Gordath Wood Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epigraph

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  The Aftermath

  “Gordath Wood is a strong first novel, full of real people, some very real horsemanship, and utterly convincing war-craft. It’s a big story of overlapping worlds, with a plot as complex and twisting as the trails of Gordath Wood itself, a book as much for lovers of horses as lovers of fantasy.”

  —Toby Bishop, author of Airs and Graces

  LOST

  Lynn snaked the reins over Dungiven’s neck and handed them to the man. She took half a step and realized what she had done.

  “No!” she shouted.

  It was too late. The man kicked Dungiven clumsily in the ribs. The horse threw up his head and trotted forward out of the clearing, the man bouncing in the saddle.

  “Stop!” She lunged forward, but the man kicked again. The big horse bolted up the treacherous hillside, scrambling through leaves and rocks, sending an avalanche of debris down into the clearing. The horse made it safely to the top, and they disappeared over the top of the ridge until all she could hear was the sound of Dungiven crashing through the forest and her own sobs of rage . . .

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  GORDATH WOOD

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / July 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Patrice Sarath.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

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  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-436-22522-9

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Valerie

  For the conversation, coffee, friendship, and laughs

  This one’s for you

  1966-1993

  Acknowledgments

  For all that writing a book is a solitary endeavor, an author, especially a first-time author, has a lot of help. My thanks to my first readers of the Austin Slug Tribe and Cryptopolis, especially Sharon Casteel, Tom Konrad, Jane Hixon, Fred Stanton, Steve Wilson, Matthew Bey, and David Chang; also, Martin Owton, Gaie Sebold, and Lenora Rose Heikkinen. I also would like to thank Tom Van Dyke for information about modern weapons and gun laws, and for taking me out shooting—all errors on this subject are my own. Thanks to Ben Van Dyke and Kim and Aidan for your love and support. To my wonderful agent, Kae Tienstra, and my super editor, Susan Allison—thank you so much for your help and guidance. And finally, thanks to Cochise and Piper, Molly and Warlight, Windswept and Foxy, McKeever and Smokey, Reykur and Rauthsokkur, and all the other horses who were my first and best teachers.

  One

  At the Hunter’s Chase van everyone gathered around Dungiven. The big gray horse fidgeted at the end of his reins, his black nostrils flaring and his tulip-shaped ears cocked with interest at the swirl of activity surrounding him. His saddle and bridle gleamed, and the dark blue yarn braided in his mane and tail set off the black and gray strands.

  Lynn shrugged into her black jacket, all the while issuing commands.

  “Gina, go find Mrs. Hunt at the owner’s pavilion. Kate, is that the course map? Let me see—” Kate held it out, and Lynn scanned it while she drew on her boots. Nothing Dungiven couldn’t handle, but she hadn’t had time to walk the course. Dungiven’s regular rider had just been carried out in the ambulance after a fall in another class. Nothing serious, a broken collarbone and a cracked rib, but it meant Hunter’s Chase would have to scratch its entry in the Classic.

  Not if I can help it, Lynn thought. She felt an unearthly quiver of excitement in her belly. Someone handed her a hairnet and bobby pins, and she stuck her dark hair up haphazardly and crammed her helmet on top, buckling the chin strap. Kate pinned the stock under her chin.

  Dungiven snorted as if to laugh at Lynn’s pretensions. Lynn was good, but she was Hunter’s Chase’s manager. She hadn’t ridden a professional show-jumping course in years. The butterflies multiplied. Stop that, she scolded herself. “Time?” she said, and Kate turned her wrist to see her watch.

  “Five minutes,” Kate said. “Hold your chin up; I don’t want to stick you.” Lynn obeyed, Kate’s knuckles brushing her throat.

  Gina came running up awkwardly in her long boots.

  “She says to scratch,” she called out. “She doesn’t want you to ride him—” She faltered to a halt. Lynn felt color flood her cheeks.

  Because she doesn’t think I’m good enough.

  Kate’s fingers stilled. Everyone looked at Gina, then at Lynn. Lynn opened her mouth and found she couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Oh,” she said finally. “Okay. Well. That’s probably for the best.” She stepped back and began undoing from the top down. She took off her hard hat and pulled off the hairnet and the bobby pins, letting her hair fall down to her shoulders. No one met her eyes; somehow that made it hurt worse, that they knew how keenly she felt the disappointment. “All right, strip him and get him ready for the van. He’s done for the day.”

