Followed by Thunder (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 2)

by Forthright

  Within moments, he was at her back. Not touching, but close enough she could hear his humming. He took the tenor part. And then another stallion joined him, taking the lower notes. She glanced back, expecting to see Bavol beside his brother, but it was the stallion who’d been kissing Myla. She couldn’t recall his name, but Ricker had bragged that he was son of the herd’s leader.

  Bavol may have inherited his sire’s beauty, and Ricker had his stature and swagger. Father and son seemed bent on out-humming the other. So much for dignity.

  When the dragon dance ended, Fira thought perhaps Ricker would introduce her to the lead stallion, but some silent understanding passed between them, and his father slipped away. Ricker explained, “He will greet you formally in his private glade. I will show you the way later.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ricker bent closer. “It is natural to cry. You do not need to hide your sadness.”

  “I feel two-faced.” She gritted her teeth. “This is all my fault.”

  “Defending yourself was natural, as well.” He slowly shook his head. “I was prepared to strike, as was Bavol, but we would have arrived too late to save you and Lufu. Is this not the better outcome?”

  She couldn’t deny that.

  He nodded and straightened, and his attention strayed. Apparently forgetting all about her, he shouldered his way to the Circle’s edge.

  Rhoswen and Rhoslyn bunched her in. “Here come the mares,” they hissed in excited unison.

  The herd shed any trace of solemnity, for the Circle now hummed with whispers and giggles and murmurs.

  Fira couldn’t see past the barrier of broad male backs, but the rabbit sisters pulled her and Lufu around to a set of stairs leading to the top of overlooking terraces. Children perched here—sturdy Thunderhoofs and slimsy Duntuffets—all watching with interest as twenty or so mares took their places around the song circle.

  “All the mares are wearing green.” A dozen shades at least.

  “Summer is the greening season,” reasoned Rhoslyn. “They’re dressed for Midsummer Month. See the garlands in their hair?”

  Bright blooms had been twisted into showy wreaths, which graced the brows of every dancer. A pair of musicians struck the opening chords of a new tune—slow as the dirge, but far sweeter—and the mares wove together in an intricate pattern of swaying steps and flourishing turns.

  Rhoslyn jostled her arm. “There she is! That’s her.”

  At first, Fira couldn’t tell which mare she meant.

  “The fairest one, with eyes blue as violets,” prompted Rhoswen.

  Lufu murmured, “So pretty.”

  Fira thought that an understatement. The mare in question had a regal bearing, sun-gold skin, and a glossy tumble of wavy hair, light as cream. Her bare arms chimed with an array of tiny bangles, and a single gem had somehow been affixed to the center of her forehead.

  “Synnis is an excellent filly, and this is the first time she’s joined the dance,” said Rhoslyn in gossipy tones. “Every colt and stallion would leap to her call.”

  Rhoswen added, “We’re curious, since some say she’ll accept nothing less than all.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Fira.

  “She wants more than a coupling and a foal. Synnis is after a bondmate.”

  “Many are willing.” Rhoslyn rolled her eyes significantly. “Some more than others.”

  Fira followed her line of sight and spotted a lovesick Ricker. “Will he ask her to wed?” she whispered.

  Both rabbits shook their heads. “There’s an order to things, isn’t there?” said Rhoslyn. “This is the females’ display. They’ll consider any male, so every colt and stallion in the herd will be trying to distinguish themselves.”

  Rhoswen tapped off fingers. “Gifts, pledges, dares, races, strutting, jostling, capering, courting.”

  “Tournaments, mock battles, quests, bragging,” said Rhoslyn. “Did we mention strutting?”

  “Plenty of strutting,” Rhoswen confirmed with a solemn wink.

  Lufu asked, “The ladies of the herd want husbands?”

  “They want foals,” corrected Rhoswen. “They’ll look over their options, and if a mare is suitably impressed by a colt or stallion, she’ll lead him to a quiet place.”

  “What for?” asked Lufu.

  Rhoslyn dimpled. “Coupling.”

