Delia’s expression went from stunned to joyful, with a hint of tears in her eyes. “It just might.” She might have said something else, but just then the afterbirth fell into the straw with a dull thud—a good sign, that Arial had passed it so early. Delia moved out of the way so that he and Cestin could examine it.

No tears, no holes, and no toughening. He sighed with relief, and just then the stablemaster and two of the stableboys came in, the entire little parade soaking wet, one of the boys leading the mare that had been down at the end of the pasture, the stablemaster carrying the foal in his arms.

“Any problems?” he and the stablemaster asked simultaneously. And they both laughed.

“If I’d asked the gods for a perfect, easy birth, I couldn’t have gotten better,” the stablemaster said, as the boy led the mare into the loose-box. “But then, it did have to be in the middle of a howling thunderstorm and a groundshaker.”

“Arial was breech, but Cestin and Delia helped me right her,” Kordas replied.

The stablemaster put the foal down beside the mare; the foal immediately shoved his nose under his dam’s belly and began rooting for the nipple. “Delia, eh?” The stablemaster eyed Delia with some speculation. “Never thought of using Fetching Gift for a breech birth. You could be right handy; if you think you could turn a foal that was presenting tail-first, you’re worth your weight in gold.”

Delia made a little bow. “Call on me at your will,” she said.

“I shall. Boys, go into Arial’s box and clean up the dirty straw. Thank all the gods it was a warm rain, or we’d all be perishing.” The stablemaster stretched and yawned as Cestin and Delia got out of the loose-box so the stableboys could get in, moving slowly and carefully, to fork out all the contaminated straw and the placenta, replacing it with clean straw. Arial didn’t care; her concentration was entirely on her foal, and mares generally didn’t eat their placentas. “You can go back to bed now, my lord Duke. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

Kordas took that as the dismissal it was, plucked his shirt and tunic off the side of the loose-box, and gestured to Delia and Cestin to follow him. “We’ve been given our walking orders,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s get out before he chases us out with a broom.”

“I wouldn’t do that, my lord,” the stablemaster countered, as they left—leaving behind the mage-lights, which would naturally fade and then vanish on their own as dawn approached. “I’d just set the dogs on you.”