CHAPTER TWELVE
Strangely, horribly, it was as if a rift had been hewn between Posy and Kyran. The knowledge of the king’s treachery, his betrayal of his own child, stood between them, so solid that no other thought or word could get through. Posy didn’t know why it should do so. She didn’t understand why it had anything to do with what was between the two of them. But it did, all the same. She could feel it crackling in the very air around them.
Thoughts of her own parents came to her mind. And into her mind, quite vividly, flashed a night not long before she had fallen into this story. Another night of arguing; another night that hatred had seeped into the walls of her house like a disease. She had run to the bathroom and seized her mother’s lipstick. Heart racing, she had scrawled one word across the mirror, seeing the reflection of her own tear-stained face beyond it.
“Divorce,” she had written, and the letters were blood red. Perhaps they had been blood in truth, for Posy’s heart had certainly been bleeding. It was an ugly word—a horrid word. But something had compelled her to see it, to write it with her own hand, and face the truth of what she felt her life was catapulting toward.
And so now her heart was breaking for Kyran as well.
At last, she tried to speak with him, though she didn’t know how to begin. “I am sorry, Kyran,” was all she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Why are you sorry?” He turned immediately to scowl at her.
“I meant ... I only meant your father,” she stammered.
“Oh, yes,” his voice was careless. “Well that shouldn’t surprise either of us, should it? No matter who may have talked him into the decision, it was his in the end. If he is taken from his throne because of it—even if he dies—it will be nothing more than he deserves. He is a weakling, and a weak man cannot rule the Kingdom.”
“But he is still your father, Kyran,” said Posy, feeling this was all wrong.
“Yes, and I cannot let that stand in the way of what I must do. He obviously did not let any such emotion stand in his way when making decisions about his own children. No, our goal now is to simply find my sister, then I will get to Alvar’s side and lead the army against the king as soon as may be. Now he has officially declared war we will need to take action as swiftly as we can.”
Posy understood; how could she not? But somewhere, in some part of her, she rebelled against it, against Kyran forming an army against his own father, against Kyran speaking of his own father’s death as something deserved, anticipated. She did not know why, for everything Kyran said was true, even just. Still, the unease was there, the feeling that she would be sick with the sadness of it. But what could she possibly say to Kyran now that he would really hear? She knew there was nothing. And when she could not explain to herself the disquieted feeling she had, or wish it away, she simply locked her mind against it, turning from it so swiftly that it looked like guilt, even to herself.
* * *
Posy had never heard sounds of battle before, but she recognized them immediately. Amidst the dripping chill of the forest, she heard the distant clamor of armor, the clang of swords echoing off the canopy of leaves above them, and strange voices lifted in battle cries. Kyran drew up the reins and Belenus came to a stop, his ears pricked and head held high and watchful. The day was swiftly disappearing. The sun’s already meager spackling of light was diminishing to a gray haze that hovered and shivered around the trees, infusing the forest with a ghostly glow. Posy felt her arms tighten around Kyran’s waist as he nudged a nervous Belenus forward toward the sounds. It wasn’t long, though, before the horse became impossible to ride. He began prancing in circles, his tail whipping sideways, lashing at Posy’s legs.
Kyran dismounted and pulled Posy down after him in one fluid motion. He brought Belenus’ head to him and stroked his ears, murmuring to him in a low soothing voice. The horse’s eyes rolled around frantically, and Posy saw the muscles in his neck tense as he ripped his head away from Kyran’s grasp and let out a bloodcurdling scream, full of stark terror. Seeing Kyran’s well-behaved, battle-trained horse behave this way made Posy’s blood run cold, more than any sounds of battle. Kyran tied Belenus to a tree securely then turned to grab Posy’s hand and tugged her toward the clearing. Posy’s heart beat so forcefully she could feel the blood pulsing in every part of her body as she mutely followed Kyran through the increasing mist.
They crouched at the edge of the trees and saw before them a vast barren area with the forest growing up in a circle around it. Posy peered through the underbrush and felt her eyes grow wide and her breath stop in her chest. She knew this was a land of magic, a book like a fairytale with its kings and queens and creatures of myth. Still, she was not prepared for this.
Within the clearing was indeed a battle. The creatures that fought against each other were similar at first glance. In the chaos of the scene, through the swirling miasma that rose darkly from the earth, it looked like a battle of men and horses. It churned with arms and legs, thunderous faces, swords hacking against armor and flesh. When Posy stopped reeling from the shock of it, she saw that the horses were men—or the men were horses.
“Centaurs,” she breathed.
Kyran nodded and leant toward her. “Not only centaurs, but centaurs and ipotanes. They are longtime enemies. At least, that is the story Evanthe and I always heard. It has been long since I have seen a centaur. Another time. Another story.”
“But ... ipotanes? What are those?”
“They are the creatures that stand on two legs instead of four,” he answered. “Do you not see the difference?”
Posy did see. The centaurs stood on four horse legs, with a large horse body and the torso, head and arms of a human man replacing the neck of the horse. But the ipotanes were different. At first Posy thought they were normal men, but with a closer look she saw their legs were also those of a horse, but they had only two. They reminded Posy of pictures she had seen of satyrs—but only in their general build. As she watched them slash and kill she knew this was a different creature altogether. Soft curved horse ears rose through the wild masses of the ipotanes’ hair, a stark contrast to the steely bodies beneath. The ipotanes were broad and strong, and Posy could see the centaurs struggled to push them back. But the centaurs were strong, too—a play of shadows ran across their muscular chests and arms in the dimming sunlight as they fought—but the ipotanes seemed to be made of iron, and it took many blows to defeat one of them.
