by Forthright
Ricker puffed out his chest and took a bragging tone. “We are the strength of the Thunderhoof clan, sons of the First Herd, sired by Dwennon.”
She knew little of animal husbandry, but he almost made it sound like he was a horse. Were his people herdsmen, then? Or was he like his brother?
“Are you a stallion, too?” she asked.
Bavol glanced back. “He is a strong colt of the herd.”
Ricker’s cheeks pinkened, and he seemed disgruntled. “I have reached my attainment,” he protested.
“Years do not make the stallion, little brother. The mares do.”
His jaw worked, but Ricker dredged up a smile, albeit strained. “For now,” he said with pointed emphasis, “I am Colt Ricker Thunderhoof.”
“Friendship begins with the exchange of names,” said Bavol. “Two brothers, two sisters. It is a good balance.”
Fira felt duty-bound to warn these brothers. “They say we are cursed.”
“Who does?” asked Ricker.
“People.” She lowered her voice. “All the farms, all the villages, everywhere we go, the monsters follow.”
Ricker shook his head. “Where we are going, they cannot. I promise, Glintrubble is a good place.”
“Why?”
His eyebrow lifted. “Why is it good?”
“Why take me and my sister there? We are not like you.”
His gaze softened again, and his smile seemed more at home on his face. “You are not the first we found. You will be good company for Willum.”
Lead Mare
Fira woke to the murmur of voices—a man’s and a woman’s. No, that wasn’t right. She’d fallen in with some gentler version of monsters, so the voices belonged to a stallion and a mare. Or a colt like Ricker. Which likely meant that filly was a possibility.
“… the dragon?” asked the female, sounding concerned.
“Beyond help.” After a short pause, the male ventured, “Would you have given aid?”
“I am a healer.”
Fira remembered a little, then. Glimpses of low stone buildings and rich hangings, of hot broth and warm beds. Bavol and Ricker had given her and Lufu to some women—mares—and left them to be stripped and dosed and bundled. Fira had been no match for the weariness that dragged her into darkness.
The male was speaking. “He was lost to baser instincts. His end was just and merciful.”
Whose end? The dragon’s? Was it dead, then?
“We shall mourn his passing.”
A low noise—impatient, derisive.
The mare’s voice again—challenging, chiding. “No matter what he became, he was once deemed good by the Maker. Every life is a treasure; every loss is a tragedy.”
“Lead the mares as you will.” His voice took on a more playful lilt. “She is awake.”
“Go. You can ply her with charms and flirt with her innocence another time, once she is properly warned against you.”
“Do you think so little of me?” he asked warmly.
With matching affection, she countered, “Do you think so much of yourself?”
“Mostly, I think of you.”
Fira turned her head and blinked to focus on the pair framed by the open door. They reminded her of the sunrise, pale and shining, as they moved gracefully through some kind of walking dance. Circling. Touching. Twining.
The eyes that caught her looking were the same gray as Bavol’s, and he lifted an eyebrow in the same manner as Ricker. Smirking at Fira, he bent to bestow another kiss upon the lady’s smile, then swept away.
Fira scrunched down when the woman—mare—came to sit on the edge of the high bed. She had the appearance of a tall, stately woman, big-boned, yet balanced, all full figure and flowing hair. Her ears pointed, and her pupils were narrow slits within settings of topaz.
“I am Myla. How are you feeling, Fira?”
Cold. Achy. Crusty. But there were more important things. “Where is Lufu?”
Myla indicated the adjacent bed, similarly draped and buried in furs. Fira struggled to sit up.
The top of Lufu’s head was just visible, pillowed between two others, each with a short ruffle of hair the color of porridge.
“I bedded her down with two Duntuffets,” said Myla. “She woke earlier and took a little food and drink.”
Fira scanned the unfamiliar surroundings. A long row of beds lined a room with stone walls and hay-strewn floors. The air smelled faintly of green things and woodfire and candlewax. Shutters kept out most of the gaining daylight, and herbs hung in bundles amidst the rafters overhead.
The mare’s hand pressed against her forehead, and she repeated, “How are you feeling?”
