“Aye, though wonderfully well-grown, he is a very young stallion.”

“And hath lately languished ill.”

“Sooth, his jumping beareth witness that he recovereth apace!” More nickering.

“That it doth.”

“Patience, sisters. By my reck, we shall all stand broody to his stud by spring.”

Tai-shan had not the slightest idea what they could mean. So many of their odd words were unfamiliar to him still. Yet he hesitated to ask for an explanation and in so doing reveal his eavesdropping: more often than not when he singled one out, she merely fidgeted like a filly, exclaiming, “Sooth, lord! Ye honor me too much.”

Only Ryhenna seemed to possess a bolder spark, addressing him frequently as “thou,” a term he surmised to be for use between equals and friends, rather than the more formal “ye” her sisters used. His questions often sent her into peals of mirth. Exasperated, the dark unicorn gave up trying to scowl, for the other’s laughter was infectious and before long, he, too, was nickering. Ryhenna told him all she knew of the marvelous city beyond the palace gate.

“Our gentle keepers are mighty sorcerers,” she said, punching through the knee-high snow blanketing the yard. The strip of white falseskin wrapping her foreshank had been removed only that morn, though she had long since ceased to limp. “The keepers’ mastery of heavenly fire hath enabled them to build all thou seest that sheltereth both themselves and us, their daya.”

Tai-shan trotted beside her. Their white breath wafted and steamed.

“But where do the daya go in spring, after the snow melts?” he asked her. Surely once the weather warmed, her kind must leave this cramped and barren place—perhaps they roamed the grassy slopes beyond the city until the return of winter snows? Ryhenna turned to him, puzzled.

“Go? My lord Moonbrow, the daya do not go. We remain here under our keepers’ care.”

Tai-shan blinked, surprised. “Always—even in summer?”

The coppery mare nodded. “In sooth,” she answered proudly. “Our lives here are enviable: fed, groomed, sheltered, and exercised by the daïcha’s minions. Why should we wish to leave?”

Dumbstruck, the dark unicorn snorted. His breath swirled in the curling mist between them. Across the yard, Ryhenna’s sisters whickered and chased. Tai-shan gazed about him at the walled grounds of the chon’s palace. A pleasant enough idyll for a season, he supposed—and far preferable to winter’s privations and killing cold—but after the thaw at equinox? To be shut up atop this high, rocky cliff while all around the open hills greened and fragrant meadows beckoned to be raced across and rolled in?

The coppery mare shook her head.

“Dwelling within the chon’s palace is our privilege as bluebloods, sacred to Dai’chon.”

Dai’chon. That word again: the one the daïcha and her minions had chanted upon the beach before the sky cinder. The same word both she and the chon had exclaimed at first sight of him. Tai-shan frowned. He had heard it upon the lips of daya as well as two-foots since and never yet asked Ryhenna what it meant. He was just drawing breath to do so when a look of sadness passed over the coppery mare’s features.

“Others, of course, are not so blessed as my sisters and I,” she murmured.

“Others?” Tai-shan forgot all about his intention to ask Ryhenna for the meaning of the word dai’chon. “There are other daya besides you and your kith—do they dwell in the city beyond?”

During the long uphill procession from the bay to the palace crowning the cliffs, the dark unicorn had caught not so much as a glimpse or a whiff of any four-footed creature besides himself—but then, the crush of two-foots and the confusion of new surroundings had been so great he had been aware of little beyond the tumult and the shower of dried petals and shavings of aromatic wood. The coppery mare shrugged.

“They are only commoners, of course. Of no consequence.”

“Commoners?” Tai-shan pressed, moving nearer. “What are they?”

Again the coppery mare shrugged, moving off. “Merely common daya–those not sacred to Dai’chon.”

Before he could question her further, the daïcha called out to him from the wooden barrier’s gate. Across the yard, other two-foots clucked to the da mares. Ryhenna trotted obediently toward them. The dark unicorn stood gazing after her as she joined her sisters and followed the two-foot escorts from the yard. Behind him, the daïcha called again.

That evening, alone in his warm, straw-bedded stall after the daïcha had feasted and groomed him, Tai-shan reflected on the coppery mare’s words. Who were these “common” daya? Were their lives different from the pampered comforts enjoyed by himself and the sacred bluebloods? In truth, despite its luxuries, now that he had regained his vigor, the unending sameness of life within the confines of the palace grounds had begun to wear on him.

Almost all he knew of the city beyond, he realized, came to him through Ryhenna—yet today she had hinted that she herself had never even ventured beyond the palace gate. Had any of her sisters? Surely some of them must—yet all save Ryhenna remained too shy to converse with him. The dark unicorn snorted. His only direct knowledge of the settlement below was little more than a confused and fading memory. Desire seized him suddenly to explore the two-foots’ city of fire and behold with his own eyes whatever mysteries it might hold.

Tek waded through the drifting snow, her rump to the biting wind. Sa had not yet returned to the grotto, and with the early dusk not far away, the pied mare grew anxious for her. Tek shivered hungrily as she picked her way across the slope. Late afternoon was very dark. Stumbling across the grey mare’s body at the foot of a sharp drop took her by surprise. Sa lay smashed on the icy stones, one foreleg splayed, her head and neck twisted at an impossible angle. Tek halted, staring in horror. High up the cliff, she spotted the place where the other must have lost her footing. A little fir tree, hardly more than a sprig, grew out of the rock.

Grief overwhelmed Tek. The sky above her seemed to spin. She sank down, nuzzled the grey mare’s body, already stiff with cold. Wind gusted, heavy with snow. It dragged against the cliffside, moaning. Surely a snowstorm was in the wind. She knew that she must rise, must return soon to the shelter of the caves. Dusk was fast approaching, and if she were caught by storm, she might never find her way back. Slowly, with effort, she gathered her cold-numbed limbs and rose. Someone must bear news of Sa’s death to the king, she realized with a groan. The thought chilled her even more than the wind.

Motion behind her made her start and wheel. Downslope two of the king’s Companions came into view. They halted in surprise. Stallions both, one was dark, midnight blue with a pale, silvery mane. He looked to be of the same generation as Korr. The other, perhaps a year or two older than Tek, was middle blue and spattered all over with eye-sized blots of black.

“It’s Tek,” he muttered to his fellow, “the Red Mare’s—the wych’s child—”

The older Companion cut him short. “Alma’s beard,” he exclaimed. “Look—the king’s dam, Sa!”

Still numb with grief, Tek fell back as the two stallions climbed hastily to stand over the grey mare.

“Dead!” the younger one exclaimed.

The heads of both Companions snapped up. Their glances flicked to her from the carcass at their feet. The dark, midnight blue leveled an accusing gaze at Tek.

“What do you know of this?” he demanded.

Tek’s mouth felt thick and dry. “I…she must have fallen.”

“Did you see it happen?” the younger, spotted one snapped, advancing uphill.