Summerkin by Sarah Prineas

doorway. Outside, rain pounded down from low, lead-colored clouds. “It’s going to be a wet ride,” Fer murmured, and patted Phouka’s neck. “Maybe muddy, too. Are you sure you don’t mind running the race with me?”
    As an answer, he whuffled his nose against her shoulder. He would do it, that meant.
    â€œThanks,” she whispered, and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
    After meeting the High Ones, Fer had only stopped in her rooms for a few minutes, to eat a quick lunch and grab her backpack with its box of herbs in it. If Phouka got hurt in the race—or if she did—she might need the herbs for healing. She’d also left Rook in the rooms, watched over by Fray and Twig and one of her bees. He’d growled at her, clearly not liking it, but she had to make sure he didn’t go out while she was gone and stir up trouble.
    The stables were snug and dry and smelled of horse and—Fer eyed the nearby stalls—of other kinds of animals that could be ridden but were not horses. The stall at the end hid yet another mount. That stall had high walls, closing the mount inside, but Fer could hear bumps and thumps as the mount bashed itself against those walls. It sounded fierce, whatever it was.
    She heard squishy footsteps; glancing out the doorway, she saw the tall boy, Lich, coming across the courtyard. He had his pale face turned up to the sky, letting the rain soak him from head to toe.
    â€œHi,” Fer said as he entered.
    Giving a damp sniff, he ignored her, then went into one of the other stalls. To Fer his mount looked a little like a horned goat, except that it had a fish’s tail instead of back legs, and it was covered all over with glistening, mushroom-colored scales. Really, it was the perfect mount for a pouring-down-rain afternoon like this one.
    The next to come in was Arenthiel. He wasn’t wet at all—he had some magic that kept the rain off, Fer guessed, and that kept him looking perfect all the time, without a smudge or speck anywhere. He gave Fer one of his brilliant smiles as he stepped inside. “My dear Gwynnefar!” he said.
    This time, Fer did the ignoring, busying herself by putting a few twists of braid into Phouka’s mane, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. From the corner of her eyes, she watched as Arenthiel put a saddle and bridle on his mount, a golden horse with gleaming silver hoofs. As he led it out into the pouring rain, she realized that the horse was huge and powerfully muscled—so big, it made Phouka look like a shaggy pony in comparison.
    Last to come was Gnar. Fer didn’t recognize her at first; the girl from the Drylands was wrapped in a hooded cloak made of waxed canvas. As she entered the stable, Gnar threw back the hood, then stripped off the cloak and tossed it over a hay bale.
    â€œLovely day for frogs,” she said dryly, with a glance at Lich and his goat-fish mount. After giving Fer a quick nod, she strode to the walled stall at the end of the stable; she opened its door and went in.
    Fer stared, hearing more bumps and thumps. Curls of smoke leaked out from under the stall doors. What was in there?
    The bear-man, Lord Artos, came in then, shaking drops of water from his furry head, clapping his huge hands together. “It is time,” he rumbled. “Come.” He led the way out into the rainy courtyard, where Arenthiel was waiting.
    Fer put on her backpack and, gripping Phouka’s mane, swung herself onto his back. Lich’s mount trot-slithered ahead of her. Fer followed them into the middle of the courtyard. The rain poured down; in a few moments, Fer was soaked.
    Last came Gnar and her mount. Fer stared. Gnar’s mount was as big as Arenthiel’s golden horse but shaped like a snaky lizard with clawed feet, coal-black scales, and a muzzle full of sharp teeth. Smoke drifted up from its red nostrils. It was wearing a canvas raincoat-like covering, just like