“No. Thank you,” Meteor replied earnestly. “I could never have done this without you. I am yours to command—forever.”
“Then I command you to lift me up,” said Holly, laughing. She twined her arms around his neck, and, as he pulled her out of the little hollow, she whispered, “I am so proud of you.”
“Even if I can’t do it again?”
“Even if you can’t do it again. But I think you will.”
And he did. Meteor took several more flights that afternoon, as much to escape Alexia’s endless self-congratulation as anything. By the next day, he had overcome his gnawing fear that he would lose his new ability just as quickly as he had gained it, and by the day after that, he was capable of lolling in the air like a bird and landing wherever he pleased. The next week, at Holly’s suggestion, Meteor drew Comet aside and confided that he could fly. Comet of course demanded that he prove it, which Meteor happily did. Then Comet dragged Donner away from his appetizing dinner to behold the unusual phenomenon of a self-taught flyer.
“Humpf,” said Donner, still chewing. “How’d he figure that out?” His eyes followed Meteor as he landed.
“Don’t know,” said Comet.
“How’d you figure that out, boy?” he called to Meteor.
“Some friends helped me, sir,” replied the cockeyed reindeer.
“What friends?” asked Donner suspiciously. “Was it Toller?” The students were instructed not to reveal the mysteries of flying to outsiders.
“No, sir, not Toller. It was Princess Holly and Tundra. And Alexia, the little fox,” Meteor added, a bit unwillingly.
“Princess Holly? How do you know her?”
“Well, she saw me trying to fly one day. I guess I made a pretty sorry sight, so she decided to help me. Sir.”
“Mmm,” said Donner, thinking, I wondered what she was about, lying around the stable, looking like a cherub. “What about your eye? Can you see?”
“Haven’t run into anything yet, sir.”
“Mmm. Well, I suppose you’d better join us, then. Your landing could use a little work.”
“Yes, sir,” said Meteor obediently.
Comet smiled kindly at him. “I congratulate you on your determination. It is a valuable trait.”
It was Comet who told Nicholas. That evening at the dinner table, Nicholas watched Holly closely. She was chattering away to Viviana and Sofya about the puzzling question of why little mortal girls sometimes had to wear gloves and sometimes had to take them off. She had watched several glove donnings and doffings through the telescope and found the whole thing baffling. Neither Viviana nor Sofya, whose mortal lives had ended long before anyone ever thought of gloves, could answer.
Nicholas broke in abruptly. “I hear you’re learning to fly.”
“It’s harder than it looks,” Holly replied.
“By all reports, you have done very well by young Meteor.”
“Who’s Meteor?” asked Viviana, bewildered.
“He’s a reindeer I was helping to fly—” began Holly, but Nicholas interrupted again.
“And that was very kind, my love, but in the future you must leave the task to Donner and Comet. I do not wish them to feel as though we do not appreciate their authority.”
Holly eyed Nicholas thoughtfully, reading what lay beneath his words. “You think you’re protecting me, but they think you’re hiding me because there’s something wrong with me,” she said finally.
“What do you mean?” asked Nicholas, laying both hands upon the table. Sofya sent him a penetrating look.
Holly retold fantastic rumors that Meteor had imparted to her. “Really, Papa, I think it would be a good idea if I came to the village once in a while. Especially when it’s cold, as it is now, nothing will happen amiss, and it will put a stop to these silly ideas.”
“But how can you teach a reindeer to fly when you don’t know how to fly?” Viviana said, unable to worry about the larger problem until the smaller was resolved.
Holly explained while Nicholas sat in silent thought. This was the cause of the new distance he had felt between his subjects and himself. He felt an insistent current of dread that trickled underneath every thought, hope, and plan for the future. Each time he left the palace, he stopped upon the staircase to look back one more time. As he checked in on the workshops where the toys were being made or listened quietly to the reports of the Committee for the Aid and Comfort of Earthly Creatures, his attention was distracted by a tiny whisper of fear: is Holly safe? Perhaps Herrikhan was even now at her door. Perhaps I have seen her for the last time. Nonsense, he would scold himself, utter foolishness. Cowardly foolishness.
