• Peigra's Blog:

Calton's Shadow, Pt 2

By: Peigra

It felt good to be alone.

The familiar scents of horse and manure and dried hay had filled her lungs when she had snuck out early, earlier than even the apprentices, who had been startled to find her in the guest barn, seeing to the gelding who had suffered in the rain to bring her home. He had been well tended, and she was grateful someone else had done so, and enabled her to reunite with her family.

The bread had been rising, and she had put it into the oven to bake, and was cautious to stay near the farmhouse so it would not burn. She had never been a good cook when it came to bread, and there had been many accidents when it had been her turn to tend to the bread. She tried, truly tried, and took it out a bit early, but it had not burned, which was her intent, and her grateful sigh that echoed in the silence of the kitchen.

Beyond the guest barns, mostly full now that there was light to be thrown in by opening the end doors and some of the windows, were the fields, and Peigra walked out to them slowly, stopping every few steps to smell it all.

The guest barn was hosting many horses, and the foals must be dropping, as there was only one other spare stall to be had. The guest rooms must also be full, and she peeked into each stall to look at the horse within and pushed at her tattered memories. Some of the horses came back into light, repeat visitors, their riders representatives from as far away as Moonshade sometimes, when they could get around the blockade. Horseflesh was horseflesh, and none cared where it came from if it was of good stock and able to do what was required. She recognized Master Korik’s horse, and on either side were other horses from his Bloodline, their saddle banners hung outside on each stall. Buying more for the runners, as always, and no doubt in good coin with the bridge blown now.

Beyond the guest barn, there were the fields that had been a mainstay of every morning’s view, but now, now they were the most beautiful thing in Peigra’s vision. They were greening up, each pasture rotated through after seven days grazing, and left uninhabited for three weeks afterwards. It was an odd rotation, and other farms in the area were used to help with the rotation, many of them grateful for the coin that Berdel gave them in exchange for the use, or trade for a workhorse.

The ones on Peigra’s left were the lower fields, and left till last as they were still soggy from the rains, and might not be grazed at all until well into summer. The latest foals were in the pastures on high ground, where the mares were penned, pending foaling, and those with foals already on the ground were roaming in search of the perfect mouthful of grass.

As always, the sight of a human so early in the morning meant food, and Peigra walked out into the circular round pen beyond the guest barn, climbing the fence easily and sitting herself on it to look out at the fields. There were lots of eyes turning to see her, and coming closer in the hope she might have something for them. She counted seven mares with new foals, and upwards of a dozen penned, and perhaps more in the main barns which none entered but Berdel and his Bloodline, or the apprentices for their chores.

Peigra jumped down from straddling the fence, her boots hitting the sand of the arena, where horses were brought and shown to prospective buyers, the ring dotted with benches for people to sit and watch as the horses were run through their paces. The sand was soggy from the rain as well and clung to her boots, but an irrational giggle caught her as she shuffled her way through the thick piles, leaving a scuffing behind her of shuffles and furrows in the wet sand. The marks would be gone once horses were brought into the pen, but for one moment, just one, she had left her mark on the world, and no one would ever know she had.

There were many noses at the fence now, staring over and through it at her, curious at what she had brought them. Apples were often saved and cut open for them as treats, and Peigra had come with nothing but her eyes and her nose to inhale the moment, and to see them all again in their wonder. She climbed the fence and startled several as she straddled it, and looked at them with a wide smile.

Noses came, sniffing her, battering her outstretched fingers, her sleeve, the tips of her boots that left sand on several wet noses and no amount of blowing could free the stuff until it was wiped off on the wet grass, or another’s thick coat. They were all shedding, thick clumps of winter fur making them look bruised as it began to mat off. The birds would be making off with great beakfuls of it soon for their nests.

So many noses, and they were all looking at her with the same wondrous curiosity. Did they understand she was no longer from the Now, and in this moment in their lives, was an anomaly in that she was alive again, but should not have been? They were sniffing her as if something was wrong with her scent, and she reached down, touching several noses gently. Horses did not judge folk unless they had a reason to judge, but as any animal, they sensed things about them, and their judgements were often sound. Diel swore that the mares always knew a day ahead of time when she was going to drop her latest baby, because they would be pushing her away with their noses instead of lapping up any leftovers she brought to their pens, as if knowing she needed to be in the farmhouse.

