CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
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.
“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.
There seemed a horrible sense to it all; it looked like confusion, with the good and bad floating together, merging and parting. But all the pieces were there before her eyes. Posy had an odd, creeping suspicion that this thought applied to more than just these circumstances. Perhaps they applied to everything she had ever known or done. And if she could once see those scattered and broken pieces for what they were, guess at the sense and order of them, the whole world would shift and nothing would ever be the same again.
* * *
Kyran found them some time later. The sun was high in the sky; it could not be far past noon. Posy thought this must be the longest morning she had ever spent. He came into the trees, and when he called out to them, the two girls went running.
Evanthe embraced her brother. They looked at each other, and the thoughts ran palpable between them, though they did not speak. They had won, and won more than they ever dreamed. “Our father?” Evanthe asked at last, her calm voice belying the unease beneath.
Kyran’s face became grave. “He has been seriously injured. He is being carried to the castle as we speak. You and Posy must go back to the castle as well. You will be safe there, don’t worry. And our mother is not to be allowed from her own rooms.”
“The king’s soldiers agree to this?” Evanthe questioned, raising her eyebrows.
“Oh, yes,” Kyran smiled grimly. “They are completely ours now, sister. I’m not so sure they wouldn’t have joined us even if the king had not made the decision he did. The Wild Land has not been the only place of unrest and discontent.”
“Good,” the princess nodded. She glanced at Posy and gave her a quick smile. Then she walked a distance away from them, beyond the edge of the trees, discreetly waiting. Posy couldn’t seem to lift her eyes. She looked down at the mossy forest floor. The smell of damp earth and green life was all around her. The smell of fear and blood was still on her, though.
“Don’t cry, Posy,” Kyran’s arms came around her and he kissed her hair. “It’s all over now, little one.”
His words only made her cry harder. She wrapped her arms around him and tugged him as close as she could. Her fingers clawed into his back, her face pressed into his chest. She couldn’t seem to pull him near enough to her. She felt the sudden urge to share a skin with him—nothing else would seem to quiet this strange mixture of sadness and joy she always felt when she was near him.
“Posy,” he whispered, “when I found out my father had sent men to take you ... when I saw that you were gone ... I ... I think I might have murdered him right then if he’d been near me.”
“No, Kyran,” Posy shook her head against his chest. “You would never do that, not for anything. I’ve watched you, I know you ... and you love him. Don’t you?”
He nodded silently, tears slipping past his dark lashes.
“Oh, Kyran,” was all she could say.
When she pulled away from him, it was as if someone were pulling off part of her own body. It hurt far worse than a hundred talons in her skin, a thousand broken bones. How could one person need another so desperately? She had never known it was possible.
“You must go back to the castle now,” Kyran said with a weary sigh. “You must have your wounds seen to, and rest. I will be there soon.”
“Can’t you come now?” she choked out, feeling a sudden fear at leaving him once again.
“I have to stay with my men and clear the battlefield.” He gently took her arm and began to walk with her out of the forest. “So much has happened here at this Border, Posy,” he said distantly. “And now there is no Border at all. It is broken, and we are all the same. Nothing will ever be as it once was.”
“No,” Posy answered simply.
Kyran stopped and took hold of Posy’s shoulders. He leaned down to kiss her softly. She melted at the softness of his lips. The difference between this incredible tenderness and the hardened warrior she had seen on the battlefield amazed her. It seemed like a beautiful thing, somehow, such a difference, and she loved him for it.
“I will be with you soon, love,” he said again, his dark eyes looking into hers one last time. He turned to walk away.
* * *
Posy awoke to one great ache. She couldn’t specify where the pain came from—it seemed to come from every inch of her. Her head throbbed, her muscles were tight, the skin on her wounded back felt horribly stretched and stiff as leather. She groaned and tried to roll over. She opened her eyes into the glare of the sun shining boldly into her bedroom. Her bedroom?
