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In Aramora

Chapter 11

Daphne was startled to hear the white mare call her by her mother's name. For several seconds, she couldn't bring herself to react. She was kneeling there with rope cutting into her wrists and the warm blood of the dead mule spattered over her, and all she wanted to do was run home to her da and forget this nightmare. Her throat was dribbling blood where the mule had accidentally slashed her as she was falling. She wanted to touch the wound but her paws were shaking and the stranger was peering at her with those piercing eyes.

Daphne glanced over and saw Artesda and Izra watching them. Artesda was sitting on the ground and appeared confused, while Izra was kneeling, hunched over, and appeared dismal and wary.

"Sun Tail?" the white mare repeated. Her voice was hushed and almost emotional. "Is it you? Have you returned?" When Daphne didn't answer, she followed Daphne's gaze and seemed to remember Izra was there. With grim purpose, she lifted her bow and aimed an arrow at the ram's face. Izra straightened up, coldly resigned to his fate, but before Daphne could protest, Artesda scrambled up and stood before the ram, shielding him with his body.

The white mare hesitated. "What are you doing?" she said in a low, disgusted voice. She did not lower the bow, instead aiming it at Artesda's face. "Move. Move or I will shoot you as well."

Artesda didn't budge, and behind him, Izra stared up at the towering angel in open-mouthed shock. "You will not harm this one, she-demon," Artesda warned darkly. "He is my prisoner and therefore, under my protection. You will have to kill me to get to him."

The white mare kept aiming at Artesda's face for a beat, and Daphne was on the verge of intervening when she finally lowered her bow. "Call me 'she-demon' again and I just might," she warned. Sheathing the bow in the quiver on her back, she turned to Daphne again and regarded her. "Are you not Sun Tail?" she asked yet another time. "Perhaps you are Princess Delilah, then. How came you to be with one of Araton's sons?"

Daphne blinked and tried to answer but couldn't form the words and wound up crying instead, her face contorting and her shoulders shaking wretchedly. She felt like such a child, especially when the white mare's eyes grew weary.

Ignoring Daphne's blubbering and crying, the white mare frowned and knelt down, pushing Daphne's hood back. Her brows went up in surprise as she looked over Daphne's face. Quickly regaining her composure, she straightened up again and squinted thoughtfully into the trees.

"You look . . . just like Princess Delilah. I thought . . ." the white mare muttered.

Daphne stared up at the white mare, waiting for her to explain her quiet ramblings. She was tall and graceful and beautiful, with very long legs and a long white mane that fell thick and tousled to her tail. Her mane was braided here and there with brown feathers, as if she might have belonged to one of the painted horse tribes, and yet, she was dressed nothing like the painted horses Daphne had heard so many stories about.

Daphne and her father had lived on the outskirts of the village Golcrest, which was a town not very far from Haymar. The horses in Golcrest would often tell stories of painted horses, depicting them as wild and majestic hunters who lurked the forests clad in rags, often possessing magical powers and unable to speak the common tongue. But this horse spoke the common tongue perfectly, if not with an accent. She also wasn't dressed in rags but was wearing leather pants and a loose shirt, over which a simple brown fur vest had been pulled. Around her throat was a leather cord with feathers dangling from it, and her gray eyes were bright and intense. White fur cascaded in a bright veil over her silver hooves and over her paws. Daphne thought she was utterly beautiful in a shimmering, otherworldly way . . . and far more worthy of becoming the Purest One.

"Filly," said the white mare at last and looked down at Daphne with her flat, unfeeling eyes. She had a sharp accent not unlike Snowflake's. "If you don't come with me, you will die. Do you understand? You and your angel have to come with me now."

Daphne looked at the stranger with large eyes. ". . . w-what?"

"Demons follow behind you," said the mare calmly and jerked her head at the forest path. "I have been tracking them for six days. They intend to kidnap you." She glanced at Izra, who went still. "They probably wish to free that one."

"We know," said Artesda, who was buckling on his armor. He grimly, angrily snatched the golden sword Griff had been wielding and sheathed it roughly in his scabbard. Daphne was surprised when he turned to Izra next, and after helping him stand, he started buckling on his armor for him. Izra was equally as baffled and avoided Artesda's eye as he was dressed.

