Wings of Flame by Nancy Springer Page B

shock. The creatures had only stubs of ears left, nearly level with their polls.
    â€œOf course,” Nasr Yamut said. “The more closely to resemble Suth.”
    Kyrem remembered the statue and looked again at the sacred steeds. All of them were oddly mottled and dashed with white—cousins of cows, he thought scornfully. Three had white legs and hooves, soft hooves that would never have withstood the rocks of the upland steppes of Deva, as Kyrem did not fail to note. On their faces they were marked with wide blazes of white that took in their eyes. Kyrem nearly shuddered; of the bald-faced horse it was said in Deva that he carried a shroud. But that was superstition. These horses looked fat, and so sleek and polished that the veins showed through the thin hair of their legs and muzzles.
    â€œWill this do?” Nasr Yamut asked.
    Kyrem blinked. It was a big cavern of enclosed horse-bay into which Omber could be put loose rather than being tied by the head as in the other stalls. There were only a few such enclosures in the stable, Kyrem saw at once, and he felt sure they were intended for the royalty among horses.
    â€œIt will do admirably,” he said, trying to keep any hint of surprise or gratitude out of his voice. Certainly Omber deserved no less.
    â€œWe do not want such a fine stallion to become restive,” Nasr Yamut said.
    Kyrem darted a glance at him, wondering what might be his hidden purpose. For a priest of such high station to be found at the stable seemed odd. Was it he who had decided on this special stall, or Auron? No matter. Enemies, both. Though this priest at least seemed more like a man than Auron.
    He lingered at the stall door while Kyrem tended to Omber, clapping his hands and calling in quick succession for brush, rubbing cloth and scraper. Brown-robed boys came running.
    â€œI do not want any of them touching Omber,” Kyrem said rather sharply. “I will care for him myself.” He almost added, “If Auron permits,” but stopped himself in time. He would not become a hostage in his own thinking.
    â€œOf course,” said Nasr Yamut smoothly. “They would not touch him in any event,” he added after a moment’s awkward silence. “The browns, the boys, are allowed only to sweep and fetch and clean, and the grays, the novices, may polish the ceremonial gear and carry water and food. But no one is allowed to touch a horse until he is confirmed to the priesthood for life and is a blue, an epigone—and then only under the supervision of a flamen.”
    â€œRed,” said Kyrem involuntarily. He was being lured into conversation in spite of himself.
    â€œCorrect.” Now it was the priest who stood silent.
    â€œSo what rank is next?” Kyrem asked, trying not to sound peevish.
    â€œThere are three greens, epopts, and then myself.”
    I am indeed dealing with an exalted stableboy, Kyrem thought wryly.
    â€œThe epopts and I, we tend only the oracles and the kingmakers.”
    Kyrem could not help raising his dark brows in inquiry.
    â€œHere is one in the next stall,” Nasr Yamut offered. “If you are finished.…”
    The prince stroked his stallion’s high crest and silky mane, glancing at the full manger and suppressing a starving urge to take some of the corn for himself. But he was a prince of Deva; he could go for a while longer without food. He followed Nasr Yamut out of the stall and watched as the priest, with quiet but evident pride, led a tall horse out of the next bay and into the sunshine. The creature kicked and reared dangerously, and the priest brought it down without comment.
    â€œThe colors, the markings,” he said, “they are the finest we have yet attained.”
    Mud colors, Kyrem thought contemptuously. The horse’s coat was mottled and blotched with gray, dun, brownish hairs and speckles of white. But it was not only the body markings that made this the oddest creature