Roses (16 page)

“I need that horse,” she whispered. She saw a forest and a castle and gray shadows chasing her. “I need that horse.”

“What yur say?”

Beauty’s fingers clenched the wooden bars of the fence.

“I must have that horse, Owaine. I must have it!”

“That sorry thing? Beauty, it’s owned by an Edywnson rustler. They don’t treat their horses right. That poor animal is no use to anyone except for meat.”

“No!” she cried.

The people around them looked over in surprise and when they saw the silver girl, they quickly moved away.

“I must have it! Owaine, please.”

In the ring, the animal was whinnying and trembling, its whipped body too weak to fight back. The man leading it whacked it hard on its rump and its legs buckled. A few members of the crowd laughed.

“What can we get for this piece of meat?” cried the auctioneer.

“Please!” gasped Beauty, her violet eyes begging.

Owaine could do nothing but nod.

“Sold!” she screamed. “Sold for anything!”

They arrived at Imwane two days later than expected, for the bay colt could not travel far or fast. Owaine rode Sable and Beauty followed on foot, leading the sickly creature. Many times Owaine would halt and look back to see Beauty whispering and coaxing the petrified
animal. She walked as slowly as it needed to, her hand always pressed against its trembling flank, and whenever they stopped, she stroked and petted it, paying no heed to her own aching legs.

She called it Champ, and though it had bucked and shied from its handler, when Beauty walked into the pen to retrieve it, it had let her lead it away without any fuss. The unusual sale had caused whispers and everyone had stared suspiciously at the silver girl. Realizing how besotted with the sickly creature she was, the Edywnson rustler had raised his price and Owaine had begrudgingly paid five times the amount the colt was worth. So keen was he to get Beauty and their new addition away from the market and the questioning gaze of the town citizens that Owaine had also forgotten to buy Isole’s fabric and ribbons.

“What be that?” Isole cried when the pair finally returned to Imwane.

Having spotted them making slow progress down the hillside, one of the young lads had gathered the village out to greet them.

“That’s Champ,” said Owaine while handing Hally a fistful of sticks.

Hally took the bundle and spluttered. “Them horses made this much?” he gasped.

“Yes ’em, they did!”

A few men nearby patted Owaine excitedly on the back.

“There’s enough here to plant four more fields of grain!”

“Where’re my ribbons?” interrupted Isole. “Yur must have gotten some nice ones if yur made so much.”

Beauty and Champ approached the crowd, both looking the worse for wear. Beauty’s boots and cloak were coated in thick mud and her colt was panting and shaking more than ever.

“I didn’t get no ribbons,” muttered Owaine. “I brought the colt.”

“Yur . . . yur didn’t get no ribbons?” Isole’s brown eyes darkened. “What about my fabric?”

“No.”

“What yur gone and brought a horse for? That creature’s as good as dead! We can’t afford no other horse and we don’t need one! What be the point of this?”

The shouting attracted a few more villagers, eager to take part in the unfolding drama.

“We can talk about this later, Isole. Beauty and me are tired. We—”

“I’m tired of yur treating her like a daughter!”

“Hush, my child!”

“Don’t hush me!”

Hally took Isole’s arm. “Don’t fret, child. Duna’s got some fabric left over and she’ll help yur make a new dress.”

Isole glared at her father. “That horse’ll be dead soon, by gods, I know it!”

With that she stormed off to the cottage, the villagers muttering and whispering after her.

Beauty stood with her arms protectively wrapped about Champ’s skinny neck.

“I thank yur for trying to help, Cousin,” muttered Owaine.

“This ain’t a time for quarrels, this is time for a celebration,” said Hally. “Imwane ain’t never brought in so many sticks from a market sale before. Yur’ve done us proud.”

“And Beauty?”

Hally nodded and turned to the silver child. “I thank yur, Beauty,” he said and pressed his left hand to his chest.

She stared at him in surprise.

“As payment for yur work, I offer yur my stable for the next moon-cycle. Isole is right—that colt don’t look good. Yur can nurse him there, if you please. He stands more chance undercover.”

“I thank you,” she whispered so fervently that Hally found himself warming to her. “I thank you heartily.”

All excepting Beauty celebrated the great prosperity that the market had brought to the village that evening. The villagers filled the barn and ate and rejoiced at the trestle table—even Isole stopped sulking to celebrate and be merry with her fellow Hillanders. Pies and bread and crumbles were laid out for the feast and a barrel of cider was opened for the occasion.

From a stall in Hally’s tiny stable, Beauty heard them singing songs and she quietly joined in. She stroked Champ’s head as she murmured the verses, tracing his white blaze and counting his four white socks hidden beneath the grime. He was weak—she knew it—but he would get better. She cleaned and tended to his wounds and combed the knots from his matted hair—and all the while she sang to him.

When night fell, she curled up in the straw by his side, warming his trembling body with her own.

“You will carry me many places,” she whispered, and she saw his ears flicker. “You will be a great strong horse—I have seen it. And all those that hurt and doubted you will be proven wrong.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

The Dreams

I
sole 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.”