Followed by Thunder (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 2)

by Forthright

  Fira averted her gaze.

  “I do not think it was me.”

  She snorted.

  “That may be for the best. Less complicated.” Again, he poked her shoulder. His gaze was open and artless. “We are beginning with barriers because they are simplest. I can teach you how to befriend the wind later. Stones before sigils.”

  “I cannot imagine.”

  “One thing at a time, my dear apprentice.” Willum bit his lip and lowered his voice. “May I tell you something that terrifies me?”

  Fira nodded.

  “The stones—they like you better than me.”

  Her laugh ended in a pitiful sob. What was wrong with her?

  Willum gave her shoulder a tentative pat. “Enough. I decree a change of pace.”

  She dabbed at her eyes while he rummaged through one shelf, then another.

  “Aha!” He hurried back and showed her a clear green crystal. It had been shaped into a rough column no wider than her finger. Polished smooth and pierced through, it had been threaded onto two long, narrow strips of leather.

  “The rabbits favor armbands,” he explained, wrapping the ties twice around her wrist to create a bracelet. “This should do nicely. Green, like your and Lufu’s eyes. I am giving it to you.”

  “To keep?”

  Willum nodded. “Hear its song. Learn its voice. Sense its mood. I have found this color useful for amplification. Indeed, the ward stones that are farthest from the Circle are encircled by green stones. With you and Lufu helping, we may be able to extend the boundaries.”

  “Who taught you how to use crystals?”

  “The stones themselves.” He peered around the room. “But the sigils for drawing out and applying their strengths—for that, I needed mentors. My first was a squirrel who was acquainted with the Duntuffets. When I showed promise, Dwennon arranged for an expert.”

  “A fox?” she guessed. Glinna had mentioned foxes.

  “Their reputation is impressive, but no. Few understand the ways of the wind better than those who revere it.” With a sad smile, he revealed, “Most of what I know about sigilcraft was taught to me by a dragon.”

  She ventured, “Was he … safe?”

  Willum laughed. “He was whimsical and outrageous and learned and kind. If I can be half as good a teacher as he was, you will excel.”

  “I am willing to try.”

  He touched the stone at her wrist. “Your first assignment is child’s play. You can ask the foals to help.”

  Playing House

  Fira’s best helpers were the same foals who had festooned Ricker, so it didn’t come as any surprise when—after the passage of a few days—he came to investigate.

  “I have been hearing the most outlandish things.” Ricker loomed over her in a mockery of accusation. “The foals have been saying that your games are more fun than mine.”

  “Do you want to play?” she offered.

  “I feel it is my duty.” He scanned the group of giggling foals. “If I am lacking, I am willing to learn. Where are we bound?”

  “Cadmiel’s Tump?” Fira suggested. Her memories of their last visit were good.

  With a sweep of his arm, Ricker said, “Let us away!”

  While they walked, Fira explained Willum’s assignment, which mostly involved hiding and searching, though also tracking movement.

  She was interrupted when six gangly foals bolted past, tails high, manes bristling.

  “Two feet are slower than four hooves.” Ricker’s brows lifted. “Want a ride?”

  Fira pointed out, “I could never climb up.”

  “That was not a no.” Ricker hoisted her onto his back, promising, “Easy. Just grab hold.”

  He transformed under her, scaring her half to death and thrilling her to her toes.

  “Wonderful,” she whispered.

  Ricker shook his mane, and she grabbed hold with both hands. He took one step, then another—cautious, concerned.

  “This is no faster than walking on two feet,” she teased.

  His ears swiveled back. She could feel him coil, and then he sprang. But there was no jarring thud. No drum of hooves. No bone-rattling cadence to shake her from her seat. Only the ripple of muscles—powerful, confident.

  Fira yanked and clung as he gained speed, but she felt safe. “You promised not to let me fall,” she growled, though there was laughter under her warning.

  A low whicker felt like amusement.

