Wolf Captured (26 page)

The sensation of nervous anticipation came back in full force.

“Lead on,” Derian said. He swallowed an urge to say, “You mean we haven’t seen them already?,” because he knew they hadn’t.

“The Wise Horses are free to use any of the pastures,” Varjuna said, “and some enjoy mingling with the lesser horses. Actually, they’re a great help in keeping order among the young uncut males. They seem to be able to control them—talk sense to them, as we like to put it. However, they like their privacy as well, so we have facilities …”

Derian didn’t hear another word he spoke. He had seen his first Wise Horse, and the sight took every bit of attention he had to spare.

He had expected the Wise Horses to be outsized, as Blind Seer was to the more usual wolves, but though the Wise Horse that was walking across the smooth stretch of spring pasturage toward them stood easily as tall as a warhorse, it was no larger. What was incredible about it was the delicacy of its lines.

The nostrils that flared to catch Derian’s scent were almost dainty, the ears sharp and perky, the bone structure—while amply strong to carry the muscles that rippled over it—was without the least trace of heaviness. In the arch of the neck, the straightness of the leg, in every line of the horse’s frame there was raw power, but no clumsiness.

No wonder,
Derian thought,
these people think that the horse is some sort of wedding of Air and Earth.

Only after his horseman’s eye had finished drinking in the horse’s incredibly perfect lines did Derian notice what another person would have noted from the start. The horse’s markings were a mixture of black and white. These were not the orderly pattern of stockings against a solid coat that Roanne had borne, nor yet the splashing of blaze or star or stripe as adorned so many ordinary horses, nor even the occasional splash of white across the belly that might mark an otherwise solid coat.

The Wise Horse was colored with a wild defiance of what humans would have called order. His coat was more black than white, the head solid black but for a thin white blaze. Behind the ears, running along the mane, was a patch of white nearly half the length of the neck. It mixed snow into the long flowing hairs of the mane. There was white patched along the horse’s flanks as well, including four white stockings, each well over the horse’s knees, the hind set going right onto the rump. Thus the horse’s tail was particolored as well, and the mixture of white and black somehow made it seem longer and fuller.

“High Stepping Horse!” Derian swore softly in Pellish. “Your image before me!”

He dashed sudden tears from his eyes, feeling as if he was being disloyal to Roanne’s memory, but aware that he had never seen a more beautiful horse in all his life.

“This is Eshinarvash,” Varjuna said, and Derian mentally translated the name as meaning something like “Wind Runner.” “He is the chosen ambassador of his people to us this moonspan.”

“Ambassador?” Derian said, speaking the first word that came to his mouth.

“Go-between,” Varjuna said, obviously not certain Derian had understood him. “We can’t expect the entire herd to come when we have a question. The designated ambassador keeps watch, and if another must be summoned, takes care of the matter.”

Varjuna lowered his voice slightly. “It gives the younger stallions something to make them feel important. There are only so many mares, after all, and not all of them care to breed.”

Derian wanted to press his hands to his ears, unable to grasp any more. Instead he laid his hand flat so Eshinarvash could sniff it. He felt the lips, curiously dry, move over his hand, and the horse blow softly.

“Don’t have any carrots or sugar,” Derian said, reverting to Pellish.

He leaned forward and blew gently into the horse’s nostrils, giving him his scent as Colby had taught him to do. Eshinarvash breathed back, and then pulled away, but only far enough to lip Derian’s hair with apparent curiosity.

“He likes you,” Varjuna said, not as a man would about a pet, but as a man might translate for a friend with laryngitis, “and he’s never seen hair the color of Fire before.”

Derian pulled his hair away, but reached up to scratch the horse behind his ears. Even with his height, he had to stretch.

“And I have never seen a horse so magnificently colored,” Derian replied. “I’ve seen the occasional patched or piebald, but usually they’re poor creatures, from wild stock. They lack the shine—the elegance.”

“And what stock do you think these are?” Varjuna said with a laugh. “No human puts stud to mare among the Wise Horses. They work these matters out for themselves. I’ll tell you something strange, though. Time and again someone decides to put a Wise Horse in with the mares, hoping, you know, to improve the strain, but never has the stud leapt the mare—not even when she presented and flirted. They’re aware of the differences between them, and the Wise Horses won’t breed the lesser.”

“I’ll believe you,” Derian said, “though it’s more the pity. What foals this one would throw!”

“Much like his sire,” Varjuna agreed. “The black and white patterning runs true in that family.”

“Then all the Wise Horses aren’t black and white?” Derian asked.

“Oh, no. Chestnuts, greys, bays, but almost always mixed with white. The patterning differs, too. Eshinarvash comes from a line that does these wonderful patches, like clouds against the night sky, but there are those who are more spotted than patched. Then again, there are occasionally solid ones—duns and greys—but even these aren’t solid, not really. They have the heavy barring along the spine and usually darker points.”

“I’d love to see a herd of the Wise Horses,” Derian said dreamily.

“You can,” Varjuna said, “but only if you stay with us. We don’t have time if you’re to get back to the city on time.”

Derian reluctantly let his hand drop from Eshinarvash’s crest.

“You’re right. Thank you, Eshinarvash, for letting me make your acquaintance.”

His knowledge of Blind Seer kept Derian from being completely astonished when Eshinarvash dipped his head in evident acknowledgment. Varjuna was definitely pleased. However, the pleasure on his face shifted to mild astonishment when Eshinarvash reached up and tugged on a heavy piece of rope set on the edge of the fence. This opened the gate, and the Wise Horse walked through.

Eshinarvash came over to Derian and stomped his forehoof lightly against the turf.

Derian glanced at Varjuna, certain that something more than another neck scratch was being requested.

“He’s offering,” Varjuna said with a certain amount of awe, “to take you back to the city himself.”

