Sian follows the trail with care, stepping daintily to
avoid roots or dints hidden in the shadows. It’s full dark and a pale moon is
rising, casting milky light through the thinning leaves overhead. The air is
chill on his skin; for the first time since waking beneath the cliff, he wishes
for clothes. A shirt, a tunic, even a vest. A vest would look well with his
hind end, he decides. Anything else will look foolish.
He chuckles morosely. Vanity is a human trait, one he
has not thought he possesses. Apparently, he is wrong, else he would be
unconcerned that his wardrobe fit naturally with his unnatural condition. With
no example to follow, he is free to create his own trend—one unlikely to spread
unless more manhorses are discovered.
Or should it be “menhorse”? He
must be educated to question the grammar.
Your answer dwells at the manor.
He should be completely lost, yet he finds himself on
the fringe of the orchard without making a wrong turn. The moon is high by now.
He thinks to find Kev—beyond that, he has no definite plan except, perhaps, to
interrogate the boy for more information. Kev knows Sian’s real name; if he
hears it from Sian’s own lips, perhaps he will reveal what else he knows of who
Sian is … or was, when he had two legs rather than four.
But how will he find Kev in the middle of the night
when he knows nothing of the property or the boy’s place upon it? The orchard
was easily found. Getting closer to the house will take some stealth—except
that his feet carry him with certainty between rows of apple, pear, and peach
trees. He must step carefully, though; a soggy scrunch and the cloying
sweet scent of rotting apple wafts up from under a forehoof. He gives the foot
a shake, then freezes, holding his hoof in the air.
Someone is coming.
Kev?
He hopes.
Shadows flit silently between the trees. Sian tries to
follow them with his eyes, but they are too swift and the moonlight is too
weak. He almost rears when a small, lithe form darts at him from the side; a
stabbing pain in his haunch reminds him of the arrow he took and he wheels
instead, coming face to face with the brown-eyed girl.
He blurts her name from a memory he does not have,
then sees he is mistaken. “Roanne,” he amends, relieved. The smaller shadow
turns out to be her curly-haired brother, his face pinched with displeasure.
Sian takes the intimated scolding but refuses to budge when Joel motions for
him to go back toward the wood. “No,” he says, firmly.
At least the children understand one word. They trade
uneasy glances, then Roanne speaks in a reasonable tone that deepens her
brother’s frown. The boy seems prone to argue without a viable argument; he
makes a great show of huffing and puffing, but makes no effort to hinder the
girl’s fleet departure. When Sian makes to follow her, Joel stops him with a
raised hand and a sharp use of the word they all understand.
“No!”
Sian stares, then suddenly grasps that Roanne has run
to fetch Kev. He sidles around and signs for Joel to get on his back. The boy
hesitates, tempted by the offer despite his better judgment. Sian swishes his
tail as encouragement, preening a little. The innate love of horses combined
with Sian’s golden beauty seduces the boy to surrender. He hops astride the
manhorse’s back and puts heels to his flanks. Sian starts off so fast that Joel
is nearly thrown; if not for a handful of blond curls and a quick grab for one
arm, he’d have been unseated in two strides.
* * *
Kev roosts with the other orphan boys in Lord
Derrick’s service, crammed two to a bed in a cluster of small wooden huts off
the kitchen garden. Roanne has never seen inside the one he calls home, but she
knows which one it is. On tiptoe at a window, she peers through closed shutters
and urgently whispers his name. She is almost hit in the head when the shutter
swings wide and someone who is not Kev fills the window frame. It’s the
half-Lirosi youth who works the cider press. “What do you want?” he demands
harshly, recognizing her in the dim moonlight.
“I’m looking for Kev.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“It’s important.”
“I doubt that,” he says with all the worldly wisdom of
a boy whose balls have dropped. Roanne knows about midnight trysts, but the
notion of having one with Kev makes her mildly faint. She thinks it’s with
disgust, though she can’t say for sure.
“Is he here?” she asks, bullying ahead just the same.
He folds his arms and stares down at her. “Maybe.”
An anxious knot twists beneath Roanne’s ribs as she
realizes that she may be in for a fight. At the same time, the grass rustles
behind her and the bony youth is startled into abandoning his superior air.
Roanne turns, expecting to see Sian, and finds herself looking at Lady Alarice
instead.
* * *
Joel hauls on Sian’s hair to halt him before they
crash from the sheltering trees. They have both seen the woman appear at
Roanne’s back, but while the boy’s impulse is to stop, Sian is driven forward.
He rebels against Joel’s command, veering aside as the battle ensues between
his rider and himself; a stuttering series of steps breaks through the screen
and presents the pair of them, still arguing, to the little group at the
window. The bony youth and the noble lady are openly taken aback; only Roanne
believes what she sees and uses their surprise to her advantage. Sian is barely
aware of her running toward him. His gaze is frozen on the face of the woman,
brown-eyed and fair-haired. She calls to him—“Blais!”—then the girl vaults up
behind her brother and Joel kicks to make him gallop. He spins on his quarters
and plunges back the way he came, trusting the boy to see them safely away
because he cannot be sure that what he heard was true.
To be continued …
copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig
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