The horses were taller than she remembered, or perhaps she had not seen them in so long that her memories of them were hazy. As a child, she had been able to roam through their legs, and it was often a game to see who could do it the fastest without getting stepped on. The adults always scolded, and punished, any child caught running beneath a horse, as it was not only dangerous, but taught other children wrongly about safety around animals.

None of the animals stood out as ones she remembered, and often children were told not to get attached to any particular beast, as the sales took precedence over anything they cried, screamed or stamped their feet over. “When you earn your own coin, you can buy one,” had been an oft-told thing, or “when you get a husband we’ll give you one to start your own herds with” had been another. There had been one apprentice who had stayed nearly three years, and had been so valuable that, upon leaving, he had been given his pick of one of four horses to take with him as a thanks from Berdel for his service. Peigra remembered that, and remembered the lad’s face and his joy, and horror, at having to pick one out of all of them. She had whispered with the other apprentices for days about that, and they had been extra good in the hopes another might be given out, despite that Berdel reminded them all that, as they were all on the farm, all the horses were, for the time being, theirs anyway.

Ownership of anything on a farm was communal, and it was rare, save clothing, that anyone owned anything in a means of personal manner. Clothing was passed down to the next child when it was outgrown, or turned into cleaning cloths and rags to wipe dishes with, boots the same. Everything from the fields to the plows to the horses and the buildings were communal, and save Berdel, who paid the taxes on the land each year, ownership was just that, the clothing you had on your back today that you had put on. No one truly owned anything until they moved in with their husband or wife, and very few started fresh, oftentimes with elderlies watching over and assisting. There was little talk of owning anything, and the word “mine” was more a myth that children screamed at one another out of jealousy that someone had taken something they were playing with. No, there was no ownership on a farm, not until one got older, and had to own things to prepare for leaving the farm for their own lives, and had coin earned from their childhood, or given as a dowry, to pay for such things.

Peigra looked to the other pastures, and slid down into the fray of horse bodies, pushing them aside gently, but firmly, as she walked along the fence towards the next pasture, and the next batch of noses. Behind her, and beside her, was a long line or muscle, mane and intelligent eyes that escorted her to the next fence, and lifted their heads with dismay when they encountered the blockage of the next fence as she climbed it.

She was not wincing as she took the slats of the fence, and gave a wry smile to herself at that. The wound she had sustained to her right shoulder that had prevented her from using it for several months was gone, and in her mind, only there, was the deep scar that had shattered bone and been repaired at greater cost than she wanted to admit. It felt good to be able to be young and limber again, to climb the fences without care, and to sit on them, straddling them, with her boots on either side, balancing, as she looked at the group of horses behind her, and the new one in front of her.

These were the previous year’s foals, ready to be sold or broken for plowing or riding, and the group was well mixed with heavy and light beasts, all looking up at her with dark eyes of curiosity. There were many colors here, as opposed to the geldings from the pen she had come from, who were ready to be sold and might be in that pasture waiting delivery of payment.

She jumped down into the pen with the yearlings, startling them as they fanned out in a great display of tails and hooves, and all turned back with a sudden swirl, staring at her as she laughed. Even her laugh sounded odd to her, but it was hers, and apparently other than her own memories, she was unchanged from the young woman who had been taken from the farm when her secret was revealed.

The group, as one, came slowly, creeping with noses outstretched, and Peigra held out her hand to them to sniff at a distance. Very curious, and several nibbled at her sleeve, they were in deep bays, blacks, several grays, a few with the oddly spotted hides that made them look as a gameboard from afar, and several of the oddly yellow-toned ones that were for special bidders. The color was difficult to obtain through breeding, and Bardel knew the secret, and it had been passed to him by his father, and he would pass it to his son when Sandin took the farm in later years.

