Page 28 of Fierce Highland Magic

"You ride light," she said.

I stopped walking.

The voice had come from the pony.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me." The pony—the not-pony—swished her tail once. "Light. Not much wanting on you. Not much weight. Most mortals come through here dragging half a life behind them."

I looked at Rowan.

He had the expression of a man who was not going to be helpful.

"Mòrag," he said. "This is Lyra."

"I can see that."

"She needs passage."

"Then she can walk."

"The path is long."

"Paths usually are."

I stepped forward. "You offer transport?"

Mòrag's ears flicked back. "I carry. That's different."

"What's the price?"

"Depends on the direction."

"Toward the center."

The pony—kelpie, some part of my mind supplied, though I did not know where the word had come from—went very still.

"No," she said.

"No to the price, or no to the direction?"

"No."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

I looked at her properly. Under the lantern light, her coat had a faintly greenish cast. Her hooves did not rest on the ground so much as hover a fraction of an inch above it.

"You'll carry me away from the center," I said. "But not toward it."

"Fare's a fare. But that fare, I won't charge."

"Why not?"

Silence.

Mòrag's dark eyes held mine. There was something in them I couldn't understand—something older and more tired.