  Lynn went around to the ca
b of the big twelve-horse van and sat down on the running board to take off her boots. It was peaceful there. The late afternoon sun was warm against her face, and the loudspeaker was muted. She could feel muffled hoofbeats through the soles of her boots and let her heartbeat find its own cadence. The headache that had been threatening all afternoon throbbed with the same pulse. Lynn sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. She should have known Mrs. Hunt wouldn’t let her ride.

  When she opened them again, she squinted against the sun that gleamed off row after row of vans and trailers in the rough pasture. The outskirts of Gordath Wood inched forward into the grassy space, sending forth saplings and underbrush, but this close to cleared land the woods were sparse, un-threatening. Here and there the foliage gleamed red, heralding an early fall, though it was still only September. Gordath Wood always turned earlier than the rest of the woods in Westchester County, though. One of the strange forest’s quirks, she thought.

  As if to emphasize its eerie reputation, a swirl of movement deep in the wood caught her eye. For a moment the trees swayed amid their still brothers, and a handful of birds shot into the sky. Thunder rolled at the edge of her hearing, and she could have sworn that the van shook. The movement subsided, and Lynn shrugged, pulling at her boot.

  Another noise interrupted her: Joe, the van driver. He leaned against the side of the van, arms folded across his T-shirt, his brown eyes quizzical.

  “What?” she said in the face of his lengthening scrutiny.

  “What did she say?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. Just to scratch.”

  Joe kept looking at her.

  “What!” she snapped.

  He said, “It’s just—I ain’t seen you that happy about horse shows for a long time.” She laughed and shook her head, but the sound held very little humor.

  “Yeah, well,” she said, and tugged at her long black boot. “Look where it got me.” He came over and knelt down in front of her, taking the boot by the heel and the ankle. He pulled it off with a smooth tug.

  “Last I heard, it was still allowed,” he said. He handed her the boot and held her gaze.

  She knew that if she let him be kind to her, she would start to cry. She made a disparaging noise. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” She tugged at her other boot.

  He stood, and she pretended to be absorbed in her struggle with her boot, all the while aware of him waiting and then walking away. When he was gone, she stopped pulling. The boots were smudged from fingerprints. If she had been allowed to ride out, Kate would have taken a rag and wiped down her boots once she was in the saddle. She and Dungiven would have gleamed in the late-afternoon sun like bright black and silver coins. Lynn sat for a moment longer on the running board, seeing the course in her mind’s eye.

  The parking lot was almost empty when the Hunter’s Chase van was fully loaded. The last horse in was Dungiven, wrapped in a white shipping blanket with blue piping, the HC logo fluttering on the bottom corner. Lynn nodded at Gina, and the girl clucked to him and led him up the ramp.

  Just then it felt as if the ground slid out from beneath her feet. Lynn caught herself against the trailer. Dungiven threw up his head. “What was that?” she said.

  With a rising rumble that came straight out of the woods, the ground rolled violently. Horses whinnied, and the trailers and trucks swayed and shuddered. Lynn fell hard on her butt. Dungiven scrambled backward off the unsteady ramp in a tangle of legs and blankets, lost his balance, and went down. Lynn’s involuntary cry was lost in the bone-shaking tremor. Finally, finally, the quake tapered off and died.

  Lynn scrambled to her feet and fell to one knee beside the big horse, fear seizing her heart. Dungiven stayed down, breathing hard, snorting with every breath. Joe squatted next to her. “Is he okay?”

  “Don’t know,” Lynn said, her voice taut. She pointed with her chin. “Get behind his haunches and push.”

  At first Dungiven resisted, thrashing his head, and then finally he scrambled to his feet, his shipping gear askew. Lynn reached up and straightened his head bumper, looking him over. No scrapes, nothing but grass clinging to his shipping blanket.

  “Whoa,” she said under her breath. She handed the lead rope to Kate, who looked shocked and pale. Everyone was doing the same thing they were: checking on horses, making sure the expensive animals were okay. “Here. Trot him out for me. Gina, check on the horses in the van; make sure no one is down.”

  Kate trotted the big horse down a ways and back, his gait true and strong. Lynn’s heart slowed. He looked undamaged.

  Gina jumped out of the back of the van. “They’re all okay, but a little tense,” she reported. “I handed out carrots.”

  “Thanks,” Lynn said. She still felt shaky. An earthquake in Westchester County? She didn’t know that was even possible. “Okay, let’s try this again.”

  She took the lead rope and began walking the horse up the ramp. Dungiven took a few steps and then in one move reversed direction and scrambled backward as if the earth were sliding under his feet again. Lynn was dragged along for several heart-stopping seconds before she found her footing again.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Joe catch him on the other side of the halter and help bring the horse to a stop. They stared at each other; he looked pale under his tan. Lynn’s pulse hammered in her head.

