Page 97 of Seducing the Sorcerer
If only he could persuade the worple horse to fall onto Tullivo, but, if he did, would it make any difference or would another greedy, self-important, power-grubbing man simply rise to fill Tullivo’s place? Gods, if only these fancy types would leave people the fuck alone. But they wouldn’t because they thought the world was theirs and if an old horse or a whole country had to suffer, it was no odds to them.
He became aware that Jasper was staring at something behind him, mouth agape. And that Morgrim was pawing at him to get his attention, and that Morgrim too was staring at something behind Fenn, eyes wide.
Fenn whirled to see Squab, neck horizontal, dozing under a small pine tree like nothing was amiss.
Next to Squab was something huge and pink.
A prickle of alarm raised the hairs on the back of Fenn’s neck. He frowned and blinked, hard. But when he opened them, the pink thing was still there, splashes of sunlight casting rosy patterns upon it. It was large and round, the colour of a dawn cloud, but solid-looking, with a silky sheen.
The pink thing moved and he realised he was staring at the rump of a horse. A pink silk horse with a tail as elegant as an empty sausage casing. A pink silk worple horse. And the colour wasn’t just any pink. It was the exact same shade as the eiderdown the sacking horse had eaten in Morgrim’s stables on their first night there.
Fenn’s jaw dropped. He took a step and the pink horse turned to goggle at him. It had a wall eye that could have been scrawled on in charcoal and a long red tongue. Its mane was a ragged edge of ripped silk, and it stood next to the sacking horse, as ugly and unlikely and as gormless-looking as its mother.
Because that was the only possible explanation.
And of course most foals weren’t born because their mother had eaten an eiderdown, and of course the sacking horse had no parts for regeneration and besides had not met a worple stallion that Fenn knew of, but he also knew he was dealing here with a different set of the facts of life. And he knew it was the truth. His worple horse had never had any droppings. Instead, somehow, she’d turned that eiderdown into another horse.
His worple horse had had a baby.
In a way, the strangest thing was that the pink silk horse looked nothing like a foal. It was, perhaps, a little unsteady on its legs, but apart from that it was the same size as its dam. Fenn clicked his tongue and held out his hand and the pink horse walked over to sniff him and take an experimental bite of the cuff of his jacket. Fenn told it “no” and twisted his arm away gently but firmly. He handled the horse’s head, stroked its neck. It was wonderfully smooth, like petting an expensive divan. It licked his chest and mouthed the buttons of his shirt.
And suddenly, he understood what it meant.
He had two horses.
Two.
He could give this one to Morgrim. Keep Squab for himself. His knees went weak, and he rested his forehead on the pink silk horse’s nose and looked down at its hooves. Not that it had hooves. The frayed ends of its unevenly-shaped legs hovered just above the ground like its mother’s.
And he thought about what Morgrim might have to do to the pink horse to get its magic out and somehow it was harder than ever. Because Fenn loved it already.
And it was then that he realised. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew: the horse wasn’t for Morgrim at all.
It was for Jasper.
Squab pushed her nose at his arm, perhaps thinking she was being left out of some treat. Fenn stroked her, but that wasn’t enough. He flung his arms around her neck and kissed her. “Ah, my clever darling. You’re the best horse in the world, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Wait a minute, now. Reckon you deserve something nice.”
He tore off his jacket, removed his waistcoat and gave it to her. She nosed the red satin lining, took a bite, then let the pink horse dart in and snatch a mouthful while she chewed. So, she had no milk for it but she was letting it share her feed. Aye, she was the mother, all right.
“Well,” Morgrim said, in the tone of a man who had just worked out the answer to a particularly puzzling riddle.
“Thought you said they were made,” Fenn said. “Sewn together with magic by sorcerers. Not born.”
“They were made. Out of sacks. I don’t think this has ever happened before.”
“Ah.”
Morgrim patted the pink horse’s neck. “I wondered how you’d do magic next. I thought Squab might start talking, or that Blaze might grow wings, or...or a hundred other things. But I should have known. This is much more you.”
Fenn dragged himself from his contemplation of the pink horse, found the knife and cut Jasper free. “You can ride, can’t you, lad? Seen you helping exercise the palace horses.”
“You’ll...take me back with you?” Jasper said, rubbing his wrists. “On that?”
“What? No. Ain’t you twigged? This horse is for you. To go and get your sister.” They were both staring at him. Fenn added, to Jasper, “She ain’t dead. Morgrim had word. Now, I know a flying horse ain’t much good if they’re keeping her locked up, but they must let her out sometimes, surely? You swoop down, see? Grab her. Then you’re away.”
“But it’s...” Jasper was still looking dazedly at the horse. “It’s the eiderdown. The pink silk eiderdown. I brought it to you that night. It was from my bed. I wondered where it had gone.”
Fenn nodded. He’d already known in his heart the pink horse was for Jasper. Now he knew why.
