If Encantador was still alive, she thought again as her hooves touched the stubbly grass at the edge of the oasis. For a moment the black mare let the idea fade, but as she crossed the soft earth to stand at the edge of the pool she dredged the ludicrous fantasy to the front of her mind. Daydreaming was not a pastime the seer indulged in, nor was entertaining the impossible, but right now she longed for a number of the horses from her past to converse with. Sarabi, Daenerys, or Encantador had known her long enough and well enough to give her reliable guidance, but the three of them were either missing or dead.

If the boy’s father was still alive, together the two of them could talk to Orhan and make him see reason. The Desert and the herd within it must be protected at all costs. El Aran would have been more inclined to listen to her son’s outlandish request that she humor the Arabian and hear the enemy out had he been alone on the beach, but the two of them had come together into the seer’s home. If Orhan had listened to her at all he would have known better than to invite the enemy in. Better to have set up a meeting outside of the territory, on neutral ground —not that El Aran would have left these sands without adequate support for Vesti. But if Encantador were here, he could have stayed with the sorrel mare and protected the territory while El Aran was away. El Aran would still belong to a part of a unit, a herd that worked together.

"But you’re dead," she admitted to the heavy afternoon heat. The mare sighed and dropped her nose to drink from the tepid water. Sarabi, the first mare to speak to El Aran on these Islands, had left a long time ago and might be as dead as Encantador and Daenerys. Sudden longing for a brisk breeze and a balmy summer evening with the herd from the Harbor made her choke. El Aran jerked her head up and backed away from the pool snorting. "Salak," she spat, and flipped her forelock out of her eyes.