“Where are we?”
She said, “A village of sorts, a small community of people who have similar needs and purposes. More specifically, you are in my quarters and in my keeping.”
Wait. “Your keeping? Am I a slave then?”
Myla held up a hand. “My responsibility, not my property. You are under my care until you feel stronger, and you are under my protection for as long as you abide with the herd.”
“Horses,” she murmured.
“My bondmate is leader of the Thunderhoof clan. I am Bavol’s mother.”
“You cannot be,” countered Fira. “You are too young.”
A slow smile. A small shake of the head. “I am not human, child. My years are already many, and on they will multiply. In truth, I birthed seven other sons before Bavol, and I can boast twice as many daughters.”
Fira didn’t think she was lying, yet how could such things be true? “Are you magic?”
“I am not the one who works miracles. If there is a magician among us, he is called Willum.” Myla reached for one of the cups on the small table beside the bed. “Drink.”
The earthenware was heavy and warm, and Fira clutched it between bandaged fingers. The draught was bitter, but she was thirsty enough to swallow it all.
Myla took the cup and touched Fira’s cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She didn’t like to complain. Anything was better than what they’d survived.
The mare eyed her critically. “Still wracked, and no wonder. Cold has touched your bones, and fury has scattered your soul. I could continue to help you find your balance.”
There was a question there, and it confused Fira.
“May I rejoin you?” Myla asked, indicating the wide bed.
Fira’s gaze drifted to Lufu, snug between two bedmates. “You were with me before?”
“Through much of yesterday and all of last night.”
“I do not remember.”
Myla asked, “Are you still cold?”
She managed a small nod, which the mare took for acceptance. She plucked at the fastenings of a heavy, spring-green outer garment that clung alluringly to generous curves. Fira’s fingers twitched to touch the cloth, which looked rich even without the fuss of ruffles or pleats. But there was dirt under her ragged nails, and she had need of a bath.
Clad in a plain white shift, the mare slipped into the bed and pulled closed its filmy drapery. “Come, now,” she invited.
Fira balked, for her hair was matted, her skin clammy. But Myla ignored those things. Strong hands pulled and tucked and patted, bringing Fira into closer contact than she’d had with another woman since losing her mother. Barely-remembered comfort washed over her, stirring her emotions, loosening the tight hold under which she kept them.
The first sob caught her unready, and try as she might, Fira couldn’t stop.
Myla crooned and kissed her hair, and Fira clung to her and cried. All the worries and fears, losses and injustices, doubts and devastations came rushing out, and the mare gathered them up, murmuring encouragement all the while.
In the aftermath, Myla looked into her eyes and stroked her cheeks until they were flushed but dry. Drawing apart, she reached for something on a bedside table and presented her with a handkerchief.
Fira sat up to clear her muddl
ed head and watched the mare pour a golden tea from a tiny pot warming over the flame of a squat candle. The cup Myla pressed into her hand was no bigger than an eggshell and just as delicate.
“Drink it down,” ordered the mare.
This beverage was an improvement on the last. Sweet and thick, it coated her tongue and throat, hitting her belly with a burst of warmth. Fira stared dazedly into the empty cup and licked her lips. Had that been a tonic? It felt more like overheard tales about the burn of hard liquor.
“Is there more?” she found herself asking.
Myla laughed and drew her down. “Lovely stuff, huddlebud nectar.”
“Lovely,” Fira agreed through a pleasant haze. “Am I drunk?”
“Have you ever been drunk?”
“No.”
The mare pulled her closer and kissed her cheek. “This is much nicer, love.”
Fira liked that. She wasn’t accustomed to endearments. And this bed was good. Had there ever been softer blankets? Everywhere was soft. Tugging one of the covers to her nose, she stared cross-eyed at the weave.
“Rabbit fur.” Myla sounded amused. Were rabbits funny?
When Fira blinked, her eyelids took turns, as if they’d forgotten how to cooperate. “Are we truly safe?” she mumbled, struggling to focus on the beautiful mare.
