“Gentlemen! I told you a square halt. Yet your horses are writhing about like worms in a bucket.”

“He won’t hold still!” Beclan Destvaorn said.

“Neither would I if you were sitting on my back like that,” the instructor said. “Your toes are out; you’re playing a tune on his ribs with your heels; you’ve cramped his neck with that death grip on the reins, and you’re sitting on the small of your back, not your seat.”

Camwyn, attending to his own posture, suddenly realized that his right heel was snugger than the left; he relaxed that leg a little and his horse quit pawing. “And you,” the instructor said, pointing his remaining flagged stick at Camwyn. “Your seat bones weren’t evenly weighted and you were digging him in the ribs—good that you fixed it, but you shouldn’t have done it in the first place. That’s the same mistake you made on your first pony.”

Camwyn felt his neck getting hot, but the instructor had already moved on to the next of them, Aris Marrakai. Aris, Camwyn thought, put on airs about his father’s horses, admittedly some of the best in the kingdom. Camwyn relaxed, prepared to enjoy the next bit.

“You’re letting your horse dance without warming up properly—surely you, son of the foremost horse breeder in the realm, know better.”

“Yes, sir,” Aris said. “I don’t know why he’s doing it.”

“Do you not, indeed? Then I will tell you. You—” The horse leapt straight up, twisted in the air, and came down in a series of enormous bucks. Camwyn’s horse threw its head up and skittered sideways away from Aris’s mount; all the horses reacted. Aris rode the first few bucks with a skill Camwyn envied—Aris was the best rider in their group—but soon lost his rhythm. The instructor had ridden his own mount close, and tried to grab the horse’s rein, but it squealed and lunged, teeth snapping.

“Dismount! Now!” the instructor said. Aris flew into the air, launched as much by the horse as by his own will, and the instructor plucked him neatly by the back of his tunic as the horse ran squealing down the field, bucking and kicking. “All dismount!” the instructor said. Camwyn and the others did so. Aris, pale-faced, stood staring at his horse, now standing lathered and trembling at the far end of the field, snapping at its own sides. The Royal Guards closed in cautiously. As they watched, the horse lunged toward one of them, but fell to its knees, and then, jerking, to its side. Aris took a step in that direction, but the instructor stopped him.

“Did you saddle your own mounts today?” the instructor asked.

“No,” Camwyn said. “They were in their stalls, saddled, when we got to the stable. And we were on time!” He glanced at Aris, who stared down the field, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Aris—I’m sorry—”

“Unsaddle them now. No—first spread out. Camwyn, to that corner. Two horse-lengths between you. Then unsaddle them. Check the saddlecloths, but do not touch anything you find.”