Earth Borne

by Rachael Slate

  Cheiron folded his hands on the tabletop. “Those can be rebuilt. A life cannot.”

  Hector and Petraeus continued to voice their ideas, but Thereus kept silent. These men were better strategists than he. On land at least. He possessed a few tricks for naval battles, but his greatest assets lay in negotiation, and if that should fail, brute strength.

  As they discussed the landslide, concerns of afterward plagued his mind. These were his lands, his people. If victory was theirs, would one day Melita be the one to mend those fields? Would they laugh together, Lucian running in the meadows as he and the village men rebuilt those homes? The women knitting blankets, weaving rugs, or bringing crisp water to soothe the thirst of the men? An image of Melita lifting a glistening ladle to his mouth flooded his mind. Pearls of liquid dripped down his chin; she rose on her tiptoes to lick them away…

  “Thereus?” Hector’s voice slapped him to the present. “Does it sit well with you, brother?”

  He grunted an affirmative, despite not having heard the question. How long would the battle last? He’d never been involved in something so momentous. When would he see Melita and Lucian again? Would he see them again?

  He regarded his brothers around the table. Would they live to watch the sun set? He prayed to the gods they would.

  His experience taught him that wasn’t the way of war. Some must live, many must die.

  His soul agonized like a man drawn and quartered. Torn in so many directions. He yearned to protect his wife and child, yet how many would he sacrifice for them? Did he even have a choice? They’d made this decision together. He shouldn’t set such a heavy burden on his shoulders, yet there it remained.

  Should any of his brothers’ blood be spilled, an equal piece of his heart would be cut out.

  He glanced out the window. Still dark, yet dawn was fast approaching. How many hours remained? Three? Four?

  And then, war.

  ***

  “We’ll rest for a couple of hours,” Alkippe declared after having examined their new additions. “We’ll be safe enough in these tunnels and dawn is far away. The children must rest and we cannot carry them the entire distance.” She waved to Lucian, who’d taken residence upon her back, slumped forward and half-asleep.

  “We’re at the border. In a few more hours, we’ll reach Great Meteoron.” Melita regarded the crowd. They seemed frightened and exhausted. Poor things. “Everyone, try to rest. ‘Twill be a long day.”

  Alkippe barked out orders. The villagers shuffled, passing around food and water, and settling in groups on the packed earthen ground. One by one, the torches extinguished, until only Alkippe’s shone. Ignoring her own advice, the centauress stood vigil.

  Melita plucked a sleepy Lucian from Alkippe’s back and settled him in her lap, reclining against the stone wall, away from the others. She’d never sleep, yet she craved rest. How will I ever survive the coming day? The weight of thousands of souls burdened her heart. Should even one of them fall, their death would extinguish her spirit.

  A soft buzzing droned in her ear. She lifted her hand to swat the fly aside. Just as she was about to strike it, the winged insect whispered, Melita.

  Her arm froze in the air as she desperately tried to focus in the darkness. Blast it. Useless. A murmur of her name to the left, and overhead, circling her. More joined, and she recognized the flapping of wings. Buzzing. Bees. Only, bees did not speak. Certainly not her name.

  She pinched her arm, in case this was a dream, but she winced at the pain. An explanation crept into her mind.

  “Yes, come, Melita,” one bee hummed.

  Carefully, she unclasped her cloak, placed it on the ground, and shifted Lucian from her lap. She brushed his hair aside as he curled onto her cloak. Tenderly, she kissed his forehead. Her heart clenched, as though awaiting that final cut, the one severing them completely. Her instincts whispered, This is the last time I’ll hold him.

  If she followed the bees, she wouldn’t return. Ever.

  “Hurry,” the bees droned.

  “I love you, always.” She pressed a final kiss to Lucian’s forehead and tore herself away, choking back her pain. There was no choice. If she stood by and watched good men die for her sins, it would forever haunt her. She slipped silently through the darkness, following the source of the bees’ wings.

  A faint light in the distance beckoned. She quickened her footsteps. No longer stumbling blindly, she rushed toward the beacon. Her steps came to an abrupt halt as the tunnel opened into a chamber.

