Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 11
Iftikhar’s tail is still lifted in victory as she pulls herself out of the water and up onto the shifting sands that make Paradise’s beach. Her gaze darts from one end of the detritus-logged tideline to the other, then up to the dense forest resisting the light of the afternoon sun, fully expecting Shararat to have disregarded her demand to stay put. Iftikhar is not unaware of the girl’s love for the ocean. Her search is brief, however: eyes flick from one end of the thick underbrush to the other before she whips her tail, the crack an audible frown as she moves out of reach of the lapping tide. The red mare utters a short, questing whicker and waits. Every moment that goes by in which the lithe black form of her daughter does not appear deepens the downward tilt of her mouth.
“Shararat,” Iftikhar says, her voice sharp. She hears bird calls, the tide behind, but not the mid-range, articulate voice of her daughter. The red mare’s scowl deepens. “Aptal kız,” she sneers as she trots further into the territory, shouldering between trees and stepping on whatever plantlife grows in her way as she heads for the few places she and Shararat spent time together. There is no yearling waiting for her by the river, nor by the pile of boulders that has marked so many starts and ends of the various relays Iftikhar has trained her daughter to run. Shararat seems to be missing.
She seethes for a long moment in the empty field that abuts the Ridge, then recalls suddenly that breeder who claims this land as his own. The gold mutt has kept company with Shararat more than once; perhaps she will find her daughter if she can find him. Iftikhar lifts her nose to the wind and scent the air. The smell of him is so pungent she finds it near impossible to pick out where he might currently be, and so selects the direction in which she thinks the scent of him is strongest. Iftikhar covers the distance between them at a canter, in no mood to waste time. There’s no telling what action El Halin will take, now, and Iftikhar does not much care— all that matters is that she is two steps ahead of the bloodmarked bitch.
She tucks her chin and smiles, dark eyes scanning the open horizon for any signs of the gold-washed breeder and her slender daughter.
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