“Such is not so. Some of us have sires or dams born to the Ring, who later fled to freedom here. Others have aided such refugees. True, these Ringbreakers disparage the Vale. I little blame them. To speak of it is painful to them. But I will tell you of one I met, many years ago, who was of the Vale and who returned to the Vale, and was no monster, no mad maker of war.”

All around, Plainsdwellers shifted and swayed, now pricking their ears, their murmurs quieting. Despite his urgency, Jan found himself listening as the other spoke.

“Many seasons past, when I was a youth with a young beard on my chin, I dreamt one summer under Alma’s eyes of a mare: pale as cloud newly warmed by sunset’s glow, with a mane and tail brilliant red-orange as the poppy flower.”

The dark prince heard sighs, contented murmurs among the crowd, as though the tale were well known, a favorite. Reluctantly, he settled himself, aware that making his way unobtrusively to Crimson or Ashbrindle now through the hush might prove well-nigh impossible.

“She, too, was young,” the singer continued. His way of turning, of lifting his head nipped at Jan like a gnat, reminding him of someone he could not quite recall. The star-marked stallion continued. “Gazing upon her in my dream, I sensed that like me, she had never danced the longdance to its end.

“She lay far to the south, I knew, where the wind blows cool. I set out alone across the Plain. For days I traveled, until I drew near the southern sea that spills green against a golden shore. Tasting salt upon the wind, I halted, knowing Moondancers summer upon that strand. I had no wish to clash with any of that warlike tribe.

“Night fell, and I saw my love, coming by moondark—yet the light of Álm’harat’s eyes blazed so, I saw her as well as by day. She moved with caution and with speed, casting about as she traveled, ears pricked, scenting the breeze. She was all my dream had promised: dancer’s grace and runner’s gait.

“With a joyous cry, I leapt to meet her as one would a long-lost friend, unguarded—and nearly lost my life. She screamed and shied, wholly surprised, then met me with a pummeling of hooves and a slashing of horn. I broke off, bewildered. She sprang back, stiff-legged, horn at the ready.

“ ‘Stand off! Stand off, wild Renegade,’ she shouted. ‘I seek no enmity with you, but I am a warrior born and versed and can defend myself at need.’

“We both stood wild-eyed, panting, stunned. She, from what must have seemed an ambuscade—I, from the dawning that though she was indeed my vision’s mare, she herself had dreamt no such dream. She knew me not, and sooth, what knew I of her? Until that moment I had not even suspected what now stood clear: she was no Plainsdweller as was I, but a Moondancer strayed from her folk. If she searched for another upon the Plain, that other was not I.

“I stammered some halting amends. ‘I cry your pardon. I mistook you for a…a friend and meant no harm.’

“She eyed me warily. At length she said, ‘I, too, seek…a certain friend.’ She hesitated. Then, ‘Perhaps you have news of her.’

“Carefully at first, then with growing ease, she told me of a belovèd companion who had deserted the Vale. Now each night, she said, she slipped away from her band, ventured onto the Plain, intent upon finding her missing companion and persuading her to return. I listened, lost at times. She assumed I knew all concerning her folk, that I had once been one of them, and that I, too, like her friend, had run away.

“I told her I knew naught of her friend, that I, like most of my folk, had been foaled upon the Mare’s Back and wist little of her reclusive, warring clan. But I pledged to search and bring word if she would await me nightly on this spot. She was grateful, relieved beyond measure. Venturing the Plain entailed great risk for her. Besides danger from dogs and pards, if discovered, she might have been cast from her band. Simply conversing with me was counted treason.

“The harshness of her people’s lives astonished me: hidebound by tradition, imprisoned by Law. How, I wondered, could one raised within such strictures have even conceived this defiance: to dare to follow her own heart rather than the dictates of capricious kings? For all her people’s warlike bent, they seemed to my mind to be cowards all, afraid to think and do for themselves.

“This young mare’s plan to return her friend to what she believed the safe haven of her Vale was surely bold. Yet in truth, my sympathies were all for the other, the one who had leapt the confines of the Vale and fled to the open Plain. In the space of a heartbeat, I envisioned a plan: that if I could indeed find my love’s lost companion, perhaps I and that one together might convince her to remain at liberty upon the Plain.

“She and I parted ere the paling of the stars: she—hopeful but wary still—to return to her summering band; I flush with determination. I scoured the Plain, importuning every passerby for news, imploring those I met to search upon their travels for my belovèd’s friend and send me word. Always I returned by nightfall to meet with the poppy-maned mare, bring her what news I had gleaned—maddeningly little, most days.

“She never seemed disappointed, as at first I had feared, only sad, and hopeful still, and patient, ready to wait as long as need be. After we spoke each night, she appeared reluctant to go. So we spoke on, I telling her of my life and my people’s ways, she telling me of hers. I learnt more of them from her than ever I could have dreamt.

“Slowly, she warmed to me. I sensed she kept our meetings for more than just the chance of news. I sensed she began to look to me for companionship, that she enjoyed my company more and more. I sang her songs of our folk—I was a young singer then, and my store of stories small. She recited for me those of her own folk’s lays that she could recall. Our friendship deepened with each waning night.

“Then at last, word came. A passing band knew of the mare I sought. Another wayfarer spoke of a Gather. The mare for whom I searched would likely gather with the rest to dance the longdance. Excitedly, I told my friend from the Vale. We struck off across the Plain, flying like the wind, and reached the milling celebrants just at dusk. My friend spotted her comrade and ran to her, calling gladly.

“My love’s fellow at first mistook her for a new Renegade like herself and welcomed her eagerly to the Plain. Soon, however, my love’s intentions became clear. The two mares quarreled, cajoled, discussed and reconciled, each seeking to convince the other to join her. I hung back, uncertain, avid to support the other mare’s arguments, yet fearing to intrude. Meanwhile, all around us, the longdance began, its rhythm swelling, ebbing, and rising again.

“At last, my love’s friend turned from her and disappeared into the quickening rush. My heart beat hard. Before me, my love stood shaken, confused. Clearly, she had believed persuasion would be easy after the difficult trial of finding her friend. Instead, her comrade had refused to return to the Vale and pressed my love hard to remain. She had spoken convincingly, I saw, touting her newfound freedom. My beloved wavered. Made bold, I, too, now spoke, declaring my passionate love.

“All around us, our fellows coursed, snorting and plunging, stamping and swirling. Their throb, the tow of their motion overwhelmed us both. She followed me as one lost in a daze. We entered the dance. ’T swept us along, two dreamers caught in currents too swift to swim, too powerful to wake, and we danced the longdance to its end, under the summer stars.

“Briefly, I think, she cast off her Vale and its Ring of Law, entering wholeheartedly into our joyous rite. Perhaps I delude myself. When dawn broke, blinding the stars, our companions scattered, her lost friend among them. She stood unable to follow, and my hopes ended. She must return to her seaside band, she said. She could not go with me.