Trying to be careful with his emotions, Linden did not ask why the horses had risked venturing so close to the Sarangrave. Instead she said, “There’s too much that I don’t understand. If the Ranyhyn are afraid of the lurker, they must have a reason.” A good reason. Otherwise they would never have forsaken their riders. “Can you tell us what it is?”

“I cannot,” Mahrtiir snapped. He may have meant, Do not ask me. “No Raman has partaken of the horserite. We do not share their thoughts and knowledge in that fashion.”

Linden bit her lip; did not pursue an answer. Instead she only gazed at the Manethrall, watching passions writhe beneath the surface of his self-command.

The Giants studied him mutely. He could not discern their faces, except with his health-sense. Yet he must have felt their concern, their curiosity, their desire for comprehension—and their willingness to respect his silence. For a few moments, he appeared to wrestle with himself. Then, by slow degrees, his shoulders sagged.

“Yet we speculate.” He kept his voice low. “How can we not? They are the Ranyhyn. It was known even to Bloodguard and Lords that they fear the abomination of the Sarangrave—they who master every other dread. How then can we not endeavor to grasp the nature of their sole frailty?”

He rubbed his cheeks; checked the security of his bandage. As if he were assuming a painful burden, he began to explain.

“The tale of great Kelenbhrabanal, Father of Horses, has been widely shared. It is no secret that in a distant age, when an onslaught of kresh and other evils threatened the Ranyhyn with extinction, Kelenbhrabanal sought to treat with Fangthane. Seeking to spare his failing herd, Kelenbhrabanal offered his own life in return for theirs. To this dark exchange, Fangthane consented readily, intending betrayal. Thus Kelenbhrabanal surrendered his throat to his foe, and his blood was shed to the last drop—and still the kresh came, ravaging, until the Ranyhyn could not survive except by flight. The home of their hearts they forsook. Nor did they return until they had won the Ramen to their service, to fend and fight for them.

“This tale all the folk of the Land once knew. Now it has been forgotten.”

Linden had heard the story before: the Giants had not. They listened avidly, with their love for tales in their eyes.

“But among the Ramen,” Mahrtiir continued, “the mystery of Kelenbhrabanal has been contemplated for uncounted generations.” Gradually a tinge of sorrow crept into his voice. “Across the centuries, telling and re-telling our tales, we have wondered, and wondered again. And always we have returned to the same question. How was Kelenbhrabanal slain?