  Fira could feel the blush creeping into her cheeks, but the sight of one of the dancers startled her. “Is that Myla?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  The lead mare flowed gracefully through the movements, a secretive smile on her face.

  Rhoswen giggled, “She’s due.”

  “Definitely due,” agreed her sister. “Who do you think she’d consider?”

  Fira rocked back on her heels. “I thought she was married to Dwennon.”

  The sisters missed a beat, as if trying to understand what she was asking. With some delicacy, Rhoslyn indicated the Circle. “Midsummer is for breeding, not bonding.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  Rhoswen spoke kindly, but she was blunt. “Myla is Dwennon’s bondmate, and while in speaking form, no other would dare touch her. But to strengthen the herd, she might choose another fine stallion and carry his foal.”

  Lufu was frowning. “Husbands and wives should be true to one another.”

  “So it is with humans,” agreed Rhoswen. “Horses are true to the herd and look to its strength.”

  “Myla may well choose Dwennon. More than half of her children are his,” said Rhoslyn. “But there aren’t many mares of the herd who haven’t chosen Dwennon at some point. He’s the source of the clan’s strength.”

  “I would not like that,” said Fira. She couldn’t imagine sharing her husband with other women. Not for any reason. “I would not like that at all.”

  “Nor would I,” Lufu staunchly agreed.

  The rabbits shrugged unapologetically. “To us, this is the way of things.”

  Fira wondered if rabbits had similar customs where courtship and coupling were concerned. But she wasn’t about to ask.

  “Mares answer to no one for their choices, but that doesn’t keep anyone from questioning them.” Rhoslyn’s dimple was back. “Or from placing wagers.”

  “Our own dear mum is speculating hard about Myla,” whispered Rhoswen, forcing Fira and Lufu to lean in to hear. “She thinks if Ricker is disappointed at Midsummer, she’ll take him herself. Make a stallion of him.”

  Fira made a face. “Her own son?”

  Two blinks, then quick headshakes. “Dwennon is Ricker’s sire, but his dam was Gwynnis Alpenglow, a mare from another herd.”

  “But,” she protested, trying to reconcile what had to be a vast age difference. “But she’s Bavol’s mother.”

  “Oh, him!” The sisters exchanged a giddy look. Rhoslyn said, “Bavol is an excellent stallion, in high demand.”

  “Though no mare who’s had him has kept him,” added Rhoswen.

  “Not for lack of trying!”

  Rhoswen tapped her nose. “Bavol must be biding his time, waiting for some lucky filly to gain sufficient years.”

  But Fira wasn’t interested in Bavol’s prospects. “Ricker is even younger than Bavol.”

  Again, the rabbit sisters faltered. Clearly, there was no issue here. Only interesting odds.

  “Ricker is young,” Rhoslyn allowed. “Still a colt, but his lines are excellent, his manners good, when he remembers to use them.”

  “He dotes on the foals,” said Rhoswen. “Still a foal at heart, that one.”

  “Too bad about his coloring.”

  Fira searched for Ricker and quickly spotted him. In a sea of white and gold, his head stood out. His hair had been darker when storm-wet, but it had dried to a light, gingered brown. It was different.

  “Ricker is nice,” said Lufu.

  “The softest heart and the surest strut.” Rhoswen smiled down on the crowd of milling males. “Ricker has the makings of a fine sire.”
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  Rhoslyn indicated the lead mare. “She’s willing. He’s wanting. As the herds do say, that’s a good balance.”

  Rock Collector

  The sun was well up before the mares ended their display, and the rabbits took over the Circle. Lufu clapped and Fira smiled as the Duntuffets proved that they were indeed a “merry mess.” Quick-paced, toe-tapping piping kept the partners in a dizzy whirl. When Rhoswen coaxed Lufu into a circle of young girls to teach her the steps to a simple jig, Fira hung back to watch.

  Myla found her, linking arms and leading her away. “Do you need refreshment?”

  “No, thank you.” Fira hardly knew what else to say to the mare, and the silence grew awkward.