Derian shared the other man’s awe and took a step back. Varjuna misinterpreted this as uncertainty.

“Can you ride bareback?” he asked. “The Wise Horses suffer a saddle from time to time—it protects their back and our behinds—but we do not keep such here.”

Derian nodded. “I can ride bareback. I just wanted to make sure it was acceptable that I ride one of them.”

“Whatever is acceptable to the horse,” Varjuna said, “is acceptable to their keeper. Use the fence rails as a mounting block, or I can give you a hand-up.”

But Eshinarvash already had the matter under control. He knelt with contained grace, bringing himself close enough to the ground that Derian could get astride with ease. There was nothing humbling about the gesture—it was more like a parent bending to take up a child.

Without further delay, Derian accepted the invitation, glad that he had not restricted his riding to relatively smaller horses like Roanne, but in his employ for Earl Kestrel had ridden warhorses as well.

“Tell Eshinarvash where you wish to go,” Varjuna said, “and he will take you there. He knows the city well enough to find any of the temples.”

Derian was careful to speak Liglimosh, though he wondered if the horse might actually understand all languages.

“I need to go to u-Nahal,” he said, “in Heeranenahalm.”

Eshinarvash blew out through his nose in acknowledgment and began to walk.

Varjuna called hastily, “I hope we will see you again.”

“Me, too,” Derian replied, setting himself more firmly and hoping Eshinarvash wouldn’t mind his rider gripping his mane.

Then the Wise Horse moved from a walk into the smoothest canter Derian had ever had the pleasure to experience and carried him across the mellowing green of the late-afternoon fields.

Their route took them to the west of the main city, through farmland, orchards, and forests that showed ample evidence in their cleared riding trails and well-maintained bridges that they were anything but wild lands.

Game parks,
Derian thought,
maybe for hunting.

He remembered the jaguar, Truth, and the thought that her kind might hunt here unsettled him and made him scan the tree limbs wherever they extended over the trail. He reminded himself that his mount was a Wise Horse. Even a more usual horse would shy at the scent of predators—a thing that had made Firekeeper’s association with horses difficult. Certainly a Wise Horse would be at least as sensitive.

But what if the yarimaimalom don’t want us here?
he thought, remembering how the Royal Beasts had reacted to the efforts at settling the lands west of Hawk Haven’s portion of the Iron Mountains.
What if we’re upsetting their orderly existence? Certainly Firekeeper is finding her ideas upset. What if these yarimaimalom are finding their own ideas upset?

The more Derian let his thoughts run down those courses, the less delight he took in Eshinarvash’s smooth gait and the speed at which they traveled. He found himself eyeing the side of the trail, wondering if he would be safer if he jumped off and made his own way.

Then, of course, he would be a strange red-haired man out in countryside where the dark-haired inhabitants might not have heard of his coming. They might be afraid, or hostile. Then, too, Derian had no idea how long it would take him to reach the city on foot, and he didn’t fancy making the journey after dark.

So despite his trepidations, Derian remained astride Eshinarvash. In the end, nothing jumped from the tree branches, nor did Eshinarvash throw him and leave him to the wolves. Instead, the Wise Horse slowed as the blocky heights of u-Nahal came to dominate the horizon, came to a walk along what must be the hindmost wall of those temple gardens, came to a halt next to a door in that wall.

Eshinarvash bent his head and blew, shaking his skin as he might to dislodge a fly. Derian took the hint and slid to the ground.

“Thank you for bringing me back,” Derian said in Liglimosh. “I hope I’ll see you again.”

Eshinarvash blew again and lipped at Derian’s hair, then without further delay turned away, heading back from where he had come.

Derian watched the receding figure for a long moment, then turned to the gate. He was not surprised to find that the latch rose at his touch. A doorman within pulled the door open and motioned Derian inside.

In the garden the heady aroma of flowers combined with the sleepy sounds of birds settling into the boughs, for the night gave dimension to the gathering dusk. Derian accepted the small candle lantern the doorman gave him, and with its light to illuminate the path, went off to find Firekeeper.

XI

AFTER DERIAN LEFT WITH VARJUNA, Firekeeper and Blind Seer inspected the whole of u-Nahal’s gardens. They were more extensive than they had seemed from outside the walls. Claw marks on trees and sprays of acrid scent showed that the jaguar had claimed them for her own, but this did not trouble Firekeeper. Wolf sign would have given her reason to feel concern, but all she found was so very faint as to be nearly gone. Wolf or wolves had been here then, but probably not for a moonspan or more.

Firekeeper and Blind Seer had a good run before finding a quiet grotto on some soft grass alongside a burbling spring and falling asleep. They awoke as the light was fading, alerted by the sound of someone coming along one of the paths.

There had been others who had walked in the garden while they rested, but if they had seen the pair they had not offered any threat, so wolf and woman had settled back into sleep. This time it was not threat that brought them fully awake, but the awareness that they knew those footsteps, even before they heard Derian call softly, “Firekeeper? Blind Seer?”

“Here,” Firekeeper replied.

Derian stopped and she realized his eyes were having difficulty finding them amid the dusk and shadow. His dependence on the light from the candle he carried didn’t help his night vision, but she couldn’t seem to get him to understand that. His reply was always the same.

“But when there is no light, my eyes cannot make any.”

Firekeeper stepped forward so that the edge of the pale circle of candlelight touched her, and Derian smiled.

“So you did stay in the gardens,” he said. “I was imagining going door-to-door looking for you.”

“You smell like horse,” she said, her nostrils flaring as she tried to analyze a subtle difference in the scent. “You see many horses.”

“Many,” Derian said, coming to them. “Is this a good place for us to talk? Private, I mean. Even if we’re speaking Pellish, I’d prefer not to be overheard.”