A Gathering of Wings (26 page)

Zephele flips a careless hand. “You strike me as quite sufficiently brutish already, Master Featherhoof.”

Neal bows gallantly. “M’lady, you spoil me with compliments.”

“On that note, this lady will take her leave,” Zephele says, climbing gracefully to her feet. “My friends are expecting me in the stitchery. They are eager to hear all the gossip about Malora Resurrected.”

“What will you tell them?” Malora asks.

Zephele’s eyes widen. “Why, that you can fly through the air and walk across the Neelah without wetting your pretty little People toes.”

Malora’s jaw drops. “Really?” she asks.

Zephele leans over and kisses Malora. “Of course not, dearest. I never gossip about you. And besides, I wouldn’t dream of stoking their already overheated imaginations. Will you be resuming your training at the forge?”

“Brion expects me tomorrow,” Malora says.

“Excellent. Well then, perhaps Swiftstride will let you forge a buffalo-whacker for your next project,” she says, tripping gaily down the porch steps.

Neal watches her until she rounds the side of the house, her golden hooves flashing, her braided tail swinging saucily. Neal sighs.

“You two seem
friendly
,” Malora says when they are alone.

“When you left us, we thought you were gone for good,” Neal says. “As it happens, I was able to comfort Zephele as few others could.”

“I’m glad,” Malora says.

“Grief revealed depths in her I had not known existed,” Neal says.

“They were always there,” Malora says.

Neal shakes his head quickly, as if clearing it. “Let’s talk about the wild centaurs.”

Malora eyes him closely.
Does he realize I know more than I have told?
“What do you want to know?” she asks warily.

“If the wild centaurs are as formidable as you say, perhaps you really should forge me a sword so that I, at least, stand a chance against them,” he says.

She searches his face to see if he is joking. He isn’t. She says, “Making a little knife was one thing. I could be turned
out for making a weapon, especially now that I am on the Apex’s bad side.”

“You’re right, of course,” Neal says hastily. “Forgive me for even asking such a thing.”

“Apart from the guard on the paddock,” Malora says, “you might want to post a lookout—”

“Already taken care of, pet,” he says. “I’ve gotten special dispensation from the priests of the temple to place a lookout in the dome. Kheiron’s glorious golden dome will, at long last, be put to a
useful
purpose.”

Malora has dragged a bale of hay in a sack up the mountain to keep Sky occupied while she works. Setting him up in the yard outside the smithy, she opens the creaking doors and enters. Sky peers into the shop and shakes his mane, as if the attraction of this foul-smelling place eluded him. The smells of smoke and metal and sweat welcome her like old friends. Groping around in the dark for her apron, she ties it on and pads across to the furnace, her boots sinking into the fine sand. She lays her palm against the stone, which still holds the heat from yesterday’s fire. On the hearth lies a row of finials. She packs wood shavings into the cavity just above the firepot and uses the firebrand to kindle the shavings. Once the fire has caught, she lays some sticks of oak on top of that. When the bigger fire catches hold, she rakes the coke over the fire and works the bellows until the fire glows red-hot.

“That blue-eyed monster of yours seems to have made himself at home,” Brion says. “Welcome home, Malora.”

Malora turns from the forge and smiles at the blacksmith. “I’m glad to be back,” she says. A clap on the shoulder from
him is the extent of their physical contact. They set to work on the finials, as if she has never left the shop.

He will be hurt, she thinks as they work, if I do not tell him my story. While they weld the finials onto the fence posts, Malora tells Brion her story, concentrating on the wild centaurs and the escape with the horses.

“That was a brave deed,” Brion says.

“Foolish, if it winds up bringing an army of wild centaurs down upon us,” Malora says.

“Don’t you worry, Daughter. Neal Featherhoof and his crew can make fast work of them,” Brion says.

“Not without the right weapons, they can’t,” Malora mutters, more to herself than to him.

But Brion has heard her, and he turns to her slowly, one side of his face reddened by the fire. “What would be the right weapon?”

She hesitates momentarily, then describes the hacking and whacking swords of the wild centaurs.

Brion goes over to the pile of stock in the corner and picks up a big, heavy bar. “A hefty sword needs to come from a hefty bar,” he says. “What do you say we start with this one?”

