by Forthright
She staggered back, unsettled by someone so free with his affections. “I do not think that was at all appropriate!”
His smile held no apology. “You will not accept the most basic of courtesies? I could take offense, you know.”
“You are taking liberties!”
“No, I am not.” Dwennon calmly said, “I am merely following the lead of my mare. You are Myla’s, so you are mine.”
“Wh-what?” He had to be teasing.
“Did she hold you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did she claim sisterhood?”
“She did.”
“Did she kiss you?”
Fira’s cheeks flamed, which was answer enough for the smirking stallion.
“Then I am free to hold, to kiss, and even to claim, if you were from one of our clans.”
“I am not!”
“Correct.” Dwennon took her by the shoulders and soothed, “You were never meant for me, little beauty. Rather, choose Willum. If you can lure him away from his precious stones, his line can be established. Bear him vigorous sons and proud daughters.”
“Is that why you brought us here?” she asked moodily. “To become Willum’s herd.”
“Ask my sons for their reasons if you need them.” Dwennon asked, “Do you dislike Willum?”
She grudgingly admitted, “No.”
“That is as good a beginning as any.” He smiled disarmingly. “If you decide you find our dappled boy comely, claim him and keep him all to yourself. You know, I have never been possessive, but the idea has a certain appeal. I have heard it called romantic.”
Fira wondered if she was as big a mystery to him as he was to her.
Heaving a gusty sigh, Dwennon said, “I have come to terms with your resolve. I understand that you are in no danger of falling for my considerable charms. Had you four hooves and a frisky trot, I might try harder to curry favor. As it is, Myla’s sisterhood ensures my brotherhood, my protection, and my teasing.”
So he was toying with her!
“Do not be angry, Fira,” he warned. “I am only welcoming you to the herd.”
This time, he kissed her forehead.
When she stubbornly held his gaze, he seemed to take it for a dare and kissed her nose.
She got the distinct impression that Dwennon was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
“Brave little warrior, I find I like you.” He touched her hair, her cheek. “Can you bear up under the weight of my most ardent affection?”
He was exasperating, but so nice about it.
Dwennon kissed her lips again, soft and light. “Good girl. With both willing, we have found a balance. I am proud to count you as kin. Welcome to the Thunderhoof herd.”
Mercifully, that seemed to be the end of formalities.
Herd relationships and behavior confused her, though. “You are my brother?”
“In an honorary sense,” he allowed.
“What does that make Bavol and Ricker?”
The smirk slid from Dwennon’s face, and he looked away. His answer, when it came, was either straightforward or cryptic. Possibly both. “Rivals.”
Cadmiel’s Tump
A week passed, and then another. Midsummer loomed near, and Fira was adjusting to her new home. Not that she understood half of what was going on around her. Every day, she learned something that was both startling and obvious, if only in retrospect.
For instance, she learned that Bavol’s mentor was his dam. Myla planned to announce his mastery of the healing arts at the next Song Circle, which was three years hence. Fira’s own apprenticeship to Willum was baffling and beautiful by turns. Truly, he was a magician in the flesh, though he denied it assiduously.
She had seen him illuminate crystals with a whispered word, then send them spinning overhead until the workroom sparkled. And she’d watched him puzzle out dozens of patterns on paper, which he then etched into empty air, making invisible walls or nets or bubbles, and even a whirlwind.
But sitting and watching a man think grew dull.
And he wouldn’t let her touch his precious piles.
Fira had grumbled that she’d be more useful to him if he let her take up a pick and join the rabbits down in the mines. Surely someone who could resonate with the remnants could locate more.
Willum found the notion intriguing, but in the meantime, she was at odd ends. So she walked out, quite certain the inattentive young man would never notice her absence.
Not long into her wandering, she crossed paths with Ricker, who had three youngsters in tow. Mindful of her latest discovery about Bavol, she asked, “Are you apprenticed to someone?”
Ricker seemed embarrassed. “I take a turn pulling ore carts, and I help patrol the boundaries.”
“You do not … specialize?” So far, everyone she’d met had a role or task for which they were proud.
The tips of his ears had gone quite pink. “Today, these three are my specialty.”
All three—two girls and a boy—perked up at their mention, beaming over their own importance.
She learned their names, met their palms, and when they raced ahead, she hung back, preferring to walk with Ricker. “Are they your nieces and nephews?”
“They are children of the herd who have found their speaking form,” he replied cautiously. He didn’t seem to understand the terms. Perhaps horses didn’t have the same family names?
Fira attempted to clarify. “Are they the children of your older siblings?”
His bafflement turned to bemusement. “They are some of my younger siblings.”
“I did not realize Myla had children so young.”
“Myla is not their dam.” Ricker was watching her face. “Dwennon sired them on other mares. They are like me.”
She had no idea how to respond.
Ricker spoke quietly. “You seem displeased.”
“I am not displeased. I am confused.” Fira’s memories of the home she’d lost were few and precious. “My mother only loved my father, and my father only loved my mother.”
“They were bondmates with no herd.”
