Posy curtseyed as gracefully as she could, and as she knelt forward, she felt her dull brown hair brush her cheeks. Her ears burned as she thought of the contrast she must make to this princess, and suddenly she was conscious of Kyran gazing steadily at her. She rose from her curtsy, keeping her attention upon the princess, avoiding Kyran’s eyes.
“Princess Evanthe,” Posy found her voice, although the words came in a sort of whispering croak.
“Please,” Evanthe said quickly, stepping lightly toward her, “please don’t do that! I can’t stand it, my dear!”
Posy looked at Kyran in a moment of confusion.
“She does not wish you to bow to her, Posy,” he explained with a smile. “Not after what you have endured to save her. I have told her everything this morning while you slept.”
“Everything?” Posy asked, able to think of nothing else to say.
“Well ...” Kyran winked at her. “Everything she needs to know.”
Posy looked down quickly and felt her face flush again.
“Brother!” Evanthe exclaimed, her voice bubbled with a hidden laugh. She walked to Posy’s side and took her hand, her expression becoming solemn. “Kyran has told me how faithfully you searched for me. Indeed, he told me you were the one to begin the journey in the first place! How can I thank you, my dear? I know I never can.”
“Oh,” Posy shook her head, “I—” Why could she think of nothing to say?
Evanthe’s small warm hand on hers gave her unexpected comfort, and Posy raised her eyes to the princess’ face. “I would go to any length to save someone so close to Kyran’s heart,” Posy said, not knowing where the words had come from.
Evanthe nodded in understanding, her crystal eyes bright. “Well, he loves you. That much is clear,” she said calmly, to Posy’s utter surprise and discomfort. “I suspected it, when he spoke to me of you, but I had only to see him looking at you just now to be sure of it.”
This is the princess, Posy reminded herself, who says and does things that no one else dares. She shouldn’t have been so shocked at Evanthe’s stark words.
“But we will say no more of that now,” the princess continued with a smile. “Kyran tells me you both spoke with the Author, and we have somewhere to be?”
“Yes,” Posy hesitated. “But, should you not rest for a while yet? You’ve been through so much!”
Evanthe’s gaze fell, and a shadow crossed her face. “I have seen much sadness,” she agreed, then lifted her head. “But nothing worth jeopardizing the future of the Kingdom and the Wild Land. We must go.”
The swans the Author had sent in the night stepped forward as if summoned from the edge of the trees. As they came close, Posy saw how large they were—many times the size of swans in her own world—and how powerful their wings looked.
“One for each of us,” Kyran said, reaching out a hand to stroke the neck of the one closest to him. He helped Posy and Evanthe mount two of the swans, and in another moment was astride his own. “And now to Alvar and his army,” said Kyran resolutely.
The swans took wing, rising swiftly above the tiny glade, and in no time the place where so much magic had happened was only a speck below them, and then, at last, no longer visible at all.
* * *
King Melanthius strode from his tent and toward his troops, who lined the field for inspection. He had slept little the night before—well, he had not slept at all, really. He, his Chief Advisor and two more close council advisors had been closeted within the heavy drapes of his tent, scouring maps of the Kingdom, talking of the best ways to defend against an unfamiliar enemy army and, as Falak felt were most important, methods of attack. They had discussed, questioned, argued, discussed again, until he had grown so weary of it, he barely knew what he was saying and had sent his advisors from his tent with words that were, he admitted, sharper than he intended. He had been half-asleep, yes, but something about the look in Falak’s eyes as the king sent him away had caused a faint disquiet in his mind. Melanthius had snatched what seemed to be moments of sleep, his large body sprawled across his bed within the tent, and upon awaking thought nothing more of it.
Now he suppressed a yawn and tried to push away his bad humor as he walked through the camp among his soldiers, Falak flying alongside his shoulder.
“Majesty,” Falak said quietly to him, “we must come to a decision from what we talked of last night.” Melanthius’ eyes closed for a moment as he tried to control his annoyance. He kept walking and did not answer the owl. He was sick to death of talking, especially to this confounded bird.