No, it was the princess Evanthe’s bedroom. How it seemed like ages ago she had been here, yet it was only a matter of weeks. She gazed around the large high-ceilinged room at the tall windows, the white stone walls, the great rug before the fireplace that roared now with a fire. Posy forced her legs off the side of the bed and tried to stand. She found that her damaged ankle had been wrapped tightly and expertly, and though it pained her still, it felt much better. She walked slowly to the fireplace to stare into the blaze. How long had she been sleeping?
Eleven hours, that’s how long! The mist descended upon her, swirled lightly around her shoulders.
“And where is Kyran?” Posy asked quickly.
Oh, he has come to see you many times, but he only peeks in so as not to wake you. He has snatched an hour of sleep here and there, but most of the time he is pacing around the castle, working and talking, talking and working. He has much to do now, dear. He is King Kyran now, you know—or will be soon.
“King?” Posy exclaimed. Happiness and dread seemed to hit her at once. “Oh! Has his father died, then?” Her heart beat faster, knowing the pain this would cause to both Kyran and Evanthe.
Oh, no, not dead. Injured, yes. Saddened, yes. But not dead. No, he listens to me now, does the old king—and not just to lead him down a hallway, mind. He listens to me telling him about the magic of the Plot. He grows well again hearing me whisper of the breathtaking possibilities that may now unfold. No one hears his thoughts, though—only me. He does not appear conscious to anyone—only I know what things are working and spinning in his mind while he lies in his sleep. And he knows, alas, that he can no longer be king. He does not wish to—and even if he did, they would not let him. The mist drooped gloomily.
“They? Who do you mean?” Posy asked.
Oh, the people of the Kingdom, of course, dear. The characters themselves! The mist leapt up cheerfully again and danced above Posy’s head. They insist upon crowning Kyran. They will have no other! And it will all be as it should be.
“Oh, my!” Posy said. “How much can happen in eleven hours! But you,” she said to the mist, recalling something, “you say Melanthius listens to you now? Does that mean you can leave the castle? Does everyone hear you now?”
In time, darling, in time they will, I have no doubt. Already I feel stronger every minute, and feel myself growing. Yet I will never be loud, you know—I cannot stand the thought of shouting at people! Oh, no. I must be heard because I am wanted only.
“We all want that, really, I suppose,” said Posy with a sigh.
* * *
Kyran and Valanor faced each other in silence. Kyran’s dark eyes saw a woman defeated, but too proud to face it; they saw a face of stone that bespoke of isolation and grief. And his heart felt sympathy, and even love, though she had caused him so much pain. He wondered what must have happened to her to cause such bitterness and unhappiness. He was sorry for it, whatever it had been, and wished he could do something to take the pain of it away from her.
Valanor’s pale eyes gazed disdainfully at her offspring, and they saw a mere boy, though admittedly much changed since she had seen him last. Oh, he was the same as he had been on the outside with his black hair falling to his shoulders and his dark snapping eyes. But there was a certain strength in his eyes now, a determination in the way he held himself. Valanor thought bitterly that it was a pity his father had shown none of these signs. Her eyes traveled up and down the prince, assessing coldly. Any seed of hope she had in her past, any whisper of love she had ever felt, had been trodden on or scorned, and her only and strongest defense had proven to be this cold face, and this heart that felt ... nothing.
“I will forgive if you ask it, Mother,” Kyran’s voice came both soft and strong. “And I will love, even if you do not ask it.”
“Love?” she scoffed before she could stop herself. “Such weakness. Love can lead nowhere, son, except to destruction and humiliation.”
“Is that where it led you?” he asked quietly.
She could hardly stomach the look of sadness and sympathy in those black eyes. She turned away from him. “You may choose to do what you will with your love or forgiveness. I will never ask for either of them.”
“Very well,” said Kyran. “And so I will.”
Instead of turning to go as she had expected, he paced over to her and grasped her long beautiful hand. He pressed it to his cheek and kissed it before she could protest.
When the door closed behind him, Valanor took long strides to the window and gazed blindly out across the green spring fields and budding trees. Her face contorted and she made a choking sound, clutching and pressing at her chest as if to keep something down that would escape.