“You never saw your love again?” he asked Calydor. The other shook his head. “Perhaps she dwells yet within the Vale.” Jan frowned, calculating. “She would be about the age of my dam.”
“Aye,” the star-thrown stallion murmured. “Sometimes I wonder if she will ever break free and return to the Plain, as she vowed to do, when the unnamed task that called her back to the Vale was done. She bade me dismiss her from my thoughts and not to wait for her. Yet I have never forgotten and have waited the years, in hope that one day we once more may meet and dance the longdance to its end.”
“The wait may not be much,” Jan suggested, unsure why the matter should concern him so. “If she lives, this poppy-maned mare will travel among us when we leave the Vale next spring and trek to the Hallow Hills.”
The seer glanced at him. “I have not dreamed of that,” he whispered. The night breeze stirred. “Your Vale is hidden from me. The goddess conceals it. I know not why.”
Calydor fell silent, gazing off across the river of stars that flowed below them. The soft lowing of far-off oncs haunted the air. The singer’s ears pricked, listening. He remained still so long that Jan began to wonder if their conversation were at end. At last the other drew breath.
“After I lost my love, after she turned from me and struck out for the distant sea, I dreamed of her one final time. Álm’harat granted me that. I saw her not as she had once appeared, but older, a mare in prime rather than one just entering the first blush of her youth, still hale and fair, but one who has borne her young and seen them grown. I beheld my beloved traversing the Mare’s Back. I dare to hope therefore that I will see her again, that the promise of our first love may yet be fulfilled, to run shoulder to shoulder all the rest of our days across the wide and rolling Plain.”
The broad veldt had quieted, the sound of revelers long stilled. No more contests or further sport occupied the dancing ground.
Many of the Plainsdwellers had returned to lie beside their young. Even those yet roving the long grass had hushed. Jan caught only an occasional rustle, a snort or stamp, a breathless whicker. A breeze sprang up, combing the grass, its touch pleasantly light along Jan’s back.
He felt at peace, no longer stiff and sore. He turned toward Calydor, drowsing now by his tiny grand-niece, his silhouette against the star-sheened grass so familiar that Jan pondered anew. Of whom did this stranger remind him? The young prince shook his head. His eyes slipped shut. He drifted into dreams only half aware.
He dreamed he saw his dam profiled by starlight. She stood on the lookout knoll high above the Vale, gazing off toward the Plain. The twins stood beside her, horn-buds sprouted, blunt thorns upon their brows. Tek kept watch below them on the slope. All four stood silent. Jan wondered how often they held this vigil, forgetting that he dreamed. Ses murmured to his mate, then turned back to the twins. The wind lifted her forelock, fanning her magnificent mane, washed of all color by the faint light of stars.
“Can you sense him yet?”
Painted Aiony nodded. “Aye.”
“Is he safe?”
White Dhattar nodded in turn. “He sleeps.”
Tek climbed the slope to join them. “Where is he?”
“At riverside,” her filly replied. “Among companions.”
“Renegades?” the pied mare asked quickly, forgetting and using the old term for the people of the Plains.
“Plainsdwellers,” Ses murmured. Tek nodded.
“A dark-blue stallion all spattered with stars,” Dhattar replied. “A river of them flows overhead, and another below. Alma’s eyes are everywhere.”
Beside them, Ses gave a little snort. “Dark blue?” she asked quietly. “How dark?”
Dhattar butted her. “Like indigo.”
Gently, she shouldered back. “And the stars?”
“Silver,” Aiony told her. “His mane and tail as well. Three hooves wear silver socks.”
Her brother scrubbed his chin against his granddam’s shoulder. “A seer and a singer and a dancer, like Jan.”
Tek shook herself. “Jan is no singer.”
Dhattar and Aiony exchanged a glance. Ses said nothing.
“He knows where Korr may be found” Dhattar whispered at Tek, “or where to begin the search.”
His black-and-silver sister nodded, shrugging him away from Ses. “He’ll lead Jan there.”
The pale mare seemed not to hear them. Her expression was distant, deep in thought, eyes gazing toward the Plain. Tek gathered her filly and foal.
“When will he return?” she asked, nuzzling them.
White Dhattar raised his eyes, blue as summer sky, with pupils black and deep as wells. “We said before. He will not return. We will not see him again till the fire from heaven falls.”
Tek glanced away, rolling one shoulderblade. She could make nothing of their talk. Their granddam stirred.
“And Korr?” she asked.
The twins turned to her, their faces solemn. They said nothing. Night breeze lifted. The pied mare sighed, missing her mate. League upon league away across the Plain, the sleeping prince shifted and then lay still. He dreamed of traversing a wasteland toward distant thunder. Nearby, a tiny filly’s legs twitched, flexed, dancing in dreams. The blue-and-silver stallion beside which she lay nodded over his knees. He dreamed of a mare pale as cloud at first dusk, older now, but still graceful fair, her mane red as sunset, as poppies, as flame, lifted and thrown by the freshening breeze.
Jan stirred. Dawn air held still, sky fading into grey. The summer stars had faded from bright beacons to mere specks. The dancing ground lay largely deserted. A few foals and fillies still dozed. Their sires and dams stood by. Others were just emerging from the long grass, mares leading, stallions trotting behind. Many shouldered and chivvied one another fondly, like newly pledged mates. Jan longed for Tek powerfully, and for their twins. “Good dawn,” the blue-and-silver stallion nearby him murmured. Nestled beside him, the sky-blue filly slept on.
“Good dawn,” Jan murmured in reply.
Sky above brightened. Those on the dancing ground rose, shook off, some bidding companions farewell. Jan listened to hoofbeats heading off in all directions. Dawn blush touched the horizon, infusing the sky. Crimson loped from the tall Plains grass. Behind her, Goldenhair halted at grass’s edge. Farther back, Jan spied others, evidently part of this new-formed group. The pale gold whinnied and stamped. Crimson approached her uncle, bowed low to one knee.
“Good dawn, my child,” he greeted her.
She answered him, “Good dawn.”
“So you travel with Goldenhair again,” he observed.
She laughed. “Always.”
“And two companions.”
Glancing past the pale gold to the russet mare and the middle blue half-grown beyond, Crimson nodded. “Newly met. We’ll share the way awhile and see if friendship grows.”
“Love wisely and well, my child,” the seer replied. He nuzzled her filly, already half roused. “Wake, my little child. Fare gently till next we meet.”
Sky shivered and stretched, rose unsteadily to her feet then shook off like a wolf cub. Her mother whickered. The filly leapt to her with a glad whistle and began to nurse.
“Ashbrindle fares not with you?” the singer observed.
The crimson mare shook her head. “He has found an old comrade and will not range with us this round.” Calydor nodded. Crimson turned to her young. “Come, Bluewater Sky,” she said gently. “You fed long and well, night past. We must do a little running this morn before we rest. Then I will show you how to eat grass.”
The blue filly stopped suckling and looked up. “‘Rass?” she said, in a small voice, distinctly. It was the first word Jan had heard her utter. Her dam nodded, laughing.
“Aye, grass. How well you speak! Goldenhair will be delighted. Come, let us tell him your new word.” She turned, and the filly trotted after her.