Peigra understood how it was done also, but then again, she had been roaming the land in two lifetimes now, Now and Before, and had seen horse breeders in Port Scion, in Meridian, in the lands beyond Sanctum, and knew some of the secrets. Men were not inclined to speak to a woman, but a woman who could speak their language, knew horses well and their breeding, their gaits, the ways to calm an animal and catch a spooked one were not easily taught, and she had been welcomed in many places for her knowledge.

As a child, she had always wanted one of the black ones, because the mud would not show up as heavily on their hooves, and they had little feathering to catch burrs that sometimes grew along the fences, despite rigorous picking by children whose duties those fell under. There were several, all the heavy beasts that would go into harness soon, with the thick chests and the large heart and lung muscles to pull heavy loads, and they were the ones least afraid of her, and had come to sniff her first.

The beasts who would be runners were the ones at the fringe of the semi-circle, nervous enough to have a human this close, but curious all the same. Their nervousness belayed their speed, and Windrunner was always on the lookout for good animals for his runners. In a single year, he might have upwards of three hundred spread around his little network, and who knew how large it was now, with the bridge blown. There were also always heavy losses in the messenger horses, and spares were always necessary, and despite Windrunner’s incessant demands, even he understood that gestation, rearing and training could not be rushed, not without someone’s safety being compromised.

Each nose that came close got a touch, and Peigra gave one particularly friendly black an itch along its ear, smiling as it turned its head for a better angle, and swung it back and forth with her motions. It had been so long, so very long since she had smiled, or laughed, and been around horses. One gave a great sneeze to her right and tossed its head high, nipping out at those on either side as it wanted to be the next to be itched.

Past them, barely visible over the heads and hindquarters, were the mares with their foals, and she slowly made her way towards them, through the yearlings, who were not as trained to part when a human was coming through. It took some pushing of noses and some gentle noises, and fingers in shoulders, to make a path and keep it cleared. Most were large enough they would probably go to the fall sale, after harvest, with a bit more training.

The mares with foals were used to attention, and tolerated it as she came to the fence, and climbed it, startling the yearlings behind her, and she sat fully on one of the fenceposts, keeping her ankles twined in the fencing to look down at the foals. Nine of them were with their mams, coming slowly to stare at this immense, towering thing called a human who was looking down at them and neither equine nor food.

Peigra came down the fence slowly, two mares sniffing her intently as she climbed down and deeming her neither food nor foe and gave whuffing snorts that she had not brought something for them. She touched each nose in turn, for they were the foundations of the farm, where every last bit of coin came from, and their upkeep and care was paramount. Without them, without proper care and food as they gestated, there would be no foals to be sold, and there was always the occasional one who did not meet the standards, and was kept on the farm until it could be sold for meat. Nothing was wasted on the farm.

The mares were some of the largest on the farm, only the great stallions in the outer pastures larger at the shoulder, and these were the heavy horse mares, whose strength was the backbone of every farm. These foals would be traded or sold within the next two years time and die in harness with all probability, or of the rare old age. It was imperative that they were well bred and their bones well formed, their lungs and hearts able to endure the great stresses of plowing field and packing heavy snows. Their muscles had to allow being in a field from sunup to past sundown, and their hooves heavy and thick and without defects, or they were not taken to sale. No inferior animal from this farm was ever sent to sale, they went to feed others first.

The foals were very young, skittish and full of enthusiasm to the wide world they had been born into, where everything was to be sniffed and stared at and their greatest trial was to eat or race along the fenceline. Their lives were filled with pastures and fences and other foals and various new experiences that filled each new day and would build their futures. The more accustomed they were to noise, sudden and shrill as it could be, the easier they would make the transition from halter to harness.

Peigra sat down on the moist grass, and looked at them, the mares and their foals, others coming, staring down at her oddly. What was she doing down there? The mares took the moment to sniff her hair, and she reached up, touching their noses, loving the tough whiskers that protruded from them and bristled against her palm. There were five mares now, their foals at their rumps, curious but uncertain about this new predicament, a human on the ground that they could sniff and look over.