  They weren’t very high, merely skimming over the grasses, and they soon overtook the foals. The young ones capered and kicked and neighed. Cadmiel’s Tump neared, and Ricker took the final length in a high-stepping trot, all strut and show.

  The foals arrived just behind, back on two feet and giggling through their protests.

  “No fair!”

  “We cannot fly yet!”

  “Give us a lesson?”

  “Can we go to the Leap?”

  “Later,” said Ricker. “We are helping Fira with her training first.”

  The oldest filly, whose fair hair rippled as if recently released from braids, slyly asked, “Why did you give Fira a ride?”

  Ricker hesitated a moment too long before casually answering, “She needed one.”

  Suspicious, Fira asked, “Did it mean something for Ricker to give me a ride?”

  The fillies talked over one another, blurting out all the reasons they thought his gesture was enviable. Any of them would have gladly traded places with her, and for simpler reasons than she expected.

  “Trading rides means you like each other both ways.”

  “Hoof and heel, you belong together.”

  “Ricker likes everyone, but he likes you extra more!”

  So it was a show of acceptance and preference, the sort shared by close friends. Fira wished she could return the compliment in kind. In confiding tones, she told the foals, “That is well and good, since Ricker is my favorite.”

  “Mine, too! And mine!” chorused the youngsters in complete unanimity.

  Ricker waved off the resounding praise, but he was grinning when he recalled them to the task at hand. Simple games quickly escalated, for he invited greater challenges.

  “Can you see him?” asked Fira.

  Two of the fillies pointed, and she thought she could make out a speck. It had been their idea to test both her limits and his. Like mares putting the stallions of the herd through their paces, they’d ordered Ricker aloft. Perhaps this was another children’s game. Colts and fillies playing at herd, just as she and Lufu had played at house.

  “Your eyes are better than mine,” Fira confessed.

  “But can you hear your stone’s song?” asked the little colt.

  Fira closed her eyes and searched her mind for some sign of the green crystal. “Yes, it is there.”

  “Ricker let you ride.” It was the oldest of her filly friends. “And at midsummer, he saved you his forelock.”

  “Is that special?”

  She nodded, eyes wide with the enormity of her revelation.

  Fira wished she could grant his courtesies the same significance, but she knew Ricker had only been playing at herd, practicing for when it would hold meaning for a mare. So Fira shook her head. “There are so many horse customs. And I suppose there are just as many for the rabbits?”

  “More!”

  “And we shall all be learning bat customs, now that Trisk and Glinna have come.” She stretched out in the sun-warmed grass, letting her eyes drift shut. “If they stay.”

  The foals arranged themselves around her, her filly informant claiming the closest quarters. “You should give him more tasks.”

  So much for distracting the girl.

  Fira played along. “What sorts of things would you have him do?”

  Their eager suggestions made one thing abundantly clear. They wanted nothing more than Ricker’s time and attention. Games and adventures with their favorite brother.

  Green Stone

  Fira thought she knew th
e stone Willum had given her. She could orient herself to its presence—finding it, following it. But as she lay on the hillside, chasing the remnant’s presence high into the sky, something new happened.

  Perhaps it was her focus.

  Perhaps it was Ricker’s presence.

  Perhaps it was a trick of the wind.

  For as the green stone spiraled higher, it spun into a song. The melody pierced her soul and pulled her in, until it was all Fira could see and hear. It carried her off, filling her mind like a dream. She saw a fiery bird tangling with a winged dragon, twisting and twining over a churning sea. Only they were not fighting. Buffeted by a storm, they struggled to carry something precious between them. Or … was it someone?

  “Fira?”

  She opened her eyes to find Ricker bent close.

  “Did you fall asleep?”

  Had she?

  He touched her cheek. “You were crying.”

  Fira gave a small shake of her head. “This stone has a beautiful song.”

  Ricker’s expression cleared. “Could you follow it?”

  “I knew where you were the whole time.” She sat up, and he sat beside her. Fira asked the foals, “Is he not the best at this game?”

