[Firebringer 03] - The Son of Summer Stars (9 page)

The broad veldt had quieted, the sound of revelers long stilled. No more contests or further sport occupied the dancing ground.

Many of the Plainsdwellers had returned to lie beside their young. Even those yet roving the long grass had hushed. Jan caught only an occasional rustle, a snort or stamp, a breathless whicker. A breeze sprang up, combing the grass, its touch pleasantly light along Jan’s back.

He felt at peace, no longer stiff and sore. He turned toward Calydor, drowsing now by his tiny grand-niece, his silhouette against the star-sheened grass so familiar that Jan pondered anew. Of whom did this stranger remind him? The young prince shook his head. His eyes slipped shut. He drifted into dreams only half aware.

He dreamed he saw his dam profiled by starlight. She stood on the lookout knoll high above the Vale, gazing off toward the Plain. The twins stood beside her, horn-buds sprouted, blunt thorns upon their brows. Tek kept watch below them on the slope. All four stood silent. Jan wondered how often they held this vigil, forgetting that he dreamed. Ses murmured to his mate, then turned back to the twins. The wind lifted her forelock, fanning her magnificent mane, washed of all color by the faint light of stars.

“Can you sense him yet?”

Painted Aiony nodded. “Aye.”

“Is he safe?”

White Dhattar nodded in turn. “He sleeps.”

Tek climbed the slope to join them. “Where is he?”

“At riverside,” her filly replied. “Among companions.”

“Renegades?” the pied mare asked quickly, forgetting and using the old term for the people of the Plains.

“Plainsdwellers,” Ses murmured. Tek nodded.

“A dark-blue stallion all spattered with stars,” Dhattar replied. “A river of them flows overhead, and another below. Alma’s eyes are everywhere.”

Beside them, Ses gave a little snort. “Dark blue?” she asked quietly. “How dark?”

Dhattar butted her. “Like indigo.”

Gently, she shouldered back. “And the stars?”

“Silver,” Aiony told her. “His mane and tail as well. Three hooves wear silver socks.”

Her brother scrubbed his chin against his granddam’s shoulder. “A seer and a singer and a dancer, like Jan.”

Tek shook herself. “Jan is no singer.”

Dhattar and Aiony exchanged a glance. Ses said nothing.

“He knows where Korr may be found” Dhattar whispered at Tek, “or where to begin the search.”

His black-and-silver sister nodded, shrugging him away from Ses. “He’ll lead Jan there.”

The pale mare seemed not to hear them. Her expression was distant, deep in thought, eyes gazing toward the Plain. Tek gathered her filly and foal.

“When will he return?” she asked, nuzzling them.

White Dhattar raised his eyes, blue as summer sky, with pupils black and deep as wells. “We said before. He will not return. We will not see him again till the fire from heaven falls.”

Tek glanced away, rolling one shoulderblade. She could make nothing of their talk. Their granddam stirred.

“And Korr?” she asked.

The twins turned to her, their faces solemn. They said nothing. Night breeze lifted. The pied mare sighed, missing her mate. League upon league away across the Plain, the sleeping prince shifted and then lay still. He dreamed of traversing a wasteland toward distant thunder. Nearby, a tiny filly’s legs twitched, flexed, dancing in dreams. The blue-and-silver stallion beside which she lay nodded over his knees. He dreamed of a mare pale as cloud at first dusk, older now, but still graceful fair, her mane red as sunset, as poppies, as flame, lifted and thrown by the freshening breeze.

Jan stirred. Dawn air held still, sky fading into grey. The summer stars had faded from bright beacons to mere specks. The dancing ground lay largely deserted. A few foals and fillies still dozed. Their sires and dams stood by. Others were just emerging from the long grass, mares leading, stallions trotting behind. Many shouldered and chivvied one another fondly, like newly pledged mates. Jan longed for Tek powerfully, and for their twins. “Good dawn,” the blue-and-silver stallion nearby him murmured. Nestled beside him, the sky-blue filly slept on.

“Good dawn,” Jan murmured in reply.

Sky above brightened. Those on the dancing ground rose, shook off, some bidding companions farewell. Jan listened to hoofbeats heading off in all directions. Dawn blush touched the horizon, infusing the sky. Crimson loped from the tall Plains grass. Behind her, Goldenhair halted at grass’s edge. Farther back, Jan spied others, evidently part of this new-formed group. The pale gold whinnied and stamped. Crimson approached her uncle, bowed low to one knee.

