“We came here,” said Kyran, “to find my sister. Not to seek the Author or any other Plot than the one I know.”
“Yes,” the centaur answered quietly, “we know of the princess Evanthe.”
“You’ve seen her?” burst out Posy.
“I saw her two days past,” Faxon replied. “Here, within this very glade.”
“And ... where is she now?” Kyran’s face worked to keep a calm expression.
“She has entered the Glooming.” Faxon’s eyes flashed, a mysterious expression that came and was gone in an instant.
“The Glooming,” Kyran’s voice came miserably through Posy’s swirling thoughts.
“I spoke with her,” Faxon said, and Kyran’s head snapped up in attention. “But she was intent upon her destination, and nothing I could say would prevent her.”
“You could have stopped her,” Kyran said. “You stopped the ipotanes from gaining the glade, and the entrance to the Glooming. Why not her? Why let her venture into such danger alone?”
“Evil must be stopped, by force if necessary, but enforcing something against someone’s free will, when no evil is intended? It is not as the Author would wish, and it is not how we live. The plot here is unlike the Plot that has wound itself around your Kingdom, young prince. The plot here in this land beyond is one that may change and vary; it is one that is dependent on the choices of its characters themselves. It is not set; it is not the same every time the book is opened or the story told. That is its danger. And that is its beauty.”
“But the free choice to walk into unknown danger—a girl alone? How can that be right or fair?” Posy heard the anger beginning in Kyran’s voice, despite the centaur’s calm words.
“Yes, Prince.” Faxon’s voice hardened as well, as if he were growing weary of explaining something so natural to someone who did not wish to understand. “Even if she must walk into danger. She was not ignorant of it; she knew what she entered into. Something was strong in her mind ... something she knew she must do, or try to do. We would not stop her from it.”
Kyran shook his head, wordless, and walked a few paces away. Posy followed him without hesitation, grasping his arm. She didn’t know how or why, but she had a sudden surety about what was happening. “Kyran,” she said earnestly, “Faxon is right. It was meant to be, don’t you see that? It’s like the poem said, if we’re to find the center and heart of truth, this is what we have to do. Evanthe had to go there, and so do we. I think this might be the answer to everything.”
“The answer to everything? What are you talking about?” Kyran asked with a curl of his lip that reminded Posy unpleasantly of their first meeting. Posy wasn’t sure what she meant. It was more of a feeling, a swirling sensation that she couldn’t quite make out or explain but was sure of all the same.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, “But I feel that everything here is connected somehow. Haven’t you had enough of lies and confusion? Don’t you want to find something ... true?”
“Oh, but I already know what I am to do,” Kyran said, shrugging his arm out of her grasp. “Nothing that happens will change my purpose, which is to take my father off the throne and free the Plot from his tyranny.” Posy knew of Kyran’s anger, and his grief over his father’s cruelty, so his words did not surprise her. Still, she felt them bite into her with something that felt so close to betrayal that she caught her breath.
Faxon, who had missed nothing, walked to where they stood and said, “I believe the lady is right, Prince. The Glooming is a dangerous place, many times an evil place, but great truth and goodness can be found there by the right people—people with strength. Perhaps you will find something you never sought at all.”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” retorted Kyran testily, “and what’s more, I don’t care. How can you feel the need to chastise me when I say I am to overthrow the king? You, who of all creatures have been most wronged by him.”
“And those who have been most wronged have the greatest opportunity for forgiveness, young one. But it only comes from the truest, deepest part of you, and it is not something that is easily reached. Nothing true and good is.”
Kyran had no answer for this. But as Posy looked at him, his face took on a subtle change, and his eyes lost a bit of their anger. Before either of them could speak, they heard noises from across the glade where the centaurs had been clearing the battlefield of bodies and armor. Two centaurs were on either side of a captive ipotane who was struggling violently between them. They dragged him across the field toward Faxon. Faxon stood, still as a statue, and his blue eyes glinted like steel as they approached and thrust the ipotane before him.
“Well,” he said solemnly. The ipotane cursed at him and strained against his captors, the muscles of his upper human half-taut and bulging.
Faxon ignored this, and merely asked, “I have a few questions for you, and it would be best for you if you answered them truthfully.”
“And if I don’t?” the ipotane’s voice came furiously.
“We shall have to see,” Faxon answered calmly. “Now then, who sent you?”
“Ferreolus was our leader. He was the one we followed, as you well know. And now you have killed him! You—you—filth, you—”
“I know of Ferreolus,” Faxon cut him off. “I also know that he did nothing without a reason. For centuries, the centaurs have been guardians of the glade. Why did he choose to attack us now, and gain entrance into the Glooming?”
“I don’t ask questions!” shouted the ipotane angrily. “I trusted my leader, as did every ipotane who followed him. We needed nothing more than that to follow him wherever he had need to send us.”
Faxon eyed him for a moment, as if trying to decide if he could trust what he heard. At last, he nodded and continued, “No matter how blind the trust, each creature has its own mind. What does your mind tell you, ipotane, of this battle fought today?”