  Adulation and agreement rose up on all sides, and Fira pushed onto her knees so she could better reach Ricker’s hair. He didn’t exactly shy away, but his expression was full of questions. However, he was also used to letting others have their way, so he sat docile while she divided his forelock into sections and began to weave.

  “The stone,” she directed, holding out a hand.

  Ricker surrendered it, but asked, “Fira?”

  She threaded and knotted and wove some more, twining the stone’s leather ties through the braid so that the crystal rested secure. “I like knowing where you are.”

  “But this is yours.” Color was creeping into Ricker’s cheeks.

  Fira glanced at the fillies and ventured, “Have I done something I should not?”

  “No, no. Hardly that.” Ricker touched the slender stone at his temple and asked his siblings, “Am I grand?”

  The chorus of compliments quickly changed to pleas.

  “Will you have more stones?”

  “Can I wear one, too?”

  “I want Fira to know where I am!”

  She laughed and shrugged. “You could ask Willum, I suppose. Better yet, ask Rhoswen and Rhoslyn. They may know where to find more.”

  And like stallions spurred by a mare’s whim, they scrambled up and away, eager to complete the task she’d set. Leaving her alone with Ricker.

  Fira asked, “Have I embarrassed you? I can undo the ties.”

  But when she reached for the end knot, Ricker’s hand caught hers. “I was only surprised, Fira. Since you do not know our customs, you would not know the significance of such a gift. This suggests that there is a promise between us.”

  “You promised me not to leave the herd.”

  “So I did. Yes, that is so.” He stood and helped her to her feet, and they strolled a ways toward the village before he broke his distracted silence. “Myla chose Dwennon.”

  “They are bondmates.”

  “Yes, but I hear she warned the mares that she would permit no late foals.”

  Fira wasn’t really surprised. “Does Dwennon mind?”

  “No. He has been talking to Trisk.”

  “I think Myla wants a baby,” Fira murmured.

  Ricker’s gaze had turned inward. “Dwennon and Bavol say that the herd is strong. It is time to build the clan.”

  The bats’ arrival was stirring some interesting changes at Glintrubble. Fira wondered if Ricker was unhappy with the direction things were taking. “What do you think of Trisk and Glinna?”

  “Their devotion is … attractive.” He blew out a gusty breath. “And daunting. How can I secure a bondmate when I cannot even attract enough interest to stand stud? Oh. Forgive my crassness.” His flush reached the tips of his ears.

  “Did you know Glinna traveled a long way before she found Trisk?”

  He hummed an unhappy affirmative. “I do not want to go. Indeed, you have my pledge to stay.”

  “What if we went together?” she asked lightly.

  Ricker’s expression gentled. “You are so brave, Fira.”

  Far from it. But she was brave enough to say, “You deserve every happiness.”

  His smile trembled at the edges. “I thought Synnis was perfect for me because I wanted the same thing.”

  “More than a foal.”

  Ricker made a soft noise in the back of his throat.

  Fira said, “In human communities, men do the choosing. It is the women who wait and wonder if they will be chosen and cherished. Too many are traded like chattel.”

  “How backward.”

  She smiled at his obvious confusion. “When it comes to a love match, the only difference is in who speaks first.”

  “Here, you can choose for yourself. You can have Willum.”

  Fira scowled. “Having no choice is not a choice.”

  “Is it … because of his coloring?”

  “No. My heart is not won or lost by something so trivial.” Fira was still angry with the mares for slighting Ricker. “Willum knows I do not want him. Indeed, he seemed relieved to learn it. I daresay he will make a better brother than bridegroom.”

  “Lufu?”

  “Of course, Lufu.” Fira didn’t mean for so much sharpness to steal into her tone. “Lufu the beacon. Lufu the beauty. Lufu the blushing bride.”

  Ricker came to an abrupt stop. “Maybe Bavol and I can search for other prospects …?” he offered uncertainly.

