Free Protector of the Flight by Robin D. Owens Page A

the other man who’d visited.
    “Salut,”
she said.
    He
turned his head fully to her and she saw more than weariness. Two round circles
of red raised bumps showed on his far cheek.
    Bastien
whistled, reached into his pocket and pulled out a tube, offered it to Marrec.
    For
a moment, he seemed to hesitate, then his scarred fingers took the tube. He
ducked his head to Bastien. “Merci.”
    Beautiful
Lady. Dark Lance tossed his head. Beautiful Dark Lance.
    Calli
and Bastien laughed and Marrec’s smile was quick and easy, lighting his serious
expression. He ran a hand down his volaran’s neck in a loving stroke that Calli
knew was habitual.
    Avanser. He gestured to
the end of the stables. Calli heard the instruction to Dark Lance easily. The
mind-tone was as caring as his fingers had been. Man and volaran moved down the
stable corridor.
    Calli
frowned. She’d noticed that the stalls got incrementally smaller down the line
and Dark Lance was larger than Thunder. She asked Thunder a question in Equine
that was becoming easier with each use.
    Low
status, replied Thunder with a hint of arrogance.
    Since
he included both man and volaran in the image, Calli figured the term applied
to both.
    Bastien
tapped her on the shoulder and indicated feed sacks and a trough at the back of
the stall. As she helped him mix Thunder’s dinner, Calli wondered about rank
and status and contrasted the clothing and bearing of Marrec with Faucon.
    Faucon
was a noble, she was sure. He’d worn finer-grained leathers that looked newer,
and heavier chain mail. His leathers had been dyed, Marrec’s had just been
cured. Faucon had not walked with a winged horse. Probably had someone else
tending it. Calli smiled. His mistake.
    A
small whirlwind entered the stable, Alexa, followed by the two amused Circlets.
The little Marshall stomped up to the stall door. “What’s keeping you?” she
asked, and repeated it in Lladranan.
    Bastien
started to answer, but she cut him off, addressing Calli. “We have a lot to
cover, especially since Lady Hallard insists that we tell you they want you
married tomorrow evening.”
    The
lulling comfort of being around volarans vanished in an instant. Warning bells
rang in Calli’s head. “What did you say?”

7
    M arian stepped up
to the stall door, tsking at Alexa. “Well, that’s crude.”
    Alexa
flushed. “I could’ve been cruder.”
    “Yes,”
said Jaquar. “Why don’t you be? I think I’d like to know some exotique words that might excite my wife.”
    Bastien
made a protest that included the word Lladranan, and Calli thought he
was demanding they speak so he could understand.
    Jaquar
whipped out the small bottle of language potion he’d offered Calli, jiggled it.
Expressions flowed across Bastien’s face: wariness, unwilling fascination. He
held up one finger.
    More
discussion—and negotiating. Calli knew horse trading when she heard it, despite
the language. Finally Jaquar frowned, pulled out some big coins—they looked
like real gold—and handed them to Bastien. Bastien pocketed the money and stuck
out his tongue.
    The
tiny cork lifted with a little pop. A thread of lavender smoke puffed from the
bottle. Bastien’s eyes widened, Alexa stepped closer, and Calli sidled next to
Thunder, feeling better with strong, warm hors—volaran flesh at her side.
    Jaquar
tipped the bottle and a drop of liquid hit Bastien’s tongue. The cork popped
back into the bottle. Bastien swallowed.
    He
slid down against the stall side onto the floor, grabbed his head and moaned.
    Calli
and Thunder stepped back. She was glad she hadn’t tried the stuff.
    Alexa
was suddenly in the stall with them, crouched over Bastien. Calli hadn’t seen
her move. Had she jumped? The stall door came nearly to Alexa’s shoulders.
Surely not.
    Jaquar
looked at Calli and Thunder. “I’m opening the door to retrieve and examine Bastien.”
    Keeping
a hand on Thunder, who was only slightly disturbed, Calli nodded. Her mind was
with