by Forthright
“Almost there,” Dwennon murmured, his hand on Willum’s shoulder.
Fira had missed the transformation. As a horse, Ricker had the same powerful build as his brother and matched him stride-for-stride. Where Bavol’s coat was golden, Ricker’s was burnished to a warmer gloss, like blushing apricots.
As Willum’s fragile support trembled, Bavol and Ricker positioned themselves underneath, so when it snapped, the bat landed in a huddle across both their broad backs. They descended at a walk into the Circle.
Willum was at work again, and Dwennon seemed to be helping. As the invisible walls reformed, the power they wielded made Fira’s hair stand on end. Belatedly, she recalled that she was meant to be watching for danger. She glanced guiltily around, but immediately felt better. The Duntuffet clan ringed the clearing, facing outward, picks and shovels casually propped on shoulders. The rabbits had keener senses than she, and they looked ready for anything.
In the center of the Circle, Bavol and Ricker took speaking form, as did the bat. The man—male—staggered to his feet, clumsily drew a blade, and bared fangs. In a language Fira didn’t know, he flung sharp words that felt like a warning.
Bavol and Ricker both backed up and knelt a few paces away, faces averted.
Dwennon stepped forward, arms open, speaking words that seemed to match the bat’s language.
“He is hurt,” Fira whispered.
As the bat wheeled, it was possible to see torn cloth and dark blood where something had scored his back. She didn’t like seeing his weapon flashing so near Ricker and Bavol, and without thinking, she started forward.
Immediately, the bat was pointing to her and talking fast.
Dwennon answered soothingly, then changed back to the language Fira could understand. “She is called Fira. Come forward, little beauty. He will not allow another male to touch his bondmate.”
Bavol and Ricker both beckoned. What else could she do? She hastily pushed Willum’s crystals into his hands, whispering, “Are bats safe?”
The redhead gave her arm a squeeze. “They are now.”
Which wasn’t what she’d meant at all. But maybe that was the best possible sign. No one was expecting trouble. They were focused on helping the bat and his bondmate. So she crossed to where Ricker and Bavol knelt and mirrored their offered palms. “May I help?”
The injured Amaranthine was pallid, with shoulder-length black hair, angular sideburns, and flaring eyebrows. He gestured for her to approach, bringing an alarming detail to her attention. His fingers were tipped by long, claw-like nails.
“Fee-rah,” he said, rolling the r. Then he indicated his bondmate. “Glinna.”
Taking that next step was a little like stepping off the Leap. She murmured, “Glinna.”
He reached for her with those terrible claws, but they didn’t slash or gouge. His touch was light, a pleading caress she’d seen the foals use with Ricker. Fira’s heart hammered as she looked into the blackest eyes she’d ever seen. She was afraid of him, but he was afraid for his bondmate.
“Let me carry Glinna,” she offered, working up a shaky smile.
He said something more, heavily accented but distinguishable. It sounded like tender.
Fira wasn’t sure what he meant. Did he want her to treat his lady gently?
“Yes, we will tend to her,” promised Bavol. He added further assurances in another language.
Ricker added, “The lead mare is nearby. She is a healer.”
Bavol quietly urged, “Take her, Fira. He is at the end of his strength.”
She worried she wouldn’t be strong enough, but Glinna hardly weighed anything. If her husband—bondmate—was anything to go by, her pallor was normal. The lady also had black hair, though hers was coming loose from a pinned-up style. Finely-molded features, delicate brows, and the pointed ears that made Amaranthine look as though they’d stepped out of myths.
“You will be fine,” Fira promised, taking a backward step toward Myla’s.
Glinna’s bondmate quickly reached after her, as if reluctant to lose touch. But then he wobbled and sank to his knees. Bavol was immediately at his side, lending support, mindful of the ragged wounds on his back.
Something tugged at her hair, and annoyance warred with amusement at finding Ricker looming over her in horse form.
“Yes, you are a sight to behold,” she said blandly. “Every hand of you, quite handsome.”