  Melita gasped. In the center of the cavern, three maidens faced her. The light emanated from them. Their skin, eyes and gowns glowed amber, like liquid honey. They were perfect copies of each other—tall, voluptuous, irresistibly feminine.

  “Melita.” They spoke as one.

  Meliae. Her mother’s people. Honey nymphs. Why were they here? Her entire life, no matter how much she’d suffered, they’d never offered comfort or aid. They’d been as absent as her mother.

  “Why have you summoned me?” She met their ethereal gazes levelly.

  “Melita, the centaurs and Lapiths will soon be at war,” the middle one answered for all three.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I know.”

  “You can stop the war.”

  “You must,” the two others insisted.

  An arrow of affirmation pierced her heart. They were right. Her throat too tight to speak, she simply nodded. In terror, her heart pounded against her ribs, yet she had to stop her fear from rising and taking over. She refused to let it deter her. Not now, when she needed to be in control.

  “We are to help you,” the middle one hummed. “The great Earth goddess sent us to you. We had to wait, until you were out of his sight.”

  Melita cleared her throat and found her voice. “Whose sight?”

  The one on the right ignored her question, instead droning agreement, “Yes, he cannot see you here.”

  Who? She puffed impatiently. “How can you help me?”

  “You are one of us, Melita. Search deep within yourself. When the gods created the perfection of nymphs, they fashioned us without malice or violence in our natures. They left us without defense, except for this. One way to shelter ourselves. Long ago, your mother called upon its power.”

  “My mother?”

  The one on the left nodded. “She was our sister. One of the most exquisite nymphs Demeter ever created. Far too much for a mortal’s eyes to bear. When the Lapith King came upon her, we sensed it would only end in tragedy. He became obsessed, blinded by lust. She hid, yet he was stronger. Relentless. Our kind is not capable of violence. We always submit, even to rape.” Pain flashed across her face. “He kept her prisoner in his dungeon and released the fury of his carnal hunger upon her until she gave birth to you. The Queen’s jealousy drove her to madness and she tried to kill your mother. To protect you both, your mother fled, seeking aid. She knew the King would not harm you, as you were of his flesh.”

  The one on the left stepped forward. “In a fit of rage over your mother’s disappearance, the King killed his Queen. Then he hunted your mother. He finally caught her, so she called upon the ancient power within herself and transformed into a Manna Ash tree.”

  Melita perceived true sorrow in their frowns. At last, she learned the truth. Her mother hadn’t callously abandoned her. She’d fled, terrified for her life. “Why didn’t you, any of you, ever come for me?”

  “We were afraid. If your father saw any of us, our own fate would be the same as your mother’s.” The middle one scowled.

  “He guarded you like a miser with his last coin.” The one on the right huffed. “We were never able to get close.”

  Melita lifted a brow. She’d never guessed. “What about when I arrived to Westgard?”

  The one on the left tilted her head. “You seemed content. You learned your powers on your own. You’re half-human, so we assumed this world suited you better. Ours is very different.”

  “If you wish to save the ce
ntaurs you love, you must embrace your true nature.” The middle nymph opened her hand. Upon her palm, a small glowing seed. “Demeter blesses each of us with one at our births. We guard it, for to others our seeds are poison. Your mother never had the chance to give you yours.”

  Melita stared at the golden seed. Dear gods.

  “You must swallow it.” The right-hand nymph waved for her to accept the seed. “There is no pain, only peace as you become one with nature. You do not have to die, to suffer under Philaeus’s hand. Swallow this seed, and it will end. Your beloved centaurs, your son, your mate, they will be safe. You can protect them. With you gone, Philaeus will have no cause for a just war. The gods would never permit him.”

  “There is no return.” The one in the middle spoke in a solemn tone. “The gods granted us a choice, but it is permanent. You will not die, nor will you ever take human form again.”

  “It is peaceful, this way of life.” The leftmost nymph smiled. “Many of our kind choose to slumber when we tire of our longevity.”

  The nymph on the right stepped forward. “You must transform in front of them, so Philaeus’s revenge will be satisfied. And he cannot claim you.”

