Iftikhar and El Halin stand shoulder to hip on the undefined border between the Desert and the Dunes, the fleabitten gray mare facing East and the chestnut facing West while the moon hangs fat and heavy overhead. It seems appropriate for the two Arabians to meet under the cover of nightfall. They speak in low voices, careful not to whisper— they are well aware of how sound carries in desolate places such as these.

“Tell me all,” El Halin commands. Her ears are forward and she does not look at Iftikhar: her gaze is focused entirely on the spread of sand ahead of her and the possibility of unwelcome company.

Iftikhar rests her lips on her companion’s dappled hip. Her eyes look afar and she lifts her head enough to enunciate as she complies with the High Seer’s order, summarizing her discovery of Maslakhat in the Falls and relaying the information he gave her. As she speaks, El Halin’s chin tips inward until her nose points directly at the ground. She takes a deep breath, and the swelling of her barrel brushes against Iftikhar’s red side. It is impossible not to hear the satisfaction in her slow, deliberate exhale.

“El Aran,” El Halin says. “I remember her.”

Iftikhar flicks an ear back. “And?”

“Praise the Gods, Iftikhar. I personally will offer my prayers to the Walking Mare for her benevolence in this regard. It is as I have dreamed: the Blind Seer is here, on these Isles. Maslakhat will lead us to her.” She glances at the red mare. “You should have been more insistent that he bring you with him.”

Iftikhar snorts and snaps her tail, aware but indifferent to the fact that the ends of it catch El Halin on the end of the nose. “He told me no because you might take issue with it. You can ask him yourself when we see him again, provided I haven’t torn his tongue out beforehand.”

“Iftikhar,” El Halin’s voice is full of rebuke.

“Do not seek to placate me. He is a snake, an enemy. I dislike that we have relied on him for anything. Why do you trust him?”

El Halin turns her head and nips the taut skin of Iftikhar’s hip. “Do you question me? I worry for your faith, Iftikhar— being away from the desert has clearly weakened it, and if I cannot trust you to trust me there is little reason for me to include you in this task. You may as well return home. I will take care of the Blind Seer and return triumphant to our home. Perhaps Nasmat will lead us the rest of the way to victory,” she muses in a quiet afterthought.

Iftikhar’s ears pin and she stiffens next to El Halin. “Nasmat is a fool. She hoards the lives of the herd as if we have some purpose other than doing all we can to eradicate the blight that festers in our sands. It will take decades for her to win the war, and we will grow old and feeble under her tender authority while our enemies grow more clever. I am the lead mare, and I will lead our armies to victory. It is not that I do not trust you, El Halin— it is that I remember how conniving our ‘Teke allies are and so I am wary of this breeder. That gray one, the one who lurked and slunk about like some kind of cur— didn’t he get his sister killed?”

“Ak Burun brought that upon herself. Associating with exiled ‘Tekes and Arabians; what did you expect would happen? Of course she was punished.”

Iftikhar tosses her head. “He engineered it,” she insists, and the conversation between the two mares wanders into the past as they stand in the moonkissed sand.


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IFTIKHAR & EL HALIN
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