3

The lions were roaring as hoarsely as if they had dust in their throats.

Startled, Igraine wiped the water out of her eyes, ran back up the steps to the battlements, and pushed the leather man out of her way. Sisyphus stood on the wall, hissing. Igraine quickly knelt beside him and peered down.

The stone lions crouched on their ledge, teeth bared. Their tails were lashing the wall, and at the sound of their roars the startled water snakes put their heads out of the moat.

A horseman was galloping toward the castle from the east.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Igraine shouted angrily at the lions. “That’s no stranger, you silly stone-faces. It’s Bertram, Master of Horse at Darkrock Castle.”

“So it is!” growled the lion on the left, narrowing his eyes. “She’s right!”

“It’s those doves,” the lion on the right defended himself. “How can we keep a proper lookout with bird droppings in our eyes? Pretty soon I won’t be able to tell a horse from a unicorn.”

“Yes, and the droppings stink to high heaven, too!” growled the lion on the left. “Doves have no respect these days.”

But Igraine wasn’t listening anymore. She ran down the steps with her mail shirt clinking and raced across the courtyard. Sisyphus followed her at his leisure.

“Who’s coming, my dear?” Sir Lamorak called from the tower window.

“Oh, just a false alarm from the lions again,” Igraine called back. “It’s Bertram, Master of Horse from Darkrock.”

“Oh, no!” groaned her father. “That can only mean one thing — the Baroness wants to hold one of her boring horserace meetings. Tell her we can’t come, my angel, all right?”

Then he disappeared again — before Igraine could remind him that she personally didn’t think horse races were in the least boring.

Bertram the Master of Horse rode into the castle at a gallop. His face was as red as her parents’ magic cloaks, and his horse was snorting and sweating. Igraine quickly fetched a bucket of water and rubbed the horse down with a handful of straw, while its exhausted master slipped out of the saddle.

“What weather!” panted Bertram. “I’d sooner have torrents of rain. Where’s your father, Igraine?”

“Casting spells to make my birthday present,” said Igraine, stroking the horse’s mane back from its forehead. “And you’d better not disturb him. Is the Baroness going to hold some horse races?”

Bertram shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid the news I bring is nothing like that. Call your parents, Igraine, even if it does mean that your birthday present has to wait.”