  Who was this he they spoke of? Was he the same male Philaeus had mentioned—the one whose use of her would be a fate worse than death? Melita closed her eyes and lowered her head. The mystery male mattered not in this moment. Her centaurs did.

  Did she have the strength to do this? To abandon the ones she loved? Did she even have a choice? Those men were ready to die, perhaps savagely. Was she not as brave as them?

  This fate the Meliae offered, it would be pleasant. No more pain or sadness. It hardly seemed fair, as her loved ones would grieve while she felt nothing. She squared her shoulders, bracing. If this was how it must be…

  So be it. Lucian would be well-loved, surrounded by his family, his father. And Thereus? Someday, he would love another. The notion stung worse than a million arrows in her heart. He must find happiness. With or without her.

  Melita extended her hand and accepted the gift. Her birthright. Her salvation and her doom.

  The tiny glowing seed sat heavy in her palm. The nymphs around her whispered reassurances and transformed into a swarm of bees. Humming, they departed, hovering at the entrance of a tunnel, waiting for her to follow them. They would guide her to her fate.

  Melita let out her breath and held it. Only as her lungs burned did she allow herself to breathe once more. Her heart ached to follow the path the others took, but that option wasn’t one she could choose. The bees buzzed, urging her on. Dawn approached and they had many miles to traverse. Melita ignored the soreness in her limbs, the fire in her lungs. This was the last time she would feel anything. She absorbed each of her senses as she sprinted, following the twinkling lights of the bees. So like stars. And yet, when one followed a star, ’twas like following a dream.

  This fate of hers was no dream. No dream at all.

  Thereus paced. In a few minutes, the first rays of the sun would breach the opening between those two mountains.

  “Brother.” Agrius gripped his arm, coaxing him to hold still.

  He was like a bull, bristling to stamp its hooves and charge. The glorious golden light of Apollo would herald the death of many. Many Lapiths. A grim smile spread across his face. He lusted after blood, their blood, for threatening his family.

  Unlike the bull, the scarlet hue would soothe, not enrage him.

  Agrius once again tugged on his arm, so he complied, settling for a shuffling of his hooves instead.

  He swept his gaze across the fields below them. The Lapith army assembled in the distance was huge. Thousands strong, at least. He’d never battled such numbers. And the centaur army? He studied left and then right. The odds were even, if each centaur did indeed slay five or six Lapiths.

  Bloody hell. No time to call for more, though new soldiers continually arrived. Their efforts might be enough, depending on how long this battle lasted. If they lost today, they’d fall back to Great Meteoron and the war would begin.

  His army’s archers were nestled in the mountains. They might have a chance if the few tricks they had worked. Agrius tensed next to him, so he studied his brother. Thereus frowned as he followed Agrius’s stare. Damn. That must be Eione’s family, her Lapith father and brothers, out on the battlefield. What a way to test his loyalty.

  He cursed again, shaking his head. The gods possessed a truly gruesome notion of humor. Agrius wasn’t the only one facing his family in battle today. Their races had been blending for centuries. Gods, the loyalty these people carried for his father. How deeply they trusted in Cheiron’s wisdom. Enough to die, enough to kill their kin. He whistled low. Wrong. This war should be fought between Philaeus and himself. No one else.

  Had Philaeus been born of honorable stock, he would have faced Thereus alone, man to centaur. Thereus would tear him apart. What he lacked in physical strength, Philaeus compensated for with his army. Aye, he’d make them pay for his weakness.

  Thereus growled. It was wrong. None of them should be here. What other choice did he have? He’d never give them Melita. Never. He clenched his hands into fists. He ought to trust in his father’s judgment, as the rest did.

  His father’s last words to the soldiers resounded within him, Do what you must to prevail, but where possible, wound. Do not kill. At the end of this, we may have need of salvaging our peace.

  He grasped what his father had meant.

  A movement in the opposing army caught his eye. The first ray of dawn cut through the mountain pass, and the army parted with it. Philaeus rode forward, dressed from head to toe in thick silver armor, no doubt laced with enchantments as well.

