Robbing Centaurs and Other Bad Ideas

by Bethany Meyer

  Eland laughed.

  They walked together and chatted until they finally had to part ways.

  “Don't be lonely at home,” Eland said. “You can always write to us. Ongel or I would be happy to hear from you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Wick walked off toward the dense population of trees in leshy territory, waving goodbye to Eland as he went.

  Fall was coming to the forest people's territory. Most of the leaves remained a stubborn faded green, but every few yards one or two trees were blooming into the bright oranges and glowing reds of autumn. Wick reached up to brush his fingers across the bright leaves, and for a moment the anxiety that had been filling his chest was replaced with a warm contentment.

  He tried to get the most out of the quiet feeling while it lasted. Soon he would have to face an onslaught of caring neighbors.

  When the edge of the village came into sight, the number of decorations took Wick by surprise. In all his traveling and work, he had forgotten that the harvest festival had begun. Now, three days in, the festivities were in full swing. Garlands of leaves and fruits swayed in arches above the dirt walking paths, and the doorways to houses were crowded with handmade decorations. Slender treelike forms milled through the streets, carrying things to and fro and carrying season's greetings to one another's houses. Many greeted Wick as he went by, and a few stopped him to ask about his travels and what he had been up to lately. He rationed out his polite answers as necessary, then made his excuses and hurried on. The sun was going down, and he wanted to be home before dark.

  His mother and sister were outside stringing garlands across the posts of the fence when he arrived.

  “I'm back,” he called, and his mother and sister spun around.

  His mother met him with open arms and squeezed him tight. “We've missed you!” she said as she released him. “How are you?”

  Wick straightened. Worried and anxious. “I'm well,” he lied, deciding on the spot that he wouldn't tell them about the conflict between the satyrs and the seraphs. It was enough of a burden for him to bear without handing it off to them.

  “How was your journey?” his father asked, giving Wick a firm handshake.

  “Good. Quiet.” Wick nodded. “I came straight here from the satyrs. The plans for the safe houses are finished now, and construction had started on three of them before I left. They should be fully built in just a few months.”

  Wick's sister Lif plowed into him and squeezed him tight. “Will you be staying long?” she asked.

  “I'm not leaving again for a few days at least.” Wick disengaged Lif's grabbing arms from around his chest and held her at arm's length to measure her height against his own. “You need to stop growing; soon you'll look like an adult. I didn't even know you were home.”

  “I just got back from school this week! And I'm back for good this time,” Lif said. “Now that I'm through with my education, I'm going to take up gardening like Mother.”

  “Maybe one day you'll get married like Mother, too,” Wick's mother said in a teasing voice. “If you'd ever slow down enough.”

  “Slowing down isn't possible,” Lif said, and both she and Mother laughed. Wick wanted to join in but found he couldn't.

  Wick's mother noticed him standing there awkwardly. “We need to let Wick rest now,” she declared, wrapping an arm around Wick's shoulders and guiding him into the house. “He's had a long journey.”

  “I'm not tired,” Wick said. “I walk that far every day.”

  Nonetheless, his mother steered him toward the hallway. “I know, but it makes me feel better.” She gave him a little push in the direction of his room. “Go put your bag down. Get some sun.”

  If only to please her, Wick did as she said. He made a big show of walking into his room, then sat down at his desk and started unpacking the contents of his messenger's bag. He didn't carry much. Just a telescope, a magnifier to amplify the rays of the sun when the sunshine was weak, and a few other essentials he might need while traveling, including his seal of trust from the centaurs. Very few were given the seal of trust, and Wick made sure to take good care of it and always had it on him. Sometimes such things were needed.

  When the bag was empty, he hung it on a hook on the wall. For the time being, he was home to stay.

  It was so quiet.

  Don't be lonely at home. You can always write to us.

  It wasn't that he was lonely.

  But maybe he would write a letter to Eland later.

  He considered going out and joining the party. The festivities had probably started by now. Everyone would be so excited to see him and talk to him, to listen to his stories and hang onto his every word. His adventures had to sound so exotic to them.

  But the idea of going out and receiving all that attention was exhausting. Maybe he wouldn't go. Maybe he would stay home and write some letters. He still needed to follow up with the seraphs about their agreement with the satyrs.

  The house was still. His family had gone out to talk to the neighbors or help with the festival preparations, which didn't surprise him. Most of his people spent little time inside their houses; thus the small size of their dwellings. They didn't need to live their lives in their homes. Their lives were out there, with one another.

  So for now, Wick was alone in the house.

  And since he was now alone in the house, instead of lying down on his bed and taking in the rays of the skylight like his mother wanted, he climbed up onto a shelf next to his bed and pulled himself out of the skylight.

  Wick's family had always lived in this dwelling. His whole life, anytime he was home in between getting his education and doing messenger work, he had been all over it, inside and outside. He had explored every chamber and crevice. He knew the best places to hide, he knew where everything was kept, and most importantly, he knew where to find the best sun.

  The best sun was on the roof, just above his bedroom.

  That was where he went.

