The three stallions kept their distance from one another and their harems, putting their noses to the wind, watching for predators, and occasionally grabbing a mouthful of grass. One was gray, another dun, and the third a bay with one white sock. Their manes and tails grew long and untamed, their forelocks falling over an eye, giving them each a rakish look. The spyglass presented her with no more detail than that at this distance.

“So this is the stock that Green Rider horses come from,” she murmured.

“A special few are born true,” Damian said. “They’ve that spark of intelligence ’bout them.”

Karigan took the spyglass from her eye. “How do you know which to choose?”

“How do you know your Condor isn’t the same as other horses?”

“He’s pretty smart.”

“Just smart, lass?”

Karigan knew it was more than that. She and Condor shared a rapport as with no other horse she’d known. It was as if he sensed sometimes exactly what was on her mind, and could understand her words, not just commands. He’d saved her life a time or two when other horses would have bolted in terror. He wasn’t just well-trained; he wasn’t just smart.

“Down the line of my family,” Damian said, his eyes squinting as he gazed into the valley, “it has always been told that these certain horses are god-touched, and that the patron is the bearer of that touch.”

“Salvistar?” Karigan asked in incredulity.

Damian shrugged. “If you believe it, maybe it is so. He has never walked up to us and told us his name.” He laughed and slapped his thigh. “That’d be the day! Westrion’s steed speaking to us. Imagine that.”

“This stallion,” Karigan pressed, not yet willing to accept the idea he was a god-being, “he’s the sire of the messenger horses?”

“No, not the sire, lass, except maybe in spirit. He has an influence, or at least an interest, we don’t rightly comprehend. Maybe it’s the plains that produce our special horses. With all the magic gone amok in the final battle of the Long War, I shouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t some remnant of it left behind, like the ruins of the Kmaernians, that somehow has some effect on the horses. Still…” Damian stroked his chin. “Still, I’ve never heard of any of the other scattered herds producing horses quite like mine, nor have I ever heard of one such as our patron passing among them. Whatever the truth of it is, I consider it a blessing. A joy for me it has been to be among such fine beasties.”

Karigan glanced over her shoulder at Condor happily munching away at the grass, his tail whisking in contentment. He was not a particularly attractive horse, ill-proportioned as he was, but he was special. Special enough that he was the chosen of the death god’s steed? Or the product of remnant magic? She shook her head.

One question always led to a hundred more. If she saw this “patron” of Green Rider horses, would it answer questions or prompt more? The breeze tugged her hair loose again and fluttered it in her face. She pressed it back.

“It is an oath spoken centuries ago,” Damian said, “that my family swore to stand steward over these special steeds, and that they were to go to Green Riders only, and it is an oath we will never break. The horses would accept no one else anyway. Why this is so, I cannot say. The others who are not god-touched? Why, they are fine beasties, too, though rather ordinary, and my family supports itself on their trade. Let’s move a little closer.”

“They won’t run off?”

“Naw. We’ve never treated them ill and they are accustomed to me and the boys. We won’t crowd them.”

Damian started off along the ridge, and when Ero followed, Jericho called him back. Fergal looked content to remain with Jericho and Ero, but Damian glanced back at him and beckoned. “C’mon, my lad, let’s see how they take to you.”

Karigan didn’t think Fergal would care to take a closer look at the horses, but to her surprise, he sprang immediately to his feet, appearing pleased by the invitation. He strode through the grasses beside Damian and the older man put his arm around his shoulder, spinning some tale or telling secrets. Karigan couldn’t discern which.

She trudged after them thinking maybe Damian didn’t have a way with just horses, but with the sons of knackers as well.

SHAPER OF WIND

Damian didn’t stay atop the ridge but angled downward, closer to the herd, though not threatening the position of the bay stallion on the closer side of the stream. He was wary of them, but issued no challenge and bugled no warning to his band.

Wading through the grasses, letting her hands float across their tips, Karigan began to wonder if whatever mending Lady had done was wearing off, for she felt a pressure mounting in her head, in the air, like a storm building. She forced herself to take a deep breath, but it did not ease the sensation. The breeze kicked up again, whispering across the grasses, whipping the hem of her greatcoat about her legs, and dislodging that very annoying strand of hair from behind her ear again. She thrust it back, deciding she’d have to rebraid when they stopped, wild horses or not.

At about a good stone’s throw from the horses, Damian motioned for her and Fergal to halt, while he continued on. The horses noted their progress all along, raising their heads from grazing to glance at them and to sniff their scent on the air. Still no alarm was given.

Damian approached the herd slowly and one by one the horses stopped what they were doing to turn to him. A few ambled toward him, and a couple of fearless youngsters trotted right up to him and nudged at his pockets. He laughed and produced an apple which he split with his thumbs and fed to them. More members of the herd overcame their reticence to investigate, some crossing the stream to do so.