Daughter of Lir by Judith Tarr Page B

tell them. I
will make certain that the gods know who has commanded this.”
    “The gods know,” Etena said. She turned her back on Aera—rudeness
heaped on insult—and disappeared into the shadows of the tent.
    When she was gone, Aera drew a deep breath. The morning was
clear—splendid. She was briefly free. But she could take no joy in it. Not when
the tribe was ruled by such a creature.

10
    The chariotmakers’ camp stood somewhat apart from the main
runs, a broad circle of tents on a rise to the north. The horse-herds grazed
beyond it, and sometimes round about it.
    The others were there already, had been there, Minas did not
doubt, since it was light enough to see. They had three great war-cars begun,
and three more on their way to completion. The seventh stood whole on the far
edge of the circle, where it opened onto the horse-herds. It was one of the new
cars, broader and longer, so that two men could ride in it.
    Minas’ grandfather knelt beside it, making a last adjustment
to the new yoke that he had made. He was all but bare in the morning’s chill.
His lean corded body was as strong as a young man’s. His eyes were as keen as a
falcon’s, his face sharp, his nose long and fiercely hooked.
    As Minas paused, he sat back on his haunches, running his
hand distractedly through his cropped ash-and-copper hair. “That should do,” he
said in his harsh-sweet voice. “Will you be trying it for me?”
    Minas bit back a grin. There were people who said Metos was
a god, or at least the son of one. He had eyes in the back of his head, they
said. He knew everything that anyone thought or did.
    Minas was hardly inclined to dispute them. “Will you be
riding with me?” he asked.
    His mother’s father did not dignify that with an answer.
    One of the boys who looked after the herd was coming up from
the war-stallions’ pasture with Minas’ best pair, the golden duns who were so
swift and yet so light in the traces. At sight of Minas they pulled away from
the boy and ran to him, thrusting imperious noses into his hands, searching the
folds of his tunic.
    He brought out bits of sweet cake for them, and the last of
the honeycomb that he had found on a hunt the day before. They devoured it all
greedily. But when he called them to order, they turned smartly and took their
places on either side of the chariot-pole.
    Metos’ eyes were glinting. He lent a hand with yoke and
harness, adept as few others were. He had made the first chariot and wrought
the first harness: a madman, people had thought him then, when he was young,
before he was reckoned a god. Now he was old, as old as mountains, some said,
but he could still smile at a pair of good horses, and strap on their harness,
and spring into the car.
    Minas was close on his heels, moving to the front of the
car, taking up the reins. The left-hand stallion tossed his head, uneasy, a
little, with the way the yoke sat on his neck. He on the right flattened ears
and nipped. A twitch of the fingers brought them both to order. “Now,” he said,
purring it. “Now, my beauties.”
    He took them out past the edges of the herd, striking for
the open plain. The wind caught him there, stronger than it had been at
sunrise. The dun stallions snorted at it.
    Horses never did like to run into the wind. Minas sent them
in a long arc round the herds of mares and the new foals. The chariot rocked
smoothly underfoot. It was balanced well, riding light on its wheels that Metos
had changed as he wrought them, making them larger, stronger, and yet less
heavy.
    The yoke was marvelous. Once the horses had grown accustomed
to its feel, they liked the weight of it: they were lighter on their feet,
pulling more easily. Their turns were quicker, too, and their changes of pace
less harried.
    When he was sure of the weight and balance, he gave them
what they begged for: freedom to run as they would. They lifted up and flew.
    Metos rode easily in the car behind Minas, barely holding to
the sides,