Posy felt her throat tighten as she once again sought out Kyran, but she couldn’t see him. In dread, she began to lookposy asked around for a hold so that she could climb out of the tree. There was none. The trunk was sheer up to where she sat. She cried out in frustration, then made a decision. She would have to jump. She looked down and tried to gauge how far it must be. Twelve feet? Fifteen? Just do it, she told herself, and before she could think and change her mind, she jumped.
Her next sensation was like being sucked into a vacuum, and her stomach felt like it had risen into her rib cage. Then a shock as her body slammed into the hard earth. Posy heard a sharp crack, felt horrible pain shoot from her ankle up her leg, and knew without a doubt she had broken something. She heard a scream of pain, which must have been her own, but even above her pain she could only think of the hindrance this would be to finding Kyran.
She immediately started forward in an awkward combination of a hobble and a sort of drag, making her way toward the slowing battle. She was agonizingly slow, and sharp shafts of pain shooting up her leg made her cry out with every step she took. But she had one thought overshadowing all the others—only to get to Kyran. What was a broken ankle or leg? There were people dying here, dying right before her eyes. It wasn’t a book anymore, wasn’t a story that could be opened and closed. These characters wouldn’t come back to fill their roles when the next reader came, and if Kyran was one of them ... if he was ... No, she wouldn’t think of it now.
Posy stopped when she got near the battle, and grasped a tree trunk for support. Peering out from behind it, she scanned the thinning battlefield. Many were dead or dying. She saw many of the king’s soldiers lying where arrows or swords had struck them down. She saw the men and Wild Land creatures of Kyran’s army lying still in the bloodied grass. A man with tree-bark skin and mossy hair groaned near her at the edge of the trees. When Posy looked down at him, he seemed almost to be melting into the earth. The creature turned its acorn eyes up to Posy’s face and said, “He only weakens himself by killing us. With each one of us he causes to die, he strengthens the seal upon his own fate.” Posy realized her face had contorted in fear, in horror, in pity, and in helplessness. She watched as the man disappeared, with only a mossy spot in the grass remaining to mark that he had ever existed at all.
A cry went up then, and Posy’s blood ran cold at the sound of it.
“Fall back!” Alvar’s deep voice bellowed above the chaos. “The prince has been taken!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Change of Heart
And so he was. Posy saw midway across the battlefield three of the king’s soldiers restraining the prince. She saw Kyran struggling in frustration. She saw his mouth move as he tried to shout toward where the king stood nearby. Melanthius gave no indication he heard his son; he made a slight gesture to one of the soldiers and the man turned to throw his fist forcefully into Kyran’s stomach. Kyran doubled forward. They had taken his sword and shield and tied his hands with a thick rope behind his back. Melanthius nodded, and the three soldiers drew their swords and pointed them at Kyran.
“Good people!” the king’s voice rolled across the field to where Alvar and his army had separated from them, and now stood apart. “Lay down your weapons and surrender, and the prince will not die. Promise to obey me, your king, and return to the Plot, and I will spare his life.”
Alvar’s great shoulders dropped a fraction, but his face did not reveal his defeat.
“If we drop our weapons, you must abide by your promise, Melanthius. If you do not, you will die.”
“Oh!” the king laughed. “Such an insolent threat from a conquered man. And a rather difficult thing to accomplish when you are surrounded by an army twice your size, weaponless.”
“It takes but a moment to lift up a weapon, and another to loosen a deadly arrow—and that is all the time I would need. If I am unable to do it today, another would do it tomorrow, I assure you.” Alvar’s voice held a deadly intensity as his hooded eyes bore into the king.
Alarm flickered through Melanthius’ eyes just before his features hardened and he bellowed, “Drop your weapons! I am the king, and what I say, I will do.”
Silence, then, until Alvar nodded his head, eyes still fixed on the king. Then the men and Wild Folk and other creatures of the army laid their weapons down in the grass before them. Posy began to cry, watching their faces, for they lay down much more than weapons.
