“I have lost my way.”

“So you have.” Orhan’s brows furrowed together as he regarded her. He gently shifted his weight back and forth and continued to lash his frosted black tail, his anxiety and dissonance over the situation preventing him from standing still. He examined the details of her face – everything from the color of her eyes to the delicate movement of her nostrils – and thought to himself that the slope of her nose was more pronounced than that of the horse he had chased out a year ago. There was no denying she was a pureblood, and there would be no disguising that fact if he brought her back to the oasis where his mother could see her.

But again, there was simply nothing threatening about her. He tried to recall all the horrible things El Aran had told him about purebloods – how they were vain and violent and reprehensible, to be avoided at all costs or otherwise attacked on sight – but, try as he might, he could not make himself see a monster standing before him. All he saw was a tired little mare who needed some help. Or maybe that is part of her act. Orhan sucked in a breath and resolved to be, at the very least, on his guard. Gods, it’s too hot for this.

“If you cross my borders, you will find only more desert, with another stallion to confront,” he warned her. “But you will not get that far without a drink of water.”

Orhan turned his head to the west, and considered. There was another, smaller oasis – rarely frequented, if at all, by the herd – but it was an arduously long journey from here, over dunes half as tall as mountains, and he was not sure even he could manage that today. Yet if he brought her to the main oasis... who was to say what his mother would do?

“I can take you to water, but once you have had your drink, it would be better if you left immediately. Agreed?” He bobbed his head as he said that, and did his best to look the part of the stern, no-nonsense leader. Yet his heart ached with doubt and guilt, and he was half afraid it showed on his face.