The white mare frowned. "What do you mean you know?"

"They pursue us because of this one, as you say," Artesda said, easily slipping a now fully-armored Izra over his shoulder. He straightened up and turned to regard the white mare with calm golden eyes.

The white mare scowled. "Then why not let the demon go? Why cling to it?" Her lip curled. "A son of Araton in the thrall of demon-kin?"

Artesda's faced darkened. "That is not why I keep him!" He looked away. "You are right about the demons. They have been following for quite some time. We will need to find shelter. They may perceive this attack here as having . . . weakened me." He averted his eyes.

Daphne thought Artesda looked so tired and defeated in that moment. She hated seeing him that way and couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like to be taken that way with the bridle. She didn't want to imagine.

"I can lead you somewhere safe," the white mare offered. She pulled a small knife from the sheath strapped to her thigh, and squatting before Daphne, started cutting her wrists free. "Do you trust me?" she asked Daphne, as if Artesda's opinion was inconsequential.

Daphne's paws came free when the last thread of rope snapped under the stranger's blade. She rubbed her sore wrists, trying not to look at the dead mule that lay staring in the grass beside her. "Do I trust you?" she repeated in confusion. Her miserable eyes dragged across the trees to the sky. It was getting dark. And cold.

"Yes," said the white mare, tucking her knife back in its sheath. She looked at Daphne with her intense, solemn eyes, and Daphne was reminded of Artesda's calm seriousness. "I might have to do some things that would be . . ." Her eyes danced over Daphne's tears. ". . . frightening for you."

Daphne glanced at the sky again and stood, dusting off her stained robes. "I guess we don't have a choice. It'll be dark soon."

"Lead us," Artesda said quietly.

The white mare nodded. "This way." She turned and started into the trees without waiting for them. After exchanging grim glances with Artesda, Daphne and the angel followed.

"Where are we going?" Daphne asked.

"Tonight we will sleep in the ruins - or you will sleep," the white mare answered. "In the morning, I will take you to someone who can protect you in your journeys . . . if he is so inclined."

Daphne blinked. She wanted to ask more, but it was getting dark, and frightened of attracting more bandits, she kept silent the rest of the way.

They traveled quickly through the falling darkness, and it soon became so difficult to see, Daphne started staggering and bumping into trees. Artesda caught her by the waist and steadied her, and because he could see in the darkness, his gentle paw on her shoulder guided her through every obstacle.

The white mare never stopped to see if they were still behind her and always pressed on, white mane and tail streaming, faster and faster, with a determination that frightened Daphne: if the white mare was this desperate to retreat, then the sheep - who Daphne suspected to be Mala and Laila -- were very near. Daphne was terrified they would attack, forcing Artesda and the stranger to fight them. She didn't want to see anyone else needlessly hurt, and the stranger seemed to hate the children of Araini as much as Artesda did.

"Here," said the white mare quietly, her hooves finally crunching to a stop.

Breathless and weary, Daphne stopped just behind the white mare and followed her gaze. They had come to an ancient wall, gigantic, pressed by reaching trees, so completely covered in vines that it was barely distinguishable from the forest. It was enormous and must have weighed several tons.

The white mare glanced furtively at Daphne, then she stepped close to the edge of the great wall and started pulling on it. Daphne's mouth fell open as vines snapped, as dust clouds blossomed, as the wall slowly grated open like a door, revealing the yawning mouth of a tunnel.

Mouth hanging open, Daphne glanced at Artesda to see if he was likewise shocked, but the towering angel was standing indifferently with Izra over his shoulder, completely unfazed.

The white mare slowly turned to regard them, the cold darkness stretching away behind her. Wind swept from the tunnel like breath, ruffling her thick mane.

"Who are you?" Daphne asked in wonder.

The white mare looked at Daphne calmly. "Into the tunnel," was the simple response.

Daphne shook her head. "First tell us who you are!"

The white mare frowned slightly. "You said you would trust me."

"I lied," Daphne said at once.

"She is Ondil uu Li," said Artesda quietly.

Daphne looked up at him. She could only assume he was speaking his language, the one that was spoken by those who lived in Heaven. "She's what?" Daphne prompted.

"We can trust her . . . for now," Artesda said.

