Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 10
One ear twists toward the chestnut breeder and catches on the word Salem. That male from the Commons had rattled off several island names but had failed to elaborate on what any of them were like. Salem. The chestnut’s laugh irritates her and she returns the attention of her ears to the blue mare. The small stallion had rattled off a name when he joined them— Kaywunaywun, or something. It does not matter. Of the strangers gathered in front of Iftikhar, the mare is clearly the most competent, and Kaywunaywun’s offer to lead her where she needs to go is met with a tight smile. Before she can take the other mare up on it, however, the small stallion steps after the blue roan. Iftikhar’s ears turn back but do not pin as she moves forward as well, her dark eyes pinned on male’s pale withers. Typically she has no interest in breeders, but this one’s behavior sets her on edge, perhaps because he steps around the mares as if his presence is welcomed or desired.
There is no deference in his demeanor, she realizes, and he welcomed the chestnut stallion, no, invited him to come to the territory. No breeder in the desert would have the gall to bring another horse into a mare’s home (even if this land supposedly belongs to the short, unimposing breeder), much less another stallion— breeders understand that their strength and ferocity will increase their chances of being selected to breed by one of the mares, and that obvious displays of friendship with others will call unwanted attention to them. Ordinarily the breeders are of little interest to the herd, but mockery is the second language of the desert and one in which the Arabian mares are fluent.
She meets the red-brown eyes of the tiny breeder as he looks back after passing Kaywunaywun. How can a breeder, especially one so tiny, possibly claim to lead the herd of this territory? Even if the Islanders do follow the backwards way of thinking of the Akhal-Tekes, there is nothing about Dögun that suggests he is a desirable stallion. Too short, too tame, too kind. He would never survive in the desert. Iftikhar waits for him to run off and returns her attention to Kaywunaywun, but the stallion speaks and his words are a command.
Uzay take me, she seethes as her ears pin. The Arabian does not pause as she walks past Kaywunaywun. Her eyes remain on the distant landscape as she passes the tiny stallion and heads south, not slowing her stride to accommodate the stallion’s pace. Iç will burn the world before Iftikhar follows a stallion willingly.
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