She pursed her lips and made to wheel Dark about.
“No, wait!” Perkar shouted, forgetting his own admonition to silence. “We just wanted to see how well you can ride.”
“You could have merely asked,” she replied icily. But she was curious. “What did you decide?”
“That you have learned to ride as well in six months as even many Mang do not in six years,” Raincaster answered, turning his youthful, aquiline features frankly on her. That startled her. The Mang never dissembled when they spoke of riding skill.
“I—” She frowned in frustration. Was she supposed to be angry or not?
She decided not, and dismounted. On the ground, her legs felt wobbly, and the snow immediately began leaking cold into her feet to match the numbness of her nose. “What am I supposed to be seeing, anyway?”
Perkar gestured in the direction they had been riding. Here the huugau was gently rolling, as if a sky god had pressed down on the hills with a great palm. The ridges and valleys were still there, but they were so gradual that one could be fooled into thinking their high places merely represented the distant horizon; this was especially true, Hezhi found, when they were blanketed with snow. “Over the ridge,” Perkar explained, and the Mang nodded their slight but clear assurances.
“Very well,” Hezhi said. “Let us go, then.” And with that she marched past the men, striding quickly toward the ridge.
PERKAR stood rooted for an instant as Hezhi brushed past him, the hem of her long vermilion riding coat trailing imperiously behind her, short bob of obsidian hair bouncing with her stride.
He looked to the other men, but Ngangata was fighting a grin while the Mang studied the earth.
“I'll watch the horses,” Yuu'han assured them, and Perkar nodded, started at a jog to catch up with Hezhi. She heard him coming, though, and broke into a run.
“No, Princess!” He tried to whisper loud enough for her to hear him, but it sounded only like steam escaping a kettle—and she heeded it no more than that. But then she reached the crest of the hill, and her booted feet slowed. Perkar came alongside of her just as she halted completely.
“By the River, “ she gasped, and Perkar had but to agree. In fact, the vista before them reminded him of the River, the Changeling, upon whose banks Hezhi had been born, a watercourse so wide one could scarcely see its far bank. But this river—the one before them—was of meat and bone, not water. It flowed brown and black, tinted reddish on the woolen crests of its waves, the humps where the great muscles of the beasts piled high behind their massive heads.
“Akwoshat, ” Perkar breathed in his own tongue, despite himself. “Wild cattle. More cattle than all of the stars in heaven.”
“I have never seen anything …” Hezhi trailed off, shaking her head. Her black eyes shimmered with wonder, and her mouth was pursed as if to say “oh!” She was very pretty, Perkar thought. One day she would be a beautiful woman.
“There's your Piraku, Perkar,” Ngangata said softly, padding up behind them. “Drive a herd of those back to your pastures …”
Perkar nodded. “Would that it were possible. Look at them. They are the most magnificent beasts I have ever seen.”
Raincaster had arrived, as well. “You would never tame them, Cattle-Man,” he whispered. “They are like the Mang, untameable.”
“I believe it,” Perkar acknowledged. At this distance it was hard to comprehend the proportions of the individual animals, but they seemed to be at least half again the size of the cattle he knew, and the proud, sharp horns of the largest could probably fit his body between them. These were the cattle of giants, of gods, not of Human Beings. But they were beautiful to behold.
“You really brought me to see this?” Hezhi asked, and Perkar suddenly understood that she was speaking to him, not to all of them.
“Yes, Princess, I really did.”
“I wish you wouldn't call me that,” she said.
“Hezhi, then.”
To his surprise, she reached over and squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I forgive you for trying to make me break my neck riding down from the hill. Although we could have seen this just as easily coming down here at a leisurely pace.”
“That's true. But admit it—you love riding. I've watched you learn.”
“I admit it,” she said, releasing his hand.
They stood there silently for a time, watching the slow progress of the herd. Now and then one of the beasts would bellow, a proud, fierce trumpet that sent chills straight to Perkar's bones. The wind shifted in their direction, and the smell of the wild cattle swirled about them, powerful and musky. He literally trembled with homesickness then, with such a fierce desire to see his father's damakuta and pastures—and the man himself—that he nearly wept. Hexing and unflexing his hands to warm them, he was only absently aware of the arrival of other riders behind them, of the soft crunch of boots approaching.
“Ah, well,” a reedy voice piped. “Look at this, Heen. My nephew Raincaster has no more sense than to let our guests stray onto the open plain.”
Raincaster turned to the new arrival and shrugged. “As soon hold the wind as this one,” he replied, gesturing to Perkar. “Yuu'han and I thought it best to go with them—keep them in our sight.”
“Heen,” Perkar said, shaking himself from reverie to confront Raincaster's accuser, “tell Brother Horse that I have no time to travel at the pace of an old man.”
Heen—a tired-looking spotted mutt—looked up when Perkar said his name, wagged his tail slightly, and then sniffed at the scent of cattle. If he conveyed Perkar's message to the old man who stood beside him, Perkar did not notice. Nonetheless, the old man—Brother Horse—glared at him. He was shorter than Perkar, most of the difference in height coming in his bandy, bowed legs. It was remarkable, Perkar thought, how the man's wide mouth could be downturned and still somehow convey a sly grin. It was, perhaps, the guileful twinkle in his dark eyes or, more likely still, the memory of a thousand smiles etched into the brown leather of his heavy square face.
“This pace has kept me alive much longer than yours is likely to serve you,” Brother Horse admonished. “And you, Granddaughter,” he said, shaking a finger at Hezhi. “You should be wise enough not to follow young men when they set out alone. I have never known an instance in which they failed to find whatever accidents wait along the trail. Let them go first, flush out the dangers. That is what young men are for”
“Oh,” Hezhi replied, “I had no idea they had any use. Thank you, Shutsebe, for the advice.”
“Yes, Shutsebe,” Perkar said, bowing, calling Brother Horse “grandfather,” as well. Of course neither he nor Hezhi was actually related to the old man, but referring to someone—sixty years old? eighty?—thus was only common courtesy. “And see, we have found all your dangers for you.”
“Have you? Have you indeed?”
Perkar shrugged. “You see them.” He gestured at the cattle.
“I see them, but do you?”