He lipped her hair again and whickered softly.
Bavol said, “Walk beside us, so Trisk does not lose sight of his mate.”
“Good idea,” she murmured.
“Ricker’s idea,” clarified Bavol as he helped Trisk to mount and sat behind to steady him.
Fira smiled into the familiar brown eye regarding her through thick lashes. She was not surprised by Ricker’s consideration. Only surprised that the mares placed more value on the color of his coat. If her arms weren’t so full, she would have liked to trail her fingers along the proud arch of his neck.
They didn’t get very far before Fira spied Myla striding their way. With barely a glance for Glinna, she addressed herself to Trisk, speaking in the same strange language Dwennon had used.
Fira whispered, “What words are those?”
Ricker shook his mane, but of course he couldn’t answer.
When Myla came to relieve Fira of her burden, she was kind enough to explain. “We call it Old Amaranthine. It is the language of lore and the lyric of lullabies. Even clans that normally use other languages and dialects know the oldest words.”
“Will I need to learn it?” Fira adjusted her grip on Glinna to make the transfer easier.
Myla did not answer. Indeed, Myla did not move. “What is this?”
“He called her Glinna. She has been like this the whole time, but I suppose she must be a bat.” What else could she offer that Trisk had not?
“She is pregnant.”
“Yes.” The dark folds of Glinna’s dress could not hide her condition. If Fira had to guess, the lady was midway through the months needed to deliver a healthy child. No wonder Trisk was so protective.
The lead mare looked utterly baffled. “I do not understand.”
Fira couldn’t see any reason to fuss. She nodded pointedly toward the healer’s quarters. “We should get her to a bed.”
When Fira resumed walking, Ricker matched her pace. She glanced up to make sure Trisk could see, but he looked without really seeing. He must be exhausted and in a great deal of pain.
In the spacious recovery room, which Bavol and Ricker courteously did not enter, the mares pulled together two beds, and Myla supported Trisk onto the first. He all but collapsed, but stubbornly kept watch as Fira lowered Glinna beside him. Myla shooed out the mares before assuring herself—and Trisk—that his lady was comfortable.
When his eyes next closed, they did not reopen.
“Will he be all right?” Fira asked.
Myla hummed, but her gaze was still pinned on the female.
Fira couldn’t understand the mare’s consternation. “Does she have a dangerous fever or something?”
“She is pregnant.”
Another possibility came to her. There must have been a fight, and Trisk had fallen, albeit slowly, from a great height. And there had been a barrier. What if Willum’s magic had harmed the child in the same way she’d harmed that dragon? Fira asked, “Is something amiss with her baby?”
Myla opened and closed her mouth, then leaned down to whisper, “I have never seen this. Never heard of it happening. Never imagined it possible.”
Fira was growing frustrated. “What is wrong?”
“She is pregnant.” But this time, Myla clarified. “She is carrying a child while in speaking form.”
Sleeping Beauty
That night, when Myla pulled Fira and Lufu close for sleep, she asked several embarrassing questions about human coupling. Fira couldn’t really protest. Lufu was old enough to learn such things. But she shyly pointed out. “I have no exp
erience. You should ask Glinna when she wakes.”
“How long will she sleep?” asked Lufu, who was clearly interested in learning more.
“The Kindred do not need to retire every night, but we need rest. After weeks without, we can sleep for days.” With a nod toward the nearby bed where Trisk and Glinna slept, Myla explained, “There was nothing wrong with his lady. Once sleeping, we are difficult to rouse. A day or two more, and she will wake on her own.”
Lufu begged, “Can I be here when you ask about babies?”
Myla hesitated, so Fira answered, “Yes. We have no mother to tell us, so it would be wise to learn alongside the mares. But … Myla, I do know a little about birthing. I was old enough to remember when Lufu was born.”
“Did you assist?”
