An End to Summer

by Diana Rose Wilson

  At that time their foals would be weaned and the mares would decide what path to take. They might bond with someone or they might enjoy a tryst with a stallion and go through the whole migration again.

  In the world before the migration Alexander would have thrown himself into a good sulk for being ignored by a prospective mount. However, he had no time for self-pity during the journey. Keeping track of the laboring mares took his full attention. Although he was seldom needed, he assisted those that struggled. Sadly, some were beyond his help. He tried to tell himself that saving them all was impossible. Still, he cried for each one he lost.

  The mares took the losses in stride. Those who didn’t survive the crossing were remembered and mourned, though they did not linger on their grief like he did. They didn’t think about what more they could or should have done. They accepted the loss and then moved on.

  He learned a lot during those full, messy, crazy days. It didn’t make losing them easier, and he tried to temper his grief. Shara suggested, Try not feel quite so keenly. You are not deity-born. Cherish what you can do and those you have saved. Keep some of that breath for yourself, life-giver.

  He was never alone, not even in his thoughts. The curious foals were always interested in him. He was the odd one. The one with the kiss of life. The defender of the herd. Some days they formed little packs and followed him, trying not to be seen. They were too young and inexperienced to be good at the hiding games. His body was stronger and although the vision in his wounded eye was never the same, he was healed. He ran barefoot with the herd on two legs and found he enjoyed the challenge of racing them. While he never beat the mares, he had a slight chance with the youngest foals. It grew more difficult as they reached their half-year mark.

  Despite the improvement of his human body, most of the time he traveled in his spirit form. Walking bare footed and naked across the grasslands was often uncomfortable, slow and awkward. The fur protected him from sunburn and his spirit-form was built for the long distance travel. He grew more confident each time he embraced the shadowy form. Even his senses sharpened and grew more sensitive as he allowed them to develop.

  He patrolled for the herd and made sure nothing hunted them. He ran faster than the mounts and had the benefit of his wings. At every opportunity, he practiced using them and discovered the joys of flight. He had the weapons of his powerful antlers and sharp cloven hooves.

  During the breaks in the day, he shed his spirit form and practiced crafting grass flutes. A part of his mind ridiculed him that it was childish and the old shame bubbled up. When he teased out the first few simple notes, the beauty of the music reminded him why he loved it. It sounded like the lilting voices of the mounts inside his mind. The horses enjoyed it too, offering wordless encouragement to drive away the ghosts of his cousins.

  He was wrapping the end of a particularly large reed when he felt a prickle of interest dance up his spine followed by the giddiness of giggles that were quickly suppressed. A group of foals came bounding out of the tall grass at him. They were growing fast, not long ago he was able to carry them. Now, however, he saw the hints of their promise in the lean, young frames. Soon they would bear the weight of a rider and the responsibilities that came with that duty. The boldest of the foals danced towards him. The dark bay colt shook all over at the apparent act of daring. He thrust his neck out and his velvety muzzle bumped Alexander’s nose before he jerked back. The colt sucked in a great breath when Alexander gasped in surprise. Then he danced away, leaping the far side of the grasses with his accomplices close beside him.

  I got his breath. I have the breath of life! The bold colt sang to a chorus of bright hoots and laughter from his fellows.

  Later that evening, the colt and his dam found him. The colt stood with his head low and knees knocking. Alexander regarded the shame rippling off the youngster and the mare’s fury laced embarrassment with surprise.

  Spirit-skin, this foal will address you. Oh, she was definitely not pleased. He sensed the effort she made to speak with him, a certain wariness and awe kept her tense and ready to fight.

  “It’s all right.” He held up his hands to her, equally awkward, not sure what the colt had done wrong. Surely the game wasn’t the cause.

  I did not mean to steal, the colt said in a rush of words. I am sorry for taking it. It was wrong.

  He blinked from foal to mare and back again. “It’s all right.”

