Across the Green Grass Fields (Wayward Children, #6)(33)

Regan had been living with the centaurs for five years. She could run all day and not feel tired; she could climb for hours and only want to climb some more. But she still appreciated the comfort and calm, and efficiency, of being on horseback. She didn’t know if kelpies were inclined to lie in pursuit of a meal—but then, she hadn’t known they could talk, either. There was a lot she didn’t know. But she knew she could ride.

“Have you ever been ridden before?” she asked, approaching the kelpie.

“No,” it said, and walked out of the puddle, stopping in front of her and looking at her with one arrogant brown eye.

“This may feel strange, then,” she said, and planted her hands on its withers, boosting herself up in a single smooth motion, slinging her leg over the kelpie’s back and settling comfortably into position. The kelpie startled, shaking its head up and down, but didn’t buck. Regan grabbed its mane with both hands anyway, keeping herself from being thrown off.

“What are you doing?” the kelpie demanded.

“Riding you. What did you think it meant, to be ridden?”

“Not this! The weight of you, the warmth of you … it’s unbearable.” Gristle shuddered. “The centaurs must be mad, to carry you as far as they have. What did you do to them?”

“Nothing. They must have civilized themselves into putting up with it. But if you can’t do as much as a centaur can, I can get down…”

“No!” Gristle calmed. “If the centaurs can do it, a kelpie can do it! I can do it! Stay where you are, human, and I will be the one who delivers our salvation to her destiny!” The kelpie took a few unsteady steps forward before breaking into a loping, ground-eating run. Regan held on as tightly as she dared, sinking into the kelpie’s steady, unbroken gait, balancing herself as best she could atop the racing beast.

This was nothing like riding Chicory, who had been so careful with her in the beginning, and who had grown up with Regan on her back, until neither of them really noticed it anymore. This wasn’t like riding her horse back home, either. Tracker had always been biddable, as suited a horse mostly ridden by children under the age of twelve, and while he had sometimes tried to push back against her instructions, she had always been conclusively in charge of their adventures. Not so with Gristle. The kelpie was running because he wanted to run, and not because of anything Regan did or asked for or wanted. All she could do was hold on and hope she didn’t get thrown.

Gristle ran and ran, hooves churning divots into the fields, ran until the sun shifted in the sky and it was late in the afternoon, the light lengthening and turning soft as butter. When he finally stopped, they were in the dusky shadows of an unfamiliar forest. He gave no warning, merely froze, dropping his head, sides heaving, and said, in a voice just shy of a snarl, “Get off me now.”

“What?” asked Regan. Her entire body was one big ache, from her thighs and bottom to the crown of her head.

“I said, get off,” snarled Gristle. Startled, Regan unwound her hands from his mane—the hair had dug in deep as she clung, leaving red lines like lashes across her palms—and slid off his back, landing in a heap when her legs refused to hold her. She rolled over, propping herself up on her elbows, and looked at the kelpie.

Gristle was breathing hard, head still drooping and flecks of sweat dotting his sides. He looked exhausted. Regan hurt all over. She still levered herself to her feet, shrugged off her pack, and dug through it until she found a rag that had started existence as a piece of the jeans she’d been wearing when she stumbled through her door. It was buttery-soft, softer than denim had any right to be, worn down to threads and memory. She took a hesitant step toward Gristle, knees shaking with exhaustion and sudden fear, and when the kelpie didn’t snap at her, began carefully, hesitantly wiping down his sides with the cloth.

Always take care of the horse that carries you. That was one of the first lessons she’d learned back at the stable. Chicory had never required much in the way of cosseting or currying, but Chicory had hands. Gristle had nothing of the sort. He stiffened when she began her work, lifting his head enough to cast a suspicious, narrow-eyed look in her direction, but when he realized she wasn’t hurting him, he put his head down again, letting her wipe down his entire coat. She didn’t have a comb, and so she began unsnarling his mane and tail with her fingernails, careful not to scratch too hard. Eventually, his head came up and stayed up, ears swiveling as he held himself perfectly still and submitted to her ministrations.

When she finally removed her hands and stepped back, he sighed, as mournfully as a man who had seen the road to paradise and been told that it was not for him to walk. “Perhaps there are some benefits to civilization after all,” he said.

“I’m all gross and sweaty, and you can’t clean me up,” said Regan. “Is there water near here?”

Gristle looked at her. “Where there’s water, you’ll find kelpies. Not all my cousins are as considerate as I am.”

“You mean they’ll eat me before I have a chance to save the world?”

“Not all of you, but I think you’d regard losing a limb or two as inconvenient enough to make the world harder to save.”

Regan laughed. “I’ll be careful. Is there water?”

Gristle tossed his head. “You’d ask a kelpie if there’s water? Of course there’s water. It’s why we’ve stopped here for the night. There’s a lake that way.” He pointed his nose toward the trees. “Deep enough to swim in, deep enough to drown in.”