“Good dawn, my child,” he greeted her.

She answered him, “Good dawn.”

“So you travel with Goldenhair again,” he observed.

She laughed. “Always.”

“And two companions.”

Glancing past the pale gold to the russet mare and the middle blue half-grown beyond, Crimson nodded. “Newly met. We’ll share the way awhile and see if friendship grows.”

“Love wisely and well, my child,” the seer replied. He nuzzled her filly, already half roused. “Wake, my little child. Fare gently till next we meet.”

Sky shivered and stretched, rose unsteadily to her feet then shook off like a wolf cub. Her mother whickered. The filly leapt to her with a glad whistle and began to nurse.

“Ashbrindle fares not with you?” the singer observed.

The crimson mare shook her head. “He has found an old comrade and will not range with us this round.” Calydor nodded. Crimson turned to her young. “Come, Bluewater Sky,” she said gently. “You fed long and well, night past. We must do a little running this morn before we rest. Then I will show you how to eat grass.”

The blue filly stopped suckling and looked up. “‘Rass?” she said, in a small voice, distinctly. It was the first word Jan had heard her utter. Her dam nodded, laughing.

“Aye, grass. How well you speak! Goldenhair will be delighted. Come, let us tell him your new word.” She turned, and the filly trotted after her.

Calydor exclaimed, “She will be weaned and hornsprung before you know.”

Crimson laughed again, tossing over one shoulder, “Then bearded and grown, as was I!”

“Fare safe, daughter,” the star-flecked stallion called after his niece.

“And you, Calydor,” she cried. “Fare you well, Aljan Moonbrow. May you Valefolk regain your homeland soon and cease tramping our Plain in a wartroop each spring.”

Her voice was light, no malice in it. Jan saw Crimson rejoin Goldenhair and the other two. They stood consulting while the filly suckled. Most of the others had already quit the dancing ground, cantering across the Plain. The sky’s rose blush had blanched to white, its stars unseen, but burning still. Sun broke horizon’s edge and floated up into the sky. Calydor rose and shook himself. Jan did the same, flexing the stiffness from his legs. He joined the other in tearing a few quick mouthfuls of grass.

“Time to be off,” the star-patterned stallion said, “if we mean to catch the cool of the day.”

Jan nodded. Pards prowled at dawn, he knew. The two of them kicked into a lope, heading north and east across the Plain.

At the start of all things, when time was young, Álm’harat fashioned the world and the stars and the dark between. Maker of everything, mother of all, Álm’harat walks among us in mortal shape. Sometimes she appears as a unicorn, a beautiful stallion or a fleet-footed mare, or assumes the guise of a pard in the grass, or wears the wings of a kite upon the air. Life and death she deals, each in its season, advancing her great Cycle that turns all the world and the stars.

“Once she sojourned in these parts as a mare pale as moonlight, who ranged the broad Plain and allowed none to stay her. Such a traveler was she, bearing tales from far lands, that companions dubbed her the Mare of the World. This Mare of the World fell in love with the sun, whose golden mane is burning fire. Feeling that heat, she was smitten and called out to him, but far above, he galloped on. Sprinting the Plain below, she sought to draw his gaze, but still he paid her no heed. So planting herself on the tallest rise, she whistled his name—only to see him race past overhead, aloof and unanswering.

“Undaunted, the Mare of the World asked her fellows, the birds, to fly to the sun and press her suit. They did so, but the sun stallion only flared with laughter, so hotly that some of her envoys’ feathers singed and fell fluttering to earth far, far below. The burning sun proclaimed himself too high and fair to return any meager mortal’s favor—never suspecting the one who proffered was Álm’harat disguised. He would return her love, he scoffed, only if she proved herself his match.

“ ‘He means me to fail,’ the Mare of the World exclaimed when the birds flew back with their news. ‘But I do not concede defeat. Mortal I am—’

“She had forgotten, of course, that she was Álm’harat, for when the goddess dons mortal flesh, she sets aside all remembrance of her true nature, that she may ken the world of her creations as they themselves do. Carefully, she gathered the fallen feathers of her friends.

“ ‘Weave these into my hair,’ she bade. The birds complied. ‘Though but mortal born,’ she vowed, ‘a little of Alma lives in me.’ So much is true. The goddess burns within us all, even the kite and the pard. ‘Your feathers, my fellows, shall speed me like wings.’

