Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs (18 page)

Malora asks, “Did Medon journey to the frozen north to recover Honus?”

“Hands, no! No centaur has ever gone there that I know of. It is very cold and slippery, I’m told. No, Father obtained Honus once he was quite thawed out, in Kahiro. Everyone in Mount Kheiron knows the story. Long before he was Apex, when he was not much older than Theon, my father purchased Honus for a pretty nub at the bazaar in Kahiro. Anything on earth you desire,” Zephele says, heaving a dreamy sigh, “you can purchase at the bazaar in Kahiro.”

“So Orion has said.”

“And so is it true. Honus was on display in an exhibition run by a Dromadi proprietor of exotic creatures from the far corners of the known earth. Let me see if I can remember what my father says was there.” Zephele pauses, squinting at
the ceiling, as she begins to recite: “An ophiotarus, that’s half bull and half serpent; a griffin with clipped wings; an al-mi raj, which I believe is a one-horned rabbit; a blue-maned wolf from the west; and an asp-headed leopard called a sta. The family is endlessly grateful, every time we hear this story, that Medon chose Honus and not something else. Imagine, being schooled by a sta! I’m not even sure stas know how to read, much less do figures and recite poetry and dance and pipe, and Honus can do all of those things and more.” Zephele catches herself. “Listen to me, babbling on while you stand around bald as a baby bird tumbled from its nest. Orion would never forgive me if he knew, so please don’t tell him.”

Zephele leans over the bathing tub and indicates two golden spigots, shaped like a lion’s and lioness’s head. For a race that seems to be petrified of lions, Malora thinks, the centaurs seem extremely fond of decorating with them.

“The male gives you cold water, and the female hot. I suppose that’s very true of hibes and beasts alike, isn’t it?” Zephele smacks her hand over her mouth. “I’m too bold, aren’t I? Herself hates when I go on like this. You mustn’t tell her. Let’s make sure you get plenty of hot water.”

For Malora, hot water is for boiling meat too tough to roast. She has never used it for bathing. Even in the Settlement, the People dunked themselves in the icy-cold cistern first thing every morning. “Is there a fire burning underneath the bathing tub?” she asks, getting down on all fours to look.

Zephele blinks in surprise. “A fire, my goodness, no! What a primitive notion. The water is heated by the sun in great vats on the roof,” she explains, turning on the taps and flooding the tub.

As the steam rises, Zephele hands Malora two chalky cakes. Malora is just beginning to wonder if she is meant to eat them, when Zephele says, “This one is lavender, and this one lime pumice. Use the lime to scrub your body and the lavender for your hair.”

Malora continues to look uncertain.

Zephele’s hand returns to her mouth. “Oh, Hands. Don’t tell me you’ve never even used soap before?”

The soap Malora’s mother cooked up from animal fat and herbs is a distant memory. “We weren’t allowed to use it in the cisterns because we drank that water,” she says, dragging the recollection up. “We only used soap when we bathed in the river.”

Zephele shudders. “There you go again with that river bathing. It’s a wonder you haven’t lost an arm—or a leg—and it’s not as if you had all that many to spare! Still, you must tell me all about this Settlement of yours, and all about the bush as well. I think the bush quite agrees with Orion, don’t you? He looks wonderfully handsome and rugged, all scratched up and scabby and brown from the sun, and I think he may even have developed a few muscles. The only muscles he gets from distilling essences are in his nose.”

“Properly mixed and prepared, scents establish the very tone of society,” Malora says dutifully.

Zephele rolls her eyes. “And did my darling brother also give you that business about scents making drowsy souls feel lively and overly excited ones find peace?”

Malora nods. Zephele sighs. “I’m sure alchemy is as old as the Hills of Melea, but the fact is that Orion is its only practitioner. It’s not even remotely popular, although certainly
everyone seems to like the scents he distills, so I suppose he will be kept busy. Still, it’s too bad that he couldn’t have declared something more
physical
, like sculpting or dancing. Of course, no Hand is as physical as being on the Peacekeeping Force, like Neal Featherhoof. But Peacekeeping is not a Hand, nor are Highlanders permitted in the Force.”

Malora dips a foot into the water. Scalded, she quickly pulls back.