Fira didn’t like how sad he sounded for their sake. “They had each other. They had me and Lufu. We were happy.”
He hummed. “Some Amaranthine thrive upon such unions. Among the herds, mingling bloodlines is more common than exclusivity, perhaps because our numbers were once small. Or perhaps we are influenced by instincts related to the animals in our keeping.”
“You behave like a horse because you are a horse?”
“Yet I am no mere beast.”
She agreed. “You and your people are people.”
Ricker ambled along at a pace she could match, quieter than she’d ever seen him. At length, he spoke again. “I may leave the herd.”
Fira jerked to a stop. “Why?”
“Colts of my coloring are better favored in other clans. Dwennon is willing to send me away, to become another herd’s strength.” He didn’t sound happy.
“Do you want to go?”
Ricker studied his feet. “I want to be chosen.”
“You cannot have both?”
“A few days remain. I may yet distinguish myself.” He looked tense, uneasy.
Fira rolled her eyes. “You attacked a dragon. You saved me and my sister.”
He grimaced. “Bavol attacked a dragon. Bavol saved you and Lufu.”
She snorted. “Do the mares know we rode him home?”
Ricker chuckled. That was better.
They reached their destination, a perfectly round green mound with a ring of upright stones surrounding its base. The youngsters clambered all over them, skipping from one to the next with impressive agility.
“What is this place?” Fira asked.
“Cadmiel’s Tump.”
“Really?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Because every other place I have been has a plain, boring name—the Circle, the Warren, the Notches, the Vantage.”
He was grinning again.
“The Wide, the Wallow, the Patch.”
Fira nodded wisely. “Dull as a sunless day.”
“We are close to the sea. Would a look liven up your afternoon?”
“Nicely.”
Ricker rallied his little troupe, and they strolled on. As promised, they didn’t have far to go, and the view was fine, for they stood atop steep cliffs.
“And what do you call this place?” Fira asked.
“We call it what it is.” There was a teasing note to his statement, followed—rather predictably—by a challenge. “Can you guess?”
Fira searched her mind for the most boring label. “The Cliffs.”
Ricker gave a low, nickering laugh. “No.”
“The Edge.”
He rolled his eyes. Clearly mocking her.
“The Shore.”
His pitying look assured her that she was falling far short of the horse standard.
She said, “I cannot guess. Tell me, then.”
“We call it the Leap.”
“That is ominous. Casting yourself from a cliff of this height would mean certain death. A quick end to a sad life.”
Ricker’s eyes widened. “Have you wished for death?”
“I have run from it often enough, and I have never been tempted to stop.” He still seemed unsettled, so Fira said, “No, Ricker. I cannot die. Lufu needs me.”
His gaze darted to the children, and she thought his glance was guilty. Did he consider leaving the herd a kind of death?
But he shook back his mane of hair, arched a cocky brow, and beckoned with both hands. “Not that kind of leap. Come, I will show you.”
She held her ground. He was up to something.
Ricker came and took her hand, drawing her toward the sheer drop.
Fira immediately dug in her heels.
He ignored her warning glare, eyes bright with merriment, coaxing all the while. “There is no danger here. Not while you are with me.”
“I am not afraid, but neither am I a fool.”
“You do not trust your friend and savior?”
“I thought that was Bavol,” she challenged.
Ricker wasn’t put off. “I saw you first—bright as stars, ablaze with power, beautiful in battle.”
She was so startled by his description, she left herself open. He had both wrists now, and he pulled her along as he backed toward the edge.
“Ricker, I do not want to fall.”
“I will not let you,” he said gently, earnestly. “Please, trust me, Fira.”
And suddenly, it wasn’t a game anymore. He wanted to display, if for no one else than her and his younger siblings. So she said, “Yes.”
He instantly stepped closer to her, away from the edge, and he was drawing her arms around his waist. “This is a game for little ones,” he said happily. “Nothing bad can happen if we make this leap together.”
Having promised to trust him, there was no going back.
Ricker said, “Step on my feet.”
She was pressed against him now. His steps backward became her steps forward, and she clutched at his shirt, inadvertently yanking his hair.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
So she did, even though her face probably betrayed her fear.
His eyes softened as he took another step. “You are so brave, Fira. I wish I had your courage.”
“I do not feel brave.” She hated the tremor in her voice.
“Trust takes courage.”
“Then you are doubly daring,” she countered. “To tease a woman who can slay dragons.”
Ricker grew solemn. “I never thought of that.”
Fira bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Look down,” he urged.
She did. And shrieked. Then pounded his shoulder and pulled his hair for good measure.
He hugged her close. “You should trust me more, little faith.”
They hung suspended between sea and sky.
“What are you standing on?” she gasped.
“Is it still standing if my feet are not on the ground?” he asked innocently.
“What is this?”
“Flying.” He patted her head. “Did you forget how we arrived? Bavol flew.”
Fira craned her neck, looking up, down, around. “You can fly.”
“Yes.”
“How?” She demanded. “Why?”
Ricker puffed out his cheeks. “May as well ask me how I dream or why I crave apples out of season. It is simply the way I am.”
