CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Alone
Faxon, Caris and Topaz arrived at Alvar’s camp that very afternoon, and found that Kyran, Evanthe and Posy had arrived only an hour or two before.
“And sent by the Author himself, so they say!” whispered one of the soldiers confidentially to Faxon as he led him to the tent where the children were resting. The centaur merely nodded.
The reunion was a happy one, and a sad one. Posy felt such an overwhelming sorrow knowing that so many of the centaurs she had seen only days before were now dead. She hadn’t even known most of them. But their hearts had wanted the same thing she did, the same thing Kyran and Evanthe did, and it seemed unbearably cruel that they should be gone now because of it. Stonus, too, had died in the glade. Posy remembered his hesitance accepting Kyran and her, yet he had helped them still, led them, given them wise advice. The thought that he had died in their defense seemed too much to bear. But it seemed also to drive home the importance of this war, and their vital need to win it.
“Sadness is natural, child,” Caris said resting her arm over Posy’s shoulder, “so long as it flows out again with the tide. We must not keep it with us. Our friends knew the risk, as did we, and they were happy to lay down their lives for the Wild Land and the True Story.”
“The True Story?” Posy asked shakily through her tears, looking up into Caris’ beautiful, bruised face.
“Something far different from the Kingdom’s Plot, I’m afraid,” Topaz said, shaking his black braids. “It is the name the Wild Folk have given to our cause. It is the story the Author intended us to be a part of; not the one fabricated by the council and the king.”
“Yes,” Posy nodded, and again her mind heard the words the Author had spoken to them—the promise he had extracted from Kyran. “Yes,” she said again more strongly. She would do much to see the triumph of the True Story. But die? It wasn’t a question she wanted to ask herself right now. She still felt the tug of her own world in the back of her mind, and a sort of numb wonder that she had been so quick to forget it. She wondered if she died within this story, would she ever be able to return to her family.
Caris ran a soft, strong hand over Posy’s cheek and smiled sadly at her. “We hope it will not come to that, child.”
Only after she had walked away did Posy realize Caris had heard and answered her fear, even though she had not spoken it.
* * *
The prince and princess were closeted with Alvar, Faxon and Topaz for a long time within one of the tents. Planning, Posy knew. She tried not to feel left out, now the princess was here. What good could she do in planning a battle? Not so very long ago she would have been part of that meeting. Now that the princess was back, she felt herself seem to slide toward the edges of this story once more. Perhaps it was just her own feeling, she told herself. The princess was bound to return eventually; that was our quest, after all! Posy told herself. It’s not as if I haven’t had time to prepare for this.
She let her eyes wander through the camp. More men and Wild Folk showed up every hour, adding to their army’s numbers. She watched as the Wild Folk hovered around the borders of the camp. They were uneasy around men, around fires and tents and clanging swords and armor. Their willowy figures, ferny hair, skin like moss-covered bark, seemed unreal in the shadows. No, they were not at home here. But they were here all the same; they were willing to fight for a cause that had become their own. Posy knew the Author must be somewhere in the Wild Land, stirring its creatures to action. He had told them bravery must be awakened. Well, it looked as if the waking had begun.
When Kyran and the others finally emerged from the tent some hours later as darkness was falling in the forest, Posy did not rush to meet them and question what had been decided. She made herself stay seated by one of the campfires and hoped her face didn’t betray her sharp curiosity. With a pang, she saw Kyran glance her way and smile at her, but then turn and walk away somewhere within the camp. She had not missed the weariness and strain on his face, though, and she wished she were brave enough to chase him and find a way to wipe it all away.
Evanthe came to sit next to her at the fire. After a few moments, her soft voice said, “It has been decided. We will march tomorrow.”
“So soon?” Posy couldn’t conceal her surprise.
“It seems a couple of soldiers spotted one of the owls spying on the camp. He will already have told the king our size and location. We really have no choice, for they will surely attack us within a day or two anyway.”