Malora hesitates. “The Apex would put us both out,” she says.

“The Apex would hand your horses over to those idol-worshipping savages,” Brion says.

“But the fence …,” Malora says.

“The fence can wait,” Brion says. “We have more important work to do here in this forge. Build up that fire, will you, Daughter? We’re going to need some big heat to make this hacker and whacker.”

After Malora has built up the fire, Brion starts by thrusting the bar into the fire and heating it to red-hot, then flattening it along the blade area, drawing it out into the general shape of a sword’s blade and checking with her occasionally to make sure that he is on the right track. He heats it and draws it out, folds it over, then heats it again and folds it.

“I’m going to let it cool without working it this next round to make sure that the metal stays strong,” Brion says, lifting his tattered hat off his head and wiping the sweat from his brow. “We’ll work on the finials while the blade cools.”

They work on the sword for nearly a month. Malora finds that the very act keeps her Night Demon thoughts at bay. When the weapon is finished to Brion’s satisfaction, he says, “Now what can we do for you? You can’t expect to hold off the wild centaurs with that wee knife of yours.”

Malora has already given this some thought. She won’t feel evenly matched with a wild centaur unless she is seated on Sky. She is unschooled in wielding a sword. She is afraid she will lop Sky’s head off by accident. She needs to fight from a distance so that she and Sky are kept away from the sword blades. “I could use a spear,” she says. “Something I can break down and carry in two pieces in my saddlebag but put together quickly if needed.”

Brion’s eyes light up with the challenge. “I have seen such things in the Arsenal,” he says. Over the next few days, they work on the spear. They make it with a metal shaft and barbed point with a hardwood handle, wrapped in waxed twine for easy gripping. The handle screws into the shaft, and the unit, disassembled, fits neatly into her saddlebag. If the barb sticks in her opponent’s flesh, she will use the little knife to dig it
out, assuming she has the time. When Malora points out that other jobs have begun to pile up, Brion dismisses them with a wave of his hand. “This comes first,” he says.

She says nothing of this to her friends, who visit her at the house every night. One night, Honus comes alone for the evening meal, bringing a covered bowl of lemon pood. While she sets the table, Honus examines her collection shelf.

“I’m surprised Zephele hasn’t confiscated the ruby pomegranate now that you have returned,” Honus says.

“I tried several times to give it back to her, but she won’t take it,” Malora says.

“Lume’s?” Honus asks, holding up the white feather, which she has added to her collection.

She nods.

“It is a splendid specimen,” he says, running it through his fingers. “The longest feather I have ever seen, and quite the whitest.”

“He has lots of them,” Malora says. “I’m sure he would part with another, if you ask.”

“Will you be seeing him again?” Honus asks.

Not a day passes that she does not search the sky for him. She wonders if he watches her from afar. “I hope to,” she says.

Honus gives her a long, searching look, which she avoids by concentrating on her food.

After the meal, they sit out on the porch and watch the horses gambol in the paddocks.

Honus gets the fire going in his pipe and then tilts his head and settles back. Malora senses a lecture in the offing. “Once upon a time,” he begins, “hibes of different types found themselves attracted to one another and indulged in
certain
intimacies
. As a result of these
intimacies
, monsters were born, most not surviving their infancy. That is the reason, many say, that the Houses of Romances were started. They provided places where interhibal intimacy could be practiced,” he says carefully, “without fear of the consequences.”

Malora gives him a quizzical look. “Why are you telling me this now?” she asks.

Honus lifts his slender shoulders and avoids meeting her eyes. “It’s part of your ongoing education.” He pulls hard on the pipe.

She narrows her eyes at his profile, limned by the embers from his pipe.

He goes on, “It is natural for you to wonder what might happen should you, at some point, when the time is right, wish to practice intimacy with a mate who is a hibe … which he, after all, inevitably would have to be.”

“Is that what you think will happen?” Malora asks. “That my children, if I have them, will be monsters? Even though I myself am not a hibe?”

“I cannot say so with certainty, but it is an educated guess,” Honus says.