His people knew. They saw that his eyes, which once revealed his thoughts, were now veiled, but they could not guess the secret that was behind the divide. They knew he did not show them his soul as he had before. They watched the new shadows that hovered on the edges of their land, and they drew their own conclusions. Nicholas glanced at Holly, who was describing Meteors inaugural flight; her face was glowing, and her hands flew about in an animated if not very accurate imitation of the reindeer’s flight pattern. It’s not right, he thought. We can’t keep the immortals from learning to love her as we do just because we are frightened of her future.
“Holly, I believe you are right,” he declared suddenly. “You should visit the village, become acquainted with the immortals, learn about their lives. We must not keep you all to ourselves.”
Holly and Viviana looked at him in surprise. “Really?” Holly squeaked.
“Really?” echoed Viviana.
“Yes. Really. We must plan an excursion as soon as possible.” Nicholas smiled happily and stroked his beard. “How would you like to attend a pelote game?”
Sofya sat in silence, looking absently at the plate before her. Her eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to remember something, and then it was gone. She looked around at her friends and smiled. “Pelote. What a splendid idea.”
Chapter Ten
IT WAS A BRIGHT WINTER afternoon, brilliant with sun and ice. Red berries glistened under little cloaks of frozen water on the holly trees. Holly, who usually stopped to admire her namesake, ran past with only a wave, her black boots crunching patterns in the snow. Tundra strode easily beside her, his footsteps crackling as they broke through the icy crust. “I do think”—Holly gasped as she struggled to keep up with her friend—”I do think that Sofya might have ended my lesson a little bit early.”
“Save your breath for running,” advised Tundra.
“Still,” said Holly.
Some of the immortals had fretted about their enforced stay in Forever, and some had viewed it as a well-deserved holiday from their daily cares, but Sofya had found a vocation. From the very beginning, she had been Viviana’s most trusted friend and comfort, but as Viviana grew beyond her first, paralyzing fears about Holly, Sofya had turned her attention from mother to daughter. Holly, she knew, must be prepared for the part that Herrikhan had forced her to play, the struggle that would, inevitably, take place between them. She watched as Nicholas attempted to protect his child from every danger and decided that she must teach Holly what her father could not bear to have her learn. Prudently she said nothing to Nicholas and Viviana; she simply offered to become Holly’s teacher. And they gratefully accepted, for who would not wish their child to be taught by the wisest of wise women.
To the casual observer, Sofya’s lessons might pass for straightforward, intelligent education. She taught Holly her letters and numbers, as any good governess would do. But she also taught the art of imagination, the calculus of the heart, and the science of courage. Holly was thoroughly convinced that her teacher was the most brilliant creature in the world, and she drank in all that she was taught. Sofya, too, was satisfied, for her student was learning the secret lessons underneath the daily ones—and unlike most students, Holly was never bored and always wanted to go to school.
But not today. Today Holly had just wanted to go to the pelote game. Sofya had been fi
rm. School ended at three o’clock and not a minute before. Holly wiggled. Holly bounced her pencil. Holly pulled at her curls. Holly wrote 456 when she meant 645. Then the clock struck three with a golden chime, and Holly whirled out of her chair and leaped into the hall, where Tundra waited.
They were running now, faster and faster, and as they rounded a small grove of trees the Parian Field spread out before them. Holly gasped in surprise. There, on the open, frosty turf, a pelote game was in full sail. Immortal pelote bore some resemblance to its mortal counterpart, but it was a much rowdier affair. The players wore long, curved baskets on their arms, which they used to scoop and hurl a small red ball into their nets, thereby scoring a point. However, the baskets were also used to parry and thrust and make mayhem in order to keep the ball holder from approaching his net. To add to the unruliness, there were not two teams, but three, and not three nets, but four. The extra net was called the spider’s web, and any time the ball landed there, a point was subtracted from the team whose member had launched it in. Aside from this refinement, there were few rules, and all of those were broken continually, so the air was thick with shouts and accusations. The only keeper of order was an unusually lanky goblin called Fritz (his real name was Elitrion, but everyone called him Fritz because of his hair), who blew his whistle at each infraction and busily kept score at the same time.