The ipotane gazed at Faxon skeptically. “You know we have never been at peace with you, nor you with us. What is different about this battle?”
“Ah, but it is different. You attacked the glade, and those of us guarding it. Ferreolus sought to gain entrance into the Glooming itself. This attack was not made against the centaurs; it was made for a purpose.”
“And you think that if I knew the purpose I would tell you?” spat out the ipotane venomously. “You are a fool.”
“Very well,” Faxon nodded with finality, unruffled. He gestured to the centaurs holding him, and they took their prisoner away. “So then,” he said, turning to Kyran and Posy and smiling, “you must be hungry. Will you come to our camp and rest and eat?”
“No,” exclaimed Kyran immediately, “I thank you for the offer, but we must go into the Glooming as soon as we can—now—and find my sister.”
“And you will go as soon as you can, but that time is not now, young one,” said Faxon. “The entrance to the Glooming is not open continually. We will have to wait for its next opening.”
Kyran’s face was dumbstruck. “And when will that be?”
“Do not worry,” Faxon said with a serene smile for them. “You have not long to wait. It happens at midnight this very night.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Painful Words
“I suspect,” Faxon turned to look at Posy and Kyran as he led them through the trees, “that our captive was telling the truth.”
“You mean that he knew nothing?” asked Posy, lifting her skirts a bit to keep up with Faxon’s rapid pace. She wondered where they were headed. She and Kyran had finally made it to the entrance of the Glooming, and now they were walking away from the glade and back once again into the darkness of the forest. The forest seemed a different place, though, with the centaurs around them and Faxon leading them. He moved and spoke completely at ease. The forest may not be where he had come from, or the story he had been written into, but it was clearly his home now. He moved with confidence that only one deeply familiar with his surroundings would
have.
“He may have had opinions of his own about the reasons for this battle,” continued the centaur, “but he did not know anything for certain. It is like an ipotane to leave his soldiers in ignorance and expect them to follow blindly.” He shook his head.
Kyran quickened his stride to match the centaur’s, and came up to walk beside him. “May I ask if you have an opinion as to the attack?” he asked curiously.
“Oh, yes, although it is considerably more than an opinion,” Faxon answered smoothly. “The owls—or the king, through the owls—have been sending attacks against us since we left the Kingdom more than a century ago.”
“What?” cried Posy breathlessly from behind them.
“Yes,” Faxon smiled sadly at her over his shoulder, “When the Council of Owls overthrew the Council of Centaurs, there was an uproar in the land and we were banned from ever stepping foot inside the Kingdom again. The king has made us fair game to any character that might come across one of us.” Posy noticed Kyran wince when he heard this. “We have made our lives in the forest, and we are no longer outcasts of the Kingdom, but true dwellers of the Wild Land. Yet in recent years, that has not been enough for the king and his councilors. They have sent violence into the very forest to pursue us. The battle you saw is one of many we have fought over these past months.”
“But, the ipotanes live in the forest too, don’t they?” asked Posy. “They can’t be part of the Kingdom, or under the rule of the king.”
“No, they are not part of the Kingdom, that is true. It is likely Falak has hired them as mercenaries to chase us from the land or, preferably, kill our entire race.”
“But why?” Posy asked, her eyes on the back of Kyran’s head. She felt pain for him at this further proof of his father’s cruelty, even if he would not admit to his own pain.
Before the centaur could answer her, Kyran said, “Isn’t it obvious? They feel the centaurs are a threat to their rule. The Kingdom has been restless these last years. Characters are somehow beginning to understand things they never understood before. If they should begin to know too much—to remember too much—they might demand the return of the centaurs to the Kingdom, and oust the owls.” His voice grew vehement. “It is not the king who does this, but Falak and his followers. Only they would fear the return of the centaurs so much.”
“I think they would not be the only ones who would fear it, young prince,” Faxon said quietly, coming to a stop at last.
“What do you mean?” Kyran’s voice was hard as a stone. His black hair fell over one of his eyes as he gazed at Faxon.
“These are things we will speak of,” answered Faxon lightly, as if the conversation hadn’t taken a dangerous turn. “But for now we must rest and eat.”
“Rest and eat,” Kyran repeated with a shake of his head. “Even with all that needs to be done.”
“Yes,” answered the centaur, stopping to look straight at Kyran. “Especially with all that needs to be done. Do not underestimate these things—they are not trivial, but the things that give us strength to continue. Never underestimate anything that gives strength, however small it may seem.” He began walking again. “And we have many hours before midnight, though they will pass quickly with all that we must speak of and prepare for.”
Posy finally forced her eyes from Kyran and Faxon and blinked as she looked around her. The small trees and underbrush of the surrounding area had been cleared and numerous tents stood tall around them. They were high and sweeping, regal almost, and made of heavy, richly colored material. Faxon led them past groups of battle-weary centaurs who had been making their way from the glade to the encampment. Some sat on the ground, their front legs folded beneath them, resting and talking in low voices; others were sharpening swords or taking off their armor.
Faxon led them to the tent at the rear of the encampment. It was at least twice the size of the others, and it was patterned with brilliant green, silver and gold.
