Then they were falling, curving down to the Iron Moon as if on the descent from a great leap, and the storm-colored mare reached out with her forelegs and caught them. Great puffs of iron-black and rust-red dust rose under her hooves.
Temur caught himself against Night’s back, straightened, and turned to crane his neck each way. “Oh,” he said.
In every direction, a rocky landscape in char-black and rust-red and streaks white as ash stretched away. The horizon curved down, and Temur felt curiously light, curiously free, as if he might float away from the storm-colored mare’s back at any provocation. His fingers clutched on Night’s belt. As the mare cantered, her muscular haunches working behind him, a silvery pall of air surrounded them, trailed them, leaving behind a confetti of minuscule bubbles.
It was broad day here, and the sun gleamed pale in a sky as black as new ice.
“Oh,” he said again.
“Your moon, Temur Khanzadeh,” said Mother Night.
“I’m no prince.…”
* * *
… And he awoke, coughing and choking, shaking with fever in the dark and the cold, to hear the stamp of restive horses. The makeshift shelter was utterly dark, and the rattling plink of ice on ice no longer echoed through. Sweat-sour and shaking, Temur heaved himself onto his side. His arms felt like boiled dough; his body, a salt-stained rag. Another wracking cough rattled his lungs like hide dried stiff, filling his mouth with sick-sweet phlegm. In the dark, he groped for a corner to spit it in, doubled over, braced with both hands on rocks while his empty stomach spasmed.
He would have cursed, but he hadn’t the energy. Instead, fortifying himself with shallow, cautious breaths, he straightened bit by bit. Head spinning in a darkness so complete that his eyes provided ghostly images of things that were not there, he managed to push himself upright against the chill, gritty stone. One of the mares whickered curiously—Bansh, by her voice, and close by.
He reached out to her, found her broad, warm shoulder. She was his prop as he edged back again along her side to her haunches until Buldshak’s warm whiskery nose pushed at his cheek. At least the muzzles of horses were dry and satiny, unlike the slick snouts of cattle.
He ran his hand up Buldshak’s forehead to the forelock. She leaned into him, and only the wall kept him from falling back. He was grateful for the darkness: Disorienting as it was, it also kept him from noticing how the world spun.
He edged past Buldshak’s haunches, his boots slipping in half-frozen manure, until his groping hands found the rough, icy wool of the blanket he’d hung for shelter. He stood still for a moment, controlling his breath, waiting for his heart to stop racing from so slight an effort at this. He thought if he started coughing again, he would never stop.
When he pulled the packs aside, the blanket had frozen into the cracks where he’d wedged it, and the whole was saturated and sheathed in ice that rendered it as hard and heavy as an iron door.
Temur wrestled with it until his chest heaved and his legs trembled from exhaustion—a matter of a few moments only. The urge to cough was a fire in his lungs. He leaned against the rock slab, shuddering with cold even though he knew the exertion should have warmed him, and thought.
Hard and heavy as iron, yes. But ice was brittle.
He wished he’d had the foresight to pull Buldshak into the shelter first. Bansh was a warrior, and he did not know the rose-gray mare as well. But she was a steppe pony. Surely, she was trained?
He hated to risk her hooves, but they had to get out of here somehow, and he wasn’t strong enough.
He wormed his way back up to her head, tracing the line of her neck to find her head. He’d left the mares bridled, only slipping their bits, and now he replaced the bit and took hold of the reins just under Buldshak’s whiskery chin. He leaned in against her cheek. She snorted; he felt the heat of her breath across his shoulder.
“Kick,” he said, and reined her back a step.
He felt her plant her forelegs on the rocky earth, felt the shiver of effort run through her. Her head came down, her rear came up, and both hind legs flew into the air. An enormous shattering filled the confined space as she jumped forward again, and only Temur’s hand on her bridle kept her from charging up Bansh’s backside. Buldshak danced, snorting, as light and icy air suddenly flooded their little nest, outlining the mares and the piles of gear in brittle morning brilliance.
The cold hit Temur a dizzying blow, but after two or three breaths his head settled and new strength braced him. When Buldshak settled under his hands, he staggered back. The fresh air was strength, even though it set him coughing again. These were shallower coughs, however, and he managed to stay on his feet.