“I believe we must make a move before the enemy has the chance to make one,” Falak continued.
“I am well aware of your opinions, Falak,” the king said stiffly, wishing he could swat this provoking creature away from him as he might a fly. The corner of his mouth twitched at the thought of that.
“So? We have been encamped here for four days now, and all we do is inspect the soldiers every morning, watch them go through their drills, and keep a tight watch on the Borders. Two small skirmishes are all we have to show as yet of our dominance.”
“And?” Melanthius growled, spinning now to face his advisor. Falak stopped short and was forced to land on the ground far below the king. Melanthius felt some pleasure at this; he knew how the owl hated to look up to anyone, even his own king.
Falak shot him a look of stark frustration, and said slowly, as if talking to a small child, “And ... these are good things in themselves, of course, Sire. But where does that leave us? Waiting. Waiting for something to happen to us. I say we are the thing that happens! We charge across the Border, find the enemy, and destroy it.”
“Oh, as simple as all that?” Melanthius began walking back toward his tent now, the inspection finished. “And just how are we supposed to find this enemy army? I won’t have half of my men wandering lost in the Wild Land for days on end searching for an enemy we aren’t even certain exists.”
“It exists,” said Falak simply, orange eyes snapping. “And we need only wait for my scout to make it back and inform us of its location. But attack within the Wild Land is necessary. Victory will do us no good if all the men we have defeated appear again the minute a reader opens the pages.”
“I see. Well, I will make that decision when I speak with your scout upon his return. Until then, we continue as we are. No!” he thundered, seeing Falak open his mouth to speak again, “that is the final word from your king. Go see to ... your duties.” He waved his hand and turned from the owl.
My duties, sneered Falak to himself as he flew away. My duties indeed. My duties are watching him, making sure he doesn’t ruin everything, destroy his own pitiful Kingdom. Well, what does it matter if he does? And what’s another day or so of waiting, I suppose? If the battle will only reach into the Wild Land, where death can take him and never let him come back, I will be content. And that failing to happen ... well, I will have to take matters into my own hands, then.
Shouts erupted from across the camp, and Falak turned sharply to see what was the matter. He saw a group of soldiers wrestling with three centaurs bound in heavy chains. Ah, he thought with satisfaction, here is diversion for the morning.
“Yes, yes,” he said, flying above the commotion. “Get them under control, men, or you will answer to me.”
“Answer to you, eh?” King Melanthius’ voice boomed up to him with sarcasm. “I suppose that thought puts more fear into their hearts than answering to their own king.”
Falak felt a moment of surprise at being caught thus; he had thought the king was heading back to his tent. But his surprise quickly changed to anger at the king’s words.
“Stop flying around in circles and get down here and tell me what this is all about!” shouted the king. “I never ordered these prisoners out to the battlefield. Your explanation had better be a good one.”
“Majesty.” Falak schooled his voice to respect, though he seethed inside. “I ordered it. These beasts have been senten
ced to die, and I thought perhaps it would be wise to question them and get more information about the enemy’s plans before they are killed. Perhaps”—he lowered his voice so only the king could hear—“they have news of your son or daughter.”
The king froze at these words, the protests on his lips silenced. “Very well,” was all he said. Falak turned from him, hiding his look of smug triumph, and faced the centaurs.
They were magnificent creatures, Falak admitted begrudgingly to himself. Large and strong, even the woman, with an overpowering beauty in their stormy countenances. To restrain them, Falak had ordered contraptions similar to halters, attached with strong lead ropes as would be used on an ordinary horse. The thought had crossed his mind to set up a temporary arena here at the camp and have the soldiers attempt to ride the beasts for entertainment—he knew centaurs hated to be ridden—but he had cast the idea aside, not wishing to distract the soldiers from the battle close at hand. With a quick glance, he noted the bruised and gashed faces and backs of the centaurs; he had given the order to avoid killing them, and to feed them very little. A hungry beast was a weak beast.