Daphne sighed. "Fine." She hesitated and entered the tunnel, though she wanted to protest: there was no telling what was at the other end.

As Daphne and Artesda stepped into the darkness, they heard the wall scraping as the white mare pulled it closed behind them, and then the three of them were standing together in the gloom of the tunnel. Izra's curly horns glinted when a flame blossomed in the dark. Daphne squinted against the sudden glow and could see the white mare was holding a torch. She had taken it down from the wall and had lit it, and without hesitating, she turned and led them on in silence.

They followed the white mare into the darkness, whose torch lit the side of her face and mane until they glowed. The walls were covered in ancient script, and in-between each panel towered a depiction of what looked like a bull. . . . only the bull was standing upright and . . . its penis was erect.

"Where are we?" Daphne squeaked. One panel was a close-up of the bull, peering out with burning red eyes, so hungry and glittering, they seemed alive. It made her skin prickle under her fur, and she felt as if she were being undressed by his gaze.

"Inside one of the many temples of the ancient bovine," the white mare answered. "They are places that frighten the demons. . . . places long forgotten."

Izra made a dark noise.

"And the bull?" Daphne asked, trying not to look at the images. "Who is he?"

"The Minotaur," the white mare answered and said no more.

They came to a great golden hall swathed in gentle moonlight, its ancient stone so well-preserved that it looked completely untouched by time. Standing in the center of the hall, Daphne felt small as the room reached away from her. And as scary as the temple was, she still found it breathtaking. That such a beautiful place existed, hidden within the same forests she'd run through as a child, was incredible.

At the opposite end of the hall, a long flight of stairs led to an altar, behind which a colorful mosaic of the scowling bull god leered down at them. The ceiling above the dais was transparent, and moonlight fell through and across the altar, giving it an eerie glow. It was the only light in the endless room. The hall itself was lined either side with statues of the same bull creature, all naked, all erect, all scowling. Open hallways were between each statue and seemed to lead to more darkness.

A line of cold braziers trailed through the center of the hall, and the white mare went to the nearest one, using her torch to light it. Fire blossomed, leaping so bright that Daphne had to shield her eyes. The fire that crackled in the brazier was a brilliant, boiling red_,_ like the burning eyes of the bull god.

Stone benches lined the trail of braziers either side, as if pilgrims were meant to sit at each fire, perhaps meditating in prayer. Daphne couldn't imagine how anyone could possibly meditate with a monstrous bull glaring over their shoulder. Why would anyone even worship such a terrifying deity? She found herself transfixed, staring at the giant mosaic as the thought occurred to her: if Araton was real, then the Minotaur was real. Or had been once.

The white mare set her torch on the floor and sat on the nearest stone bench, staring solemnly at the fire. She was completely calm and serene, and she reminded Daphne so much of Artesda, she couldn't help glancing between the two in silent comparison.

Artesda carefully set Izra on the floor near the white mare, his eyes glancing warily around the great hall. He pulled Daphne aside, out of the white mare's earshot, but the white mare ignored them, completely unconcerned.

"You should sleep, Purest One," Artesda told Daphne. He glanced darkly at the white mare. "I believe you will be safe with her for now." His paw was on the hilt of his sword and he was tense and his white ears were forward, as if he expected someone or something to burst upon them from every direction.

"Sleep here? Under that?" Daphne nodded at the looming mosaic over the altar. "Pft. That won't be happening."

"Try," Artesda said gently. "We will not find so safe a place again for many miles. The children of Araini will not set hoof here. They have not the strength to open the way. I will check each of these hallways, regardless. I should make certain no fiends are lurking."

"But who could get here?" Daphne said. "They'd have to be able to open the wall - just like you said! -- and only an angel could. . . ." Her voice trailed away as she looked at the white mare, who was still sitting calmly on the bench and ignoring them both. "Who is she, Artesda? What is she? And does she have super friends?"

"When the first princes of Heaven were born in the sky," Artesda answered, and Daphne thought he sounded a little sad, "many were sent to the mortal realm to protect its borders from Araini and his children. Many . . . did not come back." His face darkened with disapproval. "We call them the Fallen. They forsook their duties for the mortal realm, and many took mares as wives. Their children are the Ondil uu Li, the Daughters of Heaven. They are all of them female, born to those angels who turned their back on Araton and his love." His eyes darted to the white mare as he spoke, and she ignored his stare, looking with serious contemplation at the fire.