  Stopping in the shadows beneath an ancient camphor tree, Myla asked, “Has something happened? Was it Dwennon? He is a wretched tease, but a steady sire and a fine lead.”

  “No. I mean, I did see him, but I have not met him properly.”

  “What, then?”

  Fira wasn’t sure what sorts of questions might be impolite. The Duntuffet sisters spoke frankly, but she wasn’t comfortable asking Myla about … intimate matters. So she shook her head and murmured, “Everything is so different here.”

  “Which is why you must meet Willum.” The mare steered her along the path. “He is human. Like you.”

  Since it was fresh in her mind, she wondered what Myla meant by like. Awkwardly tall, tragically orphaned, unfashionably dark, repeatedly banished, hounded by monsters? Or was her humanity all that mattered. She knew from long experience that being human wasn’t any guarantee of finding welcome, let alone friendship.

  Fira had a lurking suspicion that the mare was about to put her on display. Her steps slowed.

  Myla glanced down.

  “Did you bring me here to be Willum’s wife?”

  The mare hesitated. “He is a good man. Unique. Vibrant. Dwennon and I would like to see his line established, and for that he needs a willing female.”

  Her jaw clenched. “And if I am unwilling?”

  “Peace, sister. While I hope for his happiness, yours is of equal value.” Myla’s smile was slow, almost seductive. “If he pleases you, have him. If he does not, he is young. There is time. Other girls may yet be found.”

  Fira wasn’t entirely mollified. In her experience, “good” men were usually ugly, and “unique” men indulged in strange habits or hobbies. What sort of man appealed to a horse-person?

  Along a path where the homes seemed to have been heaped together and all the doors were rabbit-sized and brightly painted, they came to a low building.

  “The primary entrance to the Warren is along here. Most of the Duntuffets are miners, and when they find anything interesting, they bring it here. To Willum.” She rapped on the door and opened it, calling, “You are missing the dancing, dear boy. Did you forget your promise?”

  Fira followed her into a long, crowded room that was surprisingly well-lit. She had rarely seen window glass, for it was unheard of in the out-of-the-way corners where she and Lufu usually hid. Yet four panes dominated the opposite wall, welcoming in light that was further scattered by a series of round mirrors and strange lamps. The nearest glowed with pale blue light.

  Unique, indeed.

  “Willum, the dance,” repeated Myla. “Were you not eager to meet our newcomers?”

  On the other side of a long table heaped with tools and clamps and glittering stones, a man paced with his back to them. He was muttering to himself as he tugged with both hands at his hair, which was a rampant shade of red.

  Vibrant, indeed.

  “Willum!”

  He whirled, clearly startled to have guests. “Oh, Myla,” he said. “Is something going on just now? Or yesterday? It started yesterday, and I cannot think what changed. I can hardly hear my own … thoughts ….”

  Having caught sight of Fira, Willum slowly lowered his hands.

  He was perhaps a little older than she, but astonishment made him seem very young indeed. Willum’s slender frame and sharp cheekbones made him look underfed, and a profusion of freckles livened up his pallor.

  Willum grabbed the edge of his worktable as if needing it support.

  Myla said, “Here is Fira. She arrived …”

  “…yesterday?” he asked sharply.

  “Yes.” With exaggerated patience, the mare said, “Did Bavol not tell you?”

  “Bavol?” Willum had begun picking through the rocks on the table—blue, violet, lavender. “I thought it was the storm. A true wind will resonate, you know. Earth and sky have always been compatible, which is why crystals can reinforce a well-wrought sigil, provided the crafter takes the time to tune their soul … to ….”

  He lapsed into muttering.

  A smile lurked on Myla’s lips. Perhaps this was normal?

  Willum came out from behind the table, a purple stone extended. “Excuse me, but would you hold this for a moment?”

  On closer inspection, Fira learned that Willum’s eyes were a brilliant green, his eyelashes were so pale as to be nearly invisible, and his jaw showed a faint line of stubble.

  With a politeness that made him seem slightly less mad, he said, “Please. I think it must be you.”

  “Ricker thought so, too,” said Myla. “She is like you.”

