80th Summer, 508
The Drykas were known to take excellent care of their Striders, and Imala was no exception. After fourteen years of waiting, the girl had finally earned her windmark when Miri had chosen her less than a season past. Imala swelled with pride, a grin coming unbidden to her face, as she worked the knots out of her mare’s white mane. The Strider stamped a foot in impatience, but Imala murmured soothing words and scratched Miri behind an ear. That seemed to satisfy her for the moment, but the mare was restless; she needed to be ridden.
Having spent most of her time among the healing tents of her Clan, Imala was hopeless with any weapon. She was more interested in mending wounds than inflicting them. But the monsters of the Sea of Grass didn’t have any such compunctions, so it would be unwise for Imala to ride out alone. That didn’t mean she couldn’t ride through Endrykas itself, though. And if she assigned herself an errand - perhaps even an errand that actually needed to be done - Morrada wouldn’t even have a reason to tell her she couldn’t go.
That was one fact of life among her people that Imala had learned early and quickly: If you don’t look like you’re busy, someone will find something for you to do, and you probably won’t like it. Morrada - Imala’s father’s second wife - was especially skilled at determining exactly what Imala least wanted to be doing.
As she continued to brush, Imala considered what might need doing. Her first thought was that the healing tents might need supplies - or her own pavilion might need supplies from the healing tents. But those tents weren’t far, and as long as she was choosing her own errand she’d prefer one that took her farther away from her own pavilion. This was about getting some exercise for her dear Miri, after all. And, speaking of the horse, she probably needed a few braids in her mane. What was a Drykas’ Strider without braids?
Imala started working small braids into Miri’s forelock. The mare obstinately tossed her head, jerking a half-finished braid from the young Drykas’ hands. Imala clucked her irritation, but reached back up to continue her work as soon as Miri had settled. Maybe other Opal pavilions would want to send supplies to the healing tents. Or maybe the healing tents would need someone to run messages to their patients’ pavilions. Or -
Someone cleared his throat behind her, and Imala started. She gave her half-brother a playful punch in the arm by way of punishment for scaring her.
Byorin only laughed. “Jumpy as a mouse,” he observed aloud; the accompanying hand signs indicated endearment. “Mother has a task for you - she wants you to carry a message to someone in the Skystone pavilion.”
“Well, what’s the message?” It was as though the gods themselves had granted her desire. Out with it, her hands signed.
“She’ll tell you herself - she said I’d butcher it.”
“Fine, let’s go!” Imala barely took the time to replace her brush and curry before dragging her brother off to find his mother. Morrada was out behind the pavilion skinning and cleaning some game, and she paused in her work to dictate her short message - a simple invitation to dinner in a few nights. Imala promised to relay the message as soon as possible. Bidding her family a short goodbye, she ran back to her Strider, strapped on Miri’s yvas, flung herself on the mare’s back and heeled quickly out of the Nightwind pavilion.
Though she longed to urge her Strider to a trot, Imala feared trampling innocent bystanders, so she kept to an easy pace as she made her way through the winding paths of Endrykas. It was amazing, she mused, how the gods provided for her. She made a point to breathe the air, see the sights and hear the sounds. She was determined to enjoy her ride, as long as it turned out to be.