One beautiful foal, bay-black with a jagged crescent of pink and white along one nostril came cautiously, spindly legs inching closer, and its nostrils reached out first, sniffing Peigra’s outstretched hand. Fingers sniffed, it took a hesitant step closer, catching her cuff and giving it a nibble, and found that cloth was neither tasteful nor edible in the current form. Curiosity pushed it further, and it boldly stepped forward, coming to sniff her hair and caught the end of a braid sticking out from her coronet, munching it a moment and tossing it out, making smacking noises with its tongue and mouth at the distaste. Hair was not edible either.

Slow motion brought her hand up to touch its head, and it gave a startled jump to the side as Peigra wiggled her fingers to one side of its head, and finally touched it, and gave it a hesitant, brief itch. It gave a twitch, and discovered that there might not have been an itch there, but the motion against its hide was pleasant, and deliciously addictive, and it moved closer for a deeper itch on that particular ridge beneath its jaw. That was good, and another foal came up, curious what was happening to its companion, and sniffed Peigra’s arm, wondering why her sleeve was moving as it did.

Peigra winced, feeling the sneeze, and tried to turn her head, letting it loose and the foals went charging off, and one of the mares as well, and wiped her nose against her shoulder, giving a giggle. “Silly things, I just sneezed.”

The foals were all behind their mares now, looking at her with great uncertainty, and she chuckled and pushed herself back to her feet. They were so beautiful, so free, and she wanted to throw her arms around each neck and weep on it for its innocence, for most of them would be long dead before what came to pass took their lives.

Peigra watched the foals, the mares tolerating their antics, and wiped her eyes, lifting her head to stare at the clouds, the blue skies...the skies had been smoke-filled, littered with ashes and catapult balls so one had to always watch where they were going and look skyward at the same time, which was always a challenge.

There had been no green, save the blood of the creatures that always seemed to be endless, always coming, more coming, there seemed to be no end to them, and Peigra closed her eyes, trying to push the memories away. They overwhelmed her, sometimes, when she was so taken by what she had been brought back to, it wrenched her insides to know that she had seen these lands, blackened, treeless, nothing alive but those left to defend it in a useless attempt to try to stop the tide so that those in command could escape to rally troops elsewhere.

How many had died had never been calculated; one only knew by the crunch beneath that someone else had fallen, and that was all the moment of solace that could be given them.

Something rested on her shoulder, and the mare’s great, solid head weighed heavily on the shoulder that had, once, been wounded nearly to the point of amputating the arm, and she reached up with that same arm and scratched the mare’s neck. Names had been given to them, as children, forbidden to name a horse but they had done so all the same to tell them all apart until they could find some distinguishing mark to do so.

The mare reminded her of Baltik, the stallion she had inherited on the battlefield, who had taken she and Anton to safety, and had been felled when some idiot had taken him for a meal and not left him to carry one of the wounded. The stallion had done the same, resting his massive head on her shoulder, waiting for the itch and the honey ball that was certain to follow, as he knew Peigra would have both for him if he was patient. She had called him her wretch, and he had been just that, a wretch who refused to allow anyone but Peigra to ride him after those first few days. He had nipped at anyone who disrespected her, and she had been grateful to sleep near him at night, knowing nothing would harm her again, not with the stallion guarding her, and she guarding him.

It felt odd to be standing without the weight, the banging motion of the shoulder harness against her back, and she was grateful for the lack of it now. There was no telling what the children would have done if she had brought her staff or her hammer, and she had wisely been advised to leave them behind during her visit. She was having enough of a problem not weeping away all the broth she had drunk the previous night.

When she had finally come into...into whatever it was she was now, wakefulness? Awareness? Whatever it had been, she had been told over and over that the weeping would pass, that there was no dwelling on what had been, that she had been brought back to prevent it. Everything she did now, all she spoke and fought and taught would prevent the coming disaster, and yet, she had seen the bridge, the ruins of Port Scion, and perhaps some things could not be avoided.

