Straying From the Path by Carrie Vaughn

would have a chance to touch another living being again.
    “The horse was magic, and when she died she called to me. It’s hard to explain.” She wasn’t used to talking; her words faltered. She shook her head, swallowed, and spoke again. “How does a man become a famous thief?”
    “I tell you once and for all, I am common. Nameless.”
    If she wouldn’t tell her story, she couldn’t expect him to tell his. After this, they had sat so long in an uncomfortable silence, she thought he’d surely leave her now. But he didn’t. He stayed. He was even watching her.
    “Elsa the Prophet. Can you tell me my future?”
    “You probably wouldn’t like it. People usually don’t, especially when they ask for it.”
    “What do you do, to learn someone’s future?”
    “I sleep a night wearing the skin. I dream the answer, and the next morning tell the person.”
    “Spend a night with me, Elsa. Tell me my future in the morning.”
    Falla wouldn’t like it. Elsa could almost hear the mare chiding. This was selfish, the dreaming turned into a parlor trick. If the dream were terrible, none of them would be happy. But to spend a night with Conrad—she would dream what she had to.
    She knelt beside him. He touched her cheek, then kissed her, slowly and gently. It was lovely.
    They found a hidden place in the woods outside the town. They stripped each other, quickly and desperately, as though afraid of interruption or afraid this wasn’t real. Cool air chilled their skin, making every touch that much warmer. Elsa didn’t think to open her eyes to look. They made love on her wool blanket, spread on the ground under a thicket. When Conrad lay back, spent, she crawled on top of him, bit his ear and whispered, “Again.” He said, “Yes,” and they did.
    When they finished, Elsa move a little way away, leaving him to the wool blanket. She took the spotted horse skin from her pack and wrapped it tight around her. Silent, Conrad watched as she curled up to fall asleep and dream.
    She never dreamed for herself. Others asked her to wear the skin, and she did so because the skin demanded it. Tonight, the skin was reluctant.
    Tell me about Conrad.
    I cannot tell you , Falla said, her voice like the rustle of hay.
    Even dead, she smelled of horse: warm hair, hay, and dust. In memory, Elsa felt her breath and heard her nostrils snorting.
    Why not? Is he wicked? Is there a mystery surrounding him? If he is common as he says, then so is his future. Why not tell me?
    Do not ask me this.
    I have served you for ten years, why can’t you answer me now? Is it because I like him?
    It will hurt you to hear this. I do not wish to hurt you.
    Falla was her friend, despite all that had happened, despite the fact her devotion to Falla made Elsa something other than human. Elsa used to hang on Falla’s stall door and wonder what the mare would say if she could talk. If she had known then, what the mare would say— I do not wish to hurt you —Elsa would have cried with happiness, because this meant that Falla loved her as much as she loved Falla. But love caused pain as well as joy.
    Tell me his fate, Falla. I must know.
    You are sure?
    Yes!
    You cannot save him. You will stand watching, his fate in your hands, and you will do nothing. Is that what you wished to hear?
    Elsa cried, because Falla spoke truth, always. Falla, Falla, I can’t do this anymore.
    Hush, dear friend. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
    Once more, Elsa felt her soft muzzle against her hands, and Falla’s dark eyes gazed at her.
    The first time she put on Falla’s skin, it was still wet with flesh and blood.
    One day, the King needed a prophecy, and the Wizard worked his most powerful spell. But the spell failed, the prophecy did not come. It was a black day, as the Wizard stormed out of his workroom and the King despaired of overcoming his troubles. Folk everywhere wondered how the great Wizard could have failed.
    Spying, the librarian’s daughter discovered the truth. She first