Wind Rider

by P. C. Cast

  “Mother had to be sure everything was perfect. Is Herd Cinnebar’s Lead Daughter here yet?”

  “Yes. You’re the last to arrive.”

  River nodded, but said nothing. Her mother had decided when she would arrive, but there was no point in explaining that to Skye. Instead, River looked around the huge circle of Candidates. They were grouped together—purple, blue, red, yellow, and green, and they were obviously trying, with little success, not to look nervous … or terrified.

  River turned to Skye. “May a mare’s luck be with you today.”

  “Um, thanks. You, too,” Skye responded insincerely.

  Unfazed, River turned to the boy on her left. She recognized him as Clayton’s cousin, Rex. “May a mare’s luck be with you today, Rex,” she said.

  “Oh, thank you, River.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “I just wish we’d get this over with. The waiting is horrible. Have you heard the count?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “There are one hundred and twenty-nine Candidates and only ninty-nine weanlings. That means thirty of us are not going to be Riders,” Rex said miserably, wiping more sweat from his face.

  “Only ninety-nine weanlings? The last count I heard was about one hundred and five or so. What happened?” She spoke aloud, but the real person she wanted to ask about the number disparity was her mother. Why didn’t anyone tell me several weanlings were missing?

  “They’re from Herd Jonquil. Seems the weanlings somehow got into a clump of arrowgrass on the way here.”

  “Arrowgrass? That’s awful! Did they survive?”

  “Yes, thank the Great Mother Mare, but they’re too weak to be at the Choosing. In a few weeks Jonquil will have a special Rendezvous and any leftover Candidates may attend. I can’t believe you didn’t hear about this.”

  “I’ve been spending a lot of time by myself since we got here—you know, meditating and preparing. I suppose no one thought to—”

  Her words broke off as an ancient mare trotted stiffly onto the Choosing Theater field. Her Rider was as old and as gray as her horse—and as recognizable. Morgana was the eldest member of the Mare Council. She was Rider to Ramoth—some say the oldest mare in all the Herds. No one knew the exact age of mare or Rider, but their combined wisdom was legendary.

  Rider and mare wore ribbons from all five Herds, signifying they were part of the Mare Council. The Candidates bowed respectfully, then the old woman raised her hand and the crowd went silent.

  “Candidates, spread out to at least an arm’s length between you!” Morgana’s voice was deep and strong, and immediately River and the other one hundred twenty-nine Candidates spread their arms out, shifting the circle so that it grew bigger, but less crowded. “Good. Now be seated!” The Candidates sat cross-legged. The old woman lifted her arms to the sky and spoke the blessing. “Great Mother Mare and Father Stallion, we ask that you guide the weanlings to their perfect Riders, and that you do so with joy and love and wisdom. It has been said!”

  “It has been said!” echoed every voice in the combined Herds.

  “And now it begins. Candidates, may a mare’s luck be with you. Release the weanlings!”

  River drew in a deep breath as her hand automatically reached up to rest on the amethyst crystal that hung from the center of her grandmother’s necklace. I am calm. I am composed. I am ready. My thoughts are clear and I am open to whatever will happen next.

  The familiar thunder of horses’ hooves vibrated up through the ground, joining the staccato beating of River’s heart. All eyes were focused on the entrance of the Choosing Theater—and then the weanling herd burst onto the field at a full gallop. The Candidates sat very still as the young horses wove between them to come to a milling halt in the center of their circle.

  River stared at them, trying to contain her excitement. They were so magnificent! They represented the best weanlings each Herd had to offer. Born the previous spring, one year ago, each had been raised with care and compassion. They remained with their dams for the entire year, and had only been separated from their mothers two days before. Though the weanlings understood what was happening, and that it was time for them to leave their mothers’ sides to begin the road to adulthood, they were visibly anxious.

  River understood. They were lonely—missing their mothers and missing the attention that had been lavished on them by a doting Herd for an entire year. But the young horses also knew that when they left this circle they would be permanently bonded to their Riders—and neither horse nor human would ever be lonely again.