The king’s army swiftly surrounded them, pushing them forward toward the king, and away from their weapons, which lay scattered on the grass.
“Well, now,” Melanthius visibly relaxed. Then he squinted at the hill that sloped upward toward the castle some distance away. A small group of people made their way down it on horseback. As they got closer, Posy could see it was several castle guards. Queen Valanor sat astride her horse among them, tall and rigid. The sun caught a strand of her white-blond hair and seemed to make her whole face and head glow.
She would look as beautiful as an angel if I didn’t know differently, Posy thought bitterly.
As they cantered through the crowd, the soldiers made way for them, and the queen graced them with her cold smile. The king held out his hand to help her dismount. “I see you finally managed to do something right,” she said under her breath as she smoothed out her dress. The king turned a blank face away from her.
Posy watched from the edge of the trees. They were not far from where she hid, but she knew she had to risk danger and get nearer. She made her way falteringly on her damaged ankle past the bodies scattered on the field. She tried to shut it out, somehow, but it was impossible. Her eyes were drawn to the faces of these men who would never see their own land again, and she fought down the sobs that rose in her throat.
She came to the edge of the great crowd of the two converged armies and pushed her way through the king’s soldiers who surrounded the perimeter of the group. They barely noticed her, so rapt were they on the king and his family. She made it some distance before a man’s voice clicked "Eh, eh" in her ear as a hard hand grasped her arm, jerking her to a stop. “No further than that, if you please.” The man eyed her sharply, eyebrows drawn together.
He recognizes me! thought Posy with rising panic. But the man only shook his head and said, his voice disapproving, “I’d never have thought the prince was so desperate as to employ women in his army. A shame is what it is.”
Posy let loose a silent sigh of relief as he turned away from her. She looked around her and realized she had gained what she wanted—a view of Kyran.
After the queen and king consulted quietly together for a few minutes, the queen held up her hand for silence, and announced, “We will be having a trial here, to determine the guilt of the prince Kyran.”
“A trial?” Alvar roared.
“Why, yes.” The queen didn’t blink an eye at the outburst. “Oh—perhaps you think his guilt is so obvious we should forego the trial? Hmm,” she pretended to consider. “Perhaps you are wise.”
“The king has just sworn the prince’s safety to us,” Alvar continued, his anger rising. “A trial judged by the likes of you can lead to only one thing.”
“Indeed?” the queen’s eyebrows lifted. “And what is that?”
“His death,” spat out Alvar with contempt. “And isn’t that just what you’ve wanted from the start?”
“Silence him,” the queen said calmly. “He has caused enough trouble already and will pay for it in due course.”
Posy strained, but she could not see Alvar through the throng of people. She could hear a violent struggle ... then silence. Had they killed him? Her heart beat like the wings of a trapped bird within her rib cage.
It was then she felt something tickle her leg, feather soft. She looked down. Sitting at her feet was a tiny gray field mouse. It gazed up at her with intelligence and feeling she had seen before, in another creature’s eyes, and before she knew what she did, she bent down and picked it up.
“Thank you,�
�� it squeaked, and leapt nimbly from her palm to her shoulder. “We do not have much time,” it continued. “You must be ready for what will happen next. You will have but a moment to act.”
“Ready for what?” she whispered, trying not to move her mouth.
“Ah, now,” the mouse’s voice seemed to smile. “That cannot be told. Does a character know at the beginning of the story where he will be at the end?”
“But then ... how am I to be ready?” Posy questioned.
“You must be ready for anything,” the mouse breathed in her ear. “For everything.”
Then the Author scurried down her dress like a flash and disappeared into the tall grass. Yes, the Author, she thought. There was no mistaking him, whatever form he took. Posy allowed herself a small smile, for now she knew there was hope. Kyran looked up then and caught her eye, and he instantly mirrored her smile. It caught at her heart, for she knew he did it to assure her.