“Well, now,” his voice came sharply. “Which of you will tell me what you know of the prince and princess? We must waste no time. Their father the king wishes to find them so they may not be caught in the middle of the ensuing battle.”
The largest centaur, a male with a white body, light-colored braids and fierce blue eyes, pawed a hoof into the ground and snorted angrily. “You,” he said slowly, “are a fool if you think we would believe a word from your lying tongue, Owl. And more of a fool if you think we would ever tell you anything you want to know.”
Falak, used to hiding his anger, suppressed it now and merely nodded once, no emotion reaching his wide round eyes. He turned to the king. “May I have your permission to kill the female beast, Sire, if these creatures do not oblige us with information?”
King Melanthius laughed as if entertained. “By all means!” His massive shoulders had relaxed; he was enjoying this change of scene, and had no objection to Falak’s cruelty if it was directed at someone else.
The female centaur turned as far as her bindings would allow and said, “Faxon, do not let this stop you. You know you must not say a word.”
Faxon’s eyes had clouded, and he stared at her as if in a trance, as she spoke. He shook his head vacantly at her and said only her name, quietly, “Caris.”
“Faxon!” she repeated, more urgently. “Do you hear what I say? Let them kill me if they must ... remember what we agreed? My life is not worth the destruction of the Wild Land. We all agreed. Topaz as well.” She motioned to the centaur at her other side.
“Well, what a touching regard you have for the Wild Land and your leader, lady horse,” Falak said coldly. “Let’s see what your friend does now ... will he save your life, do you think, even after such a lovely speech as that?”
Three soldiers surrounded her to hold her still while a fourth stepped forward to place his sword at her throat. It seemed Faxon could not speak, for he only stared at her.
“Now, will you tell us what the plans are in the Wild Land? The whereabouts of the children? The forming of an army? What about you?” he spoke now to the third centaur, standing silently by.
“I can say nothing.” Topaz shook his dark head steadily. “And it is no good to threaten my life or anyone else’s. Faxon knows this as well.” He directed his golden eyes upon Faxon’s face intently, as if willing a message to him. At last, Faxon came to life.
“Yes,” Faxon said, “I will never speak to you. Do what you may.” He turned his face to Caris, and she nodded to him bravely.
The soldier whose sword was at her throat looked to Falak, and Falak nodded almost imperceptibly, permission given. He tightened his grip on her and pressed his sword to her neck fiercely, preparing to draw it across. He had no more time than the half-second it took him to prepare, and he was dead. Topaz swung around and kicked outward with his back legs, straight into the soldier’s chest. It sent him flying backward like a lifeless toy, and he fell to the ground with a solid thump, a heap of crushed limbs. His sword had gone flying from his hand as he fell, and Faxon reached a muscled arm to catch it smartly by the hilt.
The soldiers, Falak and the king all stared, dumbfounded, at the broken body on the ground. The silence lasted only a moment, and then chaos rained down on them all.
“Kill them!” screamed Falak at the same time the king was roaring Falak’s name in fury. With the sword before him, Faxon came hurtling toward the group of soldiers. He killed three more before any of them knew what was happening, and then swung to slash through the chains holding Caris and Topaz. “Run,” he told them, and they obeyed without a word, making for the Border at a flying pace.
Faxon turned, however, and approached the king slowly. Neither of the two remaining soldiers moved to protect their king. Melanthius made a noise in his throat like gagging, his eyes practically popping from his face as he stumbled backward away from the centaur. “If—if you kill me now,” choked out the king, “my entire army will be upon you. You cannot escape.”
“I have no fear of you, nor your entire army.” Faxon’s face shone with anger. “I will tell you this: you have several of my fellow centaurs in the dungeon of your castle. Release them at once.”
“At once?” stammered the king. “I have no way of doing that now ... I am here....and they—they are there.”
“Send a messenger now, as I watch.” Faxon took another step toward the king, sword pointed at his throat.
