Sabba's first memories were ice and fear. The chill-slick birth waters clinging to his coat, the dew-frost on the pounded down grass beneath him, and the shiver in his dam's voice as she goaded him to stand, stand quickly, and drink for strength.

For life.

She'd birthed late, left the safety of her band as mares were want to do, and sought out a sheltered place to bring Sabba into the world alone. Her speckled body made a wall between the colt and a wind that held more of winter than she'd expected, too much chill for a newborn.

Sabba heard the story of his plight in his mother's voice.

"Rise, little love, a Wind Singer's strength is his truest value."

Eventually, her urging drove him to try, to stagger up only to fall back to the squishy ground. In frustration, he cried out, a squeak of voice that was not yet hardened. Still fresh and young as his damp coat.

The mare shushed him, and the real fear in her voice drove his new ears back against his neck.

"We must be quick, now," she said. "For more than the winter wind stalks the skies above."

Sabba tried again... and fell again. The long limbs which were clearly meant to carry him aloft seemed excessive and awkward. His efforts to control them proved futile, and he chewed his own lips to keep from another outburst.

His mother's soft nose breathed heat over his coat, brought the first warmth to his world, thawed him and lent him a renewed fury. He thew himself upwards, teetered, staggered a step, and then crashed to earth once more.

"They're too long," he mewled. "And they won't do what I tell them."

The mare chuckled, her heat wafting over him again. She lipped playfully at his bristle mane and whispered, "So determined."

Sabba flicked his tail against his rump and flattened his ears. He breathed in, a rush of cool wind in his lungs, and heaved himself up, bracing his legs this time, willing them to keep their position beneath him, to not buckle and twitch.

"Very good, little love," his dam crooned. "Steady and strong. A short walk, and you can feed."

Stiff and stilted, the colt took another step, and another. His legs wobbled on the third, and this time, his mother slid in beside him, using her long neck to steady him gently.

Her presence brought new smells, the sweet aroma of her sweat, the sharpness of blood and birth, and behind it all, something tantalizing and fresh.

That scent tugged him onward, set a new determination in Sabba's heart... and in his belly. He was hungry, and here, his instincts whispered, here was satiation.

His dam stood stalwart against the freezing winds. Her long legs more rigid than anything Sabba had even known. Around them was dry grass and thin brush, an amber sky that stretched on forever in all directions, and a flat, dust-brown horizon that circled them completely without notable features.

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As the colt tested his legs and leaned toward life, the wind teased, daring him to give up and lay down again, just for a moment.

He blew out, felt his nostrils quiver for the first time and found the gesture, and the rumbling sounds it made, enjoyable. His upper lip lifted and he shifted it back and forth, testing its limits, rumbling again and again until the mare chided.

"Play second, my foal. Eat first."

Still, there was humor in her voice, affection in her correction. "Come now. We are behind, you and I. Late in more ways than one."

Her neck bowed, bringing her head around so that she could nose at his rump, urge him so close that he nearly stood beneath her.

There, wrapped in his mother's admiration, Sabba found his first meal, the sweet life-milk that would lend him the strength all foals needed in their first, bright, staggering moments.

As he suckled, his dam spoke to him, soft and with an intonation that bordered on chanting.

"We are Wind Singers, my Sabba," she told him. "Proud and free, we live on these grassy lands. Our strength is in our voice and in our hardiness. For it is a rare thing which can stop us, a very rare thing which can drive us to fear."

At that, her head turned away, lifting, tilting as she eyed the darkening skies. The shifting of her position allowed the wind to slide nearer, to chill the drying liquid clinging to Sabba's coat.

"This is our land," his dam continued, defiant, almost angry now. "And here we have lived for as long as we called ourselves Wind Singers."

"Why?" Sabba mumbled, lowered his nose with his belly full but his hunger still churning. "Why do we call ourselves--"

Before he could finish, his dam let out a shrill sound, an air-splitting whinny that shivered more than the wind. It was fierce and furious, and it held a dare that Sabba could not refuse.

He sucked in a breath and let out a tiny, quavering song that seemed too small even to reach the nearest patch of brush.

His dam whickered, laughing, not unkindly, at his efforts.

"There you go, little one," she said. "Let the world know that you are afraid of nothing."

But even as she said it, her ears swiveled, her head lifted to the skies once more.

Sabba understood then. He followed her gaze for a moment, stared at the purpling clouds, and lifted his upper lip in defiance.

Then, he tucked closer to the mare, pressed against her belly, and returned to his meal.

The milk was strength, and a Wind Singer needed nothing more than that.

Sabba's mother had taught him his first and most significant lesson: The whole world was made of cold and danger, and she was everything warm and wonderful within it.