  For a moment he just sat on the roof, enjoying the view. The roof wasn't very high, but from on top of it, he could see over the houses of mud and rocks, over the flowering gardens and rough wooden fences, and beyond down the dirt road lined with lamps. Leshy territory was simple and rustic. Beautiful. Soothing, even.

  Wick stretched out on the clay roof of the house, right in the middle, where no shadows of trunks or branches would block out a single speck of the rich golden light. The sun was just starting to go down, making the flavor of the light gilded and not white or lemon.

  The best kind.

  Wick closed his eyes and drank in the warmth. He hadn't been tired, but now the weight in his limbs was gone. He melted into the roof and absorbed the sun as hard as he could. All his worries about the future disappeared. Right here, right now, he was warm and happy and alive.

  “Wick!” a familiar voice shouted.

  Wick resisted the urge to open his eyes. Maybe if he stayed still, they would go away.

  “Wick!” the voice shouted again. “Great and powerful messenger! Are you too good now to come and say hello to your friends?”

  Now Wick did open his eyes. With a bit of effort, he pushed off the roof and sat up.

  Down in the garden, looking up at him with hands on hips, was his old friend Twill. As tall and gangly as ever, and by the tone of her voice, her strong and cynical personality had not suffered any change. Even the bees in the garden refused to buzz anywhere near her. A few of the braver ones lighted gently on her shoulders, but none ventured near her face.

  “I don't think I have friends!” Wick called back. “I just have you!”

  “It's a good thing you have me then, isn't it?” Twill said.

  “So,” Twill said as Wick slid down into the garden from the roof, “why, exactly, are you here and not at the festival with everyone else?”

  Wick stopped dusting his hands off on his legs and shrugged. “There's too much to be done, I guess.”

/>   “Too much to be done.” Twill nodded wisely. “You mean you have to obsess over writing a thousand letters, letters that could be written later, after the party.”

  “And other things,” Wick protested.

  “Such as?” Twill prompted.

  Wick racked his brain for some sort of task and came up empty.

  “Exactly,” Twill said. “Now off you go. You're coming to the festival, whether you like it or not, because if I have to be there, so do you.” She pointed a threatening finger down the road. Deeper in the village, the lights and laughter of the party floated toward them.

  It was probably better this way, anyway. If he avoided everyone, the village might be offended. Wick and Twill started walking down the road toward the party.

  “What's the news?” Twill asked. “You seem even more serious than normal.”

  “I probably shouldn't say–” Wick began.

  “Of course you should. There's something on your mind, let's hear it.”

  “Nothing's wrong,” Wick said. “Actually, it's a good thing. I've been offered a position as a counselor to the centaurs.”

  Twill tilted her head. “That does sound like a good thing. You'd be moving to centaur territory then, yes?”

  “Yes,” Wick said. “And that's the problem. I really want this, but being this excited to leave home makes me feel. . .”

  “Guilty?” Twill suggested.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  They passed under the first arch of leaves, into the torchlight of the festival.

  “I wouldn't worry about it,” Twill said as a cold breeze gusted across the festival grounds. “It's not my job that's changing, but I think you'd like it. It would take your career up a level. And as much as I'd miss you, the leshy need you to stay visible.”

  Wick's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Twill stopped under a torch and turned to him. “Look around you, Wick. Do you see a single visitor from another territory? Have you ever seen one of us leave this territory? No. We're a quiet species, we keep to ourselves, and we're happy like that. We don't have important trade routes or connections. We only have you. You're what keeps us from being overlooked or left behind by the times.” She gestured at the crowd. “Everyone here needs you, and where they need you is out there, doing the things that keep us seen.”

  Wick looked down at the ground. “That's why I was thinking I might not change my face after all.”

  “Really? You changed your mind? You seemed so set on it.”

  Wick looked up with surprise.

  “Not that I want you to do it,” Twill said quickly. “I still stand by my opinion that leshy transmogrification is not to be taken lightly, and no matter what you say, I don't see what's wrong with looking like a leshy.”

  “Twill,” Wick said. “Our faces are empty wooden masks with glowing eyes in the middle. We look like trees walking. We project our voices into other people's heads in order to be heard. Leshy scare people.”

  “Then they can be scared.” Twill was unyielding. “This is the way God made us. If that scares them, that's on them.”

  “Yes, but we were also made with the power to change our faces if we want.” Wick realized their argument was attracting a few sets of eyes. “It doesn't matter, anyway,” he said. “I haven't decided yet if I'll transform, so there's no point in arguing.”

  Twill stared at him a moment, then laughed. “See, this is why I quit the messenger training. I can't diffuse conflict like that. I can't just stop speaking my mind.”

  Wick shrugged.

  Twill retrieved a string of carved party beads from the ground and wound them around her neck. “Well, we can talk about something else, then. What's happened out there recently?”

  Wick fought the urge to fidget. “Nothing much.”

  “Lies,” Twill said airily. “Something must have happened. Now speak.”

  “It seems some seraph stole the Satyr's Crown,” Wick explained. “Easily. And it may be foolish, but I'm worried about it. The Satyr's Crown has one of the pieces of the Heather Stone set into it. What if he's trying to collect all eight pieces of the Heather Stone?”