“Yes, Fira, love.” Myla kissed her nose, her lips. “You and your sister are safe.”
She wanted desperately for it to be true, but did that make it so? Maybe it did, since this was a magical place. With handsome horses and funny rabbits. So Fira brought out the crumpled wreckage of her trust and offered it to Myla. “I will believe you.”
“And I will watch over you,” the mare promised.
Fira wanted this warmth, this safely, this place, but she also wanted to be clear. “I am not a child.”
Myla seemed surprised by the suggestion. “You are not a child, slayer of dragons, wielder of stones, bringer of hope. I will take you to my heart as a sister of the herd.”
Not a servant. Not a beggar. Not a bringer of curses.
“You might change your mind,” Fira whispered.
“Rather, I will change yours.”
The mare kneaded and stroked, repeating her assurances until they took on the lilt of a bard’s song in Fira’s mind. When Myla said she was fierce as a warrior and courageous in battle, it made a good story. When she praised Fira as a true sister for watching over her kin, she felt warm all over. When Myla called her a rare beauty, capable of leading any male into the dance, it almost sounded possible.
Fira sighed and snuggled and even smiled while the mare murmured to her about a brave boy with fiery hair who sang with the souls of stones and wrote his hopes upon the very winds.
Mountain Lore
When Fira next woke, Myla was gone from the bed, and its hangings were drawn apart. Sunlight angled through a different set of windows, and she could hear Lufu chatting away with someone.
“Well, twitch my nose!” exclaimed a merry voice. In a blink, a girl was standing beside Fira’s bed, hands extended. “Rhoslyn Duntuffet. Up you come, my lovely. We’re under strict orders from the Mare herself. Into the bath, for the sun won’t tarry!”
This person could not possibly belong to the Thunderhoof herd, for she cut a dainty figure, all slim lines and scant curves. She wore a gay piecemeal tunic over heavy breeches, and her eyes were the color of toffee. They sparkled with good cheer.
“Never seen the like, have you?” Her arm slipped easily around Fira’s waist. “The novelty will be gone in a lollop, but never forget … I was your first!”
“My first what?” Fira wondered where the girl got her strength. She was a staunch support.
“Your first rabbit, my lovely. There’s a whole warren hereabouts.” She tapped the floor with one foot. “Mostly beneath notice, if you catch my meaning.”
Fira was half a head taller than Rhoslyn, which gave her an excellent view of the rabbit girl’s hair. Never before had she seen such an unruly thatch, which looked to have been shorn with a bread knife. Nor could she find a word for the color, which seemed an even mix of gray and dun and cream.
“Fira!” called Lufu. “Come see what they gave me!”
Rhoslyn steadied her across the room to a curtained corner where a great trough of water steamed invitingly. Lufu perched on a stool while another girl carried on brushing her hair as it dried.
“Shake my tail, they’re a match!” this second girl exclaimed. “Rhoswen Duntuffet—miner and occasional lady’s maid. Come have your scrub.”
Fira glanced between the two and had to smile, for this was the second time she’d seen an unruly thatch. “Are you sisters?”
“You can tell?” they asked in unison.
Lufu giggled. “They are twins. But look at my dress! Have you ever seen one so fine?”
“Never.” The cut of the dress reminded Fira of Myla’s earlier attire, for it draped and clung, making Lufu look years older than she had in her former rags. Moss green set off her eyes, which shone with understandable delight. Fira smiled and asked, “Where has my baby sister gone? For here sits a lady.”
Caught up in admiring her Lufu’s transformation, Fira hardly noticed when Rhoslyn bundled away her tattered underthings and chivvied her into the bath. She sank to her chin with a blissful sigh, soaking in the heat.
Lufu’s attention returned to Rhoswen. “Do not leave off. I want more of the story.”
“And you shall have it! Now, where was I?”
“You were telling about the Notches.” Lufu looked to Fira and eagerly explained, “That is where we are—these mountains.”
