“Oh, yes, yes!" Nocturne piped. Posy started; she had forgotten about the little creature standing at their feet. “And the characters are remembering, Author. They are coming out of the fog! The Plot no longer holds them!”
Posy and Kyran both looked down at him curiously.
“I met with creatures in the wood, as I came here to find the prince, and they told me ... they hear things from the Borders. There are uprisings everywhere in your name, Author!” He turned to Kyran, “And in yours, Prince. There are people who are standing against the king and calling for changes in the Plot.”
“Yes,” said the swan. “Great changes are coming about in the Plot, and in the Wild Land as well.”
“But”—Nocturne’s face fell—“many have been put to death for speaking against the king.”
Kyran’s hand clenched tightly onto the sword he still held. “That is something my father is good at,” he said through his teeth. “Killing.”
“But it is also on the queen’s command that they die,” said Nocturne quickly. “Your father the king is out with his army, battling along the Borders. So say the woodland folk I met along the way. Queen Valanor is left to rule the castle and its prisoners on her own.”
“What else do the folk of the Wild Land say, little owl?” questioned the Author gently, though Posy suspected that he knew very well already.
The creature ruffled its feathers a bit in excitement. “They say ... they say now that the characters are rebelling, and ... and”—His voice fell to a hush—“the words of the story are changing. Changing. No one ... no one ever believed such a thing could happen before!” His eyes were huge with wonder. “But now it is whispered of everywhere. And they are calling you, young lady, and you, Prince Kyran ... they are calling you the Word Changers.”
“The Word Changers?” Posy repeated, feeling an unexpected thrill going up her spine.
“Yes.” The owl nodded his head vigorously. “For they say the Plot is changing because of your quest.”
“Our quest?” Kyran asked wonderingly. “But how do they know of our quest?”
“Oh, they don’t, not really,” said Nocturne quickly, “But they know you left the Kingdom, and they discovered that the poor girl they put in the princess’ role was a fake ... and, well, stories will crop up, won’t they?”
“That was Olena, my maid! Well—” Posy blushed, remembering she had also been a fake princess not so long ago. “Evanthe’s maid,” she amended. “So she escaped?”
“Oh, yes! Olena’s father abandoned his duties as a character when he found out they meant to put her in the princess’ place, and ... and sacrifice her. He broke into the castle with several others and took Olena and his entire family into hiding, beyond the Borders and into the Wild Land. Yes, everything began to change quite quickly after the two of you left. After Olena was rescued, that is when the king took his army out to the Borders. There have been one or two small battles already.”
“I wonder ...,” said Kyran thoughtfully, his voice trailing. “Nocturne.” He turned quickly to the owl. “I think you came to us as a friend, since you tell us all these things.”
“Oh, yes! Yes, I did. I left the Council of Owls and came to warn you—oh, yes, I must warn you that Falak is planning –” But Nocturne turned his dark eyes upward suddenly, as if he had heard or seen something. Posy heard it, too—a faint rush, like wings. She looked up into the trees where the owl’s gaze was fixed and saw a shape, black against the moon, fly above them and swiftly out of sight.
“Quintus,” whispered Nocturne shakily, his sharp owl eyes following the disappearing form. “Oh, what have I done? I have led them straight to you!” His voice was panicked. “He will go back and tell Falak where we are!”
Kyran and Posy exchanged a look. “It’s all right, my friend,” said Kyran soothingly to the owl. “You did what was right. You came to this place and found us. You have warned us of what the king is doing. That is all that matters.”
“I didn’t know where you would be,” admitted Nocturne, “but I thought ... that is, Falak has sent owls to guard each opening of the Glooming. I remembered this one, from ages past, and had the smallest hope. You see, we owls do not forget the past as easily as the humans do. The magic of the Kingdom doesn’t cloud our eyes as it has yours these many years. We have known of this place, and its magic, since the time the Plot was written.”
“You have done well,” the swan said, the warm smile in its voice again.
Kyran nodded. “And so Falak sent you to guard this outlet?”
Nocturne’s round face darkened. “No,” he said. “I was cast out of the Council of Owls. I questioned Falak, and his desire to kill you.”
Kill them. They had both known it for some time, really. So, Posy thought, Nocturne’s injuries must have been Falak’s parting gift.
“Was Falak’s wish that we were killed outside of the Border?” Kyran asked slowly, his voice telling them he already knew the answer.
“Yes,” said Nocturne miserably. “He wanted you completely eliminated from the Plot. You see, that is what I came to warn you of. Falak wishes not only to kill the three of you; he wishes to kill your father the king as well. He wants to ...” The owl swallowed with difficulty. “He wants to become the ruler of the Plot himself.”
Posy looked quickly at Kyran, and what she saw in his face surprised her. It was a look of fear. A fear she hadn’t seen when his own death was mentioned, but that he now seemed to feel at the thought of his father being killed.
“So what are we to do now?” he asked solemnly, turning to the swan, which was waiting silently.
“You have a friend who waits for you, now you have found your sister,” said the swan calmly.
“A friend?” Kyran asked.
“You forget what Alvar has done for you so quickly, then?”