  It is definitely not all right. You are not his. He cannot take from Bearer of the Winternight Flame’s foals. They may need it when the time comes and my unworthy, nameless foal took it.

  He was too stunned to have a response to that. As he fumbled to understand, the mare led the foal swiftly away.

  It put an end to that particular game, however it didn’t stop the foals from shadowing him. In some ways, it only encouraged their watchfulness.

  As winter bled into spring and spring days grew even hotter, a swift mare raced into their group, sides heaving from her run.

  The maidens have reached the shore!

  The delighted sweep of emotion swelled around him.

  Well, then we must run. We can’t let the maidens catch up, Shara called over the excited whispers in his head. We must test out these young legs. Your springtime is coming to an end. Now is the time we see if you have what it takes to be part of the herd.

  In the following days, the larger herd fractured into smaller groups. It was based on a natural selection of speed and fitness. The mares who had lost their foals were unhindered and naturally moved into the first group. The fast group. Next came the healthy mares with foals. At the end were those who were too weak or wounded to maintain the pace Shara set.

  The last part of the journey was a fast, hard run. It was an endurance challenge to test the young foals and it tried him too. The life he’d led before had little physical activity like this. The Alexander he’d left beaten in the berry patch would have thrown himself down in a fit.

  He was not the same boy who fell through the gateway. When he ran across the last mountain ridge to look over the expansive crescent bay of Talgraem he felt better than he had in his whole life. He hardly remembered what it was like without the voices in his head or those times he sat in the solitude of his room feeling sorry for himself when he imagined he’d been slighted.

  In six months his life had changed completely. He was taller, the baby fat gone and in its place were lean, hard muscles. It was difficult to judge how much he’d grown, it might simply be the upright posture and not the slouched shoulders burdened by his shame. His spirit-form has matured as well. It was no longer a terrible darkness he feared touching. It had grown with him too and he stood larger than the mares. Even his pronged antlers had developed into an elaborate filigree of gleaming onyx horn.

  As he stared down at the cove, admiring the cerulean waters dotted with ships flying bright sails, he realized that his adventure was over. In a few days he would find someone to help him return home. What would his cousins think about the transformation in him? It made him smile, though dread curled inside him. He hoped his parents weren’t worried. The last conversation he had with his mother still haunted him.

  And worst of all, going home required that he surrender his title as one of the herd and resume being part of mankind.

  You will always be one of us, spirit-kin, Shara whispered, nudging her way into his thoughts. We do not release you from our number simply because you cross back into your distant land. You have shared food and water and blood with us. We are not done with you.

  That made him smile and he ducked his head. His long hair reminded him of the length of time he’d been in the wilderness and that he desperately needed a cut. “Does this mean I will need to find a rider to bond with?”

  The red mare flicked her ears back in time with the brush of amusement that touched his mind. If you find one who can keep up with you. I suggest taking your time in the selection. Sometimes it’s better to wait and see who has the right stam
ina. Anything else is sheer disappointment.

  Chapter 7

  They reached the ocean of the cove two days later. The sheer size of the bay was stunning, and it wasn’t until he stood on the sand, unable to see the far side, that he felt like his journey was complete. The land formed a huge crescent around the gulf and the sandy shores stretched on into the horizon in a limitless ribbon of gold.

  They were greeted by a band of horses who’d heard of their arrival and rushed to see who would be the first at the shore. It was a great honor to be in the fastest group and while Alexander wasn’t in the lead, in his spirit-form, he was comfortably in the middle of that esteemed group. By the time he pranced down the beach, his arrival had been announced.

  A grizzled old stallion with one eye and a nicked ear shouldered forward to have a look at him. He was burnished bronze with a black mane. His long, clean legs were striped with black. The touch that met Alexander was more like a rough mental clap within him.

