“That won’t be necessary, Ceara,” the Tine King says from behind them, and once again, everyone sinks to their knees. Apart from Croi, that is. This time, though, the slight is noted by everyone present. The king looks at her, and once again, there is no smile in his eyes. Instead, there is a deep, dark sadness that neither Croi nor her other self knows how to respond to. So she pretends not to see it. Instead, she focuses on the reins he is holding. The king leads a sand-horse over. Softly golden with large orange eyes that have a strangely gentle look in them, this sand-horse is as magnificent as the princess’s Dahy. Croi watches as it whuffs, releasing smoke into the chilly morning air.

Do you think the Tine King is trying to bribe his way into our heart?

“Will it work?” Croi asks, keeping her eyes on the sand-horse.

Of course it will. You are already almost persuaded.

“I’m not, not really. But if I’m going to die soon, I may as well live the best I can in the time I have.”

You have already lived a lot. But what about me? Are you asking me to accept ending in the darkness I’ve been living in?

Croi has no reply for her.

The sand-horse swings its head to look at her; Croi feels a curl of its magick in her mind. Rather than being invasive, the magick is pliant and questioning, as though looking for a place to anchor. Croi pounces on the magick and binds the sand-horse to herself swiftly. At that moment, the sand-horse ceases being an “it” and becomes a “he.”

“Father, are you gifting the sand-horse to Fiadh?” the princess asks, looking puzzled. “Why do you show her favor when she shows you disrespect?”

How did we disrespect the Tine King?

“Probably by not bowing to him,” Croi answers.

“I like her courage,” the Tine King says, and no one moves to question him. Who will deny a king his peculiarities? “Well, child, will you try riding him?”

All eyes swing to Croi, and she, shining at the attention, nods and steps forward. The sand-horse makes a growling sound, and she stops, midstep, unsure. She glances at the king, and he nods, so she takes a deep breath and walks until she’s standing close to the sand-horse. So close, he could take a big bite out of her. Croi hopes the horse resists any biting urges he may have. She stares into his very red eyes and rethinks her enthusiasm.

Name him.

“Why don’t you do the honors?” Croi says, feeling generous.

Call him Enbarr.

“Why Enbarr?”

You should have listened to the Hag’s lessons.

“I name you Enbarr,” Croi says out loud.

As soon as she names the beastie, he bends his knees and bows his head. Through the bond between them, Croi feels his wordless devotion to her. It’s a strange feeling, this bond; it tastes rather like the tears at the back of her throat when she’s trying not to cry.