“Our Summit Tent,” he announced as two centaurs held open the thickly-draped flaps of the door and they entered. The room they walked into was enormous. The top of the tent rose far above them. The sides of the room were lined with silver and gold banners, rippling from the top of the tent to the floor. A wider banner of green, sewn with brightly colored threads, hung from the head of the room, on a raised platform. Though it was extremely different in many respects, the room reminded Posy of King Melanthius’ Audience Chamber. That was almost certainly what this room was meant for, she thought. After all, hadn’t the centaurs been the ones who advised from that chamber in times past?
“Come.” Faxon led them through the large chamber and into a smaller, adjoining one that was obviously made for comfort instead of formality. He looked at them and smiled apologetically. “Centaurs have no need of chairs, of course, but this room has been made as comfortable as possible for you to rest in for a time. Please, make yourselves at home.” He spread his hand invitingly and watched as they sat themselves down on the thick layers of blankets that covered the floor of the chamber. As he backed from the room, he said, “I will give you an hour to rest, then have food brought here for you before we meet in the Summit Room with my council.”
The flap of the room swept closed, and Posy settled herself back onto the blankets. How long had it been since she had sat on something soft? Not so long, really ... but, oh, it felt like it! She was keenly aware of Kyran, so near her. She wanted to look at him, speak to him, but they had drifted apart somehow. She wondered if he could feel it, too, or if he even gave it any thought. She found she couldn’t gauge his mood or read his expression. It was hard and blank.
At last, he threw himself back on the blankets and closed his eyes. “What do you think these centaurs are about? Living in the forest, outcasts, fighting continual battles. What can be their purpose, do you think?”
“Kyran,” Posy said softly, sensing something she didn’t like, “I thought you trusted them.”
“I get the sense, though ... that they may think it is all my father’s doing.”
Posy took a breath. “He is the king,” she said hesitantly. “Whatever the owls might talk your father into doing, as the king, it’s his final decision.”
Kyran sat up so quickly that Posy reactively lurched away from him. His dark eyes bore into her as he hissed, “So now you say my father is the one as well? After Falak sent soldiers and creatures of the forest to murder us, after he sent us blindly into the dangers of the Wild Land and away from the Kingdom’s protection.” He paused and gave her a withering look. “I never would have believed it of you, Posy.”
Posy’s first reaction was pain. It seemed this was a sort of betrayal from Kyran, this refusing to understand, especially when there had been so much understanding between them. Her next reaction was anger. It was her anger that spoke.
“Why can’t you just be a man and admit it, Kyran? Admit your father has done all of this intentionally. He doesn’t think of you or Evanthe or the characters of his Kingdom. He only thinks of himself. He only thinks about power. And if Falak has persuaded him to some things, it is only because Melanthius is weak, and selfish—things that must have been there inside of him all along.” Posy paused to draw breath and had time to take in Kyran’s furious expression before she plunged on, “But you know all of this already. I don’t need to tell you, do I? The only difference between us is that I can admit it, see it for what it is. You are still trying to hide from it because you’re a coward!”
Her voice had risen and her face felt unbearably hot as she leaned forward toward Kyran. She had the urge to grab him and shake him, pound her fists on him until she made him understand. She had faced it, hadn’t she? She had written the horrible, ugly word across the mirror, not so long ago. She had stared at her reflection, her own tears, though she hated them. And it had meant pain to her—it meant the end of everything she knew. Still, she had looked straight at it.
Kyran stared at her for a long time ... such a long time. Posy felt her own
anger abate, the urge to scream die down with the steadying beat of her heart. She watched Kyran’s face, saw him struggling visibly with the feelings that played across it, trying to push them down. Moreover, she watched with pain and helplessness as those emotions retreated behind his eyes, somewhere far away, where she couldn’t find them. She raised her hand as if she would seize his thoughts before they were gone, but then dropped it back on her lap heavily. She knew he had closed himself to her then, and she realized this was the last thing she had wanted to make him do. His face was shuttered, his eyes empty as he looked at her, and the words he spoke next were devoid of feeling.
“I’m going for a walk. You should get some rest.” With that, he got up and left Posy alone in the room. She lowered her face into her hands and began to cry.
* * *
Posy awoke to the soft sounds of someone moving about in the chamber. When she opened her eyes, she saw a centaur placing platters of food on a low table in the corner of the room. Candles had been set on the table as well, and they threw gentle waves of light up the sides of the white tent walls. When the centaur was finished he merely turned to her and smiled slightly, bowing his head, then departed.
With a flood of dread, Posy remembered what had passed between herself and Kyran. She turned her face to the darkness of the blankets. Is this how the story is supposed to go? she asked herself. It’s a mess, and nothing makes sense.
After Posy had eaten some of the food the centaur had left, she heard a soft voice from the doorway of the chamber and saw a woman’s head poking through the flap. A horse’s chestnut body followed her into the room. Her hair fell in lively auburn curls around her shoulders and her beautiful face smiled warmly at Posy. She said, “I am Caris, wife to Faxon.” She gestured to the door she had just entered. “Will you follow me?”
The Word Changers Page 12