  The elder and her ancient mare entered the circle as well, moving amongst the weanlings and speaking soothingly to them—calming them; readying them for the Choosing.

  River’s gaze searched the weanlings, looking for Herd Magenti’s youngsters. Magenti was one of the largest Herds—with five nomadic branches of several hundred humans and about half as many horses per branch, they had brought a combined offering of thirty weanlings to the Rendezvous. Fifteen of those came from River’s branch, the largest and ruling branch, Herd Magenti-Central.

  She knew which colt she was looking for, though she had never admitted her favoritism, nor had she shown it—at least not in public.

  There he is! River finally caught sight of him—the gorgeous palomino colt that so many of the Magenti were talking about. His coloring was the first thing people tended to notice about him, as his coat was so brilliantly blond it looked gold, and his mane and tail were almost perfectly white. He was standing a little off by himself, pawing the ground restlessly. He had no name—none of them did until their Rider spoke it upon Choosing—so to herself River called him Ghost, because of his speed and his ability to move almost silently. He was larger than the other colts, that was easy to see, but his size didn’t make him awkward or gangly. Unlike most yearlings, this colt handled himself with confidence. In the past year that River had helped tend the herd, working with the colts and fillies on a daily basis, she had never seen Ghost so much as misstep.

  As if he could sense her attention, the colt turned his head and met River’s gaze. Within his dark eye she saw intelligence and something else—something that looked a lot like sadness. Before River could fully process that, the old woman was speaking again.

  “Remember, Candidates, do not leave the circle until the last weanling has Chosen.” Then she turned her horse to face the weanlings. The old mare arched her neck, tossed her head, and trumpeted a call that all of the watching horses echoed—signaling the beginning of the Choosing.

  River’s world narrowed to the spot directly in front of her. She breathed deeply, grounding herself as her hand went from the amethyst crystal necklace to her pocket and the finger-shaped quartz phantom that rested quietly there. Her heartbeat slowed. Her nerves washed from her, absorbing into the ground and dissipating.

  There was a shout from her left. River looked in time to see a sorrel filly halt before a girl wearing the bloodred ribbons of Herd Cinnabar. The filly reached her muzzle to the girl, and without hesitation the girl rose to her knees, cupped the filly’s delicate face, and then blew gently into her velvet muzzle—bonding the two of them for life. Herd Cinnabar erupted into cheers as the new Rider stood to wrap her arms around her Companion. Then, side by side, the girl and her filly left the circle to join their Herd. Cinnabar’s cheers were followed swiftly by joyous shouts from Herd Indigo and Herd Virides as more and more weanlings Chose their Riders.

  It seemed a long time passed, but later her mother told River that the entire Choosing took mere minutes. The weanling herd had thinned down to a couple dozen horses. Those youngsters were standing in the center of the circle, ears pricked as they studied the seated Candidates. They moved in a slow clockwise fashion so that they could look at each of the Presented humans. Then a weanling would snort, toss his or her head, and move toward a Candidate, and another cheer would lift from the anxiously watching crowd.

  Suddenly the palomino colt River called Ghost reared and squealed, parti
ng the group of weanlings. He broke from them, galloping full speed around the circle of Candidates, throwing grass and dirt up behind him. To her right, River saw her Herdmate, Skye, cringe back, then shriek and sputter as she wiped a hoof-sized clump of dirt and muck from her face. River had started to lean toward her to encourage her to stay strong when a dappled gray filly she easily recognized as one of Herd Magenti’s weanlings trotted up to Skye, looking obviously upset. She offered her muzzle, and Skye hastily finished wiping the dirt and grass from her face before she leaned eagerly forward and gently blew into the filly’s soft nose before throwing her arms around her neck.

  “I’m okay! Don’t worry, Scout. Nothing could be wrong now that I’m your Rider!” River heard Skye croon to her newly bonded weanling.

