CHAPTER 1
THREE YEARS IN THE PAST—PLAINS OF THE WIND RIDERS—RENDEZVOUS SITE
Dawn was teasing the horizon and causing the sky to blush when River made her way silently from the crowded tent she shared with her mother, her two aunts, five cousins, three younger sisters, her mother’s mare and the two geldings who had many years ago chosen her aunts as their Riders. As Rider of the Lead Mare of Herd Magenti, her mother’s tent was situated close to the center of the spiral of stone monoliths that marked the Rendezvous Site as a place of layline power, but even had the stones not been there, positioned like ancient, mute guardians, the cavernous underground opening that lay in the center of them was evidence of the destructive power of the sun that was so great that centuries ago it had opened the earth and utterly changed the world. River glanced at the mouth of the cave, trying to get a glimpse of the herd of weanlings that waited within, but all she could see were shadows thrown by torches, though she could hear their restless nickers and nervous movements.
River resisted the draw of the weanlings. It was against Herd law for any Candidate to interact with the young horses after they’d arrived at the Rendezvous Site—one reason they remained hidden away in the cave that usually housed entire Herds within the safety of its depths.
Today is the Choosing. I only have a couple of hours left to wait for something I’ve been dreaming about since I was old enough to dream.
River felt light-headed with nervous excitement. Even this early in the glooming before sunrise the huge campsite was already beginning to hum with activity. She turned her back on the cave and continued to wind her way through camp quickly, keeping her head ducked down—hoping not to be recognized.
“A mare’s luck to you today, River!” called a vaguely familiar voice.
River didn’t pause, but she did wave briefly in acknowledgment as she picked up her pace. She wanted just a few moments to herself before the day began and she became the center of attention.
Don’t be so dramatic. Not everyone will be watching you—just everyone from your Herd, River chided herself with silent sarcasm as she wove her way through the rest of the bright purple tents that spiraled from her mother’s and marked the boundary of Herd Magenti. Her Herd. Her life. And, today, the source of her nervousness.
Purple tents gave way to the differing shades of blue that marked Herd Indigo. River smiled to herself. Unlike her Herd, who valued one true, deep shade of purple to represent them, the Indigo Riders took pride in how many different blues they could create. It annoyed her mother, but River thought the variety was refreshing and beautiful.
This early morning she didn’t stop to admire the array of colors as she would normally, but instead skirted Herd Indigo. She turned to her left and kicked into a jog, passing the yellow and red tents of Herds Jonquil and Cinnabar until she came to a gentle rise in the land as prairie met the cross timber line that meant a creek was nearby.
Relieved that this section of the clear, swiftly moving Weanling Creek was currently empty of other visitors, River rushed down the grassy rise to the sandy bank. She used one of the long, purple strips of cloth she’d grabbed from the pile of specially dyed and decorated ribbons that would very shortly be woven into her hair, and used it to tie back her unruly mass of ebony curls. Then she knelt in the soft sand and dipped her hands in the creek, ladling the crystal water over her face. River sucked in her breath at how cold it was, as it was too early in the spring for the prairie to have heated up enough to take any of the chill off the mountain-fed creek. But River ignored the cold and washed her face carefully before pulling off her nightdress and, naked, wading into the creek, carefully choosing her steps over the smooth rocks, until she was waist deep. Without hesitation, she submerged herself to her neck and closed her eyes.
Wash away my nervousness and doubts. Help me to make Herd Magenti and my mother proud. Great Mother Mare and Father Stallion, please let me be found worthy and Chosen as a Rider today.
Chosen today …
Those two words filled River’s mind as she remained submerged, ignoring the cold of the water.
It was finally the day, and if it happened—if she was Chosen—after today her life would irrevocably change.
And, of course, should she not be Chosen her life would change as well. Oh, there would be other Rendezvous. Every child of the Herd who had known sixteen winters was Presented at a Rendezvous three times—given three opportunities to be Chosen in consecutive years—and those who were never Chosen were still valuable members of their Herd. But they were not Wind Riders. Sure, they could ride—everyone born into the Herd could ride—but there was a vast difference between being seated on the back of a horse as a passenger and being bonded mind, body, and spirit to a horse who Chose you as his or her Rider, Companion, and life partner.
River had grown up observing the bond between her mother and her beautiful mare, Echo, and she craved that incredible, unbreakable, indescribable connection. Preparing herself for today had been her focus for as much of her sixteen years of life as she could remember, and for the last year it had been her obsession.
“I don’t care if the weanling who Chooses me is a contender for Lead Mare or Herd Stallion. I’d be happy with any horse—a sweet gelding would be wonderful. Just please, please let me belong to one of them. Let me be a weanling’s Choice today.”
“You shouldn’t be worried. You know you have your mother’s seat, and Echo Chose her at the very first Rendezvous she was Presented.”
Slowly, River turned to face the voice behind her that drifted across the creek. He was standing on the bank, holding her nightdress and smiling at her. His hair had gotten so long! And it was braided with scarlet ribbons that matched his vest, which left his wide, muscular chest mostly bare and made him look more than just two short years older than her. River felt a rush of happiness that surprised her—she hadn’t realized she’d missed him that much.
“Clayton! When I didn’t see you the past few days I thought you wouldn’t make the Rendezvous. I’m glad you did—even if it means you eavesdropped on my prayers.”
“I didn’t eavesdrop. I just showed up and you were already praying—loudly.”
“Riiiight. I’ll try to remember next time to pray more quietly. What are you doing out here anyway?” She grinned mischievously at him. “Want to join me bathing?”
Clayton snorted. “No! I missed you and I was out here looking for you, but I choose to bathe like civilized people—in a tub heated by a hearthfire—or, better yet, in a steaming hot spring.”
“Still a baby,” River teased, her full lips turning up.
“Still a brat,” Clayton countered. “You should come out of there before you turn blue and have to petition Herd Indigo to join them. Plus, I have a good luck gift for you—though you don’t really need it.”
“A gift?” With no sense of modesty or seduction, River stood and made her way to the bank and Clayton, who handed her the abandoned nightdress. She dried herself using the end of the skirt as she looked up at her friend. “You got tall.”
“Taller,” he corrected.
“And vainer as well?”
“Nah. I’m pretty sure I’m still as vain as I’ve always been,” he teased.
She slid the nightdress on and studied him. “You look stronger, too. I think you have more muscles. Herd Cinnabar must have kept you and Bard busy this winter. Where is your colt?” River glanced behind Clayton, expecting the three-year-old to be waiting in the lightening shadows that clung stubbornly to the grassy area beneath the verdant post oaks and willows that lined Weanling Creek.
“My mother insisted on taking out the red ribbons from his mane and tail and is currently braiding them with what she calls the proper color.”
“Herd Magenti’s purple, of course.”
“None other.”
“Um, did she not see that you’re wearing these?” River reached up and tugged on one of the scarlet ribbons in his hair. “Or this?” And tapped a finger on the blood-colored vest. This close to him she could see that it was intricately decorated with rearing horses in a deep sorrel thread made from a horse’s mane.
Copyright © 2018 by P. C. Cast
