The Wind-Witch Read online

  I am Valadan.

  Valadan? The magic steed Leith of the Isles had adventured upon? How was that possible?

  “Druyan!”

  The stallion shied away from her, and she stumbled, then caught what balance she could—barely enough. The horse had vanished like smoke in a high wind, leaving only a hoofprint or two to suggest he hadn’t been purely a daydream. Druyan was still staring, heartbroken, at the trampled grass when her brother’s hand seized her elbow.

  “Where’ve you been?” Robart demanded to know, but gave no space for an answer. “We’ve been calling you for an hour! The horses were being saddled when they sent me out to look—” He jerked the elbow he’d captured. “Come on!”

  “Mother said I could go for a walk!” Druyan protested, trying not to sound guilty. She hadn’t meant to be gone so long.

  “She thought you were in one of the gardens. Father’s set to leave, and if we’re all still in our saddles at midnight, we’ll hear of nothing else for a week! What are you doing out here?”

  Druyan, walking along as rapidly as she could—and a deal faster than was strictly comfortable, since her legs were not quite a match for her brother’s—looked back at the fruit trees. “I was only petting a horse.” She needn’t admit to the ride, if Robart hadn’t seen. Plainly, she was in enough trouble without explaining she’d been careening about bareback on a strange horse. There was no sign at all of the black stallion.

  “What horse?” Robart asked impatiently, marching her faster still and not looking back.

  “A black one. A stray, I think. Ouch!” Her toe found a rock among the long grasses.

  “Wonderful.” Robart swept her on, heedless. “You stray after a stray horse. As if you haven’t got one waiting to carry you home this minute. Can’t you walk any faster?”

  Her imprisoned arm was starting to ache. Her toe still hurt. She was out of breath and had a fiery stitch in her side. By the time Druyan reached Keverne’s bailey, where her parents waited testily amid restless horses, offspring of all ages, annoying hounds, and general bedlam, she had quite forgotten the black horse.

  The horse had not, however, forgotten her.

  Druyan took no note, as their procession straggled untidily along the road, raising dust, of the addition to their company, for he kept a long way off the road. One needed to have fixed one’s eyes on the exact right spot at the exact right instant, to catch the briefest glimpse of black hide through a tiny gap in the gorse bushes that flanked the track. Dru was far too occupied with keeping herself out of her father’s sight to be gazing at the scenery. She rode near the tail of their double file, just ahead of the baggage, but her assigned place did not much ease her task—before her rode her elder sister Tavitha, upon a golden-coated jennet for which Dru’s stolid brown pony had a hearty dislike.

  The jennet did not much like the pony, either. Threats and counterthreats were exchanged with pinned ears and snaked heads, and Druyan had all she could do to keep back out of harm’s way without lagging. A noisy altercation between the saddle horses would only remind her sire of her earlier sin of delaying their departure.

  Only when they paused to ford a narrow stream did Druyan have leisure to look about—Tavitha was being led across, the jennet having balked at the water and refused to obey its rider in the matter of crossing—and saw the flick of a jet-black tail, back behind the third sumpter horse. She turned her head sharply to count noses, but just then her pony chose to enter the stream, almost unseating her as it leapt down the bank. When she could look back again, there were only the baggage horses, none of which possessed a black tail. Druyan shoved her idle fancies ruthlessly away.

  It was well after nightfall when they reached home. Her father was testy, and everyone—even her lady mother—walked carefully wide of him, not wanting to call down attention certain to be unwelcome. Supper and bedtime crowded one another, each hectic because Druyan’s two eldest sisters and one older brother had not only temporarily returned to the flock but had spouses with them, as well, and the usual sleeping arrangements would have to be altered with only fair success. Druyan ate a bit of bread and cheese, retired to the pallet she’d been shuffled to in the corner of Tavitha’s chamber, and thought no more of horses, no matter how swift.

