15

The Waters of Chust

Deep in the forest, by the river, Sultan stood patiently. He snorted from time to time, blowing great clouds of steam into the frozen morning air. Nearby—the only other sound to be heard—was Tomas slowly sawing his way through a tree trunk that lay on the forest floor.

Tomas’s mouth was a tight line as he tried to close his mind to everything except the saw and the tree. That was all he wanted to think about, but despite his hangover, and the exertion of sawing, images jostled in his head. He had been made to think about things he had sworn to forget. Who he was, thirty years ago. He paused in his work, exhausted, and glanced at Sultan. It was enough to make him remember another horse he had once owned. A huge stallion called Prince. How they had ridden! And how people had fled at the very sight of them! In his mind’s eye now, Tomas could look to his right, and there was the King himself.

Mighty. How mighty.

For no more than a second, Tomas remembered glory; then he saw the glory turn sour, as it always had. Peter’s face rose before him, and with it their argument from the night before. Then he remembered what he had done.

He bent to the saw again and worked until he collapsed over the carcass of the tree, fighting for breath, sobbing.

Sultan stamped his hooves in the snow.