Free To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion by Diane Lee Wilson Page A

There was something different about him today. Maybe it was the dim light, but Habasle’s face looked sallow beneath his dark curls. And though the air this deep inside the library was cool, sweat beaded his brow. Habasle moved his hand to cradle the lumpy bandage beneath his clothing.
    â€œYou were watching yesterday,” he said.
    Soulai nodded.
    â€œDid you see who did this to me?” He opened his blue and white robe just enough to reveal a blood-spotted tunic.
    Soulai wasn’t sure how to answer, wasn’t sure if he should answer.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re blind as well as dumb. What did you see?”
    Soulai bristled. “I saw you jousting with someone taller,” he responded, “maybe older, but I—”
    â€œNo,” Habasle interrupted. He sank back against the wall, plainly weary. “I know with whom I jousted. I mean, did you see who put the spear tip on the pole? They’re supposed to be blunt.”
    Soulai shook his head.
    â€œYou said you were watching,” Habasle spoke angrily. “Why weren’t you watching me? You’re my slave; you’re supposed to take care of me.”
    â€œI…I didn’t know,” Soulai stammered. “I was grazing Ti.”
    â€œHow is he?”
    The question stunned him. Why do you care about Ti? he thought. You’re the one who abandoned him to the lion.
    Habasle groaned as he lowered himself to the floor. As if he knew Soulai’s thoughts, he said, “Haven’t you heard? The Medes have taken Harran. That’s why I’m here, studying their tactics as they have been recorded. There’s going to be a war, you see.” He paused for two labored breaths. “The time is coming,” he continued, “when Ti and I must prove ourselves. Our fates are woven together. Look, just as he bears the mark of Ninurta—god of the hunt, god of war—upon his shoulder, so do I.” With obvious strain, he tugged at the necklines of his robe and tunic, finally managing to pull them down over one shoulder.
    Soulai bent to look. A winged image fanned across Habasle’s skin, but even in the poor light he could tell that the intricate, reddish lines were only a blurred henna tattoo.
    â€œDo you see it?” Habasle asked. “It’s the same as Ti’s, isn’t it?”
    â€œI see it,” Soulai said.
    â€œAnd it’s the same as Ti’s.”
    It was the same arrogance as the lion’s in Mousidnou’s story, and Soulai was finding it difficult to play the subservient jackal. He gritted his teeth. How could this pampered ass think he was anything like the noble Ti?
    â€œTell me what you’re thinking; I order it.”
    Sucking in his breath, Soulai said, “I don’t think you can simply draw your own destiny.”
    To his surprise, Habasle grinned. “Which shows us why you’re a slave and I’m the son of a king. Not only am I going to draw my own destiny, I’m going to draw it bigger, and dye it brighter, than old Ashurbanipal himself. I may be only one of his many sons, but with Ti I’m going to prove I’m the best.” He coldly appraised Soulai, then snorted. “Look at us, the same years—thirteen…fourteen, right?—almost the same bodies, though mine is stronger. We even resemble each other in the face; I’ve heard it commented. And yet”—he tapped his chest with his index finger—“we are much different here. The heart, the seat of bravery, is empty in you.”
    Soulai winced as if he’d been slapped. Then he set his jaw. “Why did you call me here?”
    â€œTo see about Ti.”
    â€œYou could have come to the stable,” Soulai said evenly, “and seen him for yourself. It’s been over two weeks.”
    Habasle looked away. “Not done as easily as it is said.” He turned back with a crazed grin. “You see, someone is trying to,