“The midwife would not let me look, for she said there was too much mess, but I would not leave my mother.” Fira reached for Lufu’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I held her hand the whole time, so I heard the midwife telling her what to do. And I was the first to hold you.”
“Was I tiny?”
“Only this big!” Fira held up both hands, measuring the distance.
Myla made a small sound.
Lufu rolled into the mare’s side and placed a hand on her stomach. “Rhoswen says you want to be a mother again. Are you going to have a baby?”
“What an idea,” murmured the mare, who put an end to their talk by singing to them, soft and low, of talking trees and whispering winds and the lullabies of stars.
On the morning of Midsummer’s Eve, Fira was taking her turn at Glinna’s bedside when their sleeping beauty finally stirred, opening eyes the rich red of blackberry juice.
Myla plied her with teas and sent Fira and Lufu for trays of food.
“Is she going to ask about babies while we are gone?” Lufu asked with a pout.
“Maybe about the kinds of things a married woman already knows,” Fira replied delicately. “Private things.”
Lufu suddenly asked, “If you marry Willum, do you think Ricker will go find me a husband?”
“Are you anxious to marry?”
“I want to marry a man, not a rabbit or a horse.”
Fira was having a hard time taking her sister seriously. “Perhaps you should marry Willum, then.”
“You saw him first.”
Which sounded oddly familiar. And entirely beside the point.
They returned with two large trays and found Glinna propped up on pillows, her long hair freshly brushed and coiled, and her clawed hands plucking at the bedclothes. The food roused her interest. Although she picked at a salad, she tore gratefully into a grilled fish and hummed with delight over a thick custard.
When Glinna finished, she addressed Fira. “Myla tells me you came to my rescue.”
“Everyone did,” she answered, not realizing at first. “You speak our language!”
“I was born nearby but traveled a great distance before finding a male to my liking. His homeland and clan make their circle far to the east.”
Fira asked, “How was he hurt?”
“We had the misfortune of coming too close to a dragon’s nest.”
“An Amaranthine dragon?”
“Not from a clan. Rather, a common beast.” Glinna hugged herself. “They can still be found in remote places. This female had young to protect, and while I understand her instinct, Trisk did what was necessary.”
“Glinna!” Trisk fairly flew through the door and slammed against the side of the bed, clambering up so he could gather her close.
She laughed and caressed his face, and her words relaxed him.
Trisk kissed her soundly, and Fira quickly looked away, only to find Lufu watching with rapt interest. She tapped her sister’s nose and whispered, “We should give them some privacy.”
Lufu gave in with grace, only saying, “They are beautiful together.”
Fira had to agree. And judging by the pensive, yearning look on Myla’s face, the lead mare was of a similar mind.
Since the mares’ dance earlier that month, Fira had steered clear of the male horses, who jostled and strutted and flexed whenever there was a mare in view—which was always. Their displays didn’t interest her, but it was hard to ignore the thunder of hooves as they raced through the valley below Glintrubble. Or the tumult caused by a stray remark that sent them into the sky to see who could fly the highest.
Fira had been captivated by the galloping whirlwind, even if she thought their stunts mostly silly. What did these dares prove?
The mares looked on with placid smiles, but Fira began to notice signs that they, too, were establishing ranks.
Myla had explained that the females were vying for the order in which they would make their choices. “They cannot all have their way. Each mare’s turn will come, and when it does, she takes the best choice that remains to her.”
“What if the stallion she wanted has already been taken?”
“She can wait and see if another season favors her, or she might wait until after his midsummer obligation ends.” Myla’s brows had knit. “Some stallions sire two or three late foals.”
Fira ranged out into the clear morning, only to find Glintrubble—and its citizens—transformed. The males of the horse clans wore fresh tunics with bright sashes, and every one of them had done something to their hair. Loops and knots. Ribbons and braids. Ferns and flowers.
Anticipation fizzed through the air, so palpable, she could feel its reverberation. The longer she spent in this place, the more strongly she felt the echo of its stones, the thrum of its people. They were glad, and she borrowed some of their joy.