  Zan’Dar, the big stallion rumbled in his head. Keeper of the Lifebreath. I have heard of your coming all spring. You are a strange looking stallion. I understand you saved my foals and you fought the hunters. I suppose this gives you claim for a true name better most. I can only claim the honor of carrying my lazy rider into battle. He swished his tail sharply. I am called Darian Spear Eater. My rider is king Kulah, ruler of the eastern tribes of Shirvil. My mate wishes I take you to him before she will stand beside me and share the honor of introducing me to my foals. So, we go.

  Shara’s amusement shivered across his mind. Though he didn’t see her, he believed this rough, huge stallion must be the sire of the two lovely foals who had attached themselves to him the whole journey. A twist of sorrow tightened his heart at not being able to say goodbye to them. There was a deeper pang of dread as he struggled with the choice between walking naked as a human into this camp or keeping his spirit form.

  You are fine this way, Zan’Dar. He will treat with you better than if you come to him without armor. We will see you geared. The stallion was impatient, and Alexander didn’t blame him. He would want to see his children, too.

  Vibrant tents were set up on the grassy dunes and people of all types were selling goods and visiting. People stared at the pair of them, the horse and the winged stag wrapped in shadows and stardust. He might have received less attention if he’d walked naked down the rows of tents. After months of living off fruits and roots, the scent of roasting meats made his mouth water. The first thing he wanted after a long, hot bath was a feast of meat from the fires. He felt a pang of guilt that he would revert so quickly to his predatory ways, however he was spirit beast and required more to sustain him.

  There were horses, too and none of them were tied. Mounts, one and all, and they regarded him with awe as he walked beside the one eyed stallion. Some were tacked and others were unadorned except for splashes of bright paint. Some wore heavy wreaths of flowers and greenery. Those horses had not made the migration. They were bound to the riders in the tents or were the first born of those horses, wide-eyed and gawking. The light, curious internal touches flickered over him and withdrew sharply when he returned the greeting, as though they were unprepared for the energy behind his contact.

  They reached the tent at last, this one larger and more colorful than all the others they’d passed so far. Like the nearby tents, there were many horses lingering around. Unlike the others, there were men in uniforms among the mounts. Some people were garbed in what appeared to be festival outfits; however, the majority wore coats and slacks. Like cavalry officers, they wore long swords at their hips and their tall boots gleamed with a fine polish. There was something strange about the warriors though. Their hair was brilliant red banded with stripes of purple and blue. He realized with a shock that what covered their head was not hair but feathers.

  The man at the center of their group looked over at their approach, his haughty features guarded. He seemed the youngest and handsome in a razor-edged way that made Alexander stare. He swept a look over the stallion with an arrogant little curl of his upper lip. Then his eyes fell on Alexander. The feathers on his head lifted into a comical crest like a cockatoo.

  It looked ridiculous. Thankfully his cough of amusement sounded like a rumble rather than mirth. There was nothing funny about the glares that the men fixed on him.

  Hunters, Darian Spear Eater whispered into his mind. You find them amusing? They are murderers.

  He saw it then with unexpected clarity. These warriors in their fine uniforms were wearing the human spirit-form of the hunters. When he looked for it he saw the beasts curled behind their veils.

  The stallion stomped his foot sharply and tossed his head towards the tent as he said to the group, I bring Keeper of the Lifebreath before my rider.

  The arrogant young man stepped forward, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. The jewels on the handle gleamed with the many rings that danced on his fingers. “Where is this hero of your people? I hear he shamed our prince, my cousin. Truly, I would saddle him myself and ride him around to celebrate the victory.”

  He would never run for you. Move aside. The stallion glared around at the others until one of the men opened the flap of the tent and called inside to announce them.

  A gruff voice ordered them in and Alexander hesitated a moment before slipping inside the cool interior of the pavilion.

  Within the darkness was comfortably cool compared to the afternoon heat. Heavy rugs stretched out over the ground, piled with pillows and furs. As Alexander came inside, the men stood and regarded him with various salutes that he translated as respect directed at Darian. Some wore the formal uniform, more people wore the brilliant silks of festival garb.

