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We had three storms together, you and I. The first was on the night you were born. Oh, how the wind howled, and the rain hit the stone of the walls like cannon fire. "My Lady, the foal is too big," old Wicker said to me, the flash of lightning keeping him half in shadow, "We'll have to cut it free." Penumbra, your mother, would not live to nurse you. Oh, how I wept. I learned to ride on Penumbra, learned to couch a lance, swing a mace and steady a bow on her back. I cried into her neck when my father passed. She looked on as I was crowned Duchess, barded in my family's colors. I held her head and screamed into her mane. I would not be consoled, not by old Wicker or anyone else. I had lost Father, I had lost Mother, and now Penumbra, my strength and sunshine, had left me. I paid no attention to you. I didn't see you struggle to your feet, by yourself. I didn't even know you were there, until you hobbled up and bit me. I jerked my head up then, hand over my bleeding ear, sad