“I see,” said Posy, her heart sinking. It had to come to this. It had to, she repeated to herself silently. But I want more time. I need more time to be with Kyran. I can’t leave him yet. It will rip my heart in two. She knew, somehow, that the end of this war, whatever the outcome, would be the end of her time here. She let out an abrupt, involuntary sob. The princess lifted her slender arm to place it around Posy’s shoulders. She squeezed her tightly and said, “I understand, darling. You may not think I can, but I do.”
Posy wanted only to shake Evanthe’s arm off her, to shout at her. But she knew she couldn’t do that in the face of such kindness. She stood up, and the princess’ arm fell away from her. “Thanks,” Posy said through clenched teeth, holding in her tears. “I just ... I can’t ...” She shook her head. Why finish? She couldn’t even explain it to herself. She turned to walk away into the darkening trees, away from the camp. She had always hated for others to see her tears. And she had many of them to shed now.
* * *
Posy awoke, stiff and chilled to the core, staring into blackness. She had wandered outside of the camp, crying until she knew her eyes must be red and puffy and her face blotchy. Into her mind had crept a memory, a time a few years ago. It was a night like so many others, and Posy could hear her parents' angrily raised voices down the hall. She had wept desperately, face pushed into her pillow. Posy knew now, looking back, that she had been trying to hide the sound of her crying from herself more than from anyone else in the house.
That night had been a strange one, and maybe something evil had descended on their house. But for some reason, when Posy’s tears had run out, she got out of her bed and crossed the room. She turned on her small yellow lamp. Her mother had put the lamp in her nursery when she was a baby. Now it was on her dresser and out of place with its frilly gingham border in her 13-year-old bedroom. She had walked to the mirror. She had leant in, hands flat on her low dresser-top, her face inches from the mirror, and stared into the face of her reflection. Dark shadows, magnified by the lamp beside her, pooled under her eyes, and her young cheeks had looked hollow, like those of an old woman. An idea, more than words themselves, came into her mind then. Grief, it said to her, must change a person into something awful.
Aloud, she had said coolly to her reflection, “I hate you.”
Unbelievably, her tears stopped after that, as if a well had dried up. She lay at night hearing her parents argue, listening with a sort of cold observation that turned out to be short-lived. She wasn’t old enough, nor had she seen enough, to become so hard—not yet. And her tears came back a few months later. But she hated to cry unless alone. She hated to think of anyone else witnessing the secret distortion of her face in such horrible sadness. And she never again would go near a mirror while crying, or after, until she could feel her face fall safely back into the face she knew.
She sat beneath a tree, leaning against its smooth trunk, so deep in remembrance that the forest was far away. She had finally sunk into sleep, like a refuge to drown in, and she awoke now to true night. She couldn’t even make out the dancing orange dots that would have been campfires through the trees. All was silent, and a sudden bitter and painful thought shot through her: No one has even remembered me, or noticed that I’ve gone. She stood up, more angry than sad now, and strained her eyes fiercely into the shadows, trying to see something, anything. The thought crossed her mind that she should be afraid, but she barely had time to work up any fear of her
situation before she heard, quite close to her:
“Now, if you stay still and keep quiet, this will be quite painless.”
Ice shot through Posy’s veins. She opened her mouth to scream, hoping desperately that someone in the camp was awake to hear her, but a rough, foul-smelling hand roughly clamped down on her mouth before she could utter a sound. She began to struggle violently in the steely arms that came around her. The man made a tsking noise. “Well, that’s too bad, that is,” he said in mock regret. “I thought you was a smart girl, especially escaping like you did from the castle. But I see I was mistaken. Tie her up, Lem.”
Two of them, at least. Perhaps more. She had no chance of escape unless she could get her mouth free long enough to scream. It was her only hope. She fought fiercely, twisting and thrashing, trying to slip out of the man’s grasp. But his hands were like iron clamps on her arms—she could feel the bruises already tender there.
