“I believe this Red-One of whom you speak is kin to me,” he said to A’a, “being mother to my mate.”

The narwhal leader reared back, startled, his speech degenerating into a series of squeals and staccato raps, by which, Jan supposed, he transmitted this news to his fellows. The dark prince nearly slid from the backs of his rescuers as other narwhals joined in their leader’s gleeful dither, jostling and chattering.

Across from him, Ryhenna’s supporters seemed to contain themselves better than their podmates, so that the sleeping mare only stirred, but did not wake. Eventually, to Jan’s relief, A’a calmed himself and restored order with a barrage of deep, rapid snaps and bursts of rising notes. As the narwhals quieted, their leader once more resumed the unicorn tongue.

“We were unaware of your kinship to Red-One,” the narwhal replied. “This news pleases us very well.”

“I seek to return to my home,” Jan told him urgently, “and I would bring my companion Ryhenna with me, but I do not know the way….”

“Do not fear,” A’a replied. “You need only travel east along the silver shore to reach the whistling steeps and the golden sands where the blue skimmers flock. From there, you and your companion will be able to find your way inland, will you not?”

Whistling steeps, golden sands, blue skimmers. Quickly, Jan grasped the most likely translations: Singing Cliffs, the shores of the Summer Sea, and the dust-blue herons.

“Aye,” he cried. “We can easily find our way inland from there.”

“Good,” A’a replied. “We are not far from the shallows though you will need to travel many days along the silver strand before you reach the steeps. We should be within sight of the drylands by morning. Until then, sleep, friend Aljan, unicorn of the land, for I see you are as weary as your companion. It is time both of you slept. Rest now till we put you safe ashore.”

Dagg felt exposed, vulnerable now that he had passed outside the Vale. Tepid sun and cool spring air seemed almost sultry. Grazing as he went, he trotted through the greening hills, admiring the delicious shoots and young buds bursting everywhere. His long winter pelt, grown ragged now, had yet to shed. He found himself sweating beneath the shag. Gnats and midges swarmed in droves. He swatted at a biting fly on his rump.

He could not believe how quickly the season had changed. The violent storm at equinox, little more than a month gone by, had banished the hard-frozen snows in a single sweep. Dagg shuddered, thinking of the desperate winter past: Jan, gryphon-killed; mad Korr ordering his son’s innocent mate pursued even in her exile beyond the Vale. Then the storm. Common knowledge called Tek’ s dam, to whom she had fled, a magicker. Could the Red Mare truly have conjured the deluge at equinox—and all that had ensued?

Uneasily, Dagg shoved speculation aside. Those tragedies were over—nightmares from which the herd must now awake. He trotted across pathless, rolling hills of mixed forest and meadow. Deep in his breast stirred the fear that had dogged him all winter since Tek’s flight. Had she been able to find her mother, the elusive Red Mare—or had she perished with her unborn in the snows beyond the Vale? Even strengthened as she was by the healer’s herb, her desperate run must have cost her much.

A sharp whistle cut through his troubled musing. The dappled warrior halted dead, his nostrils flared. He cast about him with ears and eyes. He stood in an open meadow beside a narrow ravine, gushing now with spring flood. On the cliffside opposite, a figure moved, partially hidden by trees. His heart lifted suddenly as Tek stepped from the forest’s edge onto the open hillside.

“Ho, Tek!” Dagg shouted, half-rearing. “Well met!”

The pied mare laughed. She seemed surprisingly hale. Dagg himself was only beginning to recover from the privations of the harsh season past. Despite the recent abundance of sprouting shoots and buds, his ribs still showed. Tek, by contrast, looked sleek.

“Come up,” she cried. “I’ll meet you.”

Wheeling, she vanished into the trees. Dagg splashed across the flooded ravine and started up the rocky trail. A thought struck him just as he reached the trees. Though a tall, strapping mare, Tek had always been lean, slim as a filly, without an ounce of spare flesh. So he recalled her from their years in the Vale, and so she had appeared to him on the hillside above only moments before.

A chill bit into Dagg’s breast as he counted the time since the night of courting upon the shores of the Summer Sea. Tek’s pregnancy ought to have been far advanced by now, her unborn progeny not due for close to another moon—yet her slender girth made obvious that she was no longer pregnant. Dagg’s heart fell. She must have lost the foal.

The sound of hoofbeats along the steep trail made him quicken his pace. Through the trees ahead, he glimpsed Tek rounding the bend. She let out a glad whinny and charged him. Dagg braced, laughing, as she shouldered against him, frisking and nipping. He felt like a colt again, dodging the smarting blows of her hooves and fencing her nimble feints of horn. Panting, the two of them subsided at last, Tek tossing the long black-and-rose strands of mane from her eyes. Dagg marveled at her energy.

“Well, Dagg,” she said, a little breathless. “What brings you?”

“You,” he answered, chafing against her companionably. “How are you?” he asked her. “How fared you this winter past?”

Tek laughed, stepping back. “As you see. I found my dam and sheltered in her grotto. But you, Dagg—” Her voice sobered. “How fared you and those I left behind in the Vale?”

Dagg cast down his eyes. “So many perished,” he answered. “Mainly the old and the very young.”

As he thought of Korr keeping huge assemblies standing in the fierce cold for hours daily, sharing only among his favored Companions the secret of where the best forage lay, the dappled warrior’s voice grew hard.

“Many starved, who need not have starved. Many died of cold who need not have died. By the end of winter, even the most loyal acknowledged Korr must be mad.”

Tek nodded, sobered. “I sorrow to hear of it.”

Dagg stamped, pacing restlessly. “Then the tragedy at equinox. That was the final blow….”

The dappled warrior stopped himself, glancing quickly at Tek. He had not meant to mention that catastrophe so soon, to spoil her first joy at their meeting—especially in view of the obvious loss of her unborn. Now the damage was done: he had let the news slip out. Tek’s eyes narrowed.

“Tragedy?” she asked him. “Tell me of this.”

Dagg scuffed one forehoof. Gnats whined, stinging him. He tossed his mane.

“Come.” Tek fell in beside him and started up the slope. “Tell me as we walk.”

The hillside steepened, its narrow trail threading through tough, spindly trees. Reluctantly, he began.

“After you fled at solstice time, some expressed hope, saying that with ‘the pied wych’ now cast out, Alma must once more smile—hah!” He snorted. “But the weather only worsened. Teki and I did our best to foster belief that it must be your exile the goddess found so displeasing. Most conceded that you had had nothing to do with the death of noble Sa and that fear for your life—not guilty shame—had driven you away. Feelings ran even higher in your favor when it became known you…”

Dagg hastily bit his tongue, reluctant to speak indelicately in view of Tek’s obvious miscarriage.

“That is, when your condition became known,” he muttered awkwardly, risking a glance at Tek.

She seemed unperturbed, serene in fact. Dagg frowned. Few mares he knew to have lost their young accepted their misfortune so blithely. Even moons later, he knew, many still mourned. Yet Tek evidenced no such deep-felt grief. Though sober and attentive, her expression was not stricken.