Soon all the horses stood around Damian, tails flicking. There was no kicking, biting, or shouldering of one another. Each appeared intent on Damian in some silent rapport.

“I thought they were supposed to be wild,” Fergal said.

Karigan had been thinking much the same thing, but as Damian said, these were not ordinary wild horses. Damian himself was no ordinary horse trader.

One by one the horses peeled away from the group to resume grazing. A couple of foals lingered, poking Damian’s pockets again. He patted them on their necks, said something to them, and they dispersed. Damian shook his head and returned to Karigan and Fergal, falling to the ground with his legs spread out in front of him.

“What now?” Karigan asked.

“We watch and wait,” Damian replied.

A breeze tickled Karigan’s nose and she rubbed it, only to realize she had fallen asleep. She blinked her eyes wide open to the grass stalks that surrounded her, the smell of the crushed greens filling her nose. The nap, unfortunately, did not relieve the sense of pressure in the air. She rolled to her side and leaned on her elbow, discovering Fergal had also fallen asleep. Not only that, but a foal was nosing Fergal’s toes. He was a handsome fellow, creamy in color with a flaxen mane. He’d probably darken to a lovely golden palomino as he matured.

Just beyond Fergal, Damian sat cross-legged in the grass, grinning.

The colt continued to whiffle along Fergal’s legs, lipping at his greatcoat. Karigan dared not move lest she spook the colt and ruin the moment.

The colt reached Fergal’s head and nibbled hair.

Fergal, still more asleep than awake, swatted blindly as though ridding himself of a fly. The colt jerked his head up, hair caught between his teeth. Fergal’s eyes popped open and he screamed. The colt jumped straight up from a standstill. Karigan had never seen anything like it and she could not help but laugh. The poor colt bolted off and hid behind his mother, poking his head under her belly to watch the humans from safety.

Fergal rubbed his head. “Wha–what happened?”

Karigan was laughing too hard to answer.

“The young ones are curious,” Damian said. “Seems one took a liking to you.”

From the gleam in Damian’s eye, Karigan took it to mean that Fergal had found more than a “friend.” It was odd the way the world worked. Fergal wanted nothing to do with horses, but now as a Green Rider he must depend on them, and one may have just chosen him to be his Rider partner.

Fergal’s face hardened. “Well, my da would have liked these horses, too,” he said, “but for other reasons.” He rose and stomped back up the ridge in the direction of Jericho and Ero.

“Oh, no,” Karigan muttered, fearing Fergal may have just rejected horses for good.

“A wounded spirit,” Damian said as he watched after Fergal, “but not broken. As time passes, he will mend.”

Karigan hoped so, for the sake of the young colt, and for Fergal’s own.

“Has he ever told you,” Damian asked softly, “about the first animal his father made him slaughter?”

Karigan shook her head, certain she did not want to hear about it now, as she found the entire subject distressing.

“It was a gentle draft horse named Randy that pulled the knacker’s wagon,” Damian said. “Old Randy was probably Fergal’s best friend in the whole world—someone he could tell his dreams and secrets to. Someone who loved him no matter what, and who would not hurt him. Fergal certainly wasn’t getting much affection elsewhere, except maybe from some kind folk in the village who took pity on him. He sure wasn’t getting it at home.”

Damian sat in silence for a few moments, the sunlight playing across his weathered face and deepening wrinkles and crags in bold shadows. “When Fergal’s father decided it was time his boy was old enough to learn the family trade, he used his own horse for Fergal’s first lesson. Claimed Randy was getting on in years, wasn’t pulling his weight anymore.”

Karigan wanted to cover her ears against the painful tale. Damian didn’t have to tell her what this must have been like for Fergal—she could imagine it, all the horrid details. She just had to substitute herself and Condor for Fergal and Randy, and she knew. She knew.

“His father beat him for crying,” Damian said.

“Enough,” Karigan pleaded. “Please don’t tell me anymore. I–I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know, lass,” Damian replied, not unkindly, “but think of Fergal not just hearing it, but living it. He learned from his father very early on not to grow attached to animals. And certainly not to cry.” He paused and scratched his head. “He never stopped caring, though. That much I can see. He just buried it real deep so it wouldn’t hurt so much. He’s a resilient lad, and becoming a Rider has done much toward healing him. He has a new family now, eh?”

Karigan nodded and pulled at some grass. She was both relieved and jealous Fergal had chosen to open up to Damian instead of herself. Mostly relieved, she had to admit. They must have spoken during the night while she slept and dreamed of…of grasslands?

It was not surprising Fergal chose to talk to Damian, she reflected. She was so wrapped up in her own life she hadn’t been overly patient with him at times, and Damian possessed a well of compassion a hundred fathoms deeper than her own. She could tell just by the way the horses, including Condor, responded to him. She thanked the gods Fergal had been able to meet men like Rendle and Damian, so different from his father, especially since she’d fallen short a time or two in her duty as mentor.