“Alvar! No, I do not forget him,” Kyran’s voice sounded tired.
“We were to meet his army as soon as we could,” said Posy. She turned to the Author. “You can tell us where they are, can’t you? Or ...” she hesitated. “Perhaps you could take us there?”
“I could take you there,” the swan agreed, “but I will not. There is no need, and I have places to be, now that the Wild Land has awoken, and the characters begin to remember. A battle must be prepared for, and the Wild Folk need a strong leader. They have lived on the outskirts of the Plot for so long they are accustomed to living in the dark of the forest, and need someone who will awaken their bravery. But never fear; you will reach Alvar’s army in safety. And all I speak to, I will send to you, to fight with you.”
“But—” Kyran began.
“No,” the Author said, stopping him. “The time for questions and words is over. I wrote you and made you what you are, but it’s because I have such a great hope for you, and such a love, that I will step back to see what you are made of. I long to see my own characters come to life and make decisions and words of their own. Tell me, what Author doesn’t wish that? But you must promise me,” he continued soberly, “that though you set the course of words in a different path, you will yet remain faithful to the original Plot—the one I know you now remember deep within you. The Kingdom must be restored to it before it can live at peace again.”
Kyran gave a silent nod. How simple, thought Posy as she watched the exchange. How deceptively simple is such an enormous responsibility sworn to.
The Author now walked on his webbed feet to where Evanthe lay on the dewy grass, and he laid a great wing across her small body, just as he had done for Nocturne. He said words, low and sweet, inaudible to the others, into her ear. Posy saw in her imagination how it must be: a book open, a page of words. The words begin to swirl and change, making way for a new part of the story, a change in the plot that sends ripples flowing outward, like a stone thrown into water. An author’s words, which can change everything.
They saw the princess stir and murmur, and Kyran surged forward to her side, grasping her hand, quick tears escap
ing from his eyes. “She will sleep now,” said the Author, “but when she wakes she will have come back to you.”
The swan stretched its neck again and trumpeted to the sky. Soon, the outlines of three more swans appeared against the moon. They landed next to the Author, who nodded wordlessly at them.
“These fine creatures will take you where you need to go,” the Author said. “Farewell, Word Changers.”
The swan took flight above them before they had a chance to say or even think anything more. The Author seemed to melt into the moonlit clouds as he flew higher and higher, and then was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Spies and Plans
Quintus flew like a swift black shadow throughout the night, tireless, a ferocious triumph burning like fuel in his veins. His sharp owl eyes spotted a mouse far below him once or twice, but he ignored the twinge of hunger he felt, and the urge to swoop and kill. He could not waste a moment with the news he had to give—no, not a single moment.
As he sped above the thick trees of the Wild Land and neared the Borders, he came upon small lights dotted here and there, a rustling as if an enormous beast slept under the trees. Campfires, soldiers sleeping. An army, but not the king’s. It was a large one, he thought, peering down, and this would be important to Falak. He knew then his news of the prince must wait a little longer, for he had scouting to do. He would have to wait until dawn at least, when the soldiers would be stirring from their tents. Only then could he get an idea of how many were camped here, ready to cross the Borders and attack the Kingdom.
Quintus landed silently in a tree at the center of the camp, gazing thoughtfully down at the glowing embers of the scattered fires. Perhaps, he thought, it was the army of this Alvar whom the prince and the swan had spoken of.
That swan. Ah, now. There was another thing. Here he was, rushing back to make a report to Falak, but exactly what report was he to make when he arrived? Was he truly to believe the swan and the Author were one and the same? He couldn’t countenance it himself. And he had no wish to appear a fool to his leader, or even to King Melanthius, whom he held little enough respect for anyway. He made a swift decision that he would tell only the cold facts, the words he had heard and the things he had seen. Nothing more. He would have faith in his leader, who would accept the truth of things with his usual cool reason; Falak would not blame Quintus, who was merely the messenger of the news.
Dawn came tiptoeing quietly over the horizon, the colors of it spreading thinly through the trees. The light cut weakly through the drizzling mist that hung about the trees like ghostly garments. Quintus cast his eyes upward and saw the moon, full and large, losing its luster as the brighter sun slowly outshined it. Men had been gradually emerging, waking, speaking in low voices. A few began to prod fires back to life. Quintus spotted a large man walking purposefully across the camp, his bulging muscles and flame of hair setting him apart from the other men. The owl knew whom it must be even before he heard another man call to him as he passed: “Alvar! How long are we to wait here for the prince?”
Not a challenge; at least, not quite. Quintus allowed himself a smug “hmph!” of pleasure to see that Alvar’s soldiers questioned him. What could be better to see than dissention in an enemy camp? That was sure to make Falak happy.
Alvar stopped and turned slowly to face the man who had spoken to him. He didn’t speak. The man decided the silence was an invitation to question his leader again. “The prince could be dead for all we know, and his sister with him. If they are deep into the Wild Land and have not been seen these three weeks, surely we cannot believe they will ever return. The creatures of the Wild Land may have”—and here his voice dropped and he sent a watchful glance over his shoulder—“they may have killed them—eaten them! Perhaps worse.”