She looked to the foals, racing each other around their mothers, and wondered if they would die in harness or die out of starvation, human or otherwise. There was no way of knowing until matters started to feel the same as they had before, but no one could say if they were changing anything or merely redoing the past faster, or slower, than it was fated to be.

The foals needed a chance to live, as did her nieces and nephews, and she gave a great sigh, looking to the mare with her great, compassionate eye staring at her. “You don’t know the first thing I’ve been through, do you? You couldn’t even comprehend all I’ve lived and done, and I hope you never do,” she whispered.

The mares were easily moved as Peigra made for the next fence, and climbed it and sat on the top. The hay fields were stubble of what they normally would be, so early in the season, freshly exposed from the snows. The weather had been changed, in Before, by the strange machines that had come from the war, and Peigra had seen their devastation. Not every machine was built for the purpose of good.

She was proof of that.

Beyond the hay field, the stallions were in their pens, far from the mares and the foals, and she looked, seeing none that were familiar, but it had also been so long since she had been home. There was also another holding pen, and she jumped down into the greening field, making her way slowly through the wet grass, feeling the rising heat of the sun beating down on her. Of course, now that she was no longer on the road, the skies had cleared. Typical.

The second holding pen was near the other guest barn, and Peigra saw the new wood all along one wall, testimony of upgrades or perhaps damage from within. She would have to ask Purga what had happened, as the barns normally did not need such replacements as an entire wall, but she had not been there to know what had happened. Purga would know, and Purga was a walking receptacle for information, wanted or otherwise.

Peigra climbed the fence, and stared down at the horses, watching them with delight. These were not the single group as the other one, no, these were the prize horses, picked out for conformation, stamina, strength and would be sold for a premium. These were the ones that Windrunner sent his representatives for, but never picked out despite asking to see every last one through their paces.

She watched them, milling as fish as they eyed her cautiously, and they had probably been herded by the apprentices, for they were skittish, and she just sat on the fence, watching them, watching her. There were some beautiful horses mixed in, a great, barrel-chested beast that looked as if he could pull a wagon himself, and sleek, gaited bay who was more interested in posing along the fence for anyone who might be watching.

She watched them, picking out each beauty as it came to stand still, wondering what she was going to do, and then moving on with the rest of the group. Peigra had nothing to lose, and leapt down into the pen, doing nothing for a moment. What was the worst that would happen to her if they stampeded and trampled her? She would be dead, dead finally, and perhaps that might be good, as the nightmares would end and leave her be.

She had her eye on one particular horse, and slowly made her way towards the herd, who were all ears alert and moving slowly from the left to right, trying to determine who she was looking for. Peigra took gentle steps, not wanting to frighten the horses any more than they were from their penning, and stopped in the exact middle of the pen, letting them shuffle themselves around the edge in an ever-changing rotation.

To her left, the odd pattern showed itself again, and she followed it, narrowing in on the horse as she turned her head, following, and finally found the beast as it came to stop, staring with two others in her direction. It was massive, not a workhorse but having no sleekness to it, the back legs rolling with muscle in a manner she had never seen before. It was a black, a black that had no bay on it as the sun shone on it, and the odd marking on its shoulder had been what she had seen first. Just against the right shoulder was a great white mark, as if scarred, in a ragged line.

It was the same mark as had once been on her shoulder, Before, and she walked slowly, trying to see the beast closer. The horses scattered, and she stopped again, surprised when the horse did not bolt and stood its ground. Horse and human stared at one another, and Peigra held out her hand to it. It stretched out its nose to her, sniffing her fingers, and she felt teeth against her skin, not breaking it but testing it. She had been bitten by horses before, and all had been her own fault, but this, she had never known a horse without tether or saddle to bite outright.

There was no bite, merely a taste, the same as Baltik would have done to her in the past, and she felt the mouth leave her hand, and the horse’s ears flicked, curious about what she was doing staring at it, and why she was in the pen. Peigra looked to its shoulder, moving around, and stared at the mark. It was white, a jagged mark that was a line with a pair of ovals just below and left, and ragged from where the winter pelt was being shed.