Be ready for everything? How was that possible? The Author never revealed the full plan to any of his characters. But then, she thought, wouldn’t it be ridiculous if he did? The characters would lose hope ... or perhaps gain it too soon. She had to act on what she knew, on where and whom she was—not on a far-off ending that may change in the course of things anyway. The Author knew the end, and the characters would get there, but not until they began to do things now to make the pages turn. She must take the chance given her, however small—just as she had done in her prison cell.
“... death,” the queen finished as Posy came out of her reverie. Posy’s heart skipped a beat at that word, and her gaze searched the crowd, looking for a clue as to what had just happened. “You must, my lord,” Valanor said to the king. “It was our daughter before, for no crime at all. How much more must it be the prince now, for all the wrongdoing he has committed against you.”
So she was sentencing him to death, then, and Alvar had been right. She was trying to push the king into passing the judgment here and now, before he could change his mind. But the king had promised ... well, Posy knew it didn’t matter. He wasn’t a strong enough man to keep his promises. All the same, Posy glued her eyes to Melanthius’ face as he paced before them. His boots thudded on the ground and his armor and sword clanked against each other. His face was thoughtful. Posy squinted at him. He was truly thinking about this, and she could see that it troubled him greatly. It was the first hint of anything good she had seen in him, and her heart leapt up in hope before she could stop it.
Queen Valanor saw his indecision as well. “You must—” she began, but stopped short when the king turned a slow, hard gaze on her.
“I must?” he whispered, and the queen’s eyes widened in surprise. A heartbeat later, her surprise slid swiftly into a gentle smile, and she walked over to him and put her arm through his. Posy reeled at the speed and ease of the change. Surely, the king could see it for the deception it was?
“You must do nothing you do not wish, of course,” her voice came softly. Only those closest to them could hear. “But you know as well as I that the Plot requires a sacrifice or it cannot survive. And it cannot be just anyone. That is what is written, Your Majesty.”
“Written? By the Author, do you mean?”
“No. For you are the author, husband. The ancient laws that hold the Plot together—that is where it is written.”
And who wrote those laws? Posy wondered.
Then an unbelievable thing happened. Melanthius’ eyes, as he gazed at his queen, changed. It was subtle—nothing even to detect by those who saw only surface things. But Posy saw it. It swam below the surface, in a dark and secret place, but she saw it all the same, recognized it for what it was. And she knew instinctively that it was a great change—a change that would save Kyran’s life.
“Yes, I am the king, as you say,” he said slowly. “We follow the Plot that was written because that is what we have always done. I cannot blame my son for wanting something different ... something more. Can I? After all, Queen, we have changed the Plot in many ways over these ages ... perhaps we have forgotten.”
“Chosen to forget!” shouted one of the Wild Folk from the crowd.
The queen tried to hide her panic and horror, but Posy could see she struggled. She opened her mouth once more, her pale face even paler than before, but the king stopped her.
“No, there can be no trial today. No sacrifice or death,” he said, his voice strong with decision at last. “For I am no more innocent than my son. Nor, I think,” he finished quietly, “are you, my queen.”
The battlefield was silent, so silent that Posy began to feel tingling in her spine. She thought everyone must have stopped cold at such a sudden change in the story, by the person they least expected it from. They were frozen with disbelief. She saw that Kyran’s face beamed through his matted hair and the dried blood on his face. Posy knew his joy was more for his father’s heart than for his own saved life.
Someone cried out then. Posy didn’t know if it was one of the king’s men, or one of the prince’s. She thought it was the first cry of joy at the king’s words—the start of a celebration at this new peace. She was wrong. It was a cry of alarm, and it was not long before there were many more. Someone shouted—someone pointed to the sky. Posy cast her eyes upward and saw a black cloud darkening the sky, blotting out the sun, moving and pulsing like a living thing.
No, she saw clearly now. Not a cloud. Owls. Hundreds of them. And with their deadly talons spread, they descended.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Victory and Defeat
They went first for the king. A tightly-knit group of them made a straight line to him, bearing down on him until he lay on the ground, screaming.