  “Think it’s the earthquake?” Joe said. He nodded at the van. “After all, he was right there when it happened.”

  “It must have been,” Lynn said. “Let’s give him a moment, then try again.”

  They waited in the quiet evening. Lynn breathed soft and slow, letting Dungiven pick up on her calm. After a moment, she nodded to Joe. She clucked to the big horse. He planted his forefeet, and then, when she insisted with firm hands and body language, Dungiven rose into the air on his hind legs. When he landed, his thudding hooves just missed her boots.

  This time Joe stayed prudently back. “You okay?” he called.

  “Think so,” Lynn said with a tight little voice. She looked at the horse. “Your price tag just went down. You know that, don’t you?”

  Dungiven snorted, cocking his ears over her shoulder. She turned and saw Mrs. Hunt. Lynn took a deep breath and waited for her employer.

  Mrs. Hunt was no horsewoman, but when she came to watch her horses win, she played the part. Today she wore a black hacking jacket and boots, a lovely chignon holding her dark brown hair in place. A gold pin nestled in the folds of the snow-white stock at her throat, and her breeches fit like a second skin. Her outfit was immaculate; she hadn’t spent the day around sweaty horses, dusty rings, greasy hamburgers, and sticky lemonade.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be harmed, but I think Dr. Cotter should check him out. Are you all right?” Lynn added.

  “I rely on you to make sure the horses are safe and sound, Lynn. Please see to it nothing like this happens again.”

  As if the earthquake was her fault. Lynn paused until she got herself under control.

  Mrs. Hunt stood and waited, her lips pursed. Howard Fleming, owner of the Pennington Stables show grounds, came up behind them, putting his wide hands possessively on Mrs. Hunt’s shoulders. A heavyset man in a ginger houndstooth jacket, his reddened face and bulbous nose rose from his collar as if they had misplaced his neck.

  “You can always leave him here, Kathy,” he joked. “I’ve been meaning to get my hands on that stud of yours for a year now. I’ll just throw him in with a couple of my mares.” He leered.

  With no hint of annoyance on her face, Mrs. Hunt freed herself from his intrusive grip.

  “That is quite kind of you, Howard,” she said. “I’m sure Lynn will be able to bring him home.”

  Fleming frowned.

  Lynn tried to look absorbed in straightening the horse’s shipping blanket.

  “Let me get one of my grooms to take care of this,” he urged. He smiled at Lynn. “We’ll have him taken care of in no time, Liz. A stallion is no h
orse for a girl to handle.”

  Lynn kept from rolling her eyes with pure effort.

  “Thank you, again,” Mrs. Hunt said firmly. “I’m sure we will manage just fine.”

  “The thing is,” Lynn said, turning to Mrs. Hunt and wishing Fleming were somewhere else, “we need to get the rest of the horses home. They’ve been waiting on the van, and I don’t like them being cooped up and stressed like that.” She took a deep breath. “I could ride him home.”

  “What? That horse is worth a fortune! You can’t be seriously thinking to ride him!” exploded Fleming.

  “Lynn, it’s light out here, but it’s way dark already in the woods,” said Gina. “I mean, are you sure?”

  “It’ll take me forty-five minutes, tops. We could be here all night. We’ve got to get the rest of the horses home. I mean, unless you want to leave him with Mr. Fleming’s mares.”

  She held her breath at her own audacity and faced Mrs. Hunt square on, half expecting to be fired in the woman’s next breath. And then she thought, No. She’s lucky I don’t walk out right now.

  And on the heels of that thought, She knows it, too.

  To her surprise, Mrs. Hunt didn’t seem to be annoyed at Lynn’s maneuver. Instead, she looked out toward the woods and patted a strand of hair back into place. She looked at Lynn and back at the woods.

  “I don’t think, that is—I’m not sure . . .” Her voice trailed off. Lynn was boggled. Mrs. Hunt—flustered? She didn’t think she’d ever seen that.

  “Oh come now, Kathy,” Howard said. “Just say the word, and I’ll have Geoff fix a box for him.” He smiled indulgently. “We can drive down to the Continental for dinner. My treat.”

  Lynn felt a pang of sympathy for Mrs. Hunt. The woman looked trapped.

  Ignoring Fleming’s invitation, Mrs. Hunt said, “At night? Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “It’s less than an hour, practically door-to-door. I’ll bring a flashlight, and I won’t jump anything. I promise.”

  Mrs. Hunt dutifully acknowledged the little joke with a polite smile, but still she hesitated. “Those stories . . .”