  She slept badly, being both hungry and uncomfortable on the ill-stuffed pallet. At foggy first light Druyan escaped outdoors to the orchard, hoping for a ripe apple to stay her appetite till the hour was more propitious for trying to filch a loaf of cirmamon-sprinkled bread from the bakehouse. The sisters and their husbands would be departing for their own homes by sun-high. Things at Glasgerion would settle down. She’d get her own familiar bed back, and probably her father would have forgotten why she was in his bad graces—he’d have been vexed by a dozen other matters ere then.

  There was a horse in the orchard. That would vex Ronan for certain, whether only this one horse had been nibbling the fruit, or the younger groom had been careless with the latches and let all the stable stray free if it wished. Druyan strode carefully through the dewy grass, peering through the drifting mist. Unless this was one of the coursers, which were high-mettled and hard to handle, she could probably lead it back to its stall without fetching a rope first. Most of their horses—excepting the coursers—were like pets to her and did her bidding. Of course, this one might belong to one of her sisters’ husbands, but she’d seen no black horse in their trains.

  He nickered to her, wishing Druyan the best of mornings. She froze stock-still, staring into those sparkling eyes, full of colors where they should have been merely dark. Merry and ever so familiar. She saw high cliffs, wheeling gulls, apricot trees. . .

  How her stray from Keverne had found his way into Glasgerion’s orchard, Druyan couldn’t guess. The palings were purposefully high. . .

  He tossed his head at the weathered boards and snorted deprecatingly, obviously having no high opinion of fences.

  “Well, excuse me! I’m sure you jump very well, but we’d really better get you out of here before anyone else sees you. The gardener will have your pretty hide.” She might need to fetch a rope after all. No reason this horse should lead as tarnely as their own did.

  He rested his soft muzzle against her chest, as if he were the gentlest of old pensioners, docile and sway-backed. His breath smelled of hay, and his eyelashes were longer than her own. His manners were impeccable. Two of her fingers twined in his mane were enough to guide him wherever she wished, Druyan found. “Valadan,” she whispered, daring to name him aloud, if only with her lips muffled by his mane.

  There was no more a stall for the stranger than there had been a bed for Druyan—not till the overnight guests had safely departed. She tucked him into the corner of the sheepfold, with apologies to both stallion and disconcerted sheep. When she left him, to see about her own breakfast, Druyan knew better than to babble indiscriminately about her good fortune at being followed home from Keverne by a splendid horse. No one would believe he’d trailed her all the way from the duke’s castle, much less that he’d seemed to claim her. At supper, she confessed offhandedly to discovering a strayed horse in the orchard, wondered aloud whether that meant a fence needed tending, and offered to ride to their near neighbors to inquire whether anyone had lost a black horse.

  She did exactly that most faithfully for a solid fortnight, though she knew perfectly well that he belonged to none of them. No one minded—had she not offered, Robart would have been made to undertake the inquiries, to his anoyance. By the end of the second week, her family was so accustomed to seeing Druyan riding the black, no one remembered where he’d come from, or how recently. She began to call him Valadan aloud, not only in secret.

  For a stallion, Valadan was impeccably behaved in the company of other horses, never the least trouble. One coolish breezy day, the two of them trailed Druyan’s elder brothers to the downs that lay beyond the farm and the pastureland. It was a fine day for riding—there were a score of horsemen already assembled with their bes
t mounts, neighbors racing one another various distances over the gently rolling ground.

  There’d be races run at the market fair, with prizes and wagering, and every lad with a fast horse was eager to gauge his competition ahead of the day, to adjudge the results of breeding and feeding and careful conditioning. Mostly they were testing the horses over the regular galloping spots, which varied in length and were well known. But where the soil was sandier than was general, long poles had been mounted upright, to make a course for those who wanted to test nimbleness rather than sheer ground covering.

  Druyan eyed the setup with interest. She knew how fleet Valadan was on the straight—she thought there was no horse in all of Esdragon that could match him—but she didn’t want to trumpet the fact. Proud as she was of him, she deemed some caution was in order. If she allowed him to run away from every horse on the downs, someone was apt to "remember" losing a black horse and come claiming him. Best she did not show him off too boldly, till he’d been seen in her company long enough for folk to accept him unchallenged as her property. But running the poles was another matter, because success there depended upon skill and nerve as much or more than fleetness of foot. The swiftest courser might not be handy enough to navigate the tight course without striking a pole.

