Over all reigned the meara, the greatest stallion in eminence and rank. Each clan had a meara, which was chosen from their herds for the finest blood and ability, and these stallions were the pride and heart of their clans. No man dared lay a hand on one, save the chieftain, and to kill a meara was a crime punishable by the most hideous death. In the summer, the meara fought for his rank against selected males. If he was victorious, he was honored for another year; if he failed, he was returned with gratitude to the goddess, Amara, and the new meara ruled the herds.
The Khulinin meara was named Vayer. He was standing on a small hillock near the river, a mounted outrider with him. Even from a distance, Gabria would have recognized the horse as the meara. She had never seen a Harachan stallion to compare with him in form, beauty, or strength. He was a large chestnut with a golden mane falling from his high arched neck, and the gleam of fire in his hide. Although the Harachan horses did not have the size or intelligence of the Hunnuli, this stallion was wise from years of experience, and he carried his nobility like he carried his tail, as boldly as a king’s banner in battle.
When Jorlan and Gabria reached the hillock, Vayer neighed a greeting. As Jorlan spoke to him, Gabria looked closer and saw the horse’s muzzle was hoary with age, and scars from many battles marred his red hide. Still, his muscles were solid and his regal courage blazed in his golden eyes.
Vayer gravely sniffed Nara and snorted. She neighed imperiously in answer. The stallion, obviously satisfied, nickered to the men and trotted away. The outriders watched him go.
Jorlan and the rider talked for a moment longer, while Gabria looked over the herd of young horses nearby. They were a strong and healthy group, and they had wintered well. Their long coats had not shed yet and were still thick and shaggy. It would be a few more weeks before their sleek beauty was revealed.
The colts reminded Gabria of the Corin’s horses. She wondered what had become of the brood mares, the yearlings, and the stallions. Had the exiles stolen most of them, or had the horses wandered onto the steppes and been taken into wild herds? Perhaps some of them had found their way to other clans. One horse she would have liked to have back was the Corin meara, Balor. He had been her father’s pride and joy.
“We had a good yearling herd this year,” Jorlan commented to Gabria.
Gabria nodded absently, her mind still on the lost stallion. “Amara should bless you with another rich Foaling ,” she said.
Both warriors stared at her in angry astonishment. Men did not speak of Amara and the Foaling in the same breath for fear of incurring bad luck. Amara was a woman’s deity.
“Your fortunes have been bad,” Jorlan snapped. “Do not cast any of it on us.”
Gabria winced at the reproof. It was well deserved, for she had spoken thoughtlessly.
I should keep my mouth shut, Gabria decided, but it was too easy for her to slip back into her old habits. To make matters worse, she had forgotten what Jorlan reminded her of: she still carried the stigma of exile and death. Most people would refuse to look beyond that, and if anything unfortunate happened, especially a poor Foaling, they would find some way to blame her. She was an easy scapegoat—particularly if the clan discovered she was not a boy.
Jorlan said no more to Gabria and, after bidding farewell to the outrider, guided her to the brood mare herd.
The mares were pastured in a small valley at the edge of the mountains, where a creek flowed out of the hills to join the Goldrine River. Cottonwood, willow, and birch shaded the creek banks, and grass, herbs, and shrubs grew thick on the valley floor.
Spring was not well advanced, but already the fodder was green and lush, and the trees were bursting with budding leaves. There was a delicate, almost tangible essence of anticipation in the valley, as if the rising life in the trees and grasses and the stream had combined with the sunlight to bless the mares and their unborn foals. Almost fifty horses grazed contentedly among the trees, while the lead mare, Halle, kept a close watch on them all.
Nara whinnied a greeting when Jorlan led them into the valley. Halle returned her call and every mare close by replied with a ringing cry of welcome. The mares trotted over to greet the Hunnuli. Their bellies were distended and they moved ponderously, yet their heads swung gracefully as they sniffed the Hunnuli and her rider.
Another rider hailed Jorlan from the creek and came splashing down the stream to meet them. “Ye gods, she is a beauty,” he called. His mount bounded up the bank. “I heard there was a Hunnuli in the treld, but I could not believe it.” He ignored Gabria and stared at the great black horse. He was a tall, deceptively languid man with muddy eyes and an unconscious curl in his lip.
Gabria disliked him immediately.
“Cor,” Jorlan called over the heads of the mares. “This is Gabran. He and the Hunnuli will be riding with you tonight.”
The young warrior’s pleasure abruptly vanished and anger darkened his face. “No, Jorlan. That boy is an exile. He cannot ride with the mares or his evil will destroy the foals.”
Gabria clenched her hands on her thighs and stared unhappily at the ground.
“As you so aptly noticed, the boy rides a Hunnuli. You know full well the mare would tolerate no evil near her,” Jorlan replied. His voice was edged with sarcasm and irritation, and Gabria wondered if he, too, had doubts about her effect on the mares.
Cor shook his head forcefully. “I will not ride with him. Let me have the Hunnuli. I can handle her. But the exile must go.”
“Cor, I appreciate your concern, but the boy and the Hunnuli will stay.”
Cor pushed his horse closer to Jorlan’s mount and shouted, “Why should that boy be allowed to ride guard on the mares just because he has a Hunnuli? Why can’t he earn the duty like the rest of us?”
Jorlan’s patience was at an end. “One more outburst from you,” he said tightly, “and you will be relieved. Your disobedience and insolence are intolerable. I have warned you before about your behavior.”
Cor’s face paled and the muscles around his eyes tightened in anger. “Sir, the exile will blight the mares. It’s not right!”
“He is a member of the clan, not an exile.”
The outrider slammed his fist on the scabbard of his sword. He wanted to say more, but the look on Jorlan’s face stopped him. . .
“Return to your duties,” Jorlan snarled. His tone left no room for argument.
Something swirled in the silty depths of Cor’s eyes like the flick of a pike’s tail. He snapped a look of fury at Gabria, reined his horse away, and sullenly rode back up the valley.
“Sir. . .” Gabria started to say.
“Gabran, you will learn that I will not tolerate such arrogance or questioning of my orders.”
“You do not believe I will bring evil luck to the mares?”
“What I believe does not matter. Lord Savaric gave me his orders.” Then Jorlan glanced at Gabria’s face and his tone softened. “Do not be concerned about Cor. He has received several warnings about his vindictiveness and bad temper. If he gets warned again, he loses his duty as outrider. He is probably more worried about himself than the mares.”
Gabria glanced at him in gratitude. It was a relief to know Cor’s attitude was not entirely her fault.
Jorlan whistled sharply and two large hounds bounded through the undergrowth. He tossed them some meat scraps from a small bag at his belt.
“The Hunnuli can guard the herd better than our men, but stay close to these dogs. The hunters found signs of a lion in the hills nearby.” Jorlan started to leave, then came back. “If you need help, there is a horn hanging in that tree by the creek. Your replacement will be here about midnight.” Jorlan left, cantering his horse back toward the treld.
Gabria was relieved to be left alone with Nara and the mares for a while. She could relax in their undemanding company and enjoy the peace of the evening. The evening was a lovely one, clear and mild, and the twilight gently lingered into night. The wind was cool and the stars glittered overhead in glorious sprays. The night was full of sounds familiar to Gabria: the ripple of the creek, the rustle of the trees, and the sounds of contented horses. She hummed a tune to herself while she rode Nara along the creek and scouted the surrounding hills, keeping watch for a mare in trouble or a hunting predator. The hounds padded silently beside her.