“Worse?” Alvar spoke now, his voice steady. “I pity the thoughts in your head, man, to think of things worse than being killed and eaten.” He gave a cheerless smile and made as if to turn away.
“Plenty of things are worse if you listen to the stories that are told, Alvar,” the soldier puffed up indignantly. “The Wild Folk can do things to you ... to your body, and your mind that would make death seem like a gift.” A crowd of soldiers had begun to form silently around the two men, listening.
“The Wild Folk do these things?” Alvar turned again, a hint of warning in his voice. “You refer to the Wild Folk—the ones who are willing to fight with us? Who have come out from hiding for all these ages to help us overthrow a king who has little to do with them?”
Doubt crossed the man’s face now—perhaps a trace of shame. Quintus knew shame in the face of a leader, and he recognized it now with a bitter pang. Yet the man opened his mouth to continue.
“We don’t know for sure –” he began.
“I will stop you there, my friend,” Alvar’s words were not angry ones, but the mere sound of his voice seemed to hold an unspoken threat. And if that hadn’t worked, Alvar’s face surely would have. He took a step nearer, his eyes boring into the soldier’s. “We will have no words said against the Wild Folk who aid us, not from you, nor any one of you.” He threw a dark look into the crowd of soldiers surrounding them. “And you,” he pushed a large finger into the man’s chest, “will await my command of this army. Now fix some breakfast there.” He finished with a wave of his wide hand toward the fire, his anger gone as suddenly as it had come.
Quintus could now see the size of what Alvar called his army. It was really no army at all, he thought with relief. Between two and three hundred men; nothing to concern Falak greatly. He had no idea how many of the Wild Folk would come to help, and he had to admit to himself that part troubled him. The Wild Folk had stayed in their forest and their tree-thickened land of exile for ages—were scarcely heard of or seen. Quintus could not even remember what sort of creatures they were. Yet the traitor Nocturne had told the prince that the folk of the Wild Land spoke of the Author now, after all these long years. They stirred.
Yes, it troubled him.
He had seen enough. With a swish of black wings, he took to the sky.
* * *
Posy had never had such peace, or such rest, as she had that night. The glade seemed a place through which life flowed. When she lay on the dark mossy ground, after the Author had left them, she felt she could not tell the earth’s heartbeat from her own. All seemed right, and no pain she had felt before now mattered. She and Kyran were together, and alive. They had found the princess, and she would soon be well. The Author had come to them, spoken to them. Her sorrows seemed so far away. Nothing could touch her in this place; not tonight.
Tomorrow, she thought fleetingly, her eyes drooping toward blissful sleep—I suppose I will worry about tomorrow when it gets here.
* * *
Trumpets sounded as Queen Valanor stepped onto the great balcony overlooking the Judgment Square. A small enough space; not meant for the numbers that had assembled and crowded here now, surely. But then, the Plot had not been written with this part in it, she thought bitterly. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed down at the two creatures held in chains below her. Centaurs. She didn’t even like to think the word, and she refused to say it. “Monsters” was more apt. Misshapen beasts that had trespassed into the sanctity of the Plot. They had been banned, yet still they crossed the Borders.
These two were some of the few who had survived the battle in the Wild Land several weeks earlier. They had formed yet another band of fighters and attacked a Border army. The queen tasted the sourness of scorn at the thought of such blatant disobedience and disrespect. Thankfully, they had failed miserably. The queen nearly laughed to recall how simple it had been to capture them. One of the centaurs turned his head to cast a look up at her, crystal blue eyes like razors searing through her with their contempt, white-blond hair flashing bright as a challenge.
Her laugh caught in her throat and dissolved.
“Send them to the prison with the others for execution.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
-SEVEN
Escaped and Escaping
The Kingdom never had seasons, of course, Kyran had told Posy. How could they, stuck in time as they were? They had only one season, a sort of truce between winter’s end and the beginning of spring, which merely replayed over and over within the Plot each time a reader read their story.
But here in the Wild Land there was no such truce, no in-between. Spring thrust from the earth and sprung from the branches in a frenzy of life, as if eager to prove itself. Posy awoke to bursting shades of green everywhere she looked. When she turned to see where Kyran went, she saw that he was sitting cross-legged on the ground near where he had slept, his arm draped over the shoulder of his sister, who was now herself sitting up and awake, looking very tiny and frail next to her brother.
Posy’s heart leapt at the sight. She admitted to herself that she didn’t know what to expect from this princess for whom they had come so far and done so much. “But she is Kyran’s sister,” she whispered aloud to herself, “and I will love her for that if nothing else.” She straightened her rumpled dress as she stood and combed her fingers through her tangled curls, suppressing a groan at the thought of what she must look like.
“Posy!” came Kyran’s animated voice when he saw she was awake. “Come!”
Posy walked to them, her eyes on the princess’ face. It was a lovely face. She had violet eyes, as light and gentle as Kyran’s were black and fierce. Her small pale face with its sharp chin seemed childlike, and her eyes large within it. She was slender as a reed, and golden ropes of hair hung around her shoulders and down her back in soft snaking curls.
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