“She bade the birds take strands from her mane and tail and wait. Then she traveled east through moonless night with only the light of the stars for a guide. That is why we call them Alma’s eyes, for they limned her path through the dark. All night she sped until she reached the rim of the world, where daily the bright sun launches skyward, traversing the arc of stars which spans the vast ether above. There she lay in the long grass like a pard.

“Soon she saw him, the splendid sun, his brilliant fire paling the sky. Night faded. The starpath sparked under his galloping hooves. All heaven caught fire, his radiance infusing the air as he rounded horizon’s rim where the starpath ascended. Then the Mare of the World sprang, flying before him, stealing his course. Her shadow fell upon the Plain, racing before the sun. He cried out that any mortal—so he thought—would dare eclipse his light.

“ ‘Catch me if ever you can, proud sun,’ she taunted.

“The pinions in her mane lifted to lend her speed. Higher she climbed throughout the morn, as the starpath swelled toward its crest at the apex of the sky. Some stars, by her heels kicked free, fell burning to the earth below. The sun called at her to halt, but she only laughed, her shadow sweeping the Plain. She reached sky’s zenith barely ahead of him, her morning’s slender lead slipping. As they began the long afternoon’s descent down the starpath’s arc, Álm’harat whistled to her birds.

“ ‘Time to do as I have asked! Aid me if you love me, friends, for only should I best him shall I win him.’

“The birds rose, carrying the silken strands of the Mare’s mane and tail. These they wove into misty nets to hinder the sun. His anger flashed. He sought to sear the billowing webs from the air, but they only melted into rain, damping his fires, despite all shouts and rumbling. All afternoon the birds played cloud-catch with the sun. Unaware still that she was Álm’harat—but feeling the goddess’s power within—the Mare of the World ran on, barely two paces ahead of the sun.

“At dusk he caught her, just as they reached the starpath’s terminus at the other end of the world. Far from raging now, the sun had calmed, his fires mellowed. No longer white with heat, they simmered yellow, then rosy, then amber. His temper, too, had cooled in the afternoon rains, for during his pursuit, he had deigned to gaze—truly gaze—upon this seeming mortal for the first time.

“The toss of her mane and the long curve of her throat, the plain of her back and roundness of her ribs intrigued him. Her sinewy legs and flashing heels dazzled. Her laugh, when she called, had begun to beguile him, so that when he captured her at last, ’twas no longer anger he felt, but another passion, just as ardent, but no cause for fear. His nips upon her flank were gentle, his words inviting, his touch a caress.

“Yet when he fell upon her, just where the starpath meets the earth and merges with the netherpath—which is also stars, bridging the underside of the world—she ran on. She felt the weight of his belly against her back, the heave and fall of his panting sides, the heat of him infusing her. Her skin glowed, throwing back a cooler radiance borrowed from his. She bore the heft and the heat and the light of him all along the netherpath that curves below, through darkness, seeking dawn.

“All night they sped mated. All night she carried him, and the sacred children of that union are still being born into this world. The Mare reached dawnpoint again, whence their long race had started a full day before. There the netherpath turns upward to touch easternmost horizon’s rim and the starpath begins its ascent into daylit heaven. Here the sun at long last, conceding defeat, set her free.

“ ‘You win, wild mare,’ he gasped, breathless. ‘Both this race and my heart. Let us pledge forever, body and soul, and never be parted.’

“The Mare of the World smiled, for she had remembered now her nature and her name. ‘I am already yours,’ she answered. ‘I am Álm’harat. You are part of me and of my making. We have never been sundered and never can be, for I am you, and you are I, and the long dance we have been footing circles without end.’

“Álm’harat became herself again, wide as the world and the stars beyond. She became everything that was ever made or has ever been or will be. When the sun no longer saw her as the alluring, willful mare he had chased heaven and underearth to win, he cried out, desolate. But the mother of all things whispered, ‘Do not fear.’

“She made an image of herself to be the sun’s mate, the same compass as he and filled with his borrowed light. This new creation she called the moon, which strives to travel the starpath ahead of the sun. He must gallop his hardest to catch her up. As he gains, she wanes, spending more and more of her light. When he seizes her, by the dark of the moon, both moon and sun tread the netherpath as one, a time of miracles and strange tidings, when the world sees by the light of Álm’harat’s eyes alone.

“Thus has it been for time out of mind. We of the Plain yet wear feathers in her memory. Birds take strands from our manes and tails in payment for their fletch. When Álm’harat created us, she skimmed from the moon some of her shining stuff and poured it into our hooves and horns, into the hearts and minds of all unicorns. Moondancers of the Vale commemorate the goddess at fullmoon, when she fares brightest and farthest from the sun.