  There were six poles, set roughly equal distances apart, in a straight line. The goal was to dash along them, weaving in and out, then whirl and return so as to pass each pole on its opposite side. A horse that was stiff to one side, or unwilling to listen to its rider about where and which way to turn, wouldn’t be successful at it. Some began very well, but got going too fast to hold tight turns and went bouncing stiff-legged off the course, fighting their riders with their nosed poked at the sky. Some turned well to the left but not to the right, and lost advantage with every other pole. One high-headed chestnut got so excited that he sent two poles flying when he crashed heedlessly into them, then took his rider for a mad run out over the downs till he finally got winded enough to answer to the curb bit in his mouth. Each run was attended by cheers, shouts, groans, screams of encouragement from spectators and riders both.

  Valadan danced, eager for his turn. Druyan wondered if he’d run poles before, or was only excited by the activity. She’d know at the second pole, probably, whether he knew his business or was going to depend on her knowledge of the game. She patted his shoulder, begging him to settle a bit—if he became too eager, he might just bolt straight through the course the way the chestnut had. He did love to run and might forget all else.

  The stallion snorted and dipped his head, playing with the bronze bit. This game is played an the beach, at Keverne, said a clear amused voice in Druyan’s head.

  She looked up from her reins, startled, to see who spoke to her. No one was near. Druyan’s lips parted softly, as she stared at the tips of Valadan’s ears. He turned one back toward her, in case she should have something to say to him.

  But there was no time. Their turn at the poles had come. She sat deep, shortened her reins enough that she could guide the stallion with the least motion of her smallest finger. And then the word was given, and the first pole was hurtling at them, as Valadan thundered toward it.

  They passed to the left of it, then swung right to take the next. Left for the following pole, the flying strides as measured as the steps of a dance. Druyan leaned with Valadan’s turns, keeping them balanced, anticipating the next change in course. Sand showered away from them, flew up like wave spray. Surely they were the fastest yet! No one had done this well, sustained such a blinding pace.

  Almost to the last pole, already leaning into a turn that must be nearly a full circle, Druyan felt a sudden rush of fear. The pole wasn’t where it should have been! They were flying at it, in perfect accord, as they’d rushed at all the others, but they were going to hit it, for it was a yard farther away from the previous pole than any of the others had been set. The ground must have proved too hard where it ought to have been planted, and so the boys had set it where they could—no wonder most of the riders had gone wide on the final turn, lost speed or accord with their mounts!

  If she couldn’t drag him wide of it—Druyan had an instant’s cruel vision of Valadan’s slender legs entangled with the pole, of him crashing to earth and never rising again, all because she’d wanted to race.

  She clamped her hand on the right rein, not caring if she made him veer straight off the course in disgrace, so long as he was safe. The wind they made whipped her hair over her face, blinding her. She shook it off and hauled with all her might at the rein.

  She might as well have been pulling against a tree. Valadan heeded neither the rein nor the bit in his mouth that the rein was buckled to. He paid no mind to Druyan’s frantic shift of weight, or her left hand’s joining forces with the right to haul him out of the turn.

  Instead, though hampered by his rider’s attempts to save him, Valadan dug his hooves into the sand for an extra stride and swung about the pole so closely that a breeze could scarcely have slipped between it and his hindquarters. He went back up the course, dancing the measure alone half the way, till Druyan managed to regain some feeling of being in harmony with him.

  They exited to cheers and jogged off to compose themselves while the next horse went at the line of poles.

  Very tricky course, a dry voice observed.

  Druyan slid to the ground and flung her arms round about the glossy neck, loving the horse with the whole of her heart. He was safe—and wonderful. Valadan reached over her shoulder to nuzzle her back.