The king nodded to Falak, who had been watching, both incensed and horrified. Falak motioned to one of the two soldiers, standing and staring at the scene, and he began to mount a horse to deliver the message.
“Give him your ring,” said the centaur calmly.
“My ... my ring?” The king’s hand went straight to his other, and he placed his fingers upon his ring as if he would protect it.
“He must have proof the message came from you. You know that, King.”
“Well, yes, I—yes, of course.” Melanthius’ face darkened, but he handed over the ring, and the messenger was gone.
“As for killing you,” said Faxon, eyes never having left the king, “I will not do so today. But only our love of your son has saved you, and the knowledge that your death would bring him sadness. The next time I see you, you shall die.” He backed away from the king and then turned to gallop across the field away from the camp, to the edge of the forest where Caris and Topaz had disappeared.
Several soldiers who had seen the commotion from the camp had come running to the outskirts of the tents, and they now arrived. “You fools!” screeched Falak at them as they gazed around in confusion at the bodies of their fellow soldiers. “You wretched good-for-nothing fools! What good are you now? You are too late!”
“Silence, Falak.” The king, breathing heavily, hefted himself toward his tent.
“But, Sire!” Falak continued. “Will you not send soldiers after them?”
“No,” the king answered, his voice a low growl. “You must be a fool yourself if you think I would do that after what just happened. One centaur, bound in chains, killed three of my armed men in a matter of seconds. No, I will not have them hunted. Young man!” he addressed a soldier near at hand. “Quickly get a horse and ride after the messenger I just sent in the direction of the castle. Tell him to come back to the camp at once. No message is to be sent after all.”
Falak nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes, that is good thinking, Majesty.” He nodded his owlish head quickly. “But I still don’t see why –”
“Enough.” King Melanthius turned slowly to regard his chief advisor. “I need no approval from you, Advisor. Indeed, I believe I have had enough altogether from you for now. You may return to the castle until I have need of you.” And he turned his wide back to the owl and entered his tent, letting the drape sweep down in Falak’s face.
“Wh—” began Falak incredulously, eyes roun
d with disbelief. But he quickly snapped his beak shut and nodded to himself. Without another word, he took flight and soared upward, over the camp and toward the Kingdom. When he had gone over a hill and was out of sight, he veered west, instead of south toward the castle. He was through with the king. There could be no more bowing, scraping, pretending to be loyal. It was finally at an end, and he could openly pursue his own course.
“I will not return to that castle until it is mine,” he said aloud to himself. “He will pay, oh ... he will pay,” he said over and over until it began to sound like a spell, or a curse.
* * *
King Melanthius watched through the crack of his tent flap as Falak flew out of sight. He sighed as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. He didn’t know how it happened, but whenever that owl was around he felt less of a king, and more of a child. It wasn’t unlike the way his own wife made him feel. He shook himself like a huge bulky animal and ran his large hands over his face. “I’m the king here,” he whispered to himself. “I need no advisor, I need no queen, I need no Author, to tell me what to do with my own Plot and my own people.”
He saw in his mind the hatred in Falak’s eyes, the disrespect of the centaurs, the derision in his queen’s voice, the betrayal of his own children. His chest constricted painfully as fear gripped him. He had lost control somewhere along the way. Where? He asked himself desperately. But no answer came. So, he ignored his fear, and the small bit of wisdom he may have won if he had listened to it more closely. Instead, he did what came most naturally to him.
“Attack,” his voice came loud, dying abruptly as it hit the walls of his tent. “If they will not listen and obey me, they must learn their lesson, even if it kills them. After all,” he questioned the silver goblet on the table before him, “I must protect my Kingdom from the Wild Land, mustn’t I? We must go to battle, we must attack. It cannot be too soon.” He slammed a heavy fist down on the table before him, and then bellowed for a soldier.
“Have the army ready to march at dawn,” he shouted into the man’s surprised face. “We will find this pathetic Wild Land army and obliterate it, do you hear?”
The Word Changers Page 22