“Thank you for your educated guess,” she says stiffly, just as Orion rounds the side of the house at a gallop, his eyes wild.

Both she and Honus leap to their feet.

“Come immediately, both of you!” he says, leaning on the porch railing to catch his breath. “The worst has happened!”

With one conspicuous exception, they are all back in the Hall of Mirrors, where they had stood when Malora first returned from the dead. The Apex and Herself huddle over the clutter of papers on the table, looking pale and shaken. Across from them, Neal gives his report. His buckskin vest is untied, his hair disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot.

“Sunshine sustained a fatal wound but did not live to tell what happened. Farin Whitewithers was found murdered at the gate,” Neal says. “There are no other casualties … that we know of at this time. I don’t understand,” he says, raking his fingers through his curls. “I don’t understand how they could have gotten past the city gates!”

“Has anyone told Lemon?” Malora asks.

“Ash has gone to sit with the poor fellow,” Neal says.

Malora is awash with pity for the dour little Twan, who must have died defending her mistress. Either that or Zephele’s abductors didn’t want to take her with them and were
eliminating a witness. She worries that Zephele saw the murder. Wherever she is now, Malora imagines her friend grieving and raging by turns.

“This is the work of wild centaurs,” Malora says, reciting from memory Athen’s motto, according to Mather: “Strike hard, strike fast, and make for the Downs.
Leave no witnesses to tell the tale
.”

“That much is obvious,” the Apex says. “What is less obvious is
why abduct Zephele
? Why not just take what was theirs and leave? And how in Kheiron’s good name did they even know where to find her?”

The Apex casts his eyes around at them one by one, settling on Malora. “Well, Daughter?” he asks, his gray eyes boring into her.

Behind her, Sky prods her forward with his nose.

Malora avoids meeting the Apex’s gaze. Instead she watches as her reflection in the mirror turns a deep pink. She clears her throat. “Athen?” Her voice sounds small and defenseless.

“Athen!” Herself echoes, astonished. “What causes you to invoke my son’s name?”

The Apex growls: “Explain yourself, Daughter!”

Malora braces herself. If the Apex is angry now, when she reveals the entire story he will
explode
. But she has spoken, and now there is no unsaying it. “Athen would know where to find his sister … wouldn’t he?” She looks around. Her friends stare at her as if she were a stranger.

Orion says, “Explain to us, I beg you, Malora, what you mean.”

“I was waiting for a way to tell you all this, but Athen,” she says, taking a deep breath, “is with the wild centaurs.”

At first, no one speaks. Finally, Herself says, “If you knew this, why did you not liberate him along with your precious horses?”

Because Herself’s tone stings, Malora delivers the next information more bluntly: “Because Athen doesn’t need or want liberating. He is happy where he is. Happier than he ever was here in Mount Kheiron.”

“Ah!” Honus says softly, nodding, as if this makes perfect sense.

“I don’t believe you!” Herself’s voice breaks. “How could he be
happy
living among such savages?”

“He is the leader of those savages,” Malora says. “The Alpha Stallion.”

“Of course he would be!” says Honus.

“What are you saying?” the Apex whispers.

Malora goes on. “Athen is a mighty and respected ruler of the wild centaurs, from what Mather told me. He—”

“Mather?” Orion cuts in. “Mather is with the wild centaurs as well? Our cousin is alive?”

Malora nods. “If not exactly happy, at least alive.” She turns to the Apex. “Almost all of the centaurs that you—or any of the Apexes before you—have ever turned out have taken refuge in the Land of Ixion.”

“Why did you not tell us this when you first came home?” the Apex asks in a soft voice she finds even more threatening than his roar.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Malora says. “I couldn’t find
a way to tell you that would not cause you pain. I wanted to spare you additional grief. Telling you that Athen, or even Mather, was still alive seemed unkind. I was afraid that for you it would be like losing them all over again.” Malora bites her lip. Herself is crumpled and weeping in her husband’s arms.

“But I’m even more sorry,” Malora says, “that I took the horses. If I hadn’t taken the horses, Zephele would still be safe in Mount Kheiron and the wild centaurs would never have come south. All of this is my fault. I hope that you will forgive me, but I do not expect you to.”