Peigra tried to breathe, hearing the voices from Before, the choking smoke from the fires, the catapults being strung all around her, bowstrings snapping and the whistle of arrows above, and the chaos of the battlefield. There were bodies all around, more falling, and she had heard someone shout, and had turned without realizing why.

Turning had saved her life, and put the wound on the right side, and not the left, into her heart.

The sword had gone wide and high, smashing into her shoulder, the grip with the embedded daggers had dug deeply, serrated and barbed, and she and her assaulter had gone down in a tumble of a shriek and blood.

“No,” she said, wincing, closing her eyes against the memory, and dug her fingers into her eyes. She wanted them all to go away, to stop tormenting her, but they were part of her, as much as this new body was. But it was not a new body, it was her old one, somehow, the same as she had been when she had left the farm, full of hope and good deeds and thoughts, taken away when they had discovered what she was and never to return, not in that lifetime, not alive anyway.

The horse was staring at her, still, and she looked up as she opened her eyes, knowing the horse had had no choice what markings it had been born with, and she reached out her hand, not trying to startle it, and touched its neck gently. It allowed the touch, and she ran her hands on its skin, down towards the mark, and stared at the mark.

She wondered, and put her hand over it, feeling the hiss of her shoulder and the memories, the pain that had seemed to last forever as bones broke and steel collided, and she winced, forcing the pain and the memories and all with it back down into the hole that had been created in her soul when they had taken her from the farm.

The mark stopped burning her shoulder, but there was a pulsing there all the same, and she stared at it. The odds were too great, there was too much that could not be explained, but this was her horse. She knew it, and as she looked up, feeling a nibble on a braid, the horse seemed to know it also.

He. She looked beneath, and saw it was a stallion, and chuckled. What were the odds?

He was also massive, one of the tallest horses she had ever encountered, and the fence would have been the only way for her to get on his back.

There was only one way to find out.

She made her way to the fence, climbed it, and went to the guest barn. There was always spare horse anything there, as guests rarely brought tack of their own for new purchases, and every horse left with a halter, even if it was ragged. The doors had been opened by someone, which meant the apprentices were up, and she found one of them, a rangy lad barely sprouting stubble on his knobby chin, and he stopped, staring at her as he set the forkful of hay down.

“You’re one of the ones they brought back, aintcha?”

Peigra frowned, and nodded. There was no sense lying to the lad, when the messenger she had come with had three scrolls from General Catari. Everyone who had seen them drop into Belden’s hand had seen the sigils with her mark, and every child learned what they were early. “I’m an Ascended,” Peigra said quietly, wondering why that admission hurt more than the look of sudden adoration and worship in the lad’s eyes. “And I need a halter for a horse out there,” she said.

As she had assumed, the lad was just sprouting, and not only besotten with her beauty, but the fact of what she was, and not just female. He stared at her, and she gave him a tolerant smile; she had been through this before, and looked to the wall. Not that she was, now, not that much older than him in this body.

The spare halters had been neatly hung from pegs all along it, in the past, and she took one with a lead rope, hoping she did not have to adjust it too much. She had no idea if the horse would allow itself to be caught, let alone brought into the arena to be run around so she could look at him.

“Whachadoin,” came from Caralin, wide eyes looking up to Peigra from beneath several saddles on their log rests, and Peigra smiled at her. Caralin was Diel’s twin for all they looked alike, separated by years and responsibility, and she reached down to pat the dark brown hair.

“I’m going to do something stupid and probably get kicked over a fence,” she said.

Excited with that prospect, Caralin climbed up from beneath the saddle she had been hiding beneath and went skipping behind Peigra. “Can I watch,” she asked, already climbing the fence to sit on one of the posts, looking down to Peigra before she had given permission.

Peigra chuckled, climbing the fence herself, and leapt down the other side. A finger waggled up at Caralin. “You stay here, or I tell Diel you were hiding in the guest barn.” That was threat alone, and Caralin’s frown darkened as Peigra turned, hiding her smile. An old threat, and she was surprised she had not only remembered it, but had had a little niece to use it on. She tried not to giggle.

