“Perhaps I did take a slight chill in the rain, then,” Yvenne said wryly. “And it seems to be passing.”
She no longer shivered, at least. Still, as soon as they were fed, Maddek would ask Fassad to send his hounds over the ruins again.
“Go on,” he told his mare, and she immediately trotted to the nearest clump of grass. Not waiting for Yvenne’s command, the gelding started after the mare. Yvenne barely managed to strip its bridle free before the fool horse was out of reach.
Her gaze was upon Maddek’s face when he glanced back at her. “You hope to get rid of my mount,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” Because he’d not said so to her, though he had been thinking that they would likely pass through another village before night fell, and it would be best to find her another horse.
“Because you often wear the same expression when you look at me.” She glanced away from his sudden frown as Toric—who had laid out belt, linens, and furs to dry—approached wearing only his sword, boots, and a small loincloth. The warrior offered bread and cheese. Taking a large chunk of both, Yvenne continued, “Danoh told me the gelding has weak pasterns, a short back, a steep shoulder, and shallow lungs.”
“He does,” Maddek said, tearing his portion from the loaf and sending the young warrior quickly away again with a hard stare. “You must have noticed how rough his gait is. It makes an unpleasant ride—and risks injury to him. With his unsound legs, he’s more likely to fall lame. A limping horse is of no use. Better to leave him in a farming village where little is required of him.”
Her mouth full, a nod was her only response. Her gaze drifted beyond the ruins again. Even at this distance, the sound of the great river was a rushing roar.
Swallowing, she asked, “Are all Parsathean horses so big and so well-formed?”
Maddek grunted an assent.
“Is it true they are Hanan’s descendants?”
“They are not Hanani.” An animal with a god’s blood running through its veins, a body of great power, and as intelligent as any person. His gaze slipped over his mare’s fine lines. “But it is said that a herd of Hanani horses live north of the Flaming Mountains. Perhaps in ancient times, another herd ran the Burning Plains, and the Parsathean horses are their descendants. They are not only bigger and hardier, but also cleverer than other mounts.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed softly, then fell quiet.
Maddek looked to her.
Briskly she brushed her hand down the front of her robe, though not a single crumb had escaped her mouth. “I had wondered if the Parsatheans themselves were also Hanan’s descendants,” she said. “Since you all seem so big and hardy. But . . .”
She trailed off, nibbling the hard white cheese, yet with such a playful arch in her eyebrows that he could not mistake her.
He grinned. “Do you think my warriors are not clever?”
Her pale gaze narrowed pointedly.
“You think I am not?”
A laugh shook through her, but she did not confirm or deny.
Nor would Maddek. If his cleverness was compared to his warriors’, he would fare well. Compared to Yvenne’s, he was not so certain.
But he cared not. A clever wife was not something to lament—and a clever queen was something to celebrate. “Come,” he said when her gaze was once more drawn to the rushing waters beyond the ruins. “I will carry you close enough to better see the river.”
This time, Yvenne did not protest and insist she cared not if her toes became muddied. Expression eager, she stuffed the remaining cheese into her mouth and leaned forward to wind her linen-wrapped arms around his neck. Maddek swept her from the ledge, letting her form press full-length against his before swinging her legs up to brace his arm beneath her knees. She stiffened, pulling in a quick sharp breath.
Maddek had yet to hear her make a pained noise. But her breath often told him as much as a whimper or a sob.
He gestured ahead. An arrow’s flight away, cobblestones formed a path through the surrounding mud and disappeared beneath the mist-shrouded ruins. “We should not go any nearer to the river than that remnant of the old road. You can walk and ease your soreness there without wading through mud.”
Tautly she nodded.
All around them, the ground steamed like fresh horse dung on a cold morn. The dank, earthy odor filled his every breath—as did the hint of anise perfume that lingered in her sun-warmed hair.
“The river looked not so wide when we saw it from the Toheli ridge,” she said in awe. “I failed to realize it was so broad.”
Because when she had crossed the Ageras before, she was in a curtained carriage—and her brother must have forbidden her to look outside. “It is a mighty river,” he agreed.
“Is the Lave so wide?”
The river upon whose bloodstained banks Maddek had spent these past years commanding the alliance army. “At its mouth,” he said. “But narrower as it passes through the Farians’ territory. An archer could find a target on the opposite side.”
Her gaze seemed to measure the distance across the Ageras. “Yet the Boiling Sea is much wider? As is Temra’s Heart.”
The ocean at the center of the world. “Yes.”
“How far would the Boiling Sea stretch?” She looked beyond the Ageras. “To those hills in the far distance?”
“No. It would cover those hills. It would cover everything.” Perhaps he could describe the sheer expanse better had she ever seen the Burning Plains. “If we were upon the ridge again, looking out—you would see nothing but water stretching to the horizon. It is like a clear sky, but upon the ground.”
Her gaze rose to the white clouds drifting across the blue heavens. After a few long breaths, she said softly, “That is as my mother said. I did not truly believe her.”
At the naked wonder in her voice, a strange ache filled his chest. “You will see for yourself when we reach Drahm.”
“Yes.” A brief smile touched her mouth. All at once her gaze returned to the Ageras, and her tone was somber as she said, “Hanan must have been very lonely.”
“Lonely?” The roar of laughter that burst from Maddek couldn’t have been drowned by all the water in the river. He halted in his muddied tracks, and felt her arms cling suddenly tighter around his neck as the force of his laughter nearly bent him double.
For she referred to the legend of the Ageras’s creation—when the face of the earth had been bare and barren. Then Mother Temra had broken through the vault of the sky and begun reshaping the world with the pounding of her fists.
Other gods had come with her. One of them was her brother Hanan, who arrived after her pounding fists forced the Fallen Mountains to rise from the plains. Hanan had stood atop the jagged peaks, surveying the lifeless land, and had wept with loneliness. In his misery and longing for companionship he had stroked his colossal cock, until his godly seed spurted forth and mixed with his tears, creating the mighty Ageras and overfilling the basin of the Boiling Sea. When Temra’s fists struck the earth a final time, life sprouted from the now-fertile ground, watered by his tears and planted by his seed.