Caris needed all her concentration to keep Rag from panicking, and to keep Idgit in sight. Behind her the cavernous roars of the yoab spurred Rag like whips on her heels.

Caris held Rag's fragile awareness together, but it was difficult for her, which was strange. She had never had such difficulty calming a single horse. Stranger yet, and more worrying, was that the equine fear was so potent that it began to penetrate her own mind. She had first noticed this difficulty the night before, when the effort to keep Rag calm around Molly had been almost too much for her. If it hadn't been for the upsetting matter of Harric and the wedding ring, she'd almost have looked forward to each time they stopped to rest, so she could hobble Rag far from Molly, and re-enter the world of humans.

In all her life she'd never craved the world of humans over her usual escape into horses.

The monster's noise grew louder, and then it appeared above them, flattening saplings like grass, blasting crimson fire from mouth and nostrils.

Idgit veered to one side and Rag followed at a gallop. Rag's fear was in Caris now, and she let it have rein.

It wasn't for some time before she realized the yoab had not veered with them, and was far away. Slowly, she pushed the horses' fear from her mind, and reestablished calm. She rode Idgit down and took her bridle, then reined them both and dismounted. She held their heads together, comforting them silently for many heartbeats in a quiet copse of dapple-nuts and fern. Gradually their blowing calmed, their eyes ceased rolling. Eventually, even their ears ceased flicking, as the sounds of the yoab dwindled in the distance.

Safe. Safe, she told them. She stroked their velvet cheeks, pressing forehead to muzzles, until they all breathed normally together.

Another horse snorted nearby, and Caris looked up to see Willard's spare horse — Holly? Dolly? — gazing at her across the copse. The tournament hood Willard kept on her was hanging by a mere string, torn from her face in the frantic flight, to expose her long, velvet-gray face. Caris stared for long moments before she realized with the certainty of the horse-touched that she was looking at a Phyros foal.

Caris sucked her breath in surprise. No one had ever seen a Phyros foal in Arkendia. Only grown Phyros were brought to the island, and all those were stallions, with the single exception of Molly.

Caris hobbled Rag and Idgit, and walked, entranced, toward Molly's miraculous offspring.

Holly tossed her head and trotted across the ferns to her side, peering at her intently with pale gray eyes.

   How strange that her eyes were not violet. That must be an adult feature, Caris mused, like an infant human's eyes are generally black or blue before they settle on an adult color.

Holly snuffed her fingers, and let Caris stroke her cheeks. Caris extended her horse-touched senses toward her, probing.

The foal's presence was nothing like the fierce maelstrom of Molly's aura. She bore some of the inexplicable deep nature of the Phyros that set them apart from mortal horses, but the horrible violence and domination that defined her mother was absent. In fact, the signature presence of Phyros was so soft in Holly that Caris hadn't sensed it before, or perhaps the distraction of calming Rag, and the overpowering aura of Molly had prevented it. But now it was palpable.

It was just as clear that Willard had more priceless cargo to protect on this journey than the ring on her finger.

She was deep in the world of Holly's emotions when Rag suddenly reared in her hobbles, terrified. Caris gasped in surprise, stepping back from Holly and shifting her attention to Rag.

Willard arrived in a tempest of pounding hooves. "Gods leave us, you're safe," he said. His face was a mottle of ash and fever spots. When he saw Holly's hood, and Caris's distant focus, he choked on anger. "Get away from her!"

Caris startled.

Willard rode to Holly and leaned down with obvious pain to fit the torn hood across her face. "Didn't I tell you to leave her be? What were you doing with her?"

Caris's mouth moved mutely as she struggled to access the world of language. "Rag — " she managed. Roaring began in her ears, and she raised her hands to shut it out.

Willard shoved her shoulder with his boot, and she let some of her connection to Rag slip away, to keep herself from collapsing with the strain of both worlds. She staggered against Willard's stirrup and stared up as he searched her face.

"Do not fraternize with her," he panted, eyes glassy and wild. "Do you understand me?"

Caris followed Willard's gaze to Holly, as he affixed her lead to Molly's saddle. "Holly..." she said, looking quizzically up in his face. "She's Molly's."

"Moons blast your woman's tongue! Never repeat that. Do you hear? Have you any idea what you've said? Do you know what would happen if it were known?"

Caris blinked, uncertain.

"Tell me you understand, girl. Never repeat that. You understand?"

"I...yes. I won't tell Harric."

"You won't tell anyone. Not Brolli. Not your white witch friend. Not ever. This is a more dangerous secret than that wedding ring, girl. No one else knows it but you."

