said the Icefalcon, his voice no louder than the stirring of wind in the grass that curtained the rims of the maze of coulees through which they rode. “At the Moot, after Noon had gone up to the Haunted Mountain, I overheard Blue Child tell one of her friends, ‘I will see that you get Little Dancer and Sand Cat.’ I forget what favor he promised her in return. But I knew that she meant to kill me. Thus when Noon came down from the mountain and kissed me with the kiss of death, I was … suspicious. It fell, you understand, rather too pat.” It was good to ride again. Cold Death had three horses with her, of the short-coupled gray line of Evening Star Horse, bred by Frogs Singing and his family in the Pretty Water Country; they traveled sure-footedly and in silence through the red clay hills, the grasses of the bottomlands shoulder-high and prodigal with wildflowers. Loses His Way, though in the Icefalcon’s opinion not notably quick on the uptake, would at least be a more than competent guard for Tir.
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