Fauns, goblins, and satyrs played pelote, but the truly spectacular games were played by the centaurs, for these creatures boasted four legs and two arms. They were massive beings, capable of running at furious speeds, as befitted their horse nature, and they were wily strategists, generous collaborators, and expert cheaters, as was to be expected of those with mortal minds. As a result, Centaurian pelote was rough, fast, and incredibly exciting. Holly watched open-mouthed as thirty-eight roaring centaurs pounded across the field in pursuit of a thirty-ninth, who was yipping with delight, his basket curved triumphantly above his head with the red ball nestled in its depths. Dashing toward his net, he lowered his arm to scoop his treasure in, and was knocked over by a massive thrust against his side. Two centaurs went grunting into the mud, and the ball went spinning out of reach, slipping across the icy grass in an uncertain path.
Now the screaming phalanx of equine men bore down upon the little red ball with thundering hooves. Holly saw Zenwyler at the front, yowling with excitement as he stretched his basket forward to scrape the ball up from the ground. Fritz was blowing his whistle wildly, screaming, “Time OUT! TIME OUT!” but nobody paid him any attention, because, truly, they didn’t care about the points at all. They didn’t care about anything but chasing and grabbing and roaring and throwing.
“Holly! Come over here and sit down,” Nicholas called from his sleigh. He had been there since the beginning, and had, in fact, tossed out the ball that opened the game, an honor suitable for the king, but also one that nobody else wanted, because the centaurs had been known to trample the ball tosser. Their respect for Nicholas kept him relatively safe, but it was still a perilous moment, and he always had to remind himself of his immortality as the ball left his hand. Then he ran.
Holly hurried to her father’s side. “Papa,” she said, slipping into the seat next to him, “this must be the most exciting game in the world.”
“I think so too,” Nicholas confided. “Especially the Centaurian games. Watch Lysinias. He’s the one over on the left, the chestnut one. He’s a sharp one; watch him, now, there he goes! He’s going to slip in behind Leneth and apHoug—watch him!” The chestnut centaur had successfully divided his opponents, and now he knelt to retrieve the precious red ball.
“But my favorite is Zenwyler,” Holly murmured, her eyes on the game. “He’s so enormous, and he’s having such a good time.”
“Yes, there’s nobody like Zenwyler,” agreed Nicholas. “Not so strategic, perhaps, but the boldest of them all.”
As if to prove his point, Zenwyler was at that moment leaping over the back of another player—not, of course, a player who was standing still, but a player who was running. Catching sight of the huge form hurtling through the air above him, the other centaur made a quick decision and veered directly into the path of his landing. Zenwyler crashed to the ground, somersaulted, and scrambled to his feet, bellowing in rage. In vain Fritz blew mightily on his whistle, but the furious Zenwyler took matters into his own hands. He quickly pulled off his basket, reached down with his strong arms, and lifted his adversary up by the neck. The other centaur struggled, but his strength was no match for Zenwyler’s. The equine man hurled his foe over his own back and went thundering down the field toward his burden’s own team. As they pounded toward him to rescue their teammate, Zenwyler reared up like an unbroken stallion and dumped his unwilling passenger into the path of the oncoming hordes. There was a wild shouting as the centaurs tried to halt themselves before they stomped on one of their own, and Zenwyler, roaring at his victory, went dashing off to retrieve his basket. Holly, along with the assembled fauns, satyrs, and goblins, leaped to her feet to cheer him on.
Holly was too excited to stay in the sleigh for long, and she soon left to join the throngs that paced and jumped on the sidelines. From the comfort of the sleigh, Nicholas looked on with benevolence as his Holly clapped and cheered with the others. This, thought Nicholas, is exactly what she should be doing—joining the other citizens of Forever, enjoying what they enjoy. He watched her slip her hand into the paw of a faun who was equally exalted by the antics on the field. An astonishing pass resulted in a goal, and Holly and the small faun, whose name was Macsu, exchanged grins of pleasure. Nicholas noted that even the cautious goblins were exchanging words with Holly now, pointing their long blue fingers toward the field to indicate important developments. Nicholas, shivering, wrapped his scarf more closely about his neck. Dark clouds were scudding across the sky and the temperature was dropping precipitously. “Tundra,” he began, “do you notice how Holly is—Tundra?” Nicholas sat up and looked around. Tundra was no longer there.
