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“You’re right,” Bahzell said after a long, thoughtful pause. “Our folk are after being different. Because of the Rage, as much as anything else, I’m thinking.”
“The Rage? What does that have to do with arranged marriages?” Leeana asked.
“Why, I’d think that was after being plain enough,” Bahzell said with a grim smile. “Think it through, lass. You’re after knowing what the Rage is, what it’s been costing my folk over the years.” Leeana nodded slowly, and he shrugged. “Well, who amongst us does the Rage never touch?”
“Your women,” Leeana said softly.
“Aye,” Bahzell agreed. “And that’s the reason, I’m thinking, why amongst hradani, lasses choose their own lads, and brides choose their own grooms. They’ve enough to put up with living amongst men the Rage can be touching, and truth to tell, it’s our women who’ve been the backbone of what little stability we hradani have been managing to cling to since the Fall. Unlike some other folk, we’ve none of us ever been able to shut our eyes to how important that’s after being to all of us. I’ll not say our women are all of them free to live their lives any way they choose, but they’ve a sight more freedom than women do amongst you Sothoii. Or amongst most of the human folk I’ve seen.”
“I knew there was something I liked about hradani,” Leeana said with a flickering smile. “I only wish it was that way for us, as well.”
“From what I’ve seen, lass,” Bahzell said gently, “your father and mother are after thinking more like hradani than most. They’ve fashioned their own lives out of joy and pain, and they’ve not forgotten what it was first made them love each other. You be trusting them, Leeana Bowmaster. You be trusting them not to forget that for you, either.”
She looked up at him very strangely, and he gazed down into her human eyes, wondering exactly what she was thinking. Then she gave herself a small shake and smiled at him once more.
“Thank you, Prince Bahzell,” she said simply. “For listening and not laughing. And for understanding without just trying to pat me on the head and tell me to run along and play. I’ll try to remember what you’ve said, because you’re right. Father and Mother will do everything anyone in their position could possibly do to protect me from the sort of marriage I’m afraid of. Of course, that’s not quite the same thing as saying I’ll be able to make the marriage I want, but it’s a great deal more than most girls in my position could say.”
She looked up at him for a few more seconds, and he wished he could think of something else to say, one more reassurance. But he couldn’t—not without resorting to comforting lies, and this young woman deserved better from him than that. And so he simply looked back at her, until she gave him an abbreviated curtsy and walked away, leaving him alone on Hill Guard Castle’s walls once more.
Chapter Twelve
Alfar Axeblade sagged in the saddle as his gelding trotted wearily homeward. It wasn’t raining at the moment—thank the gods!—but the pastures and paddocks remained soggy sources of spattered mud, and he and his horse were both heartily tired of splashing about in it.
Not that Alfar really begrudged his labors. As one of Lord Warden Edinghas’ senior trainers, it was his responsibility to be sure that the home farm’s facilities were ready when the horses returned from their winter pastures. Actually, he was quite pleased by what he’d discovered in the course of the day’s tour. Of course, he reminded himself, the fact that Warm Springs was one of the holdings which traditionally played host to a herd of coursers over the winter helped. The barns, feedlots, exercise yards, and—for that matter—the farriers, horse leeches, and grooms were kept busy all through the winter, rather than standing idle or simply decamping along with the home farm’s studs and mares. So unlike some of the horse farms on the Wind Plain, Warm Springs never shut down, which meant all its myriad bits and pieces were kept ru
The unusually early departure of the Warm Springs coursers had produced something of a lull in the home manor’s operations, and Alfar had taken full advantage of the opportunity for a final, meticulous inspection. He anticipated Lord Edinghas’ approval of his report, and he was looking forward to a long, hot bath before he turned in for his well-earned rest. Perhaps that was why it took him a second or two to rouse from his reverie when his horse suddenly snorted and shied.
Alfar shook his head, automatically answering the gelding’s abrupt lunge with a strong hand on the reins and firm, almost instinctive pressure from his knees. He brought the horse around, facing back in the direction of whatever had caused it to shy, and sudden, icy horror flooded through his veins, blotting away his sense of satisfaction and accomplishment as if they had never existed.
He stared at the sight no Sothoii had ever seen. The nightmare sight, no Sothoii would ever have wanted to see. And then he was flinging himself from the saddle, slipping and sliding through the mud in his riding boots to catch the exhausted,wounded foal as it collapsed.
“Toragan!“ Edinghas Bardiche, Lord Warden of Warm Springs, whispered in gray-faced horror. He stood bareheaded in the huge stable, watching in disbelief and shock as grooms, trainers, and healers labored frantically. Unlike them, he was not submerged in the frantic effort to save the two worst-wounded foals or the half-blinded, cruelly ripped and torn filly. That meant there was no distraction to divert him from the utter, unthinkable disaster those exhausted, injured coursers represented.
“Only seven?” he said, turning to the man beside him, and his question was a plea to be told that the number was wrong. “Only seven?”
“Five mares and two fillies … and eight foals,” Alfar Axeblade said grimly. “And two of the mares are bachelors. So five of the foals who got back alive—so far —” there was inexpressible bitterness in the qualifier “— are orphans.”
“Phrobus take it, man, there were over forty adult coursers in that herd! Where are all the others?” Edinghas knew there was no way Axeblade could answer his question, but his horror, grief, and fury goaded it out of him anyway.
“Fiendark seize it, Milord, what in Phrobus’ name makes you think I know?” Alfar spat back, his own voice riven and harrowed by the same emotions. He glared at his liege lord, shaken to his core by the enormity of the disaster, and Lord Edinghas closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The lord warden’s nostrils flared, and he shook his head, as if trying to shake off the paralysis afflicting his thoughts. Then he opened his eyes again and looked back at Alfar.
“You don’t, of course. Not any more than I do,” he said heavily. He reached out, resting one hand on the taller man’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Forgive me, Alfar. It’s my own fear.”
“There’s naught to forgive, Milord,” Alfar replied. He turned his head, looking away from his liege to watch the others work, and his face might have been hammered from cold iron.
“I’ve had longer to think about it than you have, Milord,” he continued after a few seconds, his voice dark and heavy. “There’s nothing I know—nothing in nature, leastwise—that could have done this. Those look like bite marks, the sort of thing wolves might have done, but there’s no wolf ever born could do that to coursers! And there’s not a single stallion—not one. So whatever it was, it pulled them all down—eighteen of them … and fifteen mares, seven colts and fillies, and nine foals, as well.” He shook his head. “It’s not possible, Milord. It can’t happen.”
“But it has, Alfar.” Edinghas voice was cold and empty, a thing ribbed with grief and despair, but somewhere in its iron belly hatred and rage met and a furnace heat flickered.