“Not when he knew the next minutes would be the most important of his life. He could see Holden and Sawyer in the distance. Holden at ease in the saddle of a roan gelding, Sawyer riding a black-and-white pony more suited to his age and size. Even from this distance, Ben could see that his son had the relaxed, natural seat of an instinctive rider, his hands held high, his knees close to the pony’s flanks, his heels well back. One day he would ride through the streets of Kharmistan beside his fath...er, dressed in ceremonial robes, sitting upon the back of a fine Arabian stallion. Ben could see him now. See how he would look once dressed in the trappings of a young prince. A kibr of vermilion silk, trimmed in golden braid, worn over a snow-white tobe, a similar snow-white kaffiyeh on his head, held in place by a black agal. Even his mount would be colorfully outfitted, its bridle dangling with colorful ribbons, his saddle gilded with gold. Ben would ride, and Sawyer would ride beside him. Their people would line the streets as they rode by, cheering, throwing flowers at the young heir to the throne of Kharmistan.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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