  Then gasps from the crowd drew River’s attention from Skye and Scout. The palomino colt was acting more and more distressed. He’d stopped galloping around the circle and was thundering from one side of the huge theater to the other, scattering the weanlings as he tore through them. The elder and her mare tried to stay with him—tried to calm his increasing agitation—but it wasn’t working. The colt’s eyes were showing white and he was neighing in loud, panicked bursts—as if he were looking for someone he couldn’t find. And then the colt did something truly odd. He slowed and made one more pass around the circle. This time he wasn’t galloping in panic. He trotted slowly, obviously looking at each Candidate carefully. When he reached River she looked up and met his dark, intelligent eye.

  What she saw there made her heart ache.

  The colt was weeping. Tears rolled down his golden face.

  “Oh, Ghost. What is it? Why are you so sad?” River blurted.

  He slowed slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment River thought he was going to offer her his muzzle. Instead, he tossed his head and snorted, continuing around the circle. When he’d traveled the entire circumference he froze again. This time he was directly across the circle from River, and the remaining weanlings were few enough that she could see him clearly. He reared, striking out at the air as if battling an unseen enemy. Then he shot off, galloping directly toward River!

  Shock rooted River in place. From the crowd she was sure she heard her mother screaming her name, but River couldn’t move. The colt was going to trample her.

  At that last moment he leaped, easily clearing River’s head, before sprinting for the exit and disappearing from the Choosing Theater.

  There was a stunned silence as everyone—horses, Candidates, Riders, and Herdmates—stared after the colt. River had never heard of a weanling not Choosing a Rider, and she knew a colt had never run from the Presentation.

  “He’s mad.”

  “Must be something wrong with him.”

  “Colt looked good, but he’s obviously damaged.”

  River could hear the talk already starting. The only weanlings who didn’t Choose Riders were those who were somehow damaged, either emotionally or—and this was more likely—physically. Damaged horses didn’t live the full, long life spans of healthy horses. They knew they were flawed and usually so did their dams. Those unfortunate youngsters were never offered at a Rendezvous. They were kept with their home Herd, and cared for by everyone—loved and lavished with attention until their untimely deaths. But Ghost was a sound, healthy colt.

  What just happened makes no sense. It’s like he was looking for his Rider, but couldn’t find her.

  River was worrying her lip between her teeth and wondering about the sadness she’d seen in Ghost’s eyes when a shadow fell over her.

  She looked up.

  A beautiful filly had stopped before her. Her coat was light gray—almost white—and her mane was dark, with black and gray streaks. Her legs were dark as well, going from white-gray to black. She was tall for a weanling filly, and River didn’t recognize her, but her wide forehead, the power in her young chest, and her straight, perfectly formed legs said clearly that her bloodlines had been crossed with Echo’s.

  And River could feel her. The filly was excited and nervous—happy and anxious.

  “Oh, it’s okay, pretty girl. All is well,” River soothed automatically.

  Then the most miraculous thing in River’s life happened. The weanling—this absolutely perfect, magnificent, intelligent filly—offered her muzzle to River.

  River went to her knees and reached out to put her hands gently on either side of the filly’s head, and then she blew softly into her velvet muzzle.

  As horse and Rider breathed in, their lives—their souls—their destinies became irrevocably joined. River was washed in a swell of giddy emotions while one word, a name, blasted through her mind like a magickal clarion call.

  “Anjo! You’re my Anjo!” River stood and wrapped her arms around her Companion’s neck and buried her face in her warm, fragrant mane as the victory cheers of Herd Magenti lifted around them.

  CHAPTER 2

  CURRENT DAY—THE RIDGE OVERLOOKING TRIBE OF THE TREES

  “The Reapers are ready, my Lord. They only await the setting of the sun and your command.” Iron Fist bowed low to his leader—his God.

  Death barely spared him a glance. “Excellent. Tell the men to remain hidden and await my signal. I will go ahead of them and observe.”

  The Death God strode away, not bothering to look behind Him to see if Iron Fist, His second in command and the Reaper He’d named his Blade, would do as He commanded. Death knew he would because as Iron Fist was all too aware, not following the God’s commands would cost the Blade his life.

