Summerkin by Sarah Prineas Page A

Gnar’s cloak, and it had a rain hat buckled over its head with two holes in it for its horns to stick out of. There were holes in the raincoat for wings, too, that the mount kept folded against its sides.
    A big lizard with wings . . .
    â€œIs that a dragon ?” Fer asked.
    A wide grin broke out across Gnar’s dark face. Fer heard a snrr-snrr snorting sound—she was laughing! As Gnar laughed, puffs of smoke drifted up from her nose. Her dragon-mount stepped into the courtyard. Steam hissed wherever it set down its clawed feet.
    The four competitors gathered around the bear-man. He had to speak loudly to be heard above the pouring rain. “You will begin the race here—” Lord Artos pointed toward the grassy area before the nathe. Through the rain, Fer could see that white tents had been set up and crowds of Lords and Ladies sheltered there, waiting for the race to begin. “You will take your mounts on the path through the forest and out to the Lake of All Ways. You will circle the lake twice, then return here.”
    Fer nodded. “Got that, Phouka?” she asked.
    Phouka tossed his head and broke into a prancing trot, leading the other competitors across the puddled courtyard to the wide grassy lawn where the race would begin.
    With the nathe looming behind them, the four of them lined up in the pouring rain: first Lich on his fish-goat; then Arenthiel and his huge horse, who were both perfectly dry, as if an invisible umbrella was open over them. Next to Fer rode Gnar and her dragon-mount. The dragon took high steps, as if it didn’t like the feel of the wet grass beneath its claws. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Fer glanced aside at Gnar and caught her casting a nervous look at the sky. The rain came down harder, and Gnar hunched into her rain cloak.
    She didn’t like the rain, Fer realized. Well, that made sense; Gnar seemed to be made of smoke and flame. She couldn’t be used to weather like this.
    The High Ones had joined the Lords and Ladies under the tents.
    â€œBe ready!” Lord Artos rumbled.
    Fer gulped down a sudden surge of nervousness. She clutched Phouka’s mane, ready for the race to begin.
    â€œBe off!” the bear-man shouted.
    Phouka leaped forward so suddenly that Fer almost lost her hold on his mane. She slid sideways, then gripped with her hands and with her legs and managed to stay on. Phouka pounded away from the nathe, heading for the dark forest on the other side of the wide lawn. Beside them raced Lich, his goat-mount stepping daintily with its front feet, its scaled tail swishing smoothly over the rain-wet grass. The golden horse ran easily, Arenthiel holding the reins with one hand, looking as if he wasn’t even trying yet.
    A crackly cackle from above, and Fer glanced up to see a dark shape pass overhead—Gnar and her dragon-mount. Flying! That was hardly fair.
    But no. Nobody had said the mounts had to run the race. They just had to win it.
    Fer crouched lower over Phouka’s neck. They jolted over the grass, and then Fer found the rocking rhythm that made it feel as if Phouka was flying. They hurtled toward the forest. Ahead, Gnar’s dragon-mount touched down on the grass; it took two running steps, then leaped into the air again, its wings rowing through the rain. Arenthiel’s golden horse swerved in front of Fer, and a clod of mud kicked up by its heels hit her in the face. She ducked and scrubbed at the mud, and then they plunged into the dark forest.
    The path was so narrow that they had to go one at a time. First went Gnar and her dragon, flying low under the tree branches—to stay dry, Fer figured. Then came Arenthiel. Fer saw a flash at his heels; he gave a sharp jab, and the golden horse leaped forward with a slash of blood-red across its side. Arenthiel was wearing spurs—sharp ones. The knot of determination in Fer’s chest tightened. She and Phouka would not lose this race to