"Valiroy Muyr," the horse master greeted Roy as he entered. He preferred not to shorten names; no one else, besides his mother, called Roy Valiroy. Ulmissi was the horse master's name. The Virteran sprung up from his chair. He marked the page in the book he was reading with a strip of leather and closed it. "It's been a long time since I've seen you, my lovely friend."
Despite Roy's silent gestures—making half a step back and raising his palms in a halting manner—Ulmissi not only hugged him tightly but kissed his neck. Roy knew little of Virteran greetings, but most people in Lesser Vior knew Ulmissi for his kindly behavior.
"Yes," muttered Roy, wiping the horse master's warm spit from his neck, "I'm short on time, Ulmissi. The horses?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Ulmissi said with a smile. He sniffed the air, and his head snapped in the direction of an earthenware container, its contents steaming. "Forgive me, Valiroy," he said, "my wife is ill, and she needs her leaves."
He poured the liquid out of the crock and into a pretty little purple-colored pot. Placing a metal platter down with one hand and taking a small cup with the other, he readied his wife's meal. Along with the teapot and its cup, Ulmissi also placed a bowl of gruel and a single biscuit—a dry and unsavory treat that looked as hard as stone—on the platter.
"What a fine feast," Roy said dryly to himself as he watched Ulmissi take the food upstairs.
"I won't be away for too long," the horse master assured, his skinny legs wobbling as he ascended, "those almonds on the table are for guests too."
Roy looked at the wooden bowl of sugared almonds. Though Roy couldn't resist sweetmeats—his fat, round belly being proof of this—the scent in Ulmissi's place seemed to kill his appetite. It wasn't the smell of rotting rodents or the inhabitants' stench, but rather the stench of the tea the horse master was brewing. How does she drink something that carries such a foul smell? Roy wondered about Ulmissi's wife. The scent reminded Roy of rotting wood and crushed ants. 'Smells like damnable poison, that does. What ails his wife so that this must be the cure?
Ulmissi, keeping his promise, was on his way down sooner than Roy expected.
"To my beauties," said Ulmissi, gesturing Roy to follow him.
They went to the back of the house and entered into the stables. Ulmissi suddenly tittered, Roy not knowing what for exactly. He didn't ask.
"Give me the best one you have," Roy said curtly, hoping to leave as soon as he could, "Ashferth will pay you." This quest involves the boy and girl, no doubt, Roy reasoned, at least that's what I'll tell him. Those monsters of Rayhanei wanted them. They wanted my boy, too, Roy reminded himself. The thought of Reyen made him impatient, the terrible things that could be happening to him as he walked through the stables.
Roy was about to tell Ulmissi to quicken his pace when the man stopped to admire one of his beauties: a dark horse, thin but strong.
"M'ti mavi zamala," the horse master muttered in what Roy assumed were words of an ancient language. When Ulmissi turned and saw the confusion on Roy's face, he translated: "My wind of the night." The horse master said this strangely and seductively, lovingly staring into Roy's eyes as if he understood the beauty of the phrase. He didn't, being uncouth knowing little of poetry. When the moment passed, Roy steered them back to business.
"Is he for sale?" Roy asked.
"If adventure awaits him," answered Ulmissi, a dreamy smile on his face as he caressed the black horse's mane.
Roy took this statement for a yes. "How much?" He asked.
"Nothing."
What is he getting at? Then Roy asked: "Is he ill? What is wrong with him? "
Again, the horse master replied: "Nothing."
Roy, irked by this supposed game, would have like nothing more than to grab and shake the man for wasting his time. But Ulmissi, without looking back at Roy, began to open the stall door and lead the black horse out. Roy went with him to watch his horse, one given to him for free, be prepared for him.
Ulmissi took the horse outside the city walls for Roy to ride it. He was swift, this Wind of the Night. Roy could see why Ulmissi adored this horse; he too was lost in its elegant stride.
"Ulmissi," Roy started to say, his patience for the man renewed after his ride, "why are you giving him away? You know his worth, don't you?"
Ulmissi's face softened. Roy thought more poetry was on its way, but the horse master chose to speak somewhat plainly.
"You have heard the legend of Dawndread?" Ulmissi asked.
Roy knew about the fierce warrior: his stead was as black as night, but on his head flowed golden hair; the shine of it was said to be coveted by the sun god himself. The Dreaded Dawn was another name by which he went, for that is what he looked like as he rode into battle.
"For the sun rose for his allies, but set for his enemies," Roy found himself muttering. It was a verse from one of the legend's poems. He was surprised he remembered such words; his grandmother had told him such tales when he was only six years old.
Ulmissi smiled, then tittered at Roy's recital. He placed his hands gently on Roy's shoulders.
"Standing before us is his steed," Ulmissi whispered as if it was a secret.
I should have kept my mouth shut, thought Roy with annoyance, if the legends were true, this horse would be hundreds of years old.
"So he is," Roy pretended to agree, "you've only made me think him more valuable."
"I give him to you," Ulmissi said, "because something has stirred in our realm. A great change is upon us." The horse master pointed at the dark horse. "That beauty, several days ago, came back to life. He was dead. He had been dead when my great grandfather found him in an Iriaji sun temple. The creature's flesh never rotted, and not a single fly or flea would rest upon its hide." Ulmissi began to caress the horse: running his fingers through its mane, down its flank, and ending at the base of its member as if to, somehow, determine the beast's fecundity. "He has thrown off every rider that sat upon him. He almost killed me when I opened his door for the first time. But for you, Valiroy Muyr, when you are in his presence … could it be that you are a fruit of the Myri tree? If so, your sacred blood has more of a claim to it than any human."
Something stirred within Roy's heart; the horse master's words, for a moment, didn't sound absurd, and deep down, he felt a fragment of himself call to him—remind him—of his hidden nature.
But then he chose to trust a different revelation.
"What fucking nonsense this is!" Roy guffawed. Ulmissi cocked his head at him in response, confusion plain on his face. "That awful tea," Roy explained, stifling his laughter, "yes, yes, that's it! 'Must be that. Even my mind is softening."
Ulmissi was taken aback by this, but then he tittered like a little girl. "I am sober, my lovely friend. I speak truthfully. My wife's leaves are for healing, not for pleasure."
"If you say so," conceded Roy, uninterested in arguing over myths and stories. He was no Welvyt Stirn: a mad fool and deserter who claimed he saw spiders as big as lions and storm giants walking amongst the leaden clouds.
Yet, he had witnessed Rayhanei's black arts: the molding of life and flesh as she saw fit. What did that make him? Would he not be the mad fool instead for rejecting Stirn's account? Perhaps Roy hadn't seen everything. But if everything was as mysterious and vile as the dark mistress, Roy did not want to suffer the terror it would bring once it showed itself.
"You may doubt what I said about Mavi Zamala," said Ulmissi as he stroked the horse. There was a solemn look on his face; he knew he would soon part from such a magnificent beast. "but do not doubt this, sweet Valiroy Muyr: Dark times are ahead."
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