“I did warn you to keep still, lass, and I don’t warn twice. You’re lucky I said it once, you are.”
It was the last thing Posy heard before what must have been a large fist smashed into the side of her jaw, sending pain through her like an explosion, and blackness darker than the night bursting in her head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Preparations
Dust swirled in the opening of Kyran’s tent as Evanthe threw back the flaps and swept in. She knelt next to the cot where he slept and shook him gently. No need for haste now, she thought sadly, and took a deep breath as he rolled over and looked at her. He sat up, and his sharp black eyes immediately saw what she was carrying draped over her arm.
“Posy,” he said, snatching the cloak from his sister. “Evanthe?” He stood quickly and began to head for the door of the tent without waiting for an answer.
“Please, Kyran, wait,” Evanthe called after him. “She is gone, my dear.”
Kyran stopped before the opening of the tent, his back to his sister. She heard the harsh whisper of his voice, but she could not make out the words—only the bitter sound of them.
“She’s gone back,” he said at last, turning.
“Back, Kyran?”
“Back to her own story. Her own family.” His face drained of color, and emotion. “I always knew she would.”
“I don’t think so.” Evanthe stood and put a delicate hand on his arm. “Alvar has his men searching the vicinity of the camp already, but the place where they found her cloak showed signs of a struggle. See, her cloak is torn.”
“Curse him,” Kyran hissed, and Evanthe didn’t know whom he spoke of. He shook off her hand and burst out of the tent.
Alvar was standing outside waiting for him. “Prince.” His deep voice was gentle. Kyran rushed past, ignoring him. “There is nothing you can do,” Alvar called after him.
Something in Alvar’s voice made Kyran stop. The distressed look on his face melted away, and hardness replaced it. “It was my father.”
Alvar’s silence and sudden downcast eyes told Kyran the truth. “We followed Posy’s trail into the forest. The horseshoe tracks surrounding the area had the king’s mark on them. There was a struggle,” Alvar hesitated, but continued, with a direct gaze at Kyran, “and we found blood on the ground.”
Kyran made a silent, violent movement, his face like thunder. Evanthe thought for a moment that he reminded her of their father. Kyran looked around the camp, at the men emerging from their tents. The tree folk creaked as they lifted their acorn and mulberry eyes to their leader’s face, their leafy hair whispering as it moved. The few centaurs in the camp, never far from the prince, turned their heads to him expectantly.
“Be ready, men,” he called out strongly, his expression tight with pain and anger, “For we march within the hour.”
* * *
Melanthius’ dark eyes rested on the Borders. He watched the forest trees sway lightly in the breeze like a crowd of nervous creatures. They glowed ominously with the arrival of the morning sun. His son—no, he corrected himself—his enemies, would come from there soon. He knew from the many chapters and ages of his life, the many replays of the Plot, that these thoughts were of no good before a battle. He should be sitting hardening himself to the thought of impending death and possible defeat, but never admitting to his soldiers or even himself that anything but victory could happen for them here today.
What a fool he had been to put his trust in the owl, Falak, who had abandoned him. He realized he was putting most of the blame for this war on his Chief Advisor and the Council of Owls. And he meant to see that every other character in the Kingdom felt that way as well after all was said and done. But something whispered to him that if he had been a stronger king, a better man, a kinder father, perhaps none of this would have happened. But it was just a whisper; so easy to ignore that he had forgotten it before it had finished itself in his mind.
The king knew now that Falak would not be coming back. There would be no news from the scout he had sent out to the Wild Land. He knew also that he didn’t have room in his mind to worry about those things now. A battle was at hand, and that very morning he had given orders for his men to be ready. If any of the tales of the Wild Land was true even in part, there was no telling what manner of creatures would emerge with his son’s army.
His battle-hardened mind steadily banished any tug of feeling for his son and daughter. They had chosen to turn against him, and they would have to pay the consequences, however terrible. And, Melanthius thought, his mouth twisting into a shape some would have taken for a smile, they would be terrible.
