Henarian and the wild mare rode head-to-head, then fell back as Arianlach came thundering up. Sorrel watched the Earl rise in his stirrups, none of the half-wit drunkard about him now. A long coil of what looked like rope snaked out from the whip-crack movement of his arm, wrapped itself around the mare’s neck. She reared and jerked, and Arianlach was dragged from his saddle. He hit the ground, rolled to avoid the churn of his horse’s hooves, and was on his feet in an instant, still holding his rope.

But the mare wasn’t having any of it. She screamed and reared again as Arianlach fought to run along the length of the rope to her head, then twisted and turned so that he was behind her. She kicked. Arianlach took the blow on his shoulder, twisting out of the way just in time to avoid the crack of her hoof on his skull, then she wrenched his arm. Sorrel heard his cry of pain as his arm was pulled from his shoulder and he dropped the rope.

Henarian, who’d ridden back, breathless and wild with elation, dismounted. ‘Did you see that?’

Sorrel swore. ‘She’ll break her neck if she trips on that rope! Give me your mount; I’ll catch her!’

Henarian shook his shoulder. ‘Wait. Do you see a rope?’

Sorrel looked. The lad was right. There was no rope. His mouth dropped open. ‘How…?’

But Henarian was already on his way to Arianlach, who’d turned back to his horse, clutching his dislocated shoulder. His face was pale, and as soon as Henarian and Sorrel reached him, he unleashed a string of filthy curses.

He shoved at Henarian with his uninjured arm. ‘This is your bloody fault! Next time you want to lay wagers on stupid wild mares, you leave me out of it!’

‘What? It wasn’t my idea to try him on the mare!’

‘Let me see,’ said Sorrel to Arianlach. He prised Arianlach’s hand gently from his shoulder. ‘It isn’t broken?’

‘I don’t think so. But I can’t move it. Just needs shoved back in. Blazes, it hurts!’

Sorrel turned to Henarian. ‘Hold him. I’m going to push his arm back into the socket. It’ll hurt,’ he warned the Earl, ‘but only for a moment. Ready?’

Arianlach nodded, and gritted his teeth. ‘Ready.’

‘I find it hard to believe you haven’t done this before, if you ride like that,’ Sorrel continued, as he braced himself against Arianlach. He pushed. Arianlach gasped and swore. ‘But what of the rope? Move your arm.’

‘I…ah.’ Arianlach raised his arm. ‘That bloody hurts! But my thanks.’

‘And the rope?’ Henarian patted his cousin’s arm and let him go. ‘Where’s the rope you used to hook the mare?’

Arianlach’s eyes slid away under thick tawny lashes, and he mounted his own horse. ‘Still want to ride after the mare?’

Henarian flung his arms wide. ‘Do you see her? She’s long gone!’

Arianlach turned to Sorrel, furious with pain and embarrassment. ‘Next time you ride an unbroken horse from my stables, please don’t dismount and let it run off! That would have been a prize war-horse!’

‘For me, maybe,’ said Sorrel, trying not to laugh. The mare was on the West shore of the lake and had given up her escape. ‘I am the only one who could ride her, remember? I’ve broken more new mounts than you’ve seen sunsets, Earl Cangarth. Who’s to say you could ever ride her, once I had?’

Henarian sniggered. ‘Didn’t you say you wanted the horse-lord for your sister’s husband, Arianlach? Shame he’s going to be a Hervik clansman and not a Cangarth one! Prince Ellazhán – will you ride back with me or the Earl?’

‘We’re not going back yet?’ Sorrel gazed at the horizon. The sky was darkening rapidly and it wouldn’t be long before the light faded altogether. He didn’t want to go back to the castle, with its noise and crowding, its choking air full of the stench of men and animals cloistered too close together. Out here, the air was fresh and cold. There was, as far as he could see, no need to return so soon. And he could go fetch that mare.

‘We needn’t,’ said Henarian, watching Arianlach with hope in his eyes.

‘I don’t see any need to sleep out here when we can sleep warm in beds of wool and linen, under a roof,’ sniffed Arianlach. ‘We’re riding back now. And my arm still hurts like hell.’

He hopped into his saddle with a squawk of pain, and held his good hand out for Sorrel.

Sorrel hesitated.

‘Walk, if you like,’ said Arianlach, dropping his arm. ‘I care not. Just get back before true dark or the ghosts in the lake will eat your soul.’

‘I don’t believe in them, and I cannot ride with you.’ Sorrel eyed the lake shore nonetheless, a little frisson of fear goose-bumping his arms.

‘Why not?’

‘A man can only share a saddle with his family or his wife,’ said Sorrel. He looked at Henarian, already back in his own saddle, slouching and eating cheese. ‘He is your family. He can ride with you and give me his horse.’

‘Soon enough, he’ll be your family too,’ said Arianlach. ‘And therefore mine. Why are you so stiff about it? Get up behind me, or walk. You know, if you’re thinking of going after that animal, I’d advise against it. She’ll be off as soon as she scents you creeping up on her.’

Sorrel gazed at him. ‘I will walk.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Arianlach tutted, hauled his horse’s head around, and kicked it into a gallop that scattered a shower of grit over Sorrel’s coat hem, Henarian after him.

Sorrel let his breath out in a rush. He considered that he could get to the Northern shore in less than two turns of the wheel that hauled time round in circles atop Silverheim’s keep, and once there he’d be safe from any wights or shades or ghosts. He’d be among noise and people, and from there could ride back on a borrowed Tethiri horse.

But I want to ride back on that wild horse.

She wasn’t far away. He could see her in the distance, head down, cropping the coarse turf a little away from the lake. Sorrel brushed his skirts clean and set off along the Southern shore. I’m my father’s son and I will not disgrace him. No Tethiri ever let a wild mare escape him!

He walked, resolute, to the Western shore.

He stopped halfway and looked back the way they’d come. Henarian and Arianlach were specks in the distance now. The shadows were disappearing into darkness. He looked West. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be caught out after dark. Not that he would have trouble following the lights from the tents around the Northern shore. But he was a stranger here and didn’t know the land half as near as well as he knew his own.

A buzzard sounded its high-pitched shriek above him and dropped, swooped away, then winked out of existence just as it reached the Southern shore of the lake.

A cold wind swept over the tundra and forced Sorrel backwards.

An unholy howl followed it.

His blood froze. He scanned the Western shore, a Rune on his fingertips ready for whatever should come at him, but he could see nothing. It was too dark now. But nothing seemed out of place. Not even the mare seemed bothered, still cropping the turf as if there was nothing else in the world to worry about.

Sorrel crouched near a boulder, listening. The moor was silent but for the occasional keening of the buzzard, joined now by two more, or the honk of geese. Only them, and the wind across the brittle heather, made any sound. The wind cut cruelly through his coat and made him shiver. He thought this land serene, before; now he saw it as eerie and ethereal, full of legend. He put his palm against the cold rock and whispered a Rune for protection. 

The buzzard disappeared and reappeared once more, then turned toward the Western shore, its fellows in tow. Sorrel watched them, one eye still on the spot where the first had disappeared. They remained steadfastly in the air.

He brought another Rune to his fingers and burned it into the face of the boulder to mark it. Yado, to reveal. It meant he’d be able to find it again, when he came looking. Then, with a sense of misgiving, and fingertips already sore from that one working, he resumed his stalking of the mare.