“Ringthane,” he pronounced distinctly, “here is Khelen, young among the stallions of the herd. Youth to youth, he has come to bear your son—if you will consent. But he requires your consent. He has not yet inherited his sire’s pride, and he is cognizant—as are all of the great horses—that he offers to assume a charge both perilous and exalted. Will you grant him leave to care for your son? He will do so with his life.”

Linden could not imagine how the Manethrall knew such things. Nevertheless she believed him. Carefully courteous, she replied, “Please thank Khelen for me. He has my consent.”

Mahrtiir answered her with a Ramen bow; but he said nothing. Doubtless he had reason to trust that the Ranyhyn understood her. Instead of relaying her words, he whirled away and sprang onto Narunal’s back. Indeed, he seemed to flow into his seat as though he had spent all of his life riding; as though he and his Cords were not the first Ramen to ever sit astride Ranyhyn.

Tentatively Khelen moved a few steps closer to Jeremiah.

“Again with your consent, Linden Giantfriend,” said Stormpast Galesend briskly. But she did not wait for Linden’s response. Lifting Jeremiah, the Swordmain set him down on Khelen’s back.

Hoping, Linden held her breath.

For a long moment, Khelen stood utterly motionless. If the fouled scent of Jeremiah’s pajamas disturbed him, the young stallion did not show it. Instead he appeared to be waiting for some reaction from Jeremiah: some flinch of fright or hint of relaxation. But Jeremiah gave no sign of consciousness. His mind was too deeply buried. He sat exactly as he had stood a few heartbeats earlier, slack-lipped and silt-eyed, oblivious to the saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth.

Oh, well, Linden sighed to herself. Maybe when Khelen started to walk—or to run—

Finally Khelen tossed his head, made a whickering sound like a query. Hynyn answered with a snort of command; and the younger roan began to move away from the stream, carrying Jeremiah as if the boy were a treasure.

At last, Linden looked away. When she glanced at Stave, he came to boost her onto Hyn’s back.

Almost at once, Hyn’s familiar ability to communicate ease and stability settled into Linden’s muscles, although she had not ridden for days that felt as long as seasons. As Stave mounted Hynyn, Linden nodded to Rime Coldspray, who answered with a grin as wide as Pitchwife’s.

“Thus we turn to a new heading,” the Ironhand proclaimed, “foolishly, and glad of it. Many have been the vagaries of our journey, and extreme its trials. Each new course has been as unforeseen as the Soulbiter, as unforeseeable—and betimes as reluctant to permit passage. Yet never, I deem, have we sailed seas as chartless as those now spread before us.