Sabba woke first, his velvet nostrils capturing something new in the air which filtered into their cave. His strong legs were restless, frustrated with the weeks of little use and even less distance. His ears turned forward and back, capturing the soft sound of Muria’s sleep breath and the deeper, rougher snore of Dabon lying on the dried grass before him.

  There was something different today. Something Sabba had missed greatly. The scent drew him toward the cave mouth, but his adopted brother sprawled between the colt and his exit. Sabba placed one hoof at a time, stepping over and around the sleeping Dabon and then picking his way forward by hugging the cave wall so that the rough stone tickled his dense, winter coat.

  His pelt had grown more speckled with each passing week. As his legs thickened and his body filled out, his pattern had spread as if the snowflakes that fell upon him were absorbed and added to his coloring. Beneath the white blanket, pale spots began as shadows, darkening slowly one after the other until he was simultaneously, honey-tan, white, and black.

  Lifting his head higher and aiming both ears at the world outside, Sabba stepped into the light, knowing that his pelt blazed a wild contrast, that his coloring was flashy and not quite like any of the horses he had met inside the great Cleft.

  His pride had him prancing onto the low ledge in front of their winter den. Muria and Dabon's home. His home now.

  Sabba raised his nose, lifted his rubbery upper lip, and let the scents of the morning wash over his nostrils and tongue. Green, the smells said. But everything the colt could see was blanketed in a thick white shawl. The snow had filled in the hard edges of the stones, muted the world and turned it harsh and unsavory. For the last week, they'd had no luck in pawing up food, finding only icy muck beneath the cold snow. They'd appeased their bellies by nibbling the dry grass upon which they slept the months away.

  But today the scent was there. Sabba stretched his neck long, strained his lip upward, and shuffled his hooves to the very lip of their ledge.

  Something crashed into him from the cave side. The impact rolled him over the edge and down. Tumbling, Sabba scrambled for purchase, slid into the thick snow at the valley's bottom and continued to roll until his legs were beneath him.

  He staggered to his hooves to a chorus of Dabon's laughter.

  "You left your flank unguarded," the other colt sang. "Wide open."

  "I thought you were asleep." Sabba shook himself, scattering snow and loose hair.

  Dabon leapt from the ledge, though it was barely a step down. He pranced, head high and angled in an arrogant expression. "How could anyone sleep with you tromping all over them."

  Dabon laughed again, as Sabba knew he would. He tossed his head merrily as he did, and his shaggy forelock fell across his near eye.

  Sabba, who had been waiting for just this opportunity, lunged. His shoulder slammed into the other colt's belly, and Dabon went staggering away. Sabba pressed him, keeping his brother on the move while he sat back on his haunches and pawed a few solid blows against Dabon's hindquarters.

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  When Dabon spun back at him, Sabba dodged to one side, pivoting, and kicking out with both rear hooves. It was a move he favored to block a retreat, and Dabon was ready for it. He ducked the kick and pranced in a half circle around Sabba.

  They collected themselves, caught their breaths and faced off for another bout of sparring.

  Sabba lowered his head, tilting it to the side to keep his the ever-moving opponent out of his blind spot directly to the front. He snorted, stamped, and pawed at the snow while Dabon sized him up, searched for an opening through which to attack.

  Sometimes, Sabba gave him one just for sport. He might lure the other colt in and then lift and pummel him mid-charge. Sometimes, he pretended Dabon was much larger, imagined how he would defend if his brother were actually big enough to do him real damage. If they actually fought.

  It was training in its own way, a building of skill based on trial and error. The two colts had spent the hours when they were not wrestling watching the older horses. The yearling battles, much of which were spent standing on their rear legs, lashing at one another with teeth and forehooves. The adults rarely sparred, and Sabba could not decide if they no longer needed to practice or if they were simply reserving every ounce of energy for the long winter with sparse feedings.

  "You fight like a newborn," Dabon taunted. "Like a filly."

  Sabba had seen fillies battle as if they meant to actually draw blood. The taunt was not the insult Dabon intended.

  "At least I fight," Sabba tossed back. "Or do you intend to dance in a circle all morning?"

  It worked. Dabon struck, darting forward in a quick stutter of steps, teeth bared and ears flat. Sabba held his ground but swiveled just enough to allow Dabon's strike to miss. He curved his neck, planted his forelegs, and clamped his teeth over his attacker's crest.

  Dabon twisted, and Sabba bit down.

  "Ow. Ow, stop. Stop."

  "Uyu ield?" Sabba mumbled around a mouthful of his brother's mane.

  "Yield, yikes. Yes."

  Sabba released him, shaking his head and rumbling a long, fluttering snort of victory. He danced away, tail high, lifting his knees up so that each step was a parade.

  "Look." Dabon's voice was awe-touched.

  Warm pride flooded through Sabba. He tried to squeal like the stallions did, but it came out screeching and clumsy.

  "Look, idiot," Dabon said.

  This deflated Sabba's bravado considerably. He stopped, splaying his ears and lifting his lip at the other colt... who was not watching him at all.

  Dabon stared at the battlefield. Their fight had lifted great gashes in the snow, exposing brown streaks and spattering their lower legs with muck. Now the other colt had lowered his nose to the scene of the crime, and his nostrils had stretched so wide Sabba could see red in them.

  He stopped his prancing and joined his brother, sniffing, blowing a snort when the fresh, green smell came to him again.

  Sure enough, when he lowered and looked as Dabon did, there were sparse, green strands folded beneath the brown.

  "Grass," he said. "Green grass."

  His belly rumbled. Dabon's, too, made eager protest. Green grass beneath the snow. Not much, but enough to nibble if they just stretched out.

  "Find your own," Dabon butted him aside. "Sheesh."

  Sabba wasted no time shifting to a different spot. There, he had to dig a little, but where yesterday had brought only damp and dead, today he found bright green. He lipped aside the muck and carefully bit off a few fresh shoots. "Delicious."

  "It is," Dabon agreed. "But it's even better than that."

  "Better?" Sabba had quickly swallowed the first shoots and eagerly hunted for another clump.

  "This means it's almost time," Dabon said. "The first grass. The first green."

  Sabba drifted a step away. He'd spotted more green in another trench and was eager to reach it before Dabon noticed. "Time for what?"

  His neck stretched. His lips reached for the sweet grass. But when Dabon answered, he forgot it, let it lie and lifted his head, his ears, to hear.

  "Time for battle." Dabon said with a thick shiver of anticipation. "It's almost time for the trials."