“But we of the Plain honor her at moondark, when she and her mate run joined in joy, dancing the longdance to its end. This is the Great Dance, the Cycle unending. Let us live as the maker of all things invites us, as she herself has always done, withholding herself never, sharing favor with all, preferring none of her creatures above any other, loving all wisely and well.”

The tales Jan heard and the days he spent in the company of the one the Plainsdwellers called Alma’s Eyes were like none he had ever known. The grass grew thinner, shorter, paler, the farther north and east they strove. The green, once so savory upon the young prince’s tongue, began yellowing, its sweetness soured. Waterholes became scarce. Once he and his guide sipped from a spring no bigger than a puddle—one they had searched half a morn to find. The soil grew poorer, looser, drier. Dust increased, rimming Jan’s nostrils red. As the land grew hillier and grass sparser, he saw scant trace of other unicorns. Calydor’s fellows, it seemed, avoided these parts.

The seer spoke of his far-traveled folk, how widely they ranged and seldom they met. He sang of pards and the heroes who had dodged them, of summer storms, flash floods, droughts. The one thing he did not speak of, Jan learned in time, was war. The folk of the Plain had no use for it. Here, those who quarreled either settled their dispute, ignored one another, or parted. Each freeborn unicorn was his own ruler: Plainsdwellers attached little merit to following others and viewed obedience with varying degrees of amusement or disdain.

It occurred to Jan at length that the Vale’s lore told mostly of battle: mighty warriors and contests, all struggles ended by force. The Plainsdwellers, he saw, praised heroes who turned foes into friends or averted strife. Keenly aware how Korr’s violence must embody for Calydor and his folk all the worst of the Vale, the young prince strove to offer another side, recounting the end of centuries-long feuds with the gryphons and the pans. He held out hope for treaties with the seer’s tribe as well. Telling of the herd’s anticipated return to the Hallow Hills, he pledged his folk would harry no Plainsdwellers while passing through their lands.

“My son, your herd will not even see us unless we mean you to do so,” the other replied. “We will not allow you to bait us. At your approach, we will simply vanish, returning only after you have passed.”

The pair of them lay in the long grass near a tiny waterhole they had come across just at noon and there resolved to rest an hour in the heat of midday. Though the year was fast rounding toward summer’s end, noon sun could still beat fierce. The young prince turned to Calydor.

“I beg you,” he countered, “do not remove yourselves from us. My herd is ready for change. Warlike ways united us during our first, long years of exile. But that exile is soon to end. We must custom ourselves anew to peace.”

“Peace which is to follow your war,” the seer reminded him. “You mean to wrest the Hills by force, my son.”

“As once they were wrested from us!” Jan found himself exclaiming. He stopped, confused, then stammered, “Thus has it been prophesied, by Alma’s will…”

The words trailed off. Never before had Jan realized how vainglorious the boast sounded. And yet he knew it to be true—he knew! Calmly, the star-scattered stallion gazed at him. Mirrored in the other’s eyes, Jan saw himself for the first time as one seized by war, enthralled by it: ever pondering strategy and measuring potential foes while smugly spouting the goddess’s permission for it all. Doubt teased at him, brought him up short.

“My son, none but Álm’harat truly knows the will of Álm’harat,” Calydor quietly replied. “But this I do know: the goddess wills much that is beyond our ken. And she is both the maker and the unmaker of the world.”

Jan learned much from Calydor of the singer’s elusive, wandering folk. By night, the star-marked stallion recited his people’s legends, with heroes and heroines all grander than life. Wild paeans to the goddess Álm’harat he chanted, too, as well as passionate ballads extolling the joys of the longdance. The Plainsdwellers, Jan discovered, gathered for such dancing not just in late summer or early fall, but whenever they pleased. The northernmost reach of the Plain, which lay beyond the Hallow Hills, was warm enough, Calydor informed him, for mares to bear their young in any season.

That unicorns might know such freedom astonished Jan. Among the herd, mares conceived only during that season which yielded a spring delivery. No stallion dreamed of asking his mate to do otherwise. Had he and Tek been born upon the Plain, Jan concluded, stunned, he and she might partake of the longdance as often as they chose. Was it really nearly three years since he and his mate had pledged eternal fidelity in their courting by the Summer Sea?