  He shuffled a half-step forward, suddenly shy. “Can you hear them, too?”

  “Hear them?”

  “The stones. Their songs have changed.” He angled the purple crystal, which glittered with many facets. “It is beautiful. And I think they must be tuning themselves to you.”

  Fira felt oddly complimented. Should she tell him about their lucky stone? If she did, would he take it from her and Lufu?

  “Please?” he repeated.

  She lifted a hand, and he placed the crystal on her palm.

  Nothing happened. Was something supposed to happen?

  But when she looked up, Willum’s whole expression bespoke awe. Fira glanced between him and Myla. “What?”

  Willum’s hands came up around hers, closing her fingers around the crystal. Eyes shut, he seemed to be listening, and whatever he heard clearly pleased him. He nodded and announced, “It is you.”

  Myla looked utterly smug.

  Fira was beginning to be annoyed.

  But then Willum laughed softly and sought her gaze. With a lopsided smile, he said, “Hullo.”

  Echoing Song

  Myla abandoned her so that she and Willum could become better acquainted. Fira had no idea what to make of the man, who spent the better part of an hour placing different rocks in the palm of her hand to see what they would do.

  If this was his idea of a display, she wasn’t impressed. But she was amused, and the crystals were beautiful, and she was relieved that he seemed more interested in his work than in a wife.

  Ricker found her there. “Dwennon will be waiting.”

  “Now?”

  He shook his head and pulled up a stool. “Was I right, Willum?”

  “Yes, but you would know that better than I.” The redhead gently placed a fragment of pink crystal on Fira’s outstretched hand. He held his breath for several moments, then exhaled to a smile. “I do know that the stones are responding. Quite favorably. You are wonderful!”

  Fira was startled to realize that last bit was meant for her. She could feel the burn in her cheeks and shot a rebellious look at Ricker.

  He only grinned and said, “This is a good outcome.”

  Maybe it could be.

  To Willum, Ricker said, “You should teach her what you know. Take her for your apprentice.”

  Willum eagerly asked, “Would you like that?”

  She asked, “What would I be learning?”

  He seemed at a loss, but then he came to some sort of decision. “Watch.”

  Fira looked to Ricker, whose nod reinforced the command. And then Willum’s hands began to move. It was like he was drawing in the air, quick and sure. With each flick of his fingers, he pulled light from now
here, until a pattern shimmered in the air between them. All around the room, crystals began to glow. Their light pulsed like a shared heartbeat.

  Choosing one of the smaller stones from the table, he used the tip of his finger to move it into the center of the glowing pattern. And the stone began to sing.

  A sweet treble swelled like birdsong, throbbing with notes that caught Fira by surprise. They seemed to resonate with her bones, plucking at heartstrings, whispering to her soul. She saw the wind take the form of a woman, who danced with a winged man through a sky dazzled by lightning bolts.

  The song ended when Willum banished the pattern and set aside the stone. “Did you hear?”

  Words failed, but she offered a nod.

  It occurred to Fira that this made for a fine display, and she was favorably impressed.

  Ricker guided her to a place called the Vantage, which looked out over a wide valley filled with horses. They must have been the same ones who’d stampeded across the moor. Had it really only been two days ago?

  Dwennon awaited, and Ricker left her alone with him.

  She would rather he had stayed.

  The leader of the Thunderhoof clan turned from the view and held out his hands. “Fira,” he said warmly. “Do you have a family name? A house or clan?”

  If she did, her father and mother had never taught it to her. She shook her head

  He seemed dismayed on her behalf. “Your parents?” he prompted.

  “Dead.”

  “Your kindred?”

  “None.”

  The sound he made deep in his chest might have been displeasure.

  Fira tried not to flinch away when he brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “I have not seen your coloring in the villages hereabouts.”

  Well she knew it. But given the circumstances, she supposed he deserved some explanation. “My mother was from a different land, somewhere far away. Her skin was even darker than mine.” Fira’s throat ached with sadness. “She was very beautiful.”

  “As are her daughters.” And without so much as a by-your-leave, he kissed her.