"They have the strength and the years of their prince-fathers," said Artesda with the same disapproval, "which allows them to fight the demons. It is normally my duty to kill them on sight --"

Daphne gasped.

" - and any renegade angel I should come across," went on Artesda. He frowned almost bitterly as he looked at the white mare. "But she has saved our lives, and I know you would ask me to spare her . . . so I will let her be."

Daphne slowly scowled. "Why must you kill her?"

"It is my heavenly father's will," Artesda answered matter-o-factly.

Daphne looked at him in exasperation. "Don't you ever question anything?"

"Do you always question everything?" Artesda calmly returned.

Daphne folded her arms.

"Strange that my father would choose a rebel and a cynic for his bride," said Artesda, looking down at Daphne with a small smile, "rather than someone whose heart was guided by faith and devotion. Even still, you are the purest of the pure."

Daphne irritably looked away, but she got the feeling Artesda enjoyed her cynicism. She found it odd that he would when he seemed to hate those angels who had rebelled and abandoned Heaven. She hadn't forgotten the way he'd referred to the white mare as "she-demon."

"The daughters of the Fallen are dangerous," Artesda said seriously, "because they command such power yet exist outside my heavenly father's will. The Fallen are the same, if not more dangerous."

"Basically, Araton is threatened by anyone who refuses to submit to him," Daphne pointed out.

"That --!" began Artesda angrily. He halted and blinked as the realization hit him, and Daphne could see him silently struggling to deny it. "That's not true," he said in a softer voice. "Get some rest, Purest One. . . . I am going to secure the perimeter." So saying, Artesda went to one of the branching hallways and peered into its darkness.

Turning her eyes from Artesda, Daphne went to the bench and sat beside the white mare. The mare ignored her presence and didn't even look at her, just continued staring into the fire. She smelled like flowers and grass, which Daphne found refreshing after being around mares who smelled like linen and grain.

Izra was still sitting on the floor, his back against the white mare's bench. He looked up when Daphne sat down and his dark eyes were thoughtful. Daphne silently wondered if he hadn't overheard her conversation with Artesda.

"Artesda said your father was an angel," Daphne said into the silence.

The white mare's slanted eyes turned briefly to Artesda, who was still checking each dark passage. "Your Artesda is correct."

"He's not my anything!" Daphne denied at once. From the corner of her eye, she could see Izra silently laughing at her and blushed. She was surprised when the white mare's lips curled in a slight smile.

"He is your something," the white mare answered shrewdly. "Or perhaps he would be under different circumstances." Her eyes drummed into the fire. "You came to me with questions. Ask."

Daphne blinked at the mare's abruptness. "Well . . . for starters, what's your name?"

"White Storm. Many call me Storm."

". . . did my mother call you Storm?"

The mare's eyes softened. ". . . Yes."

"So you did know her!"

"Yes," was the short reply.

Daphne held back a moan of frustration. It was worse than talking to Artesda. "How did you know her?" she pressed.

"Your mother was a field strider . . . a painted horse," the white mare answered. "We lived within the same tribe. I cared for her when she was a child."

"But . . . how? You look young enough to be my sister!"

"My kind have the strength of the angels," the mare answered patiently. "We also have their years. Artesda told you this."

"Oh, right . . . he did," Daphne muttered. So the mare had indeed been listening to their whispered conversation.

"I knew Sun Tail and cared for her until she was grown," went on the mare, her gray eyes warm. "She was like a daughter to me. When I first saw you, I thought you were her, returned to me from Aramora. I would have killed Artesda had you but asked. I would have freed you."

Daphne listened to the mare's calm vow in shock, then something occurred to her. "Wait. . . You thought I was from where?"

"Aramora," repeated the white mare, looking at Daphne curiously. "I assume you really aren't the princess of Oltru then?" She shook her head in amazement. "By the gods, you could be her twin. I thought perhaps you'd run from your husband and were being escorted by your father's guard back to the palace."

Daphne paused. "What are you talking about? My father is a farmer. And my mother . . . she's dead."

