him,” said Vadin. “No one but
Mirain has ever sat on the Mad One’s back.”
The senel came closer. Grooms and idlers were quick to clear
his path. Even Vadin stepped aside, without fear but with considerable respect.
Elian stood her ground. She was no less royal than the
stallion; while she had no hope of becoming his master, she was certainly his
equal.
She was full in his path. On either side stretched a long
line of tethered mounts. He snorted and flattened his ears. “Courteously, sir,”
she said.
His teeth bared. He pawed the ground.
“If you harm me, my lord may not be pleased.”
He seemed to ponder that, lean ears flicking forward, back.
As if in sudden decision, they pricked. He stepped forward. With utmost
delicacy he lowered his head and blew sweet breath in her palm.
She ran a hand over his ears, along the splendid arch of his
neck. “Indeed, lord king, now you may pass. But if it would please you, is
there one of your herd who would consent to carry me?”
He himself would, and gladly, but he had but one lord. Yet
there were some . . .
He turned, stepping softly. She laced her fingers in his
mane.
As the Mad One permitted no man but Mirain on his back,
likewise he suffered no other beast to do that service. Even so, Ianon’s king
traveled with his own stable: the nine royal mounts decreed by custom, and the
mounts and remounts of his household. These held to their own guarded lines,
watched over by grooms in scarlet kilts.
The Mad One paid no heed to the lesser beasts, the least of
them as fine as Elian’s poor lost mare. He passed them in cool disdain, seeking
out the center of the line and the King’s Nine tethered there. Two were
stallions, a black and a grey, sleek with light work and good feeding. The rest
were mares, one of each color: brown, bay, roan, grey, striped dun, and gold.
The ninth, a mare likewise, grazed apart. She had been tethered;
Elian saw a halter empty on the ground.
The Mad One loosed a high, imperious cry. The mare raised
her head, and Elian caught her breath.
Line for line, the young senel was the Mad One’s image. Save
only in color: that was the precise, fiery red-gold of Elian’s hair.
The stallion arched his neck. His daughter, this was:
Ilhari, Firemane. She was young; she was very foolish; she had never yet been
ridden. But she would carry the lady, if the lady wished it.
Ilhari flattened her ears. And what right had he to say what
she would or would not do?
The same right, he responded with a toss of his head, that
the Sunborn had to bring a useless filly to war. One who, moreover, could not
even keep her place in the line, but would slip free at every opportunity and
run wild on the grass.
Precisely like her sire.
Elian laughed, approaching the mare slowly. Indeed Ilhari
was the Mad One’s daughter. She had the same wild ruby eye, the same wicked
temper. Yet she also had his deep and well-concealed core of perfect sanity.
She watched, but she did not threaten, merely lifted a hind foot in warning.
“Princess,” asked Elian, “would you consent to carry me?”
Ilhari’s back quivered as if to cast off a fly. It would
certainly please yon great black bully. For herself . . .
Elian touched the quivering muzzle. The mare was finer than
her sire, smaller, more delicate. Elian stroked aside the long silken forelock
and smoothed the star on her forehead. “I would not bridle you nor tether you.
A saddle I would need, for battle if for naught else.”
No one had ever sat on Ilhari’s back. The Sunborn had not
allowed it. She was the free one, the king’s ninth mount, the Mad One’s
daughter.
“I am royal. The Sunborn calls me his kin. The Mad One has
consented to accept me.”
Ilhari snorted. Ah, the Mad One! He did as he pleased.
“And might not we? Come, stand, so. Yes. Yes!” Lightly Elian
swung onto her back.
For a long moment Ilhari stood rigid. Cautiously she essayed
a step. She felt strange, unbalanced.
“That
Mirain has ever sat on the Mad One’s back.”
The senel came closer. Grooms and idlers were quick to clear
his path. Even Vadin stepped aside, without fear but with considerable respect.
Elian stood her ground. She was no less royal than the
stallion; while she had no hope of becoming his master, she was certainly his
equal.
She was full in his path. On either side stretched a long
line of tethered mounts. He snorted and flattened his ears. “Courteously, sir,”
she said.
His teeth bared. He pawed the ground.
“If you harm me, my lord may not be pleased.”
He seemed to ponder that, lean ears flicking forward, back.
As if in sudden decision, they pricked. He stepped forward. With utmost
delicacy he lowered his head and blew sweet breath in her palm.
She ran a hand over his ears, along the splendid arch of his
neck. “Indeed, lord king, now you may pass. But if it would please you, is
there one of your herd who would consent to carry me?”
He himself would, and gladly, but he had but one lord. Yet
there were some . . .
He turned, stepping softly. She laced her fingers in his
mane.
As the Mad One permitted no man but Mirain on his back,
likewise he suffered no other beast to do that service. Even so, Ianon’s king
traveled with his own stable: the nine royal mounts decreed by custom, and the
mounts and remounts of his household. These held to their own guarded lines,
watched over by grooms in scarlet kilts.
The Mad One paid no heed to the lesser beasts, the least of
them as fine as Elian’s poor lost mare. He passed them in cool disdain, seeking
out the center of the line and the King’s Nine tethered there. Two were
stallions, a black and a grey, sleek with light work and good feeding. The rest
were mares, one of each color: brown, bay, roan, grey, striped dun, and gold.
The ninth, a mare likewise, grazed apart. She had been tethered;
Elian saw a halter empty on the ground.
The Mad One loosed a high, imperious cry. The mare raised
her head, and Elian caught her breath.
Line for line, the young senel was the Mad One’s image. Save
only in color: that was the precise, fiery red-gold of Elian’s hair.
The stallion arched his neck. His daughter, this was:
Ilhari, Firemane. She was young; she was very foolish; she had never yet been
ridden. But she would carry the lady, if the lady wished it.
Ilhari flattened her ears. And what right had he to say what
she would or would not do?
The same right, he responded with a toss of his head, that
the Sunborn had to bring a useless filly to war. One who, moreover, could not
even keep her place in the line, but would slip free at every opportunity and
run wild on the grass.
Precisely like her sire.
Elian laughed, approaching the mare slowly. Indeed Ilhari
was the Mad One’s daughter. She had the same wild ruby eye, the same wicked
temper. Yet she also had his deep and well-concealed core of perfect sanity.
She watched, but she did not threaten, merely lifted a hind foot in warning.
“Princess,” asked Elian, “would you consent to carry me?”
Ilhari’s back quivered as if to cast off a fly. It would
certainly please yon great black bully. For herself . . .
Elian touched the quivering muzzle. The mare was finer than
her sire, smaller, more delicate. Elian stroked aside the long silken forelock
and smoothed the star on her forehead. “I would not bridle you nor tether you.
A saddle I would need, for battle if for naught else.”
No one had ever sat on Ilhari’s back. The Sunborn had not
allowed it. She was the free one, the king’s ninth mount, the Mad One’s
daughter.
“I am royal. The Sunborn calls me his kin. The Mad One has
consented to accept me.”
Ilhari snorted. Ah, the Mad One! He did as he pleased.
“And might not we? Come, stand, so. Yes. Yes!” Lightly Elian
swung onto her back.
For a long moment Ilhari stood rigid. Cautiously she essayed
a step. She felt strange, unbalanced.
“That
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