“Do not drop me.”
“Do not let go.”
She firmed her grip, and he laughed softly and swayed through the steps of a walking dance. With her feet upon his, the dance was shared. He hummed little snatches of melody, and she slowly relaxed.
“Do you want to go back?” he offered.
“Stay a little longer,” she begged.
It was the right thing to say.
Ricker added a twirl to his steps, and her skirt flared out. He moved her hands to his shoulders, slipped his own to her waist. She felt safe, and he looked so happy. Moving through their childish dance with a far-off look in his eyes.
Fira decided to say what was on her mind. “I do not want you to leave.”
“I do not want to go.”
She found herself repeating, “Stay a little longer.”
He lifted her effortlessly by her waist, bringing them eye to eye. “I cannot go,” he said, testing the words. “Fira needs me.”
Had he been hoping someone would ask?
Fira patted his head and sternly said, “Do not go.”
Ricker glibly countered, “Do not let go.”
Winged Predator
Fira was with Lufu and the Duntuffet sisters when the first faint whisper of trouble reached her. She lifted her crystal-illumined lantern and touched the rough-hewn wall of the mine shaft, unsettled by the warning note that rang with her soul. The sensation reminded her a little of Willum’s ward stones, the ones that kept Glintrubble hidden. Only this was discordant and less distinct, like the fading echo of a cry in the night.
She turned to check on Lufu, but her sister was listening to Rhoswen, whose enthusiasm for mining was contagious.
Half a moment later, Rhoslyn interrupted with a sharp, “Twitch my whiskers.”
Her twin turned, and the Duntuffet sisters’ heads tilted to matching angles of attentiveness.
Into the sudden silence, Lufu whispered, “Is something happening?”
Rhoslyn stared at the stone ceiling as if she could see straight through. “Predator.”
“Armed,” added Rhoswen.
Both miners hefted picks and quick-trotted back the way they’d come.
Fira chased after them, calling, “How can you tell?”
“Good ears, dear. Come along, now! You’re wanted.”
Dread spiked through Fira’s heart. It was happening again. Their curse had not ended. This was their fault, just as it had always been. Would Dwennon cast them out, now that he realized how much trouble she and Lufu could bring to his home?
They clambered out of a narrow passage and into the Duntuffet sisters’ root cellar. It seemed that every rabbit in Glintrubble had a private shaft or two under their home. Fira lengthened her stride, following Rhoslyn and Rhoswen out their cottage’s front door.
In the open, Lufu gasped and ducked. She needn’t have, for the dark shape was higher than the treetops, but Fira could understand the impulse.
The creature wobbled through another turn, wings flapping erratically.
“What is that?” asked Lufu, who clung tightly to Rhoslyn’s arm.
“A bat,” answered the rabbit.
“In daytime?”
Fira couldn’t help smiling. “Is that what worries you, sister? I would have thought its size more concerning.” It was monstrous—easily as big as the Duntuffet sisters’ cozy house, with a wingspan that brought dragons to mind.
“We get all kinds here,” said Rhoswen. “His posture is peace
ful, though the rhythms are faltering. An injury?”
Rhoslyn tutted. “I smell blood. Has Myla been called for?”
“There is Bavol.”
Rhoswen pointed to two figures standing in midair, arms outflung in peace or welcome. Fira recognized the other as Ricker. The brothers kept gesturing to the bat, who only spiraled away.
“Fira!” Dwennon strode up and cheerily decreed, “Come, little warrior. We may have need of your skill. Willum!”
“Here, sir.” The young man hastened over, poking through a small collection of crystals in his hand. “This one might do.”
He placed a small blue stone in her hand.
“Or this one,” he mumbled, considering a wine-colored crystal half its size. “But not both at once. That would be unfortunate.”
Fira shook her head, protesting, “These are your stones.”
Willum added a second blue stone to her hand and closed her fingers around them. “Use them,” he said, more focused than she’d ever seen him. “Protect your herd and your home.”
“Is the bat attacking?”
Dwennon seemed surprised. “The Kindred of the Thunderhoof clan are known to be healers. They need our help.”
More confused than before, Fira asked, “Why do you need me?”
Willum jumped in to explain. “While I lower the barrier to give them entrance, something else could slip inside. Be ready.”
She started when Bavol and Ricker dropped to the ground in front of their father. Ricker spared her a smile, but the mood was serious.
“We have tried everything, but he keeps warning us off,” said Bavol.
“Match him, courtesy for courtesy,” said Dwennon. “Take truest form. Let him see the make of you. It may put him more at ease.”
Ricker’s gaze strayed to the circling bat. “He is carrying someone. He seems worried for them.”
Dwennon snapped, “Willum, open the way.”
He did so with a crack that resounded like a thunderclap through Fira’s soul.
Bavol muttered an oath and launched upward, calling, “Ricker, he is falling!”
Willum’s hands flew, sketching intricate patterns in the air and sending them spinning upward in quick succession. They were his gossamer nets, not strong enough to stop the bat from plunging, but each caught and held for a heartbeat or two—slowing his descent, giving the others time.
