passes,” said Elian.
She reared. Elian’s knees tightened; her body shifted
forward; her fingers knotted in the long mane.
Ilhari bucked and twisted. Elian only clung the tighter. The
mare reared again, wheeling as she came down, flinging herself forward, plowing
to a halt.
Elian laughed.
Ilhari snorted. Rider, nothing. This was a leech.
Elian stroked the sleek neck. “You’re not angry with me. You
only pretend to be.”
Ilhari extended a forefoot to rub an itch from her cheek. It
was not so very unpleasant. Perhaps. Once she learned the way of it.
“Well,” said Elian, “shall we begin?”
oOo
Caught up in the beginnings of subtle and intricate art,
with the Mad One both mocking and teaching beside them, neither noticed until
very late that they had gathered an audience. Elian had her first hint of it
when, glancing sidewise, she met Mirain’s white smile. He had come up unseen,
smooth as a partner in a dance, and found his way onto the stallion’s back.
She tensed. Ilhari had halted, immobile as a carven senel.
“My lord, she’s yours, I know it, but—”
“Mine,” he said, “she never has been. If her sire sees fit
to bring you two together, should I interfere?”
“But—”
“She has made her own choice.” He saluted them both with a
flourish. “The singers will have a new song tonight.”
“Singers? Song?”
Elian looked beyond him. She had completely forgotten Vadin.
He stood near the lines, foremost of a mob of watchers. Even at that distance
she could see his smile and the hand he raised in salute. All about him, a
cheer went up, high and exuberant.
She acknowledged them without conscious thought, a bow and a
smile they could see, and words they could not hear. “Sun and stars! How long
have they been there?”
“A good hour, I should think.”
Elian dismounted hastily and ran her hands over Ilhari’s
flanks. The mare was sweating lightly but otherwise unharmed, and scarcely
weary.
She danced a little, nuzzling Elian’s hair. That had been
delightful. When could they do it again?
“Tomorrow,” Elian promised her.
oOo
The king’s council was less an affair of state than a
gathering of friends. Splendid as the evening was, warm and clear, with a
sunset like a storm of fire, they sat as they pleased before his tent, eating
and drinking and conversing at first of small things.
Elian did squire’s duty for the king until the wine went
round, when he drew her down beside him. One or two kilted chieftains looked
askance. The others, Geitan’s lord conspicuous among them, took no notice.
She settled herself as comfortably as she might in her stiff
new livery, and toyed with a cup of wine, resting its coolness against her torn
cheek. The flow of speech had shifted. Hawks and hounds and women, fine mounts
and old battles, passed and were forgotten.
“We have a choice,” said a man who had once called himself a
king. He decked himself still with a circlet of gold, although he was lavish in
his homage to his conqueror. “We can strike south into the Hundred Realms. Or
we can turn west. There’s a wide land between here and Asanion, full of tribes
ripe, and rich, for conquest.”
“West, say I.” The accent was Ianyn, and proud with it.
“Then south, with whole force of the north behind us.”
Another man of Ianon spoke from across the fire. “Why not
head south now? We’re in Ashan already, or as close as makes no matter. There’s
easy pickings here by all accounts, and easier the farther you go: fat rich
southerners gone lazy with peace.”
“Not that lazy,” said one with the twang of Ebros and the
garb of a mercenary captain. “They can fight when they’re roused. They drove
back all the armies of the Nine Cities not so long ago, and kept them back.”
“Talked them back, I hear,” a northerner drawled.
“Southerners and westerners, they talk. We fight.”
oOo
Someone came up around the edge of the council. With a
small start, Elian recognized
She reared. Elian’s knees tightened; her body shifted
forward; her fingers knotted in the long mane.
Ilhari bucked and twisted. Elian only clung the tighter. The
mare reared again, wheeling as she came down, flinging herself forward, plowing
to a halt.
Elian laughed.
Ilhari snorted. Rider, nothing. This was a leech.
Elian stroked the sleek neck. “You’re not angry with me. You
only pretend to be.”
Ilhari extended a forefoot to rub an itch from her cheek. It
was not so very unpleasant. Perhaps. Once she learned the way of it.
“Well,” said Elian, “shall we begin?”
oOo
Caught up in the beginnings of subtle and intricate art,
with the Mad One both mocking and teaching beside them, neither noticed until
very late that they had gathered an audience. Elian had her first hint of it
when, glancing sidewise, she met Mirain’s white smile. He had come up unseen,
smooth as a partner in a dance, and found his way onto the stallion’s back.
She tensed. Ilhari had halted, immobile as a carven senel.
“My lord, she’s yours, I know it, but—”
“Mine,” he said, “she never has been. If her sire sees fit
to bring you two together, should I interfere?”
“But—”
“She has made her own choice.” He saluted them both with a
flourish. “The singers will have a new song tonight.”
“Singers? Song?”
Elian looked beyond him. She had completely forgotten Vadin.
He stood near the lines, foremost of a mob of watchers. Even at that distance
she could see his smile and the hand he raised in salute. All about him, a
cheer went up, high and exuberant.
She acknowledged them without conscious thought, a bow and a
smile they could see, and words they could not hear. “Sun and stars! How long
have they been there?”
“A good hour, I should think.”
Elian dismounted hastily and ran her hands over Ilhari’s
flanks. The mare was sweating lightly but otherwise unharmed, and scarcely
weary.
She danced a little, nuzzling Elian’s hair. That had been
delightful. When could they do it again?
“Tomorrow,” Elian promised her.
oOo
The king’s council was less an affair of state than a
gathering of friends. Splendid as the evening was, warm and clear, with a
sunset like a storm of fire, they sat as they pleased before his tent, eating
and drinking and conversing at first of small things.
Elian did squire’s duty for the king until the wine went
round, when he drew her down beside him. One or two kilted chieftains looked
askance. The others, Geitan’s lord conspicuous among them, took no notice.
She settled herself as comfortably as she might in her stiff
new livery, and toyed with a cup of wine, resting its coolness against her torn
cheek. The flow of speech had shifted. Hawks and hounds and women, fine mounts
and old battles, passed and were forgotten.
“We have a choice,” said a man who had once called himself a
king. He decked himself still with a circlet of gold, although he was lavish in
his homage to his conqueror. “We can strike south into the Hundred Realms. Or
we can turn west. There’s a wide land between here and Asanion, full of tribes
ripe, and rich, for conquest.”
“West, say I.” The accent was Ianyn, and proud with it.
“Then south, with whole force of the north behind us.”
Another man of Ianon spoke from across the fire. “Why not
head south now? We’re in Ashan already, or as close as makes no matter. There’s
easy pickings here by all accounts, and easier the farther you go: fat rich
southerners gone lazy with peace.”
“Not that lazy,” said one with the twang of Ebros and the
garb of a mercenary captain. “They can fight when they’re roused. They drove
back all the armies of the Nine Cities not so long ago, and kept them back.”
“Talked them back, I hear,” a northerner drawled.
“Southerners and westerners, they talk. We fight.”
oOo
Someone came up around the edge of the council. With a
small start, Elian recognized
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