The white mare stared a long time at Daphne, then something clicked in her eyes. "Ah," she said and looked away. She said no more.

Daphne clenched her fists in frustration. "What? What is it? Tell me."

The white mare looked at Daphne calmly. "If you are not Princess Delilah, then you are her sister. Your father was that farmer Sun Tail foaled from, correct?"

Daphne went still. "What?"

"Your mother," explained Storm more gently, "had her fair share of admirers. Araton was smitten with her, but so were many stallions. Your father was simply one of many."

". . . I thought my parents were in love," Daphne said in disbelief.

"Perhaps your father loved Sun Tail," said Storm calmly, almost dismissively. "They became good friends after she was hurt protecting him from a bear. But she never fell in love with him, and he knew that. She was always going to leave. In fact, that was the agreement."

"What are you saying? My mother's alive?!"

"Yes."

"She abandoned me!" cried Daphne in disgust. Her father had lied to her all her life! Not even when she was grown and being sent off as a sacrifice could he bother to be honest with her! Daphne felt the fury flushing through her as she thought frantically of some way to defy the Summoning and to hell with them all. From the corner of her eye, she could see Izra watching her with pity, and she hated the fact that he was hearing such a loathsome conversation.

"Your mother married the king of Oltru and rules at his side even now," said Storm. "She does not go by the name of Sun Tail any longer."

"She was in Aramora all this time, living as queen!" Daphne stared at her hooves and sadly rubbed her arm. "Artesda tried to tell me before. I didn't listen. I didn't want to believe it." She frowned. "Why would she _abandon_me?"

"She was in love with King Athriel and he with her," said Storm calmly.

Daphne's lip curled. "That didn't make it okay to leave me behind!" she snarled, but her eyes brightened. "So wait . . . what if I just told Araton I didn't want to be his bride? Maybe I could just walk away from this the way she did!"

Storm glanced at Daphne with pitying gray eyes.

"Well, why can Sun Tail walk free and I can't?" Daphne demanded. "I should just say to hell with all of this and run away! Though . . ." her eyes drifted to the fire crackling in the brazier, ". . . Artesda will be punished if I run."

"He will," said the mare indifferently.

Daphne gave the mare an impatient glance. "Would you really have killed Artesda for me? What has he ever done to you?"

"Besides choosing to serve a tyrant who would have me shot on-sight simply for existing?" was the calm answer, and Daphne couldn't argue with that, so she didn't.

"You care too much about that angel. He is the one who marches you to Heaven against your will, and yet you wish to protect him," said Storm reprovingly. "And what is your fascination with that creature?" She nodded at Izra, who frowned indignantly. "Both you and the angel seem beside yourself with wanting to defend its life."

Daphne frowned. "He is not a creature. His name is Izra! And he's done nothing but try to help me."

"Hmm. That still doesn't explain why your angel protects him, but perhaps we can work that to our advantage." So saying, Storm glanced at Artesda, who was out of earshot, still entering and searching each branching hallway.

Daphne stared at Artesda's muscular back, at the great wing that loomed from it . . . and the shorn stump that twitched from it. "If we can't convince him, he won't let me leave. He'll fight you for me," she realized miserably.

"And he will win," the mare confirmed. "I am only half angel."

Daphne stared in frustration at the fire. "What if I just lost my virginity, like my mother did? Then Araton wouldn't even want me anymore."

The mare hesitated, and Daphne looked at her quickly.

"What?" Daphne begged. "What is it?"

"Araton will always want you. You were a boon."

Daphne slowly frowned. ". . . What?"

"Araton let your mother go free on the condition that she would give you to him in her place."

Tears started to Daphne's eyes. ". . . how could she? Her own daughter? And you!" Daphne accused. She sprang up, mane and robes flouncing. "You knew about all of this! All these years! And yet you did nothing!"

"I am doing something now," was the calm reply.

Daphne sneered and turned dramatically away. She screamed softly when Storm's quick paw snatched her wrist and pulled her back. "Let go me!" Daphne warned in a low voice. "Or I'll scream! I'll scream for Artesda!"

"Sit down and listen to me," Storm warned.

Daphne hesitated, then snatched her wrist free and sat on the bench again, trying to ignore the fact that Izra was staring anxiously at them both.