“Did you burn yourself?” Zephele leans over the tub to adjust the temperature, then swishes her hand in the water to mix the hot with the cold. “Try it now,” she says. “Orion hardly sees Neal anymore, now that they’re grown. It’s a pity, really, because that means I hardly ever see Neal anymore, and I do so adore seeing him.” She eyes the ceiling. “I’m quite sure, however, that he doesn’t know I exist. Alas, poor little invisible Zephie!”

Malora follows her foot with the rest of her body until she is immersed in water up to her chest. The heat makes her shiver pleasantly. She hopes no one will make her get out anytime soon. Here is yet another wonderful experience to savor. Beds, blankets, food, and now baths. What next?

Zephele prattles on. “Neal’s father runs the vineyard that has been owned by the House of Silvermane for eons. He’s blissfully strapping and handsome—Neal Featherhoof, that is—and as strong as a team of Beltanians. You and he will have a great deal in common, for he has hunted lions.”

“Is that what the Peacekeeping Force does, hunt? Isn’t that against one of the Edicts?” Malora asks. Maybe, she thinks as she slips farther beneath the warm blanket of water, she could join this force.

“Hands, no. Neal hunts for sport, and Flatlanders aren’t held to the Edicts the way we are up here. The Peacekeepers are an army that’s supposed to keep the peace, but it’s really sort of silly because all we ever have around here is peace.” Zephele settles gracefully on the floor beside the tub. “Then again, if all we have is peace, then I guess one might conclude that they do a fearfully good job. Mostly, they escort Highlanders to Kahiro, which must be great fun, but they also turn out those who have violated the Edicts, which can’t be much fun at all.”

Malora glances over at Zephele, whose chin is nestled on her hands, which are resting on the rim of the tub. “You know,” Malora says, “from where I am right now, you look like one of the People.”

“Do I?” Zephele’s eyes ignite, then quickly dim. “Of course, as soon as I stand up the illusion will be dashed, so I shall endeavor to remain here as long as possible to sustain for you what is undoubtedly a comforting illusion. Now, where was I?” She taps her pursed lips, eyes searching the ceiling for her lost thought. “Ah, yes! The Peacekeepers! The Peacekeepers are a joke, when I really think about it, because no one ever attacks us and we attack no one. So the Peacekeepers all bash each other about in practice, and that’s just about that. It would be far more exciting if we had an actual war to fight. About the most interesting thing that happens around here is the race for the Golden Horse on Founders’ Day. We bet on it and brawl about it and it’s almost like war, although I really wouldn’t know, would I? None of us would know. There hasn’t been a war here since the Great Massacre.” She clamps her jaws shut and speaks from the corner of her
mouth. “I don’t suppose they’ve told you about that particular unpleasantness. Oh, dear, there I go again!”

Malora says, “Don’t worry. They told me. Every last human being was slaughtered.”

“Except for your lucky forebears, my darling dearest, who must have escaped!” Zephele says with a fresh burst of good cheer. Then she catches her lower lip in her perfectly straight teeth, her brow creased. “Orion said you have recently buried your own dear mama. He told me in his Stern Voice not to speak of it, but then why, pray tell, did he mention it in the first place if he didn’t want me to speak of it? My brother can be most exasperating. Are you upset that I’m speaking of it? If you are, please don’t tell my brother. He’d be very cross with me, indeed. First there is his Hurt Look, then comes his Stern Look. Following that is the Cross Look. Don’t even ask what comes next, because you don’t want to know. Orion has more than a bit of the Apex in him. Will it make you feel better to tell me about your mama?” Zephele asks. “Or will it make you feel infinitely sadder? When I lost my dear pet squirrel Johnnyboy to one of Neal’s hunting dogs, I wept for days but found that it helped to talk about it.”

Malora says, “Her name was Thora. She was very wise. She knew the uses and lore of all the plants. She was a healer. In the end, she sacrificed herself to save my life.”

“Healers are frightfully serious,” Zephele says, brows knit. “Whereas I am unerringly frivolous. Do go on.”

“She was also, before I was born, a huntress. My father made her a beautiful bow, and they used to hunt together.”

“That’s sounds most romantic,” Zephele says, “apart
from the killing animals part. I shouldn’t like to kill anything, particularly not some dear, helpless wild animal.”

Malora thinks many wild animals are far from helpless. “Sometimes you have to kill animals in order to live.”

Zephele makes a face. “I can’t imagine it. Apart from the fact that it’s in defiance of the Third Edict and most definitely the Fifth, it’s really quite thoroughly revolting. Tell me about your father … who is also no longer living, I presume?”

