between the vastness of the plain and the lack of local referents. From a distance they'd looked like full-sized horses, but when they got closer, she realized they were more like ponies. All five beasts were virtually identical: black mane and tail and muzzle, long black socks, and faint grey bars along shoulders and rump, as though there were some tabby cat in their backgrounds. From a dozen yards away, you would not be able to see them in the tall grass.
As Ivradan rode closer he slowed down, and Glory could feel him staring at her. His skin was the dark tan of a man who lived his life outdoors—next to him, the three mages looked as pink and white as a bunch of roses. His eyes were black, and his hair was brown, bleached to chestnut by the same harsh sun. He looked as if he might be about Englor's age, perhaps a few years older, but she wasn't sure.
He tapped his pony's shoulder, bringing the entire string of animals to a halt before Glory and the three mages. Ivradan glanced from Glory to Belegir, his expression wary.
"Behold!" Belegir boomed in theatrical tones, gesturing toward Glory. "For it is written in the Prophecies of Cinnas, that there shall come . . . a hero!"
Even the sound of the word made her stomach flinch. With each passing moment she was getting in further over her head, she knew that much. Oracle or no Oracle, sooner or later Belegir was going to tell her his problem, and what was she going to say then?
Ivradan touched his forehead, bowing deeply from the back of his mount. He must be an ordinary Allimir instead of a mage, because he wasn't dressed anything like the other three. Instead of being bareheaded in long robes, he wore a soft cap—a Phrygian cap, Tricia, the wardrobe mistress on TITAoVtS had called it—tunic and leggings, and high soft boots