Corisand listened to the gossip of the grooms and riders whenever she could, with her new understanding, and gathered that the Forest Lord was still locked in a timeless state by the healers. By rights he should have been dead. Only Tiolani’s intervention had held him to life for long enough to take him out of time and bring him home, and everyone was remarking, with a mixture of surprise and admiration, that Hellorin’s new heir had inherited a will every bit as strong as that of her father.
With her only rider close to death, Corisand had been turned out into the wintry pasture during the day, and only brought in at night. And already, during these last three dark days, she had discovered what it meant to be truly forsaken and alone. Now she could think in the same way as the two-legged ones: the Phaerie, Wizards and mortals. For the first time, she could feel as they felt: loneliness, worry, frustration and grief.
Several horses had been lost during the slaves’ attack. One of them had been Valir; lordly, magnificent - and her sire. Maiglan, her dam, had raced across the clearing and into the forest in her panic, and there she had caught her foot on a root and fallen, breaking her leg. When the Phaerie found her, there had been no option but to destroy her. Their deaths, and those of the others, filled Corisand with renewed anger against the Phaerie. The Xandim were her people, her responsibility. How dare that accursed Hellorin and his subjects use them as simple animals? How dare they ride them into risk and danger? She rejoiced that Hellorin, the oppressor of her people, had fallen. She hoped he had suffered. She wished fervently that he would die. If she was ever to free the Xandim, Corisand reckoned that Tiolani would prove much less of an obstacle to her plans.
If she ever came up with any plans. First of all, she had to acquaint herself with her new role, its advantages, its burdens and its limitations. Little by little, during the lonely hours in her isolated pasture, Corisand had begun to make sense of it all. She had found a way to shield herself from the thoughts and emotions of others by taking her mind to a place she’d loved ever since she was a foaclass="underline" a secluded valley in the mountains, with a waterfall and a crystal-clear lake, where groups of the Phaerie horses were pastured in turn for a good long rest in the summer. Having discovered this mental refuge into which the emanations of others could not intrude, she found that she could begin to organise her own thoughts. Gradually she sifted through her new legacy of knowledge, until a complete history of her people emerged.
The Xandim were not the same as other horses. Their physical make-up was slightly different, in that they could run faster and jump higher than their ordinary equine brethren, and they had more stamina. They could also see clearly in colour, as the Phaerie, Wizards and humans could, and could utilise the magic of the flying spell, whereas the average horse could not.
They were an ancient race, though not as old as the Magefolk or the Phaerie. The mechanism by which they changed shape drew upon the Old Magic, but the Windeye was the only one with the ability to access and use its powers for other reasons. To her surprise, Corisand discovered that, in ages long past, all the Xandim had been adept in the use of magic, but a religious movement had sprung up which denounced its use as evil and unnatural. The cult had swept like wildfire though the Horsefolk, creating a schism between those in favour of using the abilities with which they had been born, and those who rejected the arcane force of the Old Magic. After a long struggle, the cultists had triumphed, and the last of their opponents were hunted down and slain, or forced into a life of subterfuge and concealment. The use of magic had dwindled from generation to generation, and much valuable knowledge of their civilisation was lost to the Xandim. Only the line of the Shamans had kept the flame alive, persisting through all the years of danger and doubt, and finding ways to pass information, memories and powers from one Windeye to the next - until eventually, everything had come to Corisand.
Had the Xandim only been aware of what they had lost, they would have regretted throwing their powers away as they had done, for when their race had been attacked by the Phaerie, they had been easily overcome and enslaved, trapped in their horse forms by Hellorin because they no longer had any magical gifts through which they could change back. And what was worse, the race had stagnated in this shape for so long that even Corisand, the new Windeye, was unable to access the magic - not until she changed back into human form. And how could she do that? All too soon she had discovered the bitter dilemma that had tormented her predecessors, and it seemed that she was no closer to reaching a solution than they had been.
Corisand stirred restlessly, desperately seeking a way to distract herself from her gloomy thoughts. A change of light in the stable window drew her attention, and she saw that the night had taken on a peculiar, luminous glow that turned the falling snowflakes into a glittering veil. How very odd, she thought. And, since anything was better than staying where she was, bored out of her mind and sinking deeper into despondency, she decided to go out and discover the source of the weird glow.
Now that she was the Windeye of the Xandim, bolted doors were the least of her problems, and the door of her box soon swung open as she carefully worked the bolt loose with her lips and teeth and slid it back. Now, if only they hadn’t actually locked the outside door of the stable . . . Manipulating the catch turned out to be a little more tricky, but after a while she worked it out and pushed the door open. A blast of chilly air came whistling in, but Corisand ignored it and stepped out into the snow.
The night was filled with magic. The snow fell thickly from the low clouds overhead, but far away over the treetops a break had appeared in the cloud cover and the moon, just past full, was shining through the gap, illuminating the millions of tumbling snowflakes as they fell, and filling the night with that mysterious, pearly glow. Utterly entranced, Corisand forgot her problems. Tentatively at first, but with increasing skill and confidence, she began to prance and whirl, dancing with her shadow in the moonlight and weaving hoofprint patterns on the soft white ground, while the falling snow turned her dappled coat to glimmering silver and decked her dark mane and tail with sparkling diamonds. Tomorrow, she told herself, she would once again take up the burdens of the Windeye and, as winter turned to spring and then summer, she would get used to her new role, and begin to learn the things she needed to know. But that was for the future. Tonight, there was only the moonlight, the snow and the dance.
Entranced and transported by the moonlight and the whirling snow, Corisand circled and pirouetted, carving her complex patterns in the thick white covering on the ground, until she was too weary to dance any more. Weary, but for once relaxed and at peace, she returned to the stable, carefully closing the doors behind her, so that the Phaerie would not know she had been out. The snow showed no sign of stopping. By morning, it would have filled in the tracks she had made and obliterated all signs of her presence outside, and none of her captors would be any the wiser. Feeling ready to sleep at last, she lay down on her thick, soft bed of straw, closed her eyes and was lost to the world.
Lost to one world, at least. As she drifted away into slumber, Corisand felt an odd little sideways jolt, and a peculiar, twisting sensation deep within her that had her opening her eyes in surprise.
And the stable had vanished.
The snow and the moonlight had vanished, leaving her standing in a soft, all-encompassing mist that glowed from within with a dim amber light.
Her body had vanished - as she discovered when she tried to take a step forward, and fell flat on her face. It was only then that she saw the arms that she had automatically thrown out in front of her to save herself from the worst of the impact. Smooth-skinned arms, and strong, sturdy hands. Like the Phaerie. Like the humans. Corisand let out a low, strangled cry compounded of astonishment, shock and joy. How could this be? Somehow, she had managed to release herself from her equine form at last, and take on her alternative shape.