to them confirmed that they were arrows.
âLook what you have here, girl. A little filly.â There was a slight lilting to his speech, something barely discernible and almost musical.
As he knelt next to the newborn, a leather sheath about a foot-and-a-half long stuck out from his hip. Too big to contain merely a hunting knife, it could only be a sword.
The boy spoke soothingly, but also with a clip of urgency, a quake of fear he couldnât entirely conceal. âSheâll make us a fine mare, will she not, Wind Catcher?â He lay his cheek on Mysteryâs neck and rubbed his hand over her trembling muscles in slow, sure circles, though his eyes kept flicking to Twig and to the open stable door at the end of the aisle.
The worry lines above Mysteryâs eyes deepened. She whinnied, high and thin, then moaned. The poniesâ voices formed a chaotic chorus of despair. The boy buried his face in the mareâs mane. Twig strained to make out what he said. Something like, âHe cannot give up. Not now.â
âWhatâs happening?â Twig pushed past the absolute strangeness of speaking to this boy who wasnât supposed to exist, this boy whose identity was somehow entwined with these mystery creatures who absolutely couldnât exist.
The boy looked up at Twig and that wildness was back in his eyes. He rose, and the wind caught his cloak again and whipped tangles of Twigâs hair into her face so that she had to hold it back with both hands to see. The filly made a pitiful cry and groped at the bedding with delicate cloven hooves. Mysteryâs horn retracted a bit, then extended again, then retracted nearly all the way.
Mystery gave a sudden sniff-snort. She scrambled up, legs wobbling, eyes glaring at the empty aisle with desperate determination.
âNo.â The boy turned back to Mystery. âDonât!â
When the creature tipped her sharp horn forward and lunged out of the stall, the boy jumped back in alarm. He ran after her as she bolted out of the stable, and without thinking, Twig followed. The mare collapsed midway across the stable yard, and Twig stopped short.
âNo! No!â Tears streamed down the wild boyâs face. He crumpled to his knees, and his cloak spilled onto the sodden grass around him, utterly limp, no longer buoyed by the wind.
The faintest of shivers rippled over the mystery mareâs body. The boy put his palm on the point of her partially extended horn and pressed it down with a shuddery sob, until it disappeared into the thick silk of her forelock.
A howl cut through the fog, and Twig ran for the stable. But the boy didnât run. He shouted a curse at the trees, said something about night, something about a dagger.
Twig stopped. She couldnât leave him out there all alone. But what could she do? She pressed herself against the outside stable wall, chest heaving. Please, God , she prayed. She hadnât prayed since she was six years old. No one had seemed to listen then, and probably no one was listening now, but her heart cried out anyway. Donât let Mystery die. Donât let those things get us. Make everything right. If youâre good, if youâre God, make it all right.
Tears blurred her vision, and the fog gathered thicker around the stable yard. She thought she heard hoofs galloping swiftly over the ground. She lowered her hands and blinked through the blobs of light that had formed from rubbing her eyes too hard, and tried to understand the shifting mist. Her heart skipped a beat. Some of the mist seemed to take on a horselike shape, pale and lithe and quickâjust a glimpse, an impression of leaping away.
Twig searched the mist but couldnât spot Mystery or the boy. She eased back into the stable and waited by the door, wanting to shut it but afraid for the boy, that he might need to run back inside.
When the boy appeared in the stable doorway, he didnât run. He paused and grabbed a
âLook what you have here, girl. A little filly.â There was a slight lilting to his speech, something barely discernible and almost musical.
As he knelt next to the newborn, a leather sheath about a foot-and-a-half long stuck out from his hip. Too big to contain merely a hunting knife, it could only be a sword.
The boy spoke soothingly, but also with a clip of urgency, a quake of fear he couldnât entirely conceal. âSheâll make us a fine mare, will she not, Wind Catcher?â He lay his cheek on Mysteryâs neck and rubbed his hand over her trembling muscles in slow, sure circles, though his eyes kept flicking to Twig and to the open stable door at the end of the aisle.
The worry lines above Mysteryâs eyes deepened. She whinnied, high and thin, then moaned. The poniesâ voices formed a chaotic chorus of despair. The boy buried his face in the mareâs mane. Twig strained to make out what he said. Something like, âHe cannot give up. Not now.â
âWhatâs happening?â Twig pushed past the absolute strangeness of speaking to this boy who wasnât supposed to exist, this boy whose identity was somehow entwined with these mystery creatures who absolutely couldnât exist.
The boy looked up at Twig and that wildness was back in his eyes. He rose, and the wind caught his cloak again and whipped tangles of Twigâs hair into her face so that she had to hold it back with both hands to see. The filly made a pitiful cry and groped at the bedding with delicate cloven hooves. Mysteryâs horn retracted a bit, then extended again, then retracted nearly all the way.
Mystery gave a sudden sniff-snort. She scrambled up, legs wobbling, eyes glaring at the empty aisle with desperate determination.
âNo.â The boy turned back to Mystery. âDonât!â
When the creature tipped her sharp horn forward and lunged out of the stall, the boy jumped back in alarm. He ran after her as she bolted out of the stable, and without thinking, Twig followed. The mare collapsed midway across the stable yard, and Twig stopped short.
âNo! No!â Tears streamed down the wild boyâs face. He crumpled to his knees, and his cloak spilled onto the sodden grass around him, utterly limp, no longer buoyed by the wind.
The faintest of shivers rippled over the mystery mareâs body. The boy put his palm on the point of her partially extended horn and pressed it down with a shuddery sob, until it disappeared into the thick silk of her forelock.
A howl cut through the fog, and Twig ran for the stable. But the boy didnât run. He shouted a curse at the trees, said something about night, something about a dagger.
Twig stopped. She couldnât leave him out there all alone. But what could she do? She pressed herself against the outside stable wall, chest heaving. Please, God , she prayed. She hadnât prayed since she was six years old. No one had seemed to listen then, and probably no one was listening now, but her heart cried out anyway. Donât let Mystery die. Donât let those things get us. Make everything right. If youâre good, if youâre God, make it all right.
Tears blurred her vision, and the fog gathered thicker around the stable yard. She thought she heard hoofs galloping swiftly over the ground. She lowered her hands and blinked through the blobs of light that had formed from rubbing her eyes too hard, and tried to understand the shifting mist. Her heart skipped a beat. Some of the mist seemed to take on a horselike shape, pale and lithe and quickâjust a glimpse, an impression of leaping away.
Twig searched the mist but couldnât spot Mystery or the boy. She eased back into the stable and waited by the door, wanting to shut it but afraid for the boy, that he might need to run back inside.
When the boy appeared in the stable doorway, he didnât run. He paused and grabbed a
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