CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Dreams

Isole made much of the fact that she had no ribbons the day of her mother’s remembrance ceremony. She wore her hair unadorned and without an anth to show that they were missing, and she put on her shabbiest dress. But if she hoped that Owaine would notice and feel remorse, then she was mistaken, for he scarcely registered her presence.

For the first time in his life, Owaine was late rising. Normally he would be eating sticky porridge when Beauty climbed down from the attic and it was Isole that needed prompting from her sleeping closet, but that morning Beauty was forced to tap lightly on his fastened door.

“I’ll be a moment,” came the muffled reply, and half an hour later a rough, weary old man climbed out. Owaine’s eyes were red-rimmed and the lines across his face were deep—he did not look as though he had slept at all.

“How’s the colt?” he asked as if he had nothing else to say.

“He is a little stronger.” But she was not sure that Owaine even heard.

“Do I look presentable?” prompted Isole. “Sadly, I’ve no pretty things to wear for this occasion. This’s the best I could do.”

“Fine,” muttered Owaine, and she looked disappointed.

“Yur know, Pia had a ceremony for her papa not so long ago and she had pink and blue ribbons,” Isole tried again, as they climbed the hillside to the temple.

But Owaine did not say a word.

“I really wish that I’d had something nice to wear for this special day.”

The preacher was waiting for them outside the temple. He nodded a greeting to all as they approached, and he even smiled at Beauty.

“Hally and Duna be already inside?” asked Isole.

“Yes ’em, but yur take as long as yur need before yur enter," said the preacher.

Isole looked puzzled, for she had not even noticed her father’s pale, damp face as they approached the temple.

“I’ll go in and join them,” she said, leaving Beauty, Owaine, and the preacher outside.

Then there was silence except for the high whine of the wind through the hills. It fluttered golden leaves across the ground and ruffled the edges of the dark forest.

“We were married in this temple,” Owaine muttered. His eyes were glassy and his head bowed.

“I were but a boy, but I remember it,” said the preacher. “The ceremony were handsome and the bride the prettiest I’ve ever seen. She wore fresh daisies in her hair.”

Owaine nodded, some of the color coming back to his cheeks. “That’s right. I had almost forgotten. She were beautiful.”

He straightened his shoulders, brushed down his jerkin, and nodded to the preacher. With a deep breath he walked boldly into the temple without looking behind him.

Beauty watched him go and the preacher smiled at her.

“We can try to run,” he said. “But one day we must all face our past.”

The seasons passed and Champ grew. He did not die that first winter, as everyone predicted, nor the next winter as Owaine feared, nor the winter after that as Isole hoped. Instead, his thin ribs were gradually covered with a thick layer of muscle and fat, his dull coat shone to a deep bay, and his legs grew and grew until he was an astounding twenty hands high. He followed Beauty around like a faithful dog and nudged and nosed her if he felt that she had neglected him for too long. A few times he even tried to follow her into the cottage, but Isole shooed him out. After that, he would wait patiently outside the door as Beauty slept each night, greeting her warmly when she appeared in the morning.

“About time yur tried to back him,” said Owaine one summer afternoon. “He must be older than twelve seasons now.”

Beauty turned to look at her horse, who was grazing nearby. She and Owaine were working in the valley next to Imwane, training wild horses as they always did. They had grown popular in the Hillands and the town for producing excellent steeds, and they had brought much wealth to the village over the past seasons.

“I already ride him.”

“I never seen yur put a saddle on him!”

Champ raised his head and flicked his ears. He liked to watch his mistress and Owaine train the other horses and he was never a bother. When all the workers stopped for lunch he would sometimes trot off to visit the men in the fields, who would feed him crumbs and odd crusts, receiving a good-natured neigh in return.

“I do not ride him with a saddle yet. I just sit on him and he carries me around.”

“When?”

“Oh, just sometimes in the evenings.”

Beauty bent down to pick out the hoof of the horse they were grooming. It was a fine palomino mare that an Imwane rustler had captured a moon-cycle ago. She would make an excellent riding horse for a pretty lady, and they were hoping that she would fetch a good price come autumn. Occasionally, the mare would whicker coquettishly at Champ, but he ignored her.

“Beauty, where do yur ride him?”

“Around.”

Bored with Imwane, Beauty and Champ had begun venturing farther afield. He was fast and she was a good rider, and they could cover a great distance without being missed for long.

“Yur know it ain’t right to stray from Imwane.”

“But I am not a Hillander.”

