Tears sting my eyes as I scramble to stand, but the earth won’t hold still. I rise, only to fall again.
On the fourth fall, I stop trying to get back up. Instead, I crawl as fast as I can—until I reach the edge of the field. Once hidden, I pull my knees close and wrap my arms around them.
The stalks are tall enough to rise over my head, their dry blades moving slightly, but they shield me from the massive beasts down the road.
As if the appearance of the giant horses isn’t frightening enough, men now sit upon them—or what look to be men.
Beneath the deep hoods of their cloaks rests pure darkness. No face.
Their cloaks are trimmed in silver symbols, rich in color, blending in with those of their mounts—white, bloodred, grey, and black. Armor covers them, like the warriors in the old stories—chainmail and plated steel, sharp and cruel in their design.
Each wears a crown. The grey rider’s resembles a silver halo with accents, stark and severe, while the white looks to be made of bleached bone. The black wears gold, heavy and regal, like a king. But the red one—the largest and most terrifying of them all has a wicked black crown. It contains spikes in varying lengths that shoot straight up from the ornate base.
The moment they break away from the mist, the entire world goes deathly silent, and the earth stops shaking.
The screaming stops so abruptly that I question whether sound itself has vanished or if I have lost the ability to hear.
It returns all at once?—
In the pounding of hooves.
The grey horse’s front hoof repeatedly strikes the ground, each stomp sending a tremor through the earth.
The white turns in a slow, deliberate circle as if anxious.
The red rears up. Its front two legs kick violently at the air. It lets out a horrible sound that sends shivers racing down my spine.
The black horse remains utterly still, silent, and watchful.
Then, as if they move as one, they ride away from one another. Like in an X. The white and grey head in opposite directions, as do the red and black.
I shrink down, pressing myself into the wheat to conceal my presence. My bones seem to rattle beneath my skin as the White Horseman nears, each thunderous step echoing through my entire body.
He passes so very close. Too close. I hold my breath so I do not give myself away. As if he can sense me there, he slows and pauses for a moment on the road. He speaks—softly, in a language I do not understand.
His horse turns its head.
Its pale eyes look straight toward me.
I duck out of sight, pressing my forehead into the dirt, my pulse roaring in my ears.
A moment later, the horse’s footsteps resume, the sound fading with each thumping beat of my heart.
I lay there for what feels like hours, until the sun begins to sink below the horizon and the sky deepens the shadows around me. Until the moon rises. Until a voice I know well calls out.
When my feet finally touch solid ground again, I stand on aching and trembling legs to see a beautiful young man in a black frock, the gold and red accents of his stole barely visible in this light.
It’s Grand Minister Judiah standing on the other side of the wheat field where the women were hours ago.
“Come, child,” he says harshly as he motions me to him.
I run faster than I have ever run before. He holds out his hand as I draw near. Once my fingers are clasped within his, I turn my head and look around at the others in the field.
I cannot see them all, but the sisters I do see lie motionless, prone among the flattened wheat. Sister Odessa is there, staring up at the duskening sky.
“Sister—” I try to go to her, but Grand Minister Judiah pulls me the other way.
Vehemently, he says, “No. You mustn’t touch her.”
