"This is the one you mentioned?" The stallion who addressed Sirrain was tall, leggier than the horses of the name singer's own clan. His pelt was sleek auburn, and a blanket like fresh snow covered his rump and flanks. Atop that, fat, round spots of black marked him in whorls and spatters.

  "It is," Sirrain answered. "The colt adopted by Muria at winter's dawn."

  "He fights well," the stranger said.

  Both stallions discussed Sabba as if he were not standing right there in their shadows. That fact crept beneath his pelt like a many-legged tick. Almost as annoying as the way Dabon was fawning, prancing and lifting his ears and tail as he skittered in a circle around the conversation.

  "Nurani foals are born for battle," Sirrain sang as if he were chanting again.

  "But he is not of Nuran," the other Stallion said. "His coloring looks a great deal like..."

  When the tall horse trailed off, the name singer only said, "Yes."

  Sabba shivered as both stallions fixed their gazes on him, as their eyes raked over his pelt, examining him, wounds and all, unshed fur making him a scruffy sight. Post battle. Bleeding still from his triumph.

  "We must be sure," the stranger announced. "I would not part a mare lightly from a foal she's claimed."

  "Nor I." Sirrain lifted his head and scented the wind, as if it carried all the secrets in the world.

  Sabba flattened his ears and pawed nervously. The words "part a mare" circled in his brain. His tail lifted and he fluttered his upper lip. He would not part from anyone willingly. His home, a warm cave with Muria and Dabon, was his to choose.

  The colt backed a step away from the discussion, as if putting physical distance between the stallions and himself might communicate his rebellion. As he did, Dabon tripped past him, skidding to a stop and then wheeling back to whicker near his ear.

  "It's the fahr, Sabba."

  Sabba stiffened his legs, tightening his grip on the damp earth.

  "The fahr-itza." Dabon continued to whisper, bouncing now at Sabba's side. "He saw your fight."

  The awe in his adopted brother's voice stilled Sabba's urge to revolt, but something petulant and sulking took its place. He had already been parted from one mare. He would not let loose easily of another. Not if Sirrain asked him. Not even if the fahr-itza commanded it.

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  The stallions had all but forgotten him, however. Their conversation continued, but their heads had turned, long necks stretching to gaze back over the assembled herds.

  Suddenly, Sabba was afraid of what they saw. His short life had begun in parting. He did not care to experience that loss again.

  Ears flat, teeth bared, he squealed and stamped a foreleg hard against the ground. Dabon skittered away from him. The stallions, so large and so unconcerned, chuckled to themselves. Already, they began to drift away, iron hooves stepping lightly on the plain. Heads high. Ears aimed at their next conference. A more interesting battle, perhaps.

  "What's wrong?" Dabon circled back, whispered at a safer distance now. "What did they say?"

  "Nothing," Sabba lied. He turned to his brother, to the colt who had slept at his side all through the winter months. Who had drunk beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Who had fought and grown and lived as Sabba's partner for the breadth of his hazy, foal's memory.

  With a low whicker, Sabba reached out his nose, seeking the comfort of his brother's breath. Dabon paused his flitting and met him, muzzle to muzzle. The colts shared breath, their huffing illustrated in a series of misty clouds from each velvet nostril.

  He hadn't sought such comfort in weeks, but today, in the wake of the fahr-itza's

  words, Sabba needed it.

  Dabon and Muria were all he remembered of comfort. Their cave and their presence all he knew of security. He would not give them up lightly.

  The farh could breathe his own farts for all Sabba cared.

  Though his mind was firm in this, though the ritual with Dabon soothed him, Sabba's gut still trembled. He still heard the stallion voices discussing him. He still felt it in his bones. Just when he'd proved himself. Just when he'd scored his first victory, Sabba knew something was wrong.

  Something was going to happen, and whatever it was made his insides tremble. It scared him, far more than his battle had, shaking his bones and making his pelt twitch until the only thing he could think to do was fight.

  "Come on, Dabon," he said. "There are more colts to battle."