Back to the pen, and she used the slide in the gate this time, coming in formally, and the horses were all at attention now, staring at her with the halter over her shoulder and the lead the same. Someone was going to be taken from their ranks, and they clustered together. She looked at them, trying to find the black, and could not see him from this side, as all the horses were facing her from their left sides, not the right.

A memory surfaced, an odd one, and she frowned. Well, there was nothing to lose, and she gathered some air in her lungs and let out a sharp, brief whistle. Ears were attentive now, and Peigra noted that every horse had gone still.

Every horse, save one, and she began to be afraid as one of them started walking towards her, breaking ranks. She felt ill, and watched the horse with the white mark on its shoulder come to her, and sniffed the halter on her shoulder, and eyed her with an intelligence that frightened her.

He did not balk when she took the halter, untying the knot, and slipped it on his head that he held patiently for her, nor did he resist the tug at the lead when she walked him to the gate, and led him through. None of the horses were willing to go near the gate, and as she closed it, she realized she was closing a chapter of this animal’s life, and opening a new one.

She let him go in the arena, and was not surprised when he stood where she had left him, watching her. Caralin was gone, where only she knew, and Peigra gave the child no more matter, feeling a bit better she was not on the fencepost where she could fall down. She held up her hand to the horse, and let it sniff her fingers again, staring, and wondering. “You knew I’d come, didn’t you?”

The horse eyed her, and waited, and she gave a low, wry noise. Why did it not surprise her that it had come to this? She had come back, and of all the breeders of horses, Berdel was one of the more famous, or the Bloodline she should say. It traded hands as each generation came and went, but the horses were always good from this farm.

She looped the rope around the stallion’s neck, and led him gently to the fence, and left him there to stand, peacefully, stoically, while she climbed the fence. She would only have one chance at it, and risked being thrown and kicked, and took the risk, reaching out to the rope and took the leap of faith, pulling herself onto the stallion’s back.

He shifted at the unaccustomed weight, as they all did that first time, uncertain what was happening, and Peigra held tightly to the rope, looped into the stallion’s neck in a makeshift set of reins, and gently tugged to the left.

He moved, gently, and began to walk until she halted him near the fence. She backed him up with a slight whistle, and he obeyed. Right. Left. He went into a canter in the arena as she paced him gently, feeling his muscles limbering up from the cool of the night and prancing around on display.

How had it been possible that of all the horses in the world, in two times, it had come to this? She had come back through some wry wrong circumstance, why not her only companion in those last, dire times?

She stopped him from the canter, letting him walk slowly to rest along the fence’s boundary, and felt, with her hand, along his neck. There, just below his mane, on the left, was the dimple, a small, raised bit of muscle or bone that showed when his mane fell to the right and not the left, and was the first thing she had discovered on him before.

Peigra stopped the horse in the middle of the arena, looking up to Caralin’s cry, pointing through the slats, to Berdel and several of the others staring in at her. With an amused chuckle, she moved the stallion towards the fence, and stopped him before the watching crowd. “I found a good horse,” she said, smirking.

Berdel was staring at her, and shook his head, and Purda was staring also, but a different look in her eyes, a wondrous, joyful one as opposed to her son’s skeptical one. “Little bug,” Purda said. “That horse’s goin t’meat, no one can ride him, till now. Wild n’crazy he is.”

Peigra smiled, and felt the horse as he snorted beneath her. How long had he been waiting for her as well? “When was he born?”

“Two years ago, been a thorn ever since.”

She nodded to Purda, that smile still on her face, and she patted the stallion’s mane. It fit, as it would have made sense. She had been back not that long, but the horse had come first, and she wiped her eyes, feeling stupid for crying again, but this was hers, not theirs. This moment, it was hers, and nothing they could do, Before, Now, or at any other moment in her two lives, could change it.

“I think I’ll call him Baltik,” she said, and the stallion took Caralin’s offering of fresh grass, given through the slats in the fence, and Peigra grinned. She was going to have to carry honey balls in her pockets again.

It felt wonderful to have to be thinking that again.