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.’