  Rider, meet the one spoken of on the wind. This is Zan’Dar, Keeper of the Lifebreath, Darian introduced quietly. Zan’Dar, my rider, King Kulah, of glorious Shirvil.

  The enormous man who stepped forward looked well matched for the fierce stallion. His skin was almost as dark as the mount’s bronze coat and heavy scars marked his face and neck. Rather than hair or feathers, his head was shaved and his bald scalp gleamed to match his tall boots. He hooked meaty fists to his hips and glowered down his sharp nose at Alexander, dark eyes gleaming.

  “He doesn’t look like a stallion. What mischief is this? He is not man, not horse, not hunter. He has the body of a stag, the wings of an eagle and the name of a blood horse. And this is the reason you’ve not been eating, nephew? Truly?” He sounded more confused than angry as he swung his attention from Alexander and looked to the side at the young man sprawled indolently in a pile of pillows.

  The handsome youth glanced at him, indisposed to rouse himself to perform any sort of greeting. He wasn’t wearing festival garb, like the guards outside he wore a uniform free of any of the medals and braids. His hands were covered in gaudy rings and baubles. His long feather-hair fluttered around his shoulders. He was painfully thin, as though he’d been sick. His sharp cheekbones and nose were so angular, his ivory skin pulled taut over the delicate bones.

  The youth regarded him through feathery lashes as though he expected Alexander to have a response to him. His beauty was soiled by the petulant purse of his lips. Emotion did not reach the golden eyes. They were chill and dispassionate.

  When he regarded Alexander, a mixture of horror and dread slowly bubbled to the surface of his dispassionate features. As though Alexander’s arrival was a portent of his death. “He is the reason.” There was no pleasure in this fact as turned his face away, pale and cold.

  The king looked between them, seeming to notice the response. “Forgive the little fool’s lack of manners. This is Prince Shylo of Talgraem who is acting more like a character from a bad ballad since he’s been sick.” The insult and reprimand didn’t move the prince who kept his face turned away.

  Zan’Dar saved my foals and others during the crossing, Darian added in a low rumble.

  King Kulah grunted and waved that remark away as he walked around Alexander.
“I have heard it all. I also know he stopped the slaughter my son and his guard thought to enjoy. Horrific practice, collecting during migration. Sport hunting indeed. Partaking of horse-flesh should be outlawed. Can he not speak? Have all the grand deeds dulled his senses or his tongue?”

  “Perhaps he is modest, uncle,” The lanky young man said quietly, throat working as though he was fighting back waves of nausea.

  Kulah chuckled. “Modesty, nephew? Perhaps he will rub off on you.” He snapped his fingers. “Bring the man some silks.”

  Cloth came in an array of saffron, lemon and orange hues and he was excused from their company to take up his human form and wrap himself in the comfortable, overly large festival vest and pants. Luxurious fabric hugged his body and yet it was also strangely confining after long months running naked.

  For the first time in over half a year he looked at his reflection. A stranger stared back at him. His green eyes were brilliant in his dark face and his features no longer had the softness of childhood. Six months had done this to him? He ran a finger over the horrible scar that ran from temple to his forehead. It disfigured one eye so badly it was a wonder he had sight from it at all. Other scars marked his face and jaw from his misadventures on the run. He looked like a savage. His curly black hair was long and there was dark stubble along his jaw and chin.

  Running both hands through his curls, he longed for a shower and a lot of soap. Aside from dislodging a few brambles from his hair he was only making the mop more disheveled. Compared to the refinement of the prince, he looked like a monster.

  It made his heart flutter wildly when he realized how much he wanted to impress the man. His throat tightened and he stared at himself as he grappled with his desires. He craved the respect of that man. Prince Shylo. At least he wanted to see that soft, sensual mouth curve into a smile for him. Why was he so angry and petulant? Was it the illness? Was he dying? That thought made his stomach drop in an unexpected lurch of sympathy.