It seemed they watched for an eternity. Posy felt it was a dream, and though she saw the killing and the blood, it seemed far away. Was it truly real? She could hear it and see it, even smell the tang of blood and the dust and sweat of men and animals. But it seemed she watched a picture in a book, moving and dreamlike. She couldn’t feel the horror of it, not yet.
“Why do they hate each other?” she asked Kyran.
He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I only know the stories I’ve heard through the ages. It seems that I have distant memories of the centaurs themselves, and since we now know that they used to be the king’s council, I suppose I actually do have. But the ipotanes ... I have only ever heard of them. What quarrel they have with the centaurs I don’t know.”
“Do you think ...?” Posy faltered, wondering if it was a foolish thing to suggest.
Kyran turned a questioning gaze to her, looking into her face for the first time. “Oh,” he said before she could continue, as if he had read her question in her face. “I don’t know if this has anything to do with the Kingdom’s war.” Posy knew he must have asked himself that question already in these past minutes. “The only thing I care about is the victor. The centaurs will be my father’s enemies, so I’d be a fool to wish the ipotanes victory. And whatever the sympathies or cause of either army, the ipotanes are legendary for their cruelty and changeability. I wouldn’t wish to be under their protection, especially should they learn I am the king’s son.”
So, something else to worry about. They had only just set eyes on this place, this battle, and already they found they had much to lose or gain by it. Posy sighed. She felt her eyes drawn again to the battlefield, and the numb wonder she had seen it with before seemed to fall slowly from her eyes. Her heart felt heavy as she saw one after another slain and dying, lying on the cold unforgiving ground. Amidst the untamed cries of the creatures fighting, a voice thundered above them all. At the edge of the field, an enormous coal-black ipotane stalked through the battle, ruthlessly cutting through those fighting near him with his massive sword. His armor gleamed ominously and his eyes were dark as he gazed across the field intently and made his way forward.
“What is he doing?” Posy asked, shivering.
“He must be the ipotane leader,” Kyran whispered, intent on the scene. “And see, he makes his way toward the centaur leader.” His hand rose as he pointed to the other side of the field, where a centaur fought in the thick of battle. He was large, sinuous and strong, and the horse part of his body was a soft dove gray color. His hair fell in long white-blond braids out from under his bright silver helmet and over his broad shoulders. It was impossible to know how old he was. His face was ageless, young and old. Even from a distance, in the midst of the teeming battle, Posy could see the determination in his face. It was an encompassing determination, focused on winning the battle and his cause, not the immediacy and thrill of blood-lust that lit the eyes of the ipotane leader as he struck each adversary down.
At last, the two opponents met, and the battle seemed to slow somehow. Every creature there sensed it had come to this. Silence and an eerie calm hovered in the glade. Swords lowered until there was only the scraping shift of armor upon moving bodies. The ipotane’s voice came loud and deep, jarringly soulless. “Give up the glade and no more of your army will die today,” he demanded.
The centaur leader grew dangerously still, his crystal eyes fixed upon his enemy. At last he spoke, and his voice was like a deep and swift river. “We will die to the last one if that is what is required to keep the glade from you and he who sent you.”
“Him who sent me?” The ipotane’s harsh laugh rang out. “You dare suggest someone commands me?” The muscles in his arms flexed as he gripped his weapon tighter.
“I don’t suggest it. I say it as truth.” The centaur angrily pawed the ground in front of him with one of his front hooves. “You are here at the command of one of that race, the humans, and you will only cross the threshold of the Glooming if you kill me and every last centaur in the forest.”
“Then,” the ipotane’s voice lowered, slithered like a deadly snake, “that is what we will do.”
He raised his massive sword above his head and lunged toward the centaur, a savage cry ripping from his throat. But the centaur was too quick for him, and with hardly an indication that he had moved at all, his arm shot out and his sword struck home deep within the ipotane’s chest. It happened so swiftly that Posy felt her mouth drop open in disbelief.
A deadly hush fell over the glade then, and even the other centaurs gazed at their leader in astonishment. Then, like the rippling of waves, the ipotane army began crying out and running. At first Posy thought they were shouting in attack, but she realized they were shouting in fear, and running for their lives. It seemed their purpose had vanished with their leader’s death.
“The cowards!” she cried, relief flooding her.
The centaur army let out a victorious cry and began to give chase into the trees after the remaining ipotanes. The leader stayed where he was, wiping his sword clean in the grass and gazing over the field of slain bodies, a look of deep sadness in his eyes. He turned to speak to the centaur nearest him, a male with a flow of white hair and broad strong shoulders, who then turned and began swiftly making his way across the field.
Posy threw a look of panic at Kyran as she realized the centaur’s path led straight to where they hid. Kyran made no move to run. Posy watched, but saw that his hand did not reach for his sword, a thing now familiar to her when danger threatened. His expression held nothing she could read but expectation, and when the resonant voice of the centaur called out to them to show themselves, he did not hesitate. He stood and greeted the beast in kind.