The trek was little more than a dream, a collection of blurred images sown together like a ragtag quilt. Orhan was vaguely aware of his feet moving, of the sand beneath him and the sun above, and of the warm, dark presence of his mother at his side, but beyond that, he was aware only of things that were not real, things that had happened in the past, in his childhood, and things that might happen in the future. At one point he saw a snake, curled into a tight spiral right in their path and hissing vehemently, but when he blinked, it was gone. At another he saw a handsome golden-haired stallion’s face floating in the air before him, smiling at jeering at him, but this time the hallucination was weaker, almost shimmery like it was dissolving, and Orhan dismissed it immediately.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he croaked once to his mother, but his eyes were half-closed, his hooves dragging in the sand, and he made no further clarification as to what he was talking about.

When at last they reached the oasis, a long, well-deserved drink seemed to help his clarity. Orhan fell in a heap in the sand right beside the water, half-cloaked in dappled shade, and ate what he could muster: which admittedly was not much. The world was spinning and heaving around him, as though he were bobbing in the ocean, and that did little to help his appetite. Soon enough he was sprawled on his side, eyes closed and dark hair fanned out all around him, while flies buzzed above the water and the wind whistled across the dunes.

“Where are Carys and Arcana?” he asked suddenly, eyes still closed. But somehow he already knew the answer, and the realization choked him with self-pity. He had completely forgotten, meanwhile, that El Aran had never met the gold-and-white mare.