* * *
The dungeons smelled of fear, death, and urine. Queen Valanor grimaced as the stench hit her like a solid wall, but she was no fainting maid. She hadn’t brought a scented cloth to hold to her nose as most women would have, and she didn’t regret its absence now. She was concerned about more important things.
The guard lifted a torch from its hold in the stone wall and led her down the uneven stairs. The light threw wild shadows on the pocked walls, hiding and revealing in turn the crevices, gaps and scratches etched in the ancient stone. A terrible, unbidden question materialized in the queen’s conscience: were the shadows that hid things, or the light that revealed them, more horrifying? She shook herself angrily for thinking such superstitious nonsense, and stumbled on the hem of her dress. The guard turned quickly to steady her, but she irritably shrugged him away.
“Here we are, Your Majesty,” he said at last. She hadn’t counted how many narrow passages they had come down, how many crooked stone staircases they had descended, but Valanor knew they were deep beneath the castle’s foundation. The hall they were in was the darkest and most foul smelling of all. It was lined with cells on either side. The guard passed a half-dozen empty cells before stopping and holding out the torch toward one of them.
“Ah,” breathed the queen, staring at the shadowy heap in the far corner. “Here she is at last. The usurper princess. How much trouble the Kingdom has had since her ill-fated arrival! More trouble than we have had in a thousand years, I think. Pity we couldn’t have captured my daughter or son along with her.”
“The king’s orders, my lady,” said the guard.
“Yes, yes, I know he wanted her for some reason. I wonder if his advisor put him up to it? Ah, well. I’m sure there is some explanation.” Though he felt no need to inform his wife of his reasons, she finished to herself bitterly.
“You want me to wake her?” the guard asked eagerly.
“Is she sleeping?”
“Unconscious probably. I believe she had rather rough handling.” He grinned.
“She had better not be dead, or the ones who killed her will also die.”
That wiped the grin off his face. Now it was the queen’s turn to smile. “No,” she continued, “do not wake her. Bring food and water for her, though, and if her condition is bad, bring the physician down to see her as well. Now take me away from here.”
When the queen was safely above ground, and the guard
back at his post, he said to one of his fellows, “Who’d a thought the queen would have such a compassionate heart, eh? She was threatening to kill anyone who harmed the prisoner girl. Wonder why she wants her in prison in the first place, then, if she feels so sorry for her? She even thought to bring the physician down to tend to her!”
“You dolt,” the other guard sneered at him. “Of course she doesn’t want the girl alive out of sentiment! You haven’t got a brain in that head, do you? She wants the girl alive for the ceremony. They’re going to sacrifice her!”
* * *
Posy woke to searing pain and the faraway snapping sound of a whip. Her whole body ached and her head and jaw throbbed with a pain she hadn't known was possible. She released a groan that was more like a cry, but making the sound only sent more waves of pain through her head. The place she was in was dark as a moonless night, but from the feel, it was a close place, and from the smell, a vile place.
Again, she heard the whipping sound. It echoed as if coming from down a long corridor. This time she heard taunting shouts and laughter with it. She hoped it wasn’t the captive centaurs that were being beaten, but she feared her hope was futile.
A dungeon, she thought. That’s where I am. She tried to think of the world she had come from. Was it really a different world than this one? She grasped her head and tried to think through the steadily throbbing pain. I had a mother once. And a father. A sister as well. She tried desperately to remember them, and for a moment their faces floated in a sort of unfocused blur before her eyes, but her mind didn’t have the energy to keep them there, and they floated away again out of her reach. The old fog had reached its fingers into her mind again, and she knew she must be within the Kingdom.
She wanted to cry, but knew that would make her head hurt even worse. And she remembered that crying was what landed her here in the first place. Running into the forest alone ... what had she been thinking? And why hadn’t Kyran come after her?
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