Crown of Renewal(158)

“The pool,” Camwyn said. “There’s a dam, and—”

“Oh, that pool.” Mathor nodded. “Looks the right size for a splash, doesn’t it? But that’s where I get the water. Splash there and you’ll have grit in your teeth when you drink. I’ll show you a place you can splash later—tomorrow maybe—but meantime, you’ll bathe from a tub.” He nodded across the room, and there was a wooden tub hanging from a spike in the wall. Camwyn didn’t remember it from before. “There’s water heating in the fire—” A tall ewer and buckets to fill the tub. Camwyn didn’t remember those, either.

He slept that night under blankets that had not been on the narrow bed when he first saw it, windows he had not seen either stood open to the night air, which Mathor pronounced healing. “This is a safe place,” he said as he left for his own place, one Camwyn had not seen. “Nothing here will harm you.”

Next morning Camwyn woke when something tickled his face. He opened his eyes to find a horse’s head hanging over his bed … a long milk-colored forelock and mane, bristly whiskers, a soft muzzle. After the first startled jerk, he lay still, fascinated. Was it a wild horse, like the others, or Mathor’s? It seemed to wink at him, stiff golden lashes coming down across a deep brown eye, then pulled its head back out of the window. Camwyn sat up just as he heard the sound of ripping grass. Out the window were three horses: the cream and gold one that had wakened him, a red chestnut mare, and a foal whose spindly legs were spread wide as it sniffed at something in the grass.

Camwyn got up, not surprised to find a chest in the room that had not been there before and clothes hanging on pegs. He dressed, took the pot from beneath the bed, and took it out to the jacks, where he emptied it and filled in that section of trench.

“Well met, Camwyn.” Mathor was coming down the path, carrying a basket. “We have eggs this day. And some greens.”

After breakfast, Mathor urged Camwyn to take a short walk. “Here’s bread and cheese and a jug of sib. Go where you please for a time. Nothing here will harm you.”

That set the pattern for the first hands of days. Waking early, usually with a horse face in his window, breakfast with Mathor, then walking—slowly and in brief stretches at first, then longer ones. He ate whatever Mathor prepared with good appetite and slept without dreams he remembered. Mathor gave him the names of local plants, and his own mind restored many words for his thoughts, though try as he might, he could not remember much of his past. Was that face a brother? A father? An uncle? A friend? Was that other room—so different from this—a place he had lived or only visited?

One morning he made it back down to the main valley, where he found more of the horses grazing at the near end. They all raised heads and looked at him. Several approached, including the one with the milk-white mane. He put out his hand, and a muzzle brushed it; he could not resist stroking that golden neck, that silky white mane. The horse gave a soft sound, welcoming, and he kept stroking. His fingers caught in the mane—and the horse moved away, pulling gently. He walked with it, through the herd, out the other side.

When the horse dropped to its knees, Camwyn stared. What did that mean? Did it want to roll? He stepped back. The horse snorted. Camwyn had the impulse to climb onto that sloped back … but he had no saddle, no bridle—those names came to him, but so did the memory of riding. He had ridden. If the horse didn’t mind … the horse snorted again, expressing, he was sure, impatience.

He came forward and gingerly—feeling the stretch in his muscles—clambered onto the horse’s back, clutching a double handful of mane. A lurch that nearly cost him his seat, and another, and the horse stood. He felt dizzy for a moment, then his head cleared. He was riding—or sitting, he corrected himself—on a horse. A tall horse, for the ground seemed impossibly far away. The horse took one step. Camwyn tilted but recovered. Another step; this time Camwyn was able to stay upright. The horse walked off, and Camwyn first struggled to adjust to the back and forth, the sideways sway, and then found it no effort. The horse walked around the herd—all watching, as if to critique his riding—and then stopped again and shook its head.

Dismounting was harder than he’d thought it would be, but the horse stood patiently as he squirmed his way off, landing off balance and falling. The horse pivoted neatly and leaned down to blow gently in his hair. Camwyn sat up and put a hand behind its head. “Thank you,” he said. He took a handful of mane; the horse lifted its head, helping him up. When he let go of the mane, the horse walked off. Camwyn stood for a time watching the horses, then trudged back up the hill to his house.