“We call them the Notches because there never was a more ragged, jagged set of peaks. It’s as if an ancient beast stumbled onto the Moor and fell asleep upon the heather, only to forget to wake. Times turned, and he’s only settled further into his bed.” Rhoswen kept right on lifting and combing, adding luster to the length of Lufu’s light brown hair.
“Truly?” asked Lufu.
“Well,” hedged the rabbit girl. “It makes a fine bedtime story for wee tuffets, but there’s not much truth to the tale. Otherwise, we’d be burrowing amidst old bones. But that’s not what we find under those ragged, jagged peaks.”
As Fira accepted a fat bar of soap from Rhoslyn, she smiled over how quickly Rhoswen re-caught Lufu’s interest. The rabbit girl was a good storyteller.
“What do you find?” Lufu begged.
Instead of answering straightway, Rhoswen sidestepped into another story. “When Time was young and reckless, the old places teemed with the truth of our lore. Clans of earth and sea and sky lived in peace, and the trees led them into songs and dancing. Such were the days before the Amaranthine.”
Lufu turned her head. “What is that?”
“That’s us—me, my twin, the Mare, and all.” Rhoswen dropped a kiss on Lufu’s cheek. “And according to our lore, which is truer than the truest heart, the clans of earth found reason to hide, but they did not vanish without a trace. It was the Maker’s wish that their legacy continue upon the earth.”
“How could they know such a wish?”
“An angel told them.” Rhoswen set aside her combs and brushes and began to weave Lufu’s hair into a crown.
“Like Gabriel?”
“Like him, I daresay, for wasn’t he a messenger? As were Soriel of the Dawning and Auriel of the Golden Seed. But this story belongs to Cadmiel of the Echoing Song. Many a miner shares his name, for it was he that threaded the earth with veins of gold and ribbons of silver.”
“Treasure?” asked Lufu.
“Like no other,” assured Rhoswen. “The clans of earth, every soul of them, in all their wisdom and wiliness, bequeathed a treasure. Precious metals and stones fit for polishing. Jewels and minerals and gems—they are all remnants of their lost clans. But most precious and most rare are the crystals that still echo with Cadmiel’s song.”
“Rocks sing?” Lufu asked, her hand pressed over the pock
et where their own bequest rested.
“For those who can hear them,” assured Rhoswen.
Rhoslyn winked at Fira and whispered, “For men like Willum.”
Dragon Dance
Fira felt overly tall and entirely conspicuous, escorted as she was by two slender rabbits. They’d dressed her in some generous filly’s cast-offs, tucking and tugging and pinning until the dress’s dark green folds cooperated with her leaner figure.
“Where are we going?” asked Lufu, whose hair sparkled with borrowed jewels.
Rhoswen gave the eager girl a twirl. “To the Circle, for the mares will dance.”
“Do rabbits dance?”
“Oh, we’re a merry mess compared to the dignity of our sister mares. But it’s a rare rabbit who won’t beg for another turn around the Circle.”
“We adore it,” added Rhoslyn. “Who wouldn’t?”
“But this first dance calls for quiet,” warned Rhoswen. “Hush a bit.”
Rhoslyn lowered her voice as they drew near the edge of a crowd. “Myla will do right by that dragon.”
Music reached them first, a lone instrument in the lap of a Duntuffet male, who drew a long bow across strings, filling the air with a wistful melody. A ring of stones defined the edges of a slightly hollowed space covered in moss. Upon this springy carpet, five mares paced through a stately dance, each holding a bouquet of grasses, flowers, and leaves bound with trailing ribbons that shone like bronze.
They were the only ones in motion, but they weren’t the only participants, for the hollow soon began to thrum. The stallions were humming in close harmony, deep and compelling.
Fira paled, for though she’d been praised as its slayer, she’d had a part in this grief. Her fear and fury had ended the life of one meant for endless days. Her eyes prickled, and she tipped her head back, trying to blink away her tears before they fell. Only to lock gazes with Ricker.
He stood amidst a group of children. One straddled his shoulders, more clung to his arms, his legs. Her rescuer looked for all the world like the village’s favorite uncle. But concern crossed his face. He spoke a few words, tousled a few heads, and slipped free of his many admirers.