"So what are you going to do? Go into a long, rambling explanation in defense of my horrid mother?" Daphne demanded crossly. "She used my father just to make me, so she could give me to Araton in her place!"

"She did," answered Storm indifferently, and Daphne made an incredulous noise.

"How can you act as if it wasn't awful --!"

"Your mother needed a way out," Storm said calmly over her. "Henry was in love with her and had been for years. When she came to him asking for help, of course he agreed."

"So my father was part of it too?" Daphne said in disgust.

"Hush and listen to me," Storm went on just as calmly, and Daphne hushed. "Once your mother had married the king, your father was supposed to flee Oltru with you, and I was supposed to help. We would have taken sanctuary in Vaine, where Araton could not touch you. Araton anticipated this. We tried to run and were met with an army of angels. We were told to return to our homes and that if we ever tried to flee again, we would be slain, and you would be taken. So we did. We went home."

Daphne stared at her hooves as she listened, hunched over and hugging herself, as if against the mare's unfortunate story. "And you never spoke to my da again?" she asked unhappily.

"No," was the quiet response.

"Why?"

Storm hesitated, for the first time showing raw emotion. Her gray eyes became wet and sad. "I couldn't watch you grow up . . . knowing you would look so much like Sun Tail." She fell silent and didn't offer further explanation.

Daphne dropped her eyes again to her hooves. "So will you help me escape now?"

"Weren't you listening?" said Storm wearily. "I can not fight an army of angels for you, filly." She glanced down the hall at Artesda. "I can't even fight one. Before I might have taken him by surprise but now? If you asked I would try, and perhaps you could run with your demon friend while we struggled."

"I would be willing to help," spoke up Izra, drawing their gazes. He was still sitting with his back against the bench, his wrists bound behind him. Wisps of his wooly mane tumbled in quiet eyes, and he frowned irritably as he looked at Storm. "Provided you stop calling me a demon."

"But . . ." Daphne paused uncertainly. "What about Artesda? I don't want to hurt him."

"Perhaps we do not have to," answered Storm. "Tomorrow, I will lead you to my father. He is a skilled veteran who could overpower Artesda if need be. He also despises Araton and might be able to convince Artesda to turn against him."

"Your father?" repeated Daphne curiously.

"Yes. He is what Artesda would call one of the Fallen --"

"Meaning he's one of the few sons of Araton who might have some sense," added Izra. He paused and added for emphasis, "Might."

Storm's gray eyes flicked irritably. "Do not speak ill of my father, demon," she warned, reminding Daphne yet again of Artesda.

Izra only regarded her calmly, completely unfazed by her threat.

"Why do you hate the children of Araini, Storm?!" Daphne suddenly demanded. "I can understand why Artesda might; he's been fighting with them for decades. But what did they ever do to you?"

Daphne and Izra waited, though Daphne thought Izra looked very indifferent, as if he didn't expect Storm to answer. He was right. The white mare slowly got to her hooves, not looking at either of them. "You should rest," she told Daphne. "Tomorrow's journey to the cave will be long and hot."

Daphne frowned at the mare's retreating back. She was heading down one of the passages without even looking back. "Storm? Where are you going?"

No answer. Storm disappeared into the darkness with a swish of her white tail.

"I can only assume Storm's mother was a painted horse," Izra said when Storm had gone. "She said she lived among them, that she helped to raise your mother."

Daphne shrugged, not seeing the significance. "So?"

"So field striders despise the gods," Izra patiently elaborated. "They attribute every woe in the world to their meddling and hate the children of the gods for being the tools of their destruction. They only have respect for those children who turn on the gods - such as the Fallen." Izra snorted. "Makes sense that the Fallen would find refuge among them."

"Do you feel that way about the gods?" Daphne asked quietly. Somehow, she got the feeling Izra hated his role, and she wasn't surprised when he answered wearily, "Sometimes."

Daphne frowned. "Then why do you keep fighting for Araini? Why not turn your back like the Fallen?"

Izra laughed softly. "What else would I do? Could you see me peddling knickknacks in a market somewhere?" He turned his eyes away. "Get some sleep, Daphne. Something tells me tomorrow is going to be a very long day."

Daphne couldn't argue with that. Suddenly feeling very tired, she laid down on the bench and closed her eyes.