He kept his attention fixed upon her, his narrow ears pricked forward as he listened. Ah, a child of Bahadir. Maslakhat flicked his tail and snorted lightly, dipping his nose in acknowledgement. Orhan’s line was prolific to be sure—he knew many of his descendants still resided on Salem, meaning that the blood of the blind seer, El Aran, and even the indignant A’idah in this filly’s case, ran through her. He wondered if she had any idea the paths all of them walked before her, or if their legacies were fading with each generation.
She spoke of the buckskin mare that he had met briefly before taking over this land as well, careful to disassociate from her. Maslakhat might have laughed at this, glad the young girl at least had enough sense to recognize that the previous leader was not befitting of this land or the title.
“I do, yes,” he responded evenly with a flick of his dark tail. “I have lived here a long time. Long enough to know not only your father, Bahadir, but your grandparents Orhan and A’idah, and your great grandmother—El Aran.”
He paused a moment to gauge her reaction, wondering if this assertion would be met with curiosity or confusion. In truth, he had been at odds with most of her relatives—their choices, some blasphemous and some simply irresponsible, had led to not only this filly’s existence, but the state of Salem today. He was thankful that he’d been able to shape the Dunes the way he’d needed but the neighboring lands were rampant with those of muddled backgrounds and questionable heritage. If Maslakhat could stomp his hoof and simply shepherd them all off to another island, he would have. But the more time that passed, the more he wondered if there was a better way to right the wrongs that had happened so many years ago. With the coming of two of his children in the impending spring, he wondered if perhaps his own legacy might be enough.
MASLAKHAT
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