She tried to forget the stable boy, shaking her head as if that would loosen the thought.

“We’ll have to put her down.”

Trey stood, turning slightly so that she could see his face at last. “Kill her?”

“Of course,” Alishia said. “She can’t walk. We can’t fix her leg. If we leave her where she is, she’ll be picked off by scavengers. That’s not fair. What happens in the mines if a pony is hurt?”

“We eat it,” Trey said.

He’s out of his environment, dislocated for some reason only he knows. He talks of Nax, but how do I know it’s true? He may be fleeing something else, or running toward something. Using me. Does he know the language of wind? Can he feel the land breathing beneath him?

“Oh,” Alishia said.

“They do taste very good with cave spice.”

“Not that,” Alishia said. “I must have banged my head harder than I thought. Feel a bit weird, that’s all.” Feel a bit . . .

She clasped one hand to her breast, squeezed tight, laughing inside.

Trey turned around, looking at the ground to prevent the sunlight touching his eyes. “I can’t do it,” he said.

“I will.” Alishia stood and took the knife from her boot, judging its length, wondering just how she was supposed to kill a horse with a six-inch blade. Through the ear? Slash its throat? Neither way would be quick, but it was a new experience, and it interested her.

She left Trey and walked down the hillside. She heard the horse before she saw it, breathing heavily and grunting as it tried in vain to gain its feet. It glared at her as she approached, eyes wide and terrified. It had been frothing at the mouth but it had dried now, brittle in the sun.

“Poor thing,” she said softly, hands held out, knife hidden along her wrist. “Poor thing, shhh.” The horse took some comfort from her tone, becoming still, panting. Alishia could feel the vibration as its heart beat frantically. Its front leg was broken and torn open, already attracting flies and a moving carpet of ants and small insects.

It took a long time for the horse to die. Alishia prevaricated long enough for the sun to rise and lift a thin mist across the plains, and when she finally decided that she should cut its throat it took her longer to work up the courage. In the end she jabbed once, hard, eyes closed, and the horse bucked and flung her away.

It screamed. She turned her back and walked away once she saw that it was bleeding to death. And although she felt sick and sad, she was also fascinated as well, enjoying this new experience of meting out death. It was as if the blow to the head had woken a part of her with little sense of squeamishness or pity, which reveled in the pure experience of slaughter.