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the men, quivers were on their backs and longbows in their hands. At the belts of some swung a brace of fowl, tied by the feet. Already they had had a successful day’s hunting. Buoyed by success, they were in high spirits. This last foray to the eastern shores of the lake was considered no more than a jaunt—they did not intend to hunt seriously, as was evidenced by the noise they were raising. They chaffed and bantered, teasing one another, sparring as they went along. All of them were young men, hale and strong—indeed, the youngest was only a boy.
    â€œ Sciobtha , Padraigh,” laughed the two eldest, slapping him on the back as he ran to keep up, “ ta ocras orm! Tu faighim moran bia !” The looks of the two Maghrain brothers were striking—tall, copper-haired twins in the leather kilts and heavy gold torcs of Finvarnan aristocracy. Their grins were wide and frequent, a flash of white across their brown faces.
    â€œ Amharcaim! Amharcaim !” Padraigh shouted suddenly, pointing to the black and leafless alders leaning at the lake’s edge. The men halted and turned their heads.
    A shadow moved there. Or was it a shadow?
    Gracefully, with arched neck, the stallion came walking out from among the trees. Clean were his lines, and well molded; long and lean his legs, finely tapered his frame. He had the build of a champion racehorse in its prime. His coat was sleek and glossy as the water of the lake, oil-black but highlighted with silver gray where the sun’s diffuse glow caught the sliding of the muscles. Clearly, here was a horse to outrace the wind.
    The men stood, watching in silent awe. The creature tossed his beautiful head, sending his mane flying like spume. He too stood still for a moment, then demurely, almost coquettishly, began to walk toward the huntsmen. The stallion seemed unconcerned by their presence, not frightened at all, but friendly and tame. They were able to go right up to him—he did not shy away but allowed them to stroke the midnight mane and marvel at the grand height of him, the sheer perfection of his contours and the power implicit therein.
    Then, in their own Ertish language, Iainh Maghrain spoke huskily, from the back of his throat.
    â€œThat is the finest steed in Aia,” he said, “and I shall ride him.”
    His brother threw him a swift, hard glance. “I, too,” he said immediately, not to be bettered.
    Fearless, these two—and competitive. It did not enter their heads that appearances might be deceptive.
    â€œEasy now, easy, alainn capall dubb ,” said Iainh, caressing the elegant arch of the neck. The stallion stood as steady as a cornerstone, almost as though he were encouraging a rider to mount. His eyes were limpid pools, fringed with lashes as a pool is fringed with reeds.
    But young Padraigh was wary.
    â€œDon’t do it, Iainh,” he said. “See how the hounds droop their tails and slink away? They are afraid of him, for all that he is so fine.” Indeed, the retrievers were cowering in the shelter of a clump of tall rocks at the lake’s edge, a hundred yards away.
    The brothers paid no heed to the youngster’s warning. In a trice, Iainh had vaulted up on the horse’s back, and in the next instant Caelinh was up behind him. Still, the stallion appeared unperturbed. At the touch of Iainh’s boot-heel he trotted amicably in a circle.
    â€œThe fine one is as quiet as a lamb!” cried their comrades. “Hey, make room for us—why should you two be having all the fun?”
    One by one the other youths mounted. Like all Ertishmen, they were proficient horsemen and had been able to ride bareback since they could walk. They sprang with ease onto the stallion’s back. Meanwhile Padraigh hung back cautiously—prompted by some inner caution, he had decided to be last.
    It seemed apparent, as he watched each man jump up, that no space would be left for the next. Yet each