Nicholas stood, scanning the ring of beings around the field. He caught sight of the wolf, perched on a little rise, looking fixedly at the centaurs playing below. Nicholas, who had felt a moments reassurance upon finding him, now felt puzzled. “What in heaven is he staring at?” he murmured, following Tundra’s gaze. It seemed to be one of the centaurs, a smaller, gray fellow trailing a bit behind the others. Well, and what of it? Nicholas wondered. He looked again. A sharp stab of uneasiness punctured his sense of well-being. He knew for certain that he had never seen that centaur before.
The next few seconds seemed to take place with agonizing slowness. Tundra glanced quickly up at Nicholas and then found Holly in the crowd. At the same time, the gray centaur, now lagging conspicuously, wheeled around on the frozen ground, turning toward the sidelines in apparent bewilderment. The crowd of fauns began to hoot at this display of confusion. Fritz, who had been silent for the last minute, counting, began to blow his whistle furiously, for he had just found that there were, in complete defiance of the rules, forty players on the field. Holly looked wonderingly at Macsu, hoping he would explain the meaning of the whistle. The wind began to howl in the black trees that surrounded the grass, and a putrid, smell blew across the circle of spectators.
“Faugh! Phew!” cried the fauns and goblins, shielding their faces from the stench. Holly, coughing, hid her head against her new friend’s shoulder, which kept her from seeing the white flash of Tundra as he raced past her toward the grass.
The gray centaur was cantering toward the edges of the field now, and Nicholas, who was running toward Holly, caught sight of his black mouth opened in a triumphal shout as he hurled a glowing red orb right to the spot where the girl stood. The ball did not touch her, but landed nearby, where it instantly melted the snow around it and exploded into flames.
“Papa! What’s happened?” Holly was crying as Nicholas reached her side. Fleeing creatures pressed against her, and the fiery heat was growing, though it seemed to feed on nothing. Nic
holas saw Holly grow pale. Quickly he picked her up in his arms and turned toward the sleigh, but he found himself surrounded in all directions by hissing fire. Desperately he spun around, seeking an opening, but there was none. By the time he sank to his knees and laid Holly in a cradle of snow, she had already fainted.
Tundra, meanwhile, had caught up with the gray centaur. With one pounce he had landed on the animal’s back and plunged his teeth into his neck. It didn’t occur to him in that moment that Herrikhan could not be killed, or that he himself could be in danger. In pure lupine fury, Tundra thought of nothing but hanging on, no matter what, for as long as he could. The centaur struggled, cursing and squealing, but he could not long endure the punishment of Tundra’s teeth. He stumbled and fell.
It had taken the other centaurs a few moments to understand what had happened, and now they stood, shocked into stillness, watching the fight. Zenwyler shook himself. “Come, centaurs!” he roared. “To battle!” Mobilized by this cry, the centaurs charged toward the wolf and his enemy with thundering hooves. Zenwyler, the fastest and the angriest, reached the gray centaur first. Calculating swiftly, he aimed a powerful kick at the centaur’s hindquarters, missing Tundra by a few inches.
The gray centaur gave a shrill scream and a final wrench. “You shall suffer!” he squealed. “I’ll turn your hooves to lead, you donkey!” There was a whisper, and Zenwyler fell back, crippled. Tundra’s jaws clenched more firmly on the centaur, but it was too late: the beast dissolved into a stinking cloud.
Holly leaned her head against the door. It was wooden, and she could hear quite easily what was being said in the room behind it. She was not supposed to be there; she was supposed to be lying down, recovering from the disaster of the previous day, but she had heard the voices of the delegation coming down the path toward the palace doors, and she had crept through the secret passage that led from her sitting room down to the great hall. (It was not, as a matter of fact, a very secret passage.)
The Legend of Holly Claus Page 8