  “A waste of time.” Fira folded her arms over her chest. “Human men like docile, doting, dainty wives.”

  He blinked. “You are not … large.”

  “Compared to mares. But my stature is considered a misfortune. I am ungainly, cumbersome. You know, I have even been described as coltish.”

  He snorted his way into a whinnying laugh and swooped her into his arms. Swinging her around, he glibly asked, “Did you know Glinna traveled a long way before she found Trisk?”

  She favored him with a sour look. “That comforts me even less than it did you.”

  Ricker slowed to a stop and gathered her much more gently. “At least you tried.”

  Fira hugged him back and whispered, “Hoof and heel, you are my favorite.”

  “Fira the battler. Fira the bold. Fira the coltish human.” His lips grazed her cheek, and he spoke close to her ear. “You deserve every happiness.”

  Heavy Pockets

  Over the next few days, all the young fillies and colts of Fira’s acquaintance—and a handful of newcomers—came to her with their pockets filled with pebbles. Seated on the front step of Willum’s workshop, she patiently inspected their findings.

  “I am sorry,” she said over and again. “Not every stone has a song. These are pretty, but they will not work.”

  Somehow, all the comings and goings caught Willum’s notice. He came to the door and surveyed the gathered children. “What is this? I thought I was the only rock collector in Glintrubble.”

  The foals were only too happy for a second opinion.

  Their excited explanations jumped over one another’s, but the gist was clear. Fira was afraid Willum would be annoyed over the potential squandering of precious crystals, but he drummed his fingers on his thigh, then nodded.

  “A moment, please!” He disappeared inside, only to return a moment later, pointing and muttering to himself as he counted heads. “Right. Two moments. Do not wander off!”

  When he ducked inside again, the children traded grins.

  To Fira’s delight, Willum returned with a fistful of green crystals. None was bigger than her thumbnail, but each sang with a sweet note.

  Sitting beside her on the step, he ordered, “Line up, you lot.”

  “Is this all right?” Fira asked softly.

  “Ingenious!” He let the entir
e collection rattle into her cupped hands. “Your plan will work best if the stone’s song suits the soul. With your aptitude, you should be able to coax the remnant into close harmony. Or even unison. That would be ideal.”

  Willum guided her through the first few, then sat back and watched her match the youngsters with their own special stone. When the last was sent running to the rabbits for help setting their crystal into a pendant or armband, the redhead bumped shoulders with her.

  “Where is the stone I gave to you?”

  Fira fumbled for an explanation and came up empty.

  “I can tell where it is.” He watched her face with a little half smile. “A short stroll would give me the answer, but I would rather hear it from you. Although … I can guess.”

  “If you tease me, I will hide every speck of pink in your trove.”

  “Ah.” Willum gave her a sidelong look. “I would not tease, Fira. Not about the song of your soul.”

  “Hush,” she growled.

  Willum surprised her again, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, keeping his thoughts to himself, lending her his handkerchief.

  Pushing Boundaries

  By the next full moon, many of the mares seemed to vanish from Glintrubble. Fira finally asked about their absence.

  Myla explained, “Those who danced at midsummer are now carrying. They will remain in truest form until the birth of their foals.”

  “You danced at midsummer, and you are here.”

  The lead mare folded her hands over her midriff and smiled softly.

  “Will there be a baby?” Fira whispered.

  “That is the shape of our hope.” She gestured toward the din coming from the forest beyond the Circle. “Dwennon wishes to speak with you, love.”

  “About?” she asked warily.

  The lead mare’s brows arched. “Serious matters, for once. Regarding the safety of our herd and home. Trisk returned at sunrise from stretching his wings. He found signs of dragons.”

  Fira strode briskly toward the new worksite.

  Dwennon had been rallying the stallions to gather wood and stone for beams and hearths. The Thunderhoof clan would divide and multiply, with three sons establishing their own houses. They would be formalized at the Song Circle three years hence—Blazelock, Dawnracer, and Canterbelle.