  Their bliss was interrupted by the arrival of a horse and rider. Robart swung down from his roan gelding, which had once more disappointed him in the matter of racing speed. Stepping over to Valadan, he patted his flank, ran a hand down each of the stallion’s legs. He glanced at Valadan’s nostrils, which were flared still but not indicating any distress to his breathing. Indeed, they promised great endurance.

  “He’ll do. Give him here.” He held his hand out for the reins.

  “What?” Druvan stared.

  Robart shook his head at her, smiling. “You don’t want to ride a horse like this. He’s no lady’s jennet.” He gestured impatiently for the reins.

  “I do so want him!” Druyan tightened her hold on the reins and wished futilely that she hadn’t dismounted. Now she could not simply ride away, as she longed to, before the discussion turned dangerous. She was trapped, caught afoot.

  “Well, you can’t have him!” Robart laughed. “Father hasn’t said anything because he hasn’t paid much attention, but if you fall off this black thunderbolt and hurt yourself, he most certainly will. Now give him here.”

  “Valadan came to me!”

  Robart laughed again. “Valadan? Because he’s a black horse? This isn’t one of Grandfather’s prize steeds, just some chance-bred that wandered in off the moors. Your nurse told you too many legends, when you were cutting your baby teeth. What did you think you were going to do—go off hunting chimeras on him? Let go of those reins!”

  Druyan was weeping, tears of frustration that she knew he mistook for fright. “You can’t take my horse!” she wailed.

  Robart patted her arm. “Look, Dru, ladies don’t ride this sort of horse. You weren’t going to keep him anyway. Now let me see if I can win some silver. I’ll give you a split.”

  He slid his hand down her arm, then opened her fingers one by one. Druyan turned her face away as her brother gathered the reins and shoved his foot into the stirrup. She was choking on tears, her head was aching with misery and loss. No one would have let me keep him. At least Robart won’t hurt him—she tried to console herself, and failed.

  The sight of her Valadan meekly bearing Robart away did not ease the lump in Druyan’s throat. She stared with brurring eyes, trying not to hate what had been inevitable.

  And stared wider yet as Valadan’s head plunged downward fast as a stooping falcon, ripping the reins from Robart’s unready fingers. As the stallion arched his back and bucked, his hind legs
kicking out one way while his rider went flying in the opposite direction.

  Robart rolled to his feet and went after the stallion at once, keeping a careful hold of his temper as he caught up the trailing reins. Despite a white-rimmed eye, Valadan stood still to be mounted once more. Robart glanced back at Druyan, half pleased at his victory, half saying he’d told her so and had been right to relieve her of the unruly stallion before a like disaster befell her.

  And no wise ready for the run Valadan abruptly gave him. No warning dip of the black head this time. No buck to shed an unwelcome rider. Valadan simply seized the bit and bolted, and nothing Robart did troubled the stallion in the least. The boy tried to sit deep and be ready to regain control the instant the horse slackened his pace, but Valadan put on a burst of speed instead that rocked him hopelessly far back in the saddle. Two more bounds and Robart slid off over the black tail, to land scrambling.

  He nearly kept hold of the reins, but he stumbled in a rabbit hole as he came to his feet and lost his grip. Druyan watched the ensuing pursuit, as Valadan danced ever nearer to the spot where she stood and Robart grew ever redder in the face as the horse continued to elude him. Finally they stood on either side of her, and she held Valadan’s reins.

  “Give him here,” Robart panted obstinately.

  She’d lose him in the end, no matter how she struggled. There was no other outcome possible. And the stallion would get the beating of his life if he kept fighting. She wouldn’t be able to prevent that.

  “Go with him,” she wished, and turned her face away as Robart swung up once more and gathered the reins in an iron grip that pulled the stallion’s mouth wide open. Fool horse, to come back to one who hadn’t the power to protect him. A little bitter wind curled about her toes, through the long grass.

  She heard the thud of hoofbeats—Robart was ready this time and had sent Valadan away at a gallop, teaching the horse who was master. In a moment he’d reached a cluster of four other riders, who waited upon him beside one of the courses.