He tumbled to the ground and just barely managed to catch himself so that he landed on his rump instead of his face, in a huge pile of drifted leaves.

It hurt. Not as badly as, say, hitting hard pavement would have, but it still hurt.

And it knocked what was left of his breath out of him for a moment and made him see stars again.

When his eyes cleared, he looked around. He sat in the middle of the pile of old, damp leaves, dazed and bewildered at finding himself on the ground again. “Ow,” he said, after a moment of consideration.

The mare turned, stepping lightly and carefully, and shoved him with her nose in the middle of his chest.

He shoved back, finally roused to some sensation other than confusion. “You get away from me, you!” he said angrily. “’f it wasn’t for you, I—”

She shoved at him again, and without meaning to, he looked straight into her eyes. They were blue, and deep as the sky, and he fell into them.

:Hello, Skif,: he heard, from somewhere far, far away. :My name is Cymry, and I Choose you.:

And he dropped into a place where he would never be alone or friendless again.

When he came back to himself, the first thing he did was stagger to his feet and back away from the Companion. Never mind the wonderful dream he’d been in—it was a dream. It couldn’t be real. Something was terribly wrong.

His Companion Cymry looked at him and he felt her amusement.

His Companion. And that was just not possible.

“Are you outa your mind?” he croaked, staring at her.

:No,: she said, and shook her head. :I Choose you. You’re a Herald—well, you will be after you go through the Collegium and get your Whites. Right now, you’re just a Trainee.:

“Like hell!” he retorted feelingly. “You are crazy! Or—I am—” It occurred to him then that all this might just be some horrible dream. Maybe when he’d jumped onto the horse, it had thrown him, and he was lying on his back in that park, knocked out cold and hallucinating. Maybe he hadn’t even seen the horse, the heat had knocked him over and he was raving. None of this was happening—that must be it—

:Don’t be stupid,: Cymry replied, shoving at him with her nose. :Be sensible! Do you ever have black eyes and a broken nose in a dream? It’s not a dream, you’re not unconscious, and you are Chosen. And you’re going to be a Herald.:

“I don’t bloody well think so!” he said, trying to back further away from her and coming up against the wall of the little building. “If you think I am, you’re crazy. Don’ you know what I am?”