Caris stared at the filly, her attentions divided perilously between worlds. She released more hold on Rag, and pointed at Holly. "But, she's a — "

" — Phyros. Yes," he hissed, barely a whisper. "Moons take your horse-touched eyes. And no, a Phyros has never given birth in Arkendia. No one knew they could breed outside the Sacred Isle till this...accident." [SM1] 

Her eyes widened. She turned to Willard, with questions, but he practically snarled in anticipation: "It's none of your business what I plan to do with her." He studied her face. After several heartbeats, he said, "Tell me you understand, girl. Are you here, or are you in your horse there?"

"I understand. The Brotherhood. They'd try to start herds in the West."

"Yes."

"But, she's different than Molly. Her eyes ..."

"She hasn't been blooded yet, or any fool could see it in her. Molly will blood her in time, gods leave us."

He closed his eyes and swayed forward in his saddle. "Mount your horse and draw up beside me."

She complied quickly, worried for his fever, and wanting to be near if he should fall from his saddle. When she stopped Rag beside Molly, however, it took almost all her concentration to keep Rag calm. Vaguely, she sensed Willard removing a gauntlet. Then his hand was thrust before her face, red blood welling from a slice across its back. She looked up in surprise.

His eyes were glassy and intense. "Kiss the blood and swear you'll never reveal this. Swear on your apprenticeship."

She kissed the blood. "I swear," she murmured, and he smeared the blood across her lips as if sealing a letter with wax.

He nodded, then spurred Molly back up the slope the way he'd come.

Holly followed on spindly filly's legs, casting curious glances back at Caris.

* * * 

Harric heard Molly's hoof beats drumming the moss before he saw her. When she appeared on the trail with Willard on her back, the old knight rode slumped over the front cantle of his saddle, a sheet of red blood down his leg. Caris followed close upon Rag, as if she expected him to topple at any moment. When Molly approached, Harric stepped away, unsure Willard had full control of her.

"Water," Willard croaked, as he reined Molly in.

Harric lifted a newly filled skin, and Willard sucked at it greedily. Brolli and Caris gathered bandages from the packs, and hurried them to Willard's side. Willard glanced down, water streaming from his mustachios. He snorted. "If you think to coax me down off this saddle so you can patch me up, you'd better have a crane to put me up again."

Brolli frowned. "We stand on a tree, then." He pointed to one of the fallen torchwoods. "You ride up beside."

Willard positioned Molly beside the fallen tree as the others scrambled onto its mossy side. With Harric holding supplies beside them on the tree, Brolli and Caris set to work.

"How in the Black Moon did you make the beast run off?" Willard said, as Brolli attempted a blood-crusted buckle.

Brolli smiled, grimly. "I get lucky. That hurler was a smoke charge. For decoration, only, but I get it right in the mouth, which ruin its smeller for a time. Probably scare it mostly."

"Ruined its smeller?"

"Yes. When they get that big their flesh buries the eyes. They rely on their smeller to 'see.'"

Willard grunted. "Well done."

"I must apologize for the — what you called them — party favor?" Brolli said. "When Idgit run, I try to grab my weapons, but I only got these." He drew an apple-sized globe from his satchel, and held it out for their view. It appeared to be a solid globe of pure witch silver.

"Why do you have party favors?" Harric said.

"For the queen's parties." Brolli grimaced. "Has not been much to celebrate, I fear. Here," he said, laying the globe in Harric's hand. "You threw well today. Toss and see what it do."

"Don't you toss it, boy!" Willard interrupted. He stared at Harric, eyes bright with fever.

"I wasn't going to toss it — "

" — The moons you weren't. Brolli says you tossed one already. That true?"

"But the yoab was charging you — "

"Are you an Arkendian, or an Iberg?"

"I did not mean to tempt him," said Brolli, retrieving the hurler from Harric's hand.

Willard panted, the red mouth of his wound lolling grotesquely. "It seems I must remind you, Ambassador, that Arkendians are bound by the Third Law to use no magic. Nor do we trust it in any way." Though Willard addressed the Kwendi, his gaze bore into Harric. "Magic consumes and maddens the user. You need only look to what is left of the creator gods to know that."

"What if you're already mad to begin with?" Harric said. "Would it cure you?"

"Shut your trap, boy!" Willard grimaced, as if the effort of shouting caused him pain. "Ibergs use magic," he continued, his voice lower, but hoarse with strain. "Kwendi use magic. On the West Isle the high lords employ it. But no true Arkendian. And no man of mine. Is that clear?"

Harric nodded, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, but also irritated that the old knight hadn't become more worldly in his five lifetimes of travel. Harric's mother had encountered numerous cultures when serving the queen abroad, each with different ideas about the moons, and she'd always preached openness to magic, if it served the queen's safety. Willard was clearly more of a traditionalist, so Harric would have to keep his more liberal ideas to himself.

With a heavy, apologetic sigh, Willard turned his gaze to the Kwendi. "Take no offense, please, Brolli. But to Arkendians, magic brings weakness. Harric, like any other Arkendian, remains independent from magic, and relies upon himself. I don't like how comfortable he was with that globe in his hand."

*************************************

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