobby to them. This was their life. This was their blood.
Father used to tell stories of the two dozen stables that were here when he first took over the family business, all owned by different houses and all competing to train the best steeds and sign contracts with the snootiest centaurs. It had been his greatest pride that he’d managed to buy out so many of them—from that first victory on a risk-it-all bet, to now, where the Cosmin name was synonymous with the noblest of sports.
Long-gone words played across her memory: Two Cosmins in the senate and one house in the Alogo.
Don’t worry, Da, thought Teigra with a deep sigh, as she was embraced by the comforting smell of hay. I won’t let you down.
Not again.
“Morning everyone!” she said to a chorus of whickers from the pens and excited splashes from the pools of salt water. The Cosmin stables were vast, taking up almost half of the sub-stands, housing a half-dozen racing teams and almost fifty nonracing billets. The centaurs, of course, were nowhere to be seen. They had their own accommodations on the outskirts of town—on the premier cliff-edge plots that overlooked the sea.
Teigra treated the centaur superstars with the minimum level of respect required to not put them, or their wealthy contract holders, offside. But she had never been in awe of them. How could she be? She’d seen them at work, after all.
Today, those centaurs wouldn’t wander down to the track until the very last minute, still cracking their necks and working the kinks out of their withers. Stretching just long enough to not risk injury from their sprint. Then, after two minutes of effort, they’d spend the rest of the day drinking and feasting and being fawned over. All while the real steeds, and the real riders, did the real hard work.
She threw the fish to the hippocamps and laid fresh barley for the pegasi, reserving the best bushel for Astrapi, a stunning Zante mare with hair of blood bay and wings that glinted gold in the filtered light.
“And how are you feeling today, lovely? Are you going to drag Jaronas to a first-place finish he could never get without you? Yes, you will! I think you just might!”
Astrapi nickered at her touch, grateful for the attention of the girl who had raised her from a foal. An ache formed in Teigra’s chest as the mare guided the scratches along her neck, seeming to ask the same question she always did: What had she done to drive her master away? To make Teigra stop riding?
Nothing, girl. There is nothing else you could have done.
“Come on,” she said, pulling herself back to the present. “We can’t have you cooped up all day!”
She bridled and saddled Astrapi, leading her out into the morning. It was shaping as a beautiful day, and the growing warmth gave a kick to their speed. Soon Teigra was jogging down the centaur track, with Astrapi keeping pace.
Her beauty wanted to go faster still—to fly into the air, weaving and darting as only she could. She was a chained warrior, built for speed, caged away all night, and anything less than full pace was a mockery of her talents.
But rather than speed up, as they rounded the first corner Teigra slowed, bringing the mare to a complete stop.
