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The emotions and thoughts of that other woman, Clare fought back. She was not Amori Ha’i’Amoren. Not the daughter of the fiercest war maiden in all the land of Kileen, a land that had ceased existing some two-and-a-half centuries ago. She had never found her peace on the back of a galloping horse as it charged into battle.
But maybe she could take that expertise and find a different kind of peace. The person that Amori Ha’i’Amoren had been, Clare shoved down. There was no room for that personality within Clare’s mind, no space she was willing to give another within her own body. The war maiden Amori was long dead.
But her knowledge of horses—of their nature and their training and their needs—she took into herself. The way her body—the same height and shape as Amori’s, if less-muscled—would move when astride such a creature. All this she accepted, pulling it away from that other personality, until the connection between them was so tenuous that the right note would cut it. So she hummed that note—and the Song howled in anguish within her, flinging itself at the walls of its prison as if Clare had destroyed something it loved.
She hoped she had. Ignoring the Song’s tantrum, she ducked through the fence and went to meet Kialla. She stopped a few feet from the horse, just outside of the invisible boundary that marked Kialla’s personal space, and waited. She continued to wait, long past when she heard Numair return, until the mare, finally, took one step forward and lengthened her neck to sniff curiously at her.
Clare lifted her palm. The mare stepped away, but when Clare did not pursue her she moved forward again, putting muzzle to palm and sniffing delicately, worrying at her with nimble lips. So it went, a slow, step-by-step approach and retreat, until Clare could run her hands over cheeks and forehead and ears. Until when she scratched Kialla’s neck and withers the mare stretched her neck out in appreciation.
When Clare turned and walked back to Numair, inviting Kialla to come with her, the mare followed. She retrieved the bridle Numair had brought and offered it to the horse, one hand on the mare’s neck, keeping pace with her as Kialla crossed over her front feet, dancing away without running away. When the mare finally came to a halt, Clare let her hand fall from her neck and took the bridle away.
The horse relaxed, and after a moment Clare offered the bridle to her again. Her head went up, nostrils flaring, but she didn’t move away this time. Clare just…waited. Waited, until the mare’s head lowered the barest amount, her eyes blinking, and then took the bridle away again.
So it went over and over, an offer and a retreat after the horse relaxed, until the moment came when Kialla no longer tensed at all when Clare brought it to her face. It was tedious and repetitive. Horse-training, when done correctly, was a largely boring thing to watch, something the men in Amori’s life had never been able to properly accept. They wanted to break an animal—to fight it and conquer it in a flashy display of human dominance and brutality.
But what good was a broken horse? Far better was one who accepted you. Who trusted you. Because a broken horse, while it might be obedient, would reliably give you only half of what it had. A horse who accepted its rider, who trusted its rider, would give that person everything.
Kialla already knew how to wear a bridle—that was not what Clare was teaching her. She was teaching her that Clare would give her a choice. Teaching her that if the mare was not completely comfortable with something, Clare would be patient with her until she was. She was teaching her to trust.
When Clare finally slipped the headstall over Kialla’s ears, the mare accepted the bit with the regal resignation of a monarch who has endured much official drudgery with an abundance of calm grace. When Numair approached, saddle and pad in hand, Kialla accepted the placement of these in much the same manner.
“I must admit,” Numair said softly, “that I expected you to get on with her. But I didn’t expect a Songweaver to move like a horse trainer.”
A question lingered beneath the words, one Clare knew she should shunt aside with a mysterious smile and equally mysterious words. But he was—she was—they were—trying to be friends. She might be unclear on what the details of friendship entailed, but she thought some measure of honesty was involved in the process.
She couldn’t actually be honest with him, of course, but perhaps she could…skirt the truth. “I find I can be what I need to be, when I have to.”
Shadows swept across his eyes, briefly there and then gone. “That I understand well.”
He was, she suspected, adept at doing the same. Though he undoubtedly took a different path getting there.
“Would you like a leg up?”
She would have refused but he was already kneeling, his fingers lacing together to form a step. There was something about the gesture—the openness and almost vulnerability of it—that made her swallow her refusal and place her foot in his hands. Her shoes were so thin, hardly more than slippers—she might appreciation the protection footwear provided against winter’s chill, but she also found their bulk cumbersome, and thus had grabbed something utterly impractical last night—and it felt almost as if the bare sole of her foot touched against his palms. Something oddly like the tingling, unsettling nature of a shock traveled up from her foot through her entire body.
He rose, pitching her up, and then she was settled gently astride Kialla’s back and the uncomfortable feeling brought on by the physical connection slipped away as her foot left his hand. She had the sudden absurd notion that she wanted it back—only to understand what it was, of course—and in avoidance of that thought her feet found the stirrups with too much enthusiasm.
Kialla pranced beneath her, hindquarters swinging as she pivoted on her front hooves. Clare let the mare fidget, then let her settle. They had time enough to work on the little things. Besides which, a small amount of disobedience on occasion meant the horse still had a personality, and was willing to use it.
The mare stretched out her nose to Numair, as if seeking his permission. A soft smile curved his lips and he rubbed her muzzle, murmuring quiet words Clare couldn’t catch. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t think she plans on tossing you on your ass, but why don’t you try her out here where the landing is soft. I’d have a devil of a time explaining your broken neck to Lord Arrendon.”
Clare snorted. “Perhaps the two of you could finally overcome your differences and bond over my tragic death.” As if the Song would ever let her die. Things broken within her never remained so for long.
She squeezed her legs gently to Kialla’s sides and the mare, eager to take Clare’s mettle, leapt directly into a trot. Clare tightened lightly on the reins, applying a soft, steady pressure until Kialla slowed to a walk, snorting and tossing her head. Hellack, standing at Numair’s side out of the way, looked on almost longingly while Clare took Kialla in a wide, slow circle around Numair. She completed a few circuits until she settled into the rhythm of the mare’s gait, then urged her into a trot.
Trotting was frequently an unpleasant gait, depending on the horse, but Kialla’s flowed smooth as a calm river, and Clare didn’t bother to post it. After a warmup, she tested the mare’s canter in a few light circles. For a brief moment she closed her eyes, the supple power of the animal beneath her—the beauty and coordination of the stride—making it feel almost possible to leave this plane of existence entirely.
It was a feeling she remembered having, but those were not her memories. This was the first time Clare Brighton had ever felt this way, ever had this experience, and she never wanted it to stop. But she couldn’t canter circles around the second prince of Faelhorn forever. Neither could she contain the grin that claimed her face as she loped up to him, the settling of her seat and slight backwards shift of her weight all that was required to bring Kialla sliding to a stop.
Numair grinned. “You like her, then?”
“She’s perfect. How does she feel about me?” It was difficult to keep the hesitance from her voice. The horse’s good opinion of her mattered far more to Clare than any human’s ever had.
He reached out and stroked the mare’s face. “She says you don’t ride like a sack of potatoes, so you’ll do for now.” His eyes sparkled.
She scoffed. “Even I know the Deirdren Blessed don’t hear horses talk in words.”
“She likes you well enough. Don’t give her cause to regret it and the two of you will do fine.”