  Death came to the lip of the ridge that overlooked the main area of the forest inhabited by the Tribe of the Trees. Unlike the men crouched yards behind Him, Death did not crawl. He did not hide. He simply stepped up to the edge of the ridge and looked down on what was left of the burned and blackened city.

  “Destroyed,” the God of Death muttered to Himself. “Foolishly destroyed.” He shook His head in disgust, causing His massive horns to throw bizarre, misshapen shadows against the surrounding trees. “But, no matter. I will rebuild the City in the Trees to a state of majesty worthy to be the home of a God.” Death hefted the huge triple-pointed trident He’d ripped from the body of the lifeless statue the People used to worship. “No more will the People worship empty metal,” he pledged softly. “Now the People know what it is to follow a real God. They know real power. Soon, they shall know real victory.”

  Death looked behind Him, wishing the sun would hurry and sink below the horizon. He could see a darkening in the sky, which was now turning more the dusky color of a dove’s wing than the brilliant blue of a jay’s feathers.

  “Dove…” Death growled the name as He followed the ridgeline to His left, keeping a watchful eye on the dark, ruined city below. “I must do something about Dove. She does not seem to fully understand the role she is destined to play in our future.” In His mind’s eye He could see her smooth, eyeless face and her flawless skin. Yes, her body was, indeed, a perfect vessel for the Goddess, especially as being inhabited by the Great Earth Mother, Goddess of Life, would grant her eyes. “But her attitude is unacceptable.” Death moved His shoulders as if he were trying to displace biting insects. “I have been too lenient with her. She needs a lesson in obedience.”

  That decided, Death continued to walk slowly to His left, following the ridge and looking for signs of life from the Tribe below.

  But all He saw was the ruins of a once great city. No sounds of a vibrant, thriving society lifted on the wind. All that rose to Death on the ridge were the scents of smoke and decay.

  “Where are your lookouts?” Death asked the charred trees below. “Where are your great Warriors who once were so powerful, so terrible that they were able to keep my People trapped within the confines of a poisoned city?”

  As if answering the God, there was a flash of light, so brilliant that it instantly made Him think of sunshine.

  “Fire? Have the Others somehow managed to set the rest of the forest on fire?” Dread had the G
od’s stomach feeling hollow. He’d counted on there being enough of the City in the Trees left that He could move the People from the poisoned city to the forest as soon as He and His Reapers defeated what was left of the Others. Death walked faster. “No, I must stop the remains of the city from burning.”

  It didn’t take Him long to follow the ridge and come to a spot from which He glimpsed the blackened trees give way to greenery and life. “Ah, there you are, Tribe. And I see there is still some of your city in the sky left untouched.” The God peered down, at first not understanding what He was witnessing.

  The Others were grouped around an ancient tree beyond the edge of the burn line. She was standing in the middle of about fifty men who were angrily shouting. The rest of the Others seemed confused or weak, on pallets or simply lying on the ground with their canines beside them, but Death dismissed them instantly. It was the girl who caught and held His attention.

  She was standing in the middle of a ball of flame, utterly untouched.

  Beside her was a young man whose body showed the bloody sign of injuries, plus two large canines. None of them were being burned by the fire she was somehow wielding.

  The warriors of the Others kept trying to press forward to reach her—to no avail. They even fired arrows at the girl, but none of them penetrated the ball of flame. Instead they burned to ash as they neared it.

  “What is she?” Death whispered to Himself.

  Then the girl began to move and the flame shield moved with her. Increasing her speed as she reached the ruins of the tree city, the girl and her companions jogged on as the agitated Others followed, though they had to remain well back because of the heat of the flames.

  Unseen on the ridge above them, Death moved with the oblivious group, more and more mesmerized by the girl who wielded flame.

  As Death passed the spot where Iron Fist waited, He whistled sharply, and His Blade rushed to join Him, eyes growing huge when he followed his God’s gaze.

  “What magick is that?” Iron Fist asked, his voice hushed.