Posy knew she had only a moment—that’s what the Author had said. Only a moment to do what must be done. So she ran toward Kyran as swiftly as she could, forgetting the pain in her leg and ankle. She immediately crashed into the solid body of a soldier and went sprawling across the grass. She was up in an instant, a single purpose in her mind. When she reached Kyran, he was ready.
“Hurry, Posy,” his voice was tight with desperation as he watched his father struggling, the owls so thick on him he was barely visible. “A knife, a knife!”
Posy cast her eyes around frantically. She didn’t want to do it, but there was no other choice. She made for one of the soldiers lying dead on the grass not far from them, and pulled his sword from his lifeless hand. Kyran thrust his hands out and away from his back as she returned and she set the blade against the rope that bound them. If she weren't careful, she could cut him badly. Kyran had no patience for it, though.
“Just hold it steady,” he commanded. Then he swept his arms upward against the sword. The rope dropped at Posy’s feet. Kyran turned with terrible speed and seized the sword Posy held, saying, “Run. Into the trees. Run, Posy.”
He was gone in a flash. He lifted his sword as he went, then descended on the throng of owls assailing his father, hacking and swinging with strength that came from somewhere beyond his own body. Posy stood frozen for a long moment, watching him. Then his words hit her, and she ran.
Posy was only halfway across the battlefield when she was knocked heavily to the ground. She felt claws like knives in her back. She screamed. Rolling swiftly to the side, she bypassed the next swooping attack. She got to her feet as swiftly as she could manage, her ankle still throbbing dully, and struck out with her fist, the only weapon she had. It met with the side of her attacker’s head. The owl lurched sideways, and before it could get its bearings and attack another time, Posy was running again.
At last, she arrived under the cover of the trees, and sunk into a bed of ferns to hide. As her breathing steadied and slowed, the pain in her ankle and leg grew. The places where the owl’s talons had torn into her felt like paths of fire trailing down her back. Her body had a distant longing to lie down, to simply go limp, and fall into a dreamless sleep. But the pain that went through her in waves kept her body rigid and shaking.
&nb
sp; “Posy!” she heard her name, and the sound of someone running through the forest undergrowth. She poked her head slowly out of the ferns.
“Evanthe!” she cried out as the princess fell to the ground next to her, and they wrapped their arms around each other.
“Oh,” Evanthe exclaimed when she saw Posy wince. “Posy, you’re bleeding!” Her violet eyes were wide with concern. “How did this happen?” Her gentle hands turned Posy around, and she gasped in shock.
“It’s nothing,” Posy said, turning back around quickly. “An owl attacked me before I could get here and hide. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about it now.” She tried not to think of the inevitable scars that would remain.
“My poor dear,” Evanthe said. Somehow, Posy always felt like a child with Evanthe, though she knew they were near the same age. It had given her a tinge of annoyance in these past days, but it was strangely welcome now, with pain and death and fear around her. She slipped her hand into the princess’ and allowed herself a fragment of comfort.
The battle—the second of the day—went on. The cries and shouts of battle seemed almost too much to Posy. How much would they all have to endure before this would end? Yet this was different ... and it did not take the two girls long to see it.
Something happened that Falak had not considered. When the king had his change of heart, so did each of his men, many of whom had been hesitant about the prince’s capture and death to begin with. Now instead of one army for the owls to fight against, there were two. A horrible—a fatal—miscalculation on Falak’s part. But then, how could he have seen? How could he have possibly known? Posy admitted to herself that none of them would have expected it to come to this.
It was short work, really. The girls watched, hands clasped, as the owls were finally driven away. Posy wondered fleetingly if Falak had been killed, or if he would fly away to hatch plans once again in some dark faraway place. He had been evil from the start, and she had been too blind to see it. Yet he had been the one to bring her into this story, and she could never, ever regret that.
The Word Changers Page 25