  “Did he say anything about trying to get all of them?”

  “No. I just have a bad feeling.”

  “Then I wouldn't worry about it,” Twill said. “All they're good for is keeping Aro's borders protected; what's the worst that could happen?”

  “Don't you remember this from school?” Wick asked. “Years ago, a group of bandits managed to get their hands on six of the stones, and they nearly burned all of Aro to the ground. That's why the stones are so spread out now. They're too powerful and too easy to abuse.”

  “Well,” Twill said, her voice becoming teasing, “I know you're having a good time worrying, but so far the thief only has one stone. And he might not even know what he has. I'd hold off on worrying until you know if any others have gone missing.”

  “True,” Wick admitted. “I know I shouldn't worry so much, but it's my job. Or about to be my job, anyway.”

  Twill looked around at the party. “So, political things. Job things. Boring things. That's all we can talk about?” She gave Wick a pitying look. “Wick, my dear, dear friend, you have gotten very boring.”

  “Sorry,” Wick said, not feeling very sorry at all. Twill was just going on one of her kicks criticizing his lifestyle. In a minute she would leave him alone.

  But this time, instead of leaving him alone, Twill said, “That's it, we're going to do something fun.”

  Wick sighed. “You already made me come to the party. This isn't fun?”

  “This is just normal fun. I'm talking about crazy, youthful fun, the kind of fun we should be having at our ages.” Twill's eyes glinted. “Like stealing the entire cart of fireworks for the party.”

  Chapter Three

  Pumpkins Explode

  Alarm spiked through Wick's veins. “Twill, you can't do that!”

  “We,” Twill corrected, “can so.” A few younger leshy waved to Twill from the crowd. Wick thought he recognized them as Twill's other friends, the friends she had met after quitting the messenger training and becoming an artist instead.

  “We've been planning this for months,” Twill whispered excitedly. She saw the skepticism in Wick's eyes and added, “We're not going to do any harm, we just want to give some life to the fireworks display. It's the same every year, and it's boring.”

  Wick leaned forward. “Twill. You're going to get into a heap of trouble, and I don't want to get mixed up in it, not when I'm this close to getting the counselor promotion.”

  But Twill wouldn't give up. Her eyes became pleading. “What if I say please? Pretty please, Wick, just have a bit of fun with me before you go away to be famous and important? I promise it won't be dangerous. Just fun.”

  Something twinged in Wick's chest. But still.

  “I don't dare, Twill, I'm sorry.”

  Twill's energy wavered for a moment. Then she stood tall and saluted. “Fine. If you're not going to help me, you had better watch. It'll be awesome.”

  She was going to get in trouble if Wick didn't stop her. “Twill.”

  “Ah, Wick!” A weather-worn leshy with a wreath of autumn leaves wrapped around his head appeared behind Wick and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “We were just talking about you.”

  Twill gave Wick a sly look and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Mister Fik–” Wick began.

  His old teacher interrupted. “My new students and I are discussing the importance of what they learn in their education.” He gestured to three smaller leshy standing behind him. All the students looked painfully bored. “They insist that learning about the history of Aro and the significance of the Heather Stone isn't important to their education.”

  “Because, Mister Fik,” one of the students murmured, “that's all over. It doesn't matter anymore.”

  “Oh, but
it does matter!” the teacher declared, and leaning toward Wick he whispered, “I brought them to you because I think it would be good for them to hear it from you.”

  Over his teacher's shoulder, Wick could see Twill and her friends scurry by with a wagon heaped with gourds and apples. The telltale sparkle of silver fuses told him that the produce was loaded with explosives and pigment.

  Wick's brow furrowed. “Why me?”

  Mister Fik pulled back, surprised. “Because you're you! Everyone knows your name, you've traveled every inch of our fine country, and you were my student! I couldn't be more proud.” He clapped Wick on the shoulder and gestured to the students.

  Was this what Twill had been talking about?

  Wick turned to the three students, gathering his thoughts. “Your assumption is: since we already cast the spell that keeps out the Scorch once, the Scorch isn't a threat anymore and we don't need to worry about it, is that right?”

  The student nodded.

  “That isn't correct. It's still a threat,” Wick said. “Years ago, our people did use the Heather Stones against the Scorch, but we only drove it back. It isn't gone. We hardly know anything about the Scorch, and no one knows how to drive it away forever. It may be a battle that Aro will fight for the rest of time.”

  “That's why the Heather Stones are important,” Mister Fik broke in. Behind him, Twill's friends dashed up and down the dark road leading to the museum, laying out fireworks across the road and along the tops of fence posts. Twill was busy constructing something on the cobblestones in front of the museum itself, but he couldn't see what.

  “That's why the stones are important,” Wick agreed, refocusing on the students. They were starting to look interested now. “They're what stands between us and destruction. For now, they're spread out so their power can't be abused, but the next time we see the signs of the Scorch coming, we'll gather all the pieces of the Heather Stone together and cast the spell again.”