But where was Ricker? Normally, the different color of his hair made him easy to spot, but with everyone crowned in festive blooms, he didn’t stand out.
Nearly an hour of searching led Fira to the mine entrance, where Ricker slouched against a stone wall, half-hidden by an ore cart. She said, “There is supposed to be no work today.”
Ricker didn’t look up. “That would explain why everyone else is late.”
She propped her hands on her hips and surveyed his attire. His tunic was as fine as anyone’s and his sash was so vivid, it had to be new. But he hadn’t taken any pains with his hair. “Why have you neglected your mane?”
“We do not array ourselves. The fillies adorn us … for luck.”
Fira crouched in front of him. “And how are they supposed to find you, hidden away back here?”
Ricker refused to meet her gaze.
Had he tried mingling with the other colts and not been given the tokens he longed for? She’d seen how generous the fillies were with their courtesies. This was a festival day, and no one had been left out of the fun. But Ricker had probably been hoping for favors from one filly in particular.
“Maybe all those silly fillies need is a little encouragement. If a colt has one admirer, he is suddenly worth considering.” Fira reached for his hair, but he leaned away, gaze uncertain. She said, “I may not be a daughter of the herd, but I am counted as a sister. And I know how to braid. What flowers should I fetch?”
Ricker flicked her a grateful look and mumbled through a list of flowers with traditional meanings.
She patted his head and jogged to the Circle, where rabbits were distributing cut flowers to all comers. There, she found the two little girls who’d accompanied Ricker to the Leap. These daughters of Dwennon were very young, but weren’t they fillies of the herd?
Tapping their shoulders, she bent to whisper, “Which flowers shall we bring to Ricker?”
Delighted gasps. Jumbled explanations. Abundant help.
By the time they trekked up the mountain path, trailing flower petals and ribbon streamers, Fira was accompanied by five little girls and a cherubic little boy who insisted he loved Ricker better than any girl ever. So Fira toted him along and placed him in an astonished Ricker’s arms.
He laughed.
He relaxed.
He teased.
He tickled.
> And the children divided his hair and plaited each section, changing his gingery mane into a rainbow riot and lifting his mood to the moon. Ricker caught her hand and reeled her in. “They left you my forelock.”
“I am honored.”
“The honor is mine,” he returned quietly. “Thank you, Fira.”
She braided a section so it would lie alongside his face, adding little clusters of orange flowers, which complemented his coloring. “When do the mares begin choosing?” she asked.
“When the drums start.” He glanced at the sun and swallowed. “Soon.”
The fillies declared him splendid, and he kissed them all. The little colt, who now sported a few flowers of his own, offered a shy peck.
Ricker placed a soft kiss on Fira’s forehead and mumbled, “Wish me luck.”
Fira couldn’t pat his head, so she patted his cheek instead. “You deserve every happiness.”
Passed Over
The children herded her toward the Circle, promising her that the best fun was to be had with the rabbits.
“What about the mares and their choosing?” she asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the smaller, partially secluded meadow where most of the Thunderhoof herd were gathered. She could see Dwennon and Bavol on the edge of the Circle, speaking in low tones with Trisk. The stallions had their attention entirely fixed on him, to the exclusion of the dozen or more mares undoubtedly responsible for the lavish state of their hair.
“The mares are boooring,” assured one filly.
Another said, “They take all night.”
One of the older girls explained, “It is like a slow dance that never begins. Once a mare chooses a partner, they leave.”
“Rabbit dances are much more fun!”
Lufu arrived then, her hair once more a glory of gemstones. The Duntuffet sisters waved for Fira to join them, but she felt she should stay with the fillies until … well, she wasn’t sure. “How long before we find out who chose whom?” she asked.
To her surprise, Willum answered. “Rabbits are excellent eavesdroppers, but they also enjoy silly rumors. They will spread the most outlandish tales all night, but at dawn, the mares will return with their stallions to parade through the Circle.”