  Thereus snorted. Coward. Centaurs wore little armor. He only sported a leather breastplate and arm greaves. More for decoration than protection. Armor inhibited one’s agility. One’s ability to move smoothly, quickly. If one fought well enough, one’s enemies would be dead before they had the chance to strike back.

  Philaeus rode forward, escorted by his herd of personal guards. Where was King Pirithous then? Dead or on his deathbed? Did he even know of this battle?

  King Cheiron, shining in a brilliance of white and silver, strode through their army, down to meet Philaeus at the bottom of the valley. Down to refuse Philaeus’s demands and declare war. Hector accompanied him, and the two galloped with confidence, no guards for them. A declaration of strength, of power.

  Would I be able to face Philaeus without killing him? He snorted. Unlikely. He’d wait for his righteous opportunity, upon the battlefield. Grinning, he flexed his fists. His body coiled and his blood thrummed through his veins in eager anticipation of facing the coward.

  He was so looking forward to it.

  The two leaders met on the common ground between their armies and exchanged words. From here, he couldn’t hear them, nor could he perceive Philaeus’s expression beneath his helmet, but the haughty set of his shoulders was clear. He wanted Melita dead, for certain, but he wanted war first. Thereus growled, thankful Melita and Lucian were safely hidden. Philaeus would never harm them. Never.

  The two parties separated—the only civilized portion of a battle—and retreated to their respective sides. Soon, the bloodbath would begin.

  In their wake, a mist rose on the battlefield and swirled around centaur hooves. Shouts carried to him from the soldiers, who shuffled but held their ranks. The dense, dark ooze settled before Cheiron and Philaeus. Thereus squinted. No, not a mist. A swarm, of bees?

  The insects dispersed; a lone figure stood in their wake. A form he would recognize anywhere.

  Dread pounded through his veins, a mixture of fire and ice. Melita. No. Impossible. A trick? An illusion? If so, why hadn’t anyone told him? He rubbed at his eyes, but the bees remained.

  Both leaders rode toward what had caused the crowd’s exclamation and halted a few yards from her. He cursed his ears as he spotted her lips moving, the sounds too faint for him to catch. Then she
opened her hand. A tiny glowing seed rested atop her palm.

  Thereus growled and shuffled his hooves. What the hell was going on? Hastening his footsteps, he shoved through the crowd. He had to get her out of there. Damn. What was she thinking? Why didn’t she listen to him and remain safe? Sprinting, he thrust past the crowds, desperate to reach her before Philaeus laid a hand upon her. He would not permit her to martyr herself.

  ***

  Calm energy poured through Melita as she faced Cheiron and Philaeus. Her half-brother lusted for her blood. Cheiron would willingly give his own to appease the Lapith Prince. She wouldn’t permit either such sacrifice.

  She displayed the seed in her trembling hand. A feral growl echoed from Cheiron’s army. Thereus. He charged toward her, furiously knocking aside the soldiers blocking his path. This was the hardest thing she’d ever done, yet she must do it quickly, before he stopped her.

  She met his gaze and held it. “I love you, always.” Drowning in his emerald eyes, she drew her hand to her mouth and swallowed the seed.

  ***

  The ferocity of his roar tore him in half. Thereus shoved aside another soldier and bolted toward Melita. Ten feet from him, her body burst into a brilliant verdant glow. Everyone watching her stumbled backward. Shielding his eyes with his forearm, he trudged forward. Don’t be too late. He had to reach her.

  The flash of light dimmed, and Melita’s form changed. Luminescence swirled about her legs, lashing them together. Her arms elongated. Another radiant flare and his Melita was gone.

  In her place stood a tree.

  Thereus slammed into its trunk. He’d been intending to grab her and throw her onto his back. But this tree was immovable, rooted to the ground. A trunk thicker than he could wrap his arms around, branches stretching thirty feet above his head. The tree appeared as though it had stood for centuries. Not as if moments ago, it had been his mate. His heart and soul.

  Thereus threw his head back, roared a wrenching cry of anguish, and sank to his knees. Desperately his mind attempted to piece together what had happened. The pain was so great, his heart might as well have been torn from his chest. His bonding mark spasmed in throes of anguish, as though it alone fathomed what he’d lost.