“Only because yur choose not to be one. The villagers know all the work yur do though they’d never admit it. They respect yur, Beauty. Yur’d be surprised.”

“They hate me and I know it, so you cannot pretend otherwise.”

Owaine made a face and began gently sponging the palomino mare’s muzzle.

“Besides, I will not stay here forever.” She looked up and met his worried gaze.

“How do yur know?”

She swallowed hard. “I have dreamt it.”

“Dreams don’t mean yur—”

“I have dreamt it many times.”

“Beauty . . .”

“I must tell you! It is getting stronger—first it was dreams, and then visions, but I know that it is growing. Do you see what I mean? I am—”

“No!”

The palomino mare shied away as Owaine grabbed her hand. Sensing his mistress’s distress, Champ whinnied and trotted over, his tail high.

“Yur mustn’t say it, Beauty, it’s too dangerous.”

“But—”

“One day I’ll not be able to protect yur, but till then I’ll always do my best to keep yur safe. I brought yur here, but I don’t know if that’ll be enough.”

“So, you always knew?”

He reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

“Ain’t every day yur see a child with violet eyes.”

She squeezed his hand back.

“I always wish to obey you,” she said. “But I cannot stay in this valley, and I am safe with Champ. Please trust me.”

Owaine nodded and tried to push away the large head that was coming between them, nudging for affection.

“All right, yur daft beast,” he muttered. “Yur best take care of my Beauty.”

Champ snorted.

“He will, I promise.”

It was a dream that she had had many times before. The rose began hard and golden like the engraving on her amulet, and then it melted. Its petals burned scarlet red and they shivered and curled as though it were a beating heart. Its head was full and heavy, bent slightly on a slim green stem with purple thorns, and it seemed dark and dangerous. She saw it always on its own, with nothing surrounding it but blackness, and she did not know what it meant.

She woke suddenly to the roar of a beast. Sitting bolt upright on her bedroll, she panted into the spring air and felt droplets of sweat trickle down her spine. The amulet above her head was swinging slowly from side to side. Since her first night in Imwane she had not removed it from its place on the rusty nail. She sensed that it made her dreams stronger—these strange dreams that had visited her since she could remember.

She reached up and touched the amulet. Her ears still rang with the rumble of a howl and her body was trembling.

“It is a deal,” she whispered, although she did not know to whom.

She took her cloak, wrapped it around her, and then she quietly climbed down from the attic and slipped out of the cottage.

Outside, the sun was just appearing over the swelling land and the valley was dim and cold. Taking in a deep lungful of moist air, Beauty tried to calm herself. No dream had ever troubled her as much as this one.

She felt warm breath on her shoulders and a muzzle nudged her back.

“Morning, Champ.”

He rubbed his face against her and sniffed at her pockets. He had grown even taller lately and the villagers were muttering about his pedigree. There were rumors that he was descended from the great warhorses of ancient times, when the gods first created all and placed fantastical beings in the Hillands to run to the four corners of the realm as they pleased. He was an unusually handsome creature with a shinning conker-bay coat and dark mane and tail, but Beauty thought that there was nothing mythical about a horse that would still try to steal an apple from your hands as you ate it.

“What yur doing, Beauty?”

She turned to see Owaine standing in the doorway, rubbing his chin.

“I woke early.”

“Yur all right?”

“Yes, but . . . Owaine, are there any roses in the Hillands?”

“I ain’t never seen a rose except on Ma Dane’s amulet. They’re not a Pervoroccian flower, I don’t think. I remember Ma tried to get them shipped to her once, but they died on the travels. Why’d yur ask?”

“I had a dream.”

Owaine swallowed. “I see. Well, yur best come in and have some porridge. I’m hoping we’ll back that young gray mare today. She’s of a feisty temper.”

Beauty nodded. “I will come for breakfast in a moment.”

Owaine disappeared into the cottage, and Beauty was alone once more.

Champ turned his head and pricked his ears. Following his gaze, Beauty saw the dark forest. No one in Imwane walked closer to it than where the cottage stood, as if it were an unspoken law. There was plenty of game in its dark depths and a few times, when she had stopped to look at it, Beauty had been sure that she had seen movement in its trees. There must be many horses in there, too, but no rustlers would so much as enter its fringes.

She felt the forest’s presence always, like a shadow in the corner of her eye.

Champ sighed.

“You feel it too, boy?” she whispered, placing her palm on his broad chest. “It’s waiting for us, but I do not understand why.”