“Jayke was a master horseman,” Malora says, the heat of pride burning in her cheeks.

Zephele’s mouth drops open.
“Your father was a centaur?”

Malora’s laugh explodes as her head rears out of the water. “No, he trained and rode horses. Horse. Man.”

Zephele sags with relief. “You cannot possibly imagine what was running through this head of mine when I heard you say that. I see—so what you mean to say is that your father was an accomplished horseback-riding human who taught you everything you know about horses, which Orion seems to feel is an infinite amount. More than Gift, I imagine. Gift is exceedingly cross, as Twani go, but that’s because he is under a great deal of pressure to win the Golden Horse for our father. Plus which, he is being paid for his efforts, and that almost never happens with the Twani. I maintain that Twani are much happier when not being paid. But to return to the far more fascinating subject of your father, did you bury him along with your poor dear dead mother?”

“No, he died earlier. The Leatherwings got him.”

“What are the Leatherwings?” Zephele quickly holds up
a hand and, looking pained, averts her eyes. “Never mind, don’t tell me. I’m sure I don’t want to know. But you poor dear darling, what a tragic life you’ve led!” Then, with determination, she adds, “Well, there will be no more of that gloomy business now. Here you will find only beauty and enlightenment. Would you like me to wash your hair? I wash my own, so I’m as good as any Twan at doing it.”

Malora nods. “My mother used to wash my hair and brush it.”

Zephele gathers up Malora’s hair in her hands. “That must have been quite a challenge. We keep our hair short or else pinned up. Because of the caps. I had long hair when I was little, but I cut it when I took the cap, as most of us do. Why bother if it’s going to be hidden away?”

“Why do you all have to wear caps?” Malora asks. “Orion explained it, but it’s still a bit unclear to me.”

“We’re told they are a concession to modesty. It has something to do with not inflaming the bucks. Everyone wants the young to marry, but no one wants anyone falling in love. Marriage is a practical contract. Herself and Father feel that I’ve been adversely influenced by reading far too many books about love. Ancients like Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen and Victoria Roberts and Danielle Steele and Nico Simonette and Shakespeare and Stephenie Meyer. The characters in these stories follow no Edicts. But Edicts, however vexing, are made to protect us. I must constantly remind myself of this.”

Zephele scrubs Malora’s scalp, working the soap up into a fragrant lather that drips into the water. “Oh, dear, I do hope it won’t be too boring for you to be with us. After the
drama of the bush, I’m afraid you might find life among the centaurs tame and rather stifling.”

Malora enjoys the sensation of Zephele’s fingers massaging her scalp. “So far, I like it here. It’s nice to have people to talk to.” She catches herself. “Centaurs, that is.”

“And then of course, when you get fed up with centaurs, there’s always Honus. Honus is an absolute darling,” Zephele goes on. “He’s very wise and kind. All those books out there in the big room? He’s read every one of them once and some of them twice or even three times! Do you read?”

Malora shakes her head. “The Grandparents did,” she says, “but none of the People knew how. They say the Grandparents had great halls filled with nothing but books.”

Zephele’s hands falter and grow still. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid we stole all those books from you.
My
ancestors, that is, from your poor unfortunate ones. They needn’t have bothered, if you ask me. Your average centaur would just as soon stare at a fruit bowl as sit down and read an entire book, although we’ve all learned how. It’s—”

“The Edicts,” Malora finishes for her.

“Number Twelve, to be exact, and that’s the way of it! You’ll have to learn how to read, too, if you stay with us.”

“I
want
to learn,” Malora says.

“Really?” Zephele sounds surprised. “Imagine that! Well, good for you, because it’s fiendishly difficult, and that means Honus will be so busy teaching you that he’ll ignore me. Now
that
will be my idea of bliss! Dunk your head and rinse out the soap now. Your hair will smell like a whole field of lavender, which will be a vast improvement over the way it smelled before.”

Malora slides under the water until only her nose, like a reed poking above a river’s surface, connects her to the air. The water foams fragrantly around her. A huge sigh escapes her as her clean hair fans out like a lily pad. Above the waterline, Zephele’s voice murmurs on. It doesn’t really matter that Malora can’t hear exactly what the centaur maiden is saying. The cadence of her voice alone is a comfort. In Mount Kheiron, she thinks, she will be surrounded by the constant babble of voices.