“I know you,” the name singer said in a voice that echoed over the valley in the way of an early morning wind. There was a howl to the old stallion’s tone, and it made both colts’ pelts shiver.

“I am Dabon and this is—” Dabon’s voice cut out when Sirrain snorted and shook himself.

“Yes,” the stallion said. “You are Muria’s colt, and this one you bring is the orphan foal your mother found in the high finger of the Cleft.

“I am Sabba,” Sabba said. “What is an orphan?”

“It means your mother’s dead,” Dabbon said, looking sheepish only when the muddy-colored jegoch turned a sharp eye in his direction. “I think.”

“It means you are welcome here,” Sirrain continued, you who I think may be from the southern grasses. Let me see... First comes the Baudi band in colors of the sun. Then Cawst and Loren, one by one.”

“What’s that?” Sabba pressed his ears forward from his neck as the stallion chanted. Something about the words felt heavy, as if they were much, much older than even the jegoch-itza. “Is it a song?”

“All names are songs,” Sirrain said. “But these are the names of Windsinger bands. The clans of our warriors who run from the border of the Cleft all the way south to the estuary which marks the beginning of the desert. You must have come from one of these, little Sabba. For your shape and your color mark you a plains horse as clearly as mine do.”

“What’s an estuary?” Dabon asked, nudging forward and pressing Sabba closer to the lip of the ledge and a long drop down to the valley bottom.

While the orphan colt jostled away from the precipice, Sirrain humored his companion. “It is a place that is not quite yet the sea,” he said. “A place that divides the clear waters of the plain from the bitter salts of the ocean.”

“I’ve seen the sea from the cliffs,” Dabon said. ”It’s bigger than the whole world.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sabba, who had finally found his way to the cliff wall and a measure of safety, felt compelled to argue. “If the sea is part of the world, how could it be bigger than it?”

“Shush,” Dabon said. “The jegoch-itza was chanting the clan names.”

Sabba flattened his ears and lifted his upper lip, showing Dabon’s rump his teeth. It had been Dabon who’d changed the subject to begin with, and the injustice stung. Sabba was too eager to hear more of the old stallion’s song, however, and he stopped short of arguing outright.

“After Loren comes those who share the wider plain,” Sirrain continued. “They are Silan, Morad, and Turain.”

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Sabba’s mind skittered over the unfamiliar names. Sirrain had said he came from one of these bands, but another word danced in the colt’s memory, and it did not quite match.

“Then run the Howda who are mostly dun.” The jegoch finished and turned his round eye upon Sabba. “You are neither dun nor copper,” he said. “So I suspect your mother wandered quite far to give you life, little one. A pity her time was not sooner. Late season births are often tragic.”

“But Sabba lived,” Dabon said proudly, as if they victory was his own. “He was sick, too. Full of fever madness.”

“I was not,” Sabba argued, even though he knew the daze had been upon him, had lost him things he should have held to, like his band’s name. And his mother’s.

“He is strong,” Sirrain said, and the praise in the stallion’s tone killed any further argument Sabba might have made. “And he is lucky. I’m sure he’ll make a fine warrior.”

“And me too.” Dabon reared onto his hind legs and churned the icy air with his fore hooves.

“Yes, yes little one,” Sirrain said. “But perhaps it would be best to save your dancing for safer terrain.”

Sabba couldn’t have agreed more. The height of the kinfe, and the view from the lip of the ledge it sat on, already made his stomach flutter.

Sirrain continued, however, even before the colt had sensibly placed all four hooves back to earth.

“Perhaps I will sing your names in the future. When the list of battles is called, it would not surprise me in the least.”

“When will you sing it?” Sabba crept forward, as if the very idea of fighting made him braver. “I want to see the battles.”

“And you will.” Sirrain chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that made his round barrel shudder. “We all will.”

“When?” Dabon added his enthusiasm to Sabba’s.

“As soon as the ice melts,” Sirrain said. “When the world has thawed once more there will be games before the parting. There will be many bouts to win or lose, little colts. Spend your winters well, and you just might be ready for them.”

“I’m ready,” Dabon called in a shrill whinny. He rose again, but this time, the jegoch sidled in, quickly nudging the eager foal away form the edge.

“In the valley,” the old stallion said. “Where the ground is solid and wide, and your mother will not have my tail should you slip and fall.”

He waited for them both to agree, holding them to the promise with a stern look and a slow dragging of one hoof against the ledge. The colts, cowed into obedience, turned back the way they’d come, taking to the ledge again and stepping with greater caution. At least so long as they were in sight of the kinfe.

Once the leaning rocks and the influence of the jegoch-itza were behind them however, Dabon began to brag.

“I’m going to beat all the weanlings come spring.” He danced a few steps until one of his hooves skittered, then slowed to a sensible walk again.

“Not if I beat you,” Sabba said.

“Naw,” Dabon tossed back. “You’re all weak from the fever.”

“Am not.” Sabba wanted to dance, but his view was far too wide, and the ledge on which they traveled much too narrow. He backed his words up with a flick of his scrub tail and muttered, “You’ll see.”

Dabon ignored it, or perhaps he was only focused on his own steps. For a moment the only sound was the ringing of their small hooves upon the stone. Then, as if he’d only just thought of it, the other colt said, “We should train all winter.”

Sabba could not help being drawn into the enthusiasm. “And get stronger and stronger.”

“We’ll be the best of them,” Dabon said.

“The winners,” Sabba added, and since this time Dabon had included him, he let his imagination run with it. He returned to the far end of the valley with his mind full of battle, with his heart ready to take on whatever challenger might face him. Distracted, and determined to spend the winter exactly as the jegoch-itza had suggested.

For the duration of the long, cold months, Sabba and Dabon would train.