Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs (12 page)

He wants her to wake up and tell him more names of the plants they pass on the way. In his short time with Malora, he has already learned so much. He has slung a pouch over his shoulder for collecting specimens. Even more than the lore of the plants, he savors their names: lavender fever berry, puzzle bush, wait-a-minute bush, silver bush, violet tree, russet bush willow. He likes Honus’s more mysterious and complex words for plants:
Tanacetum parthenium, Chamomilla recutita, Lavandula angustifolia
. But Malora’s words sound so much more sensible and grounded, which seems only appropriate for the names of things that spring from the soil. The prospect of introducing these new plants into his distillery excites him. Who knows what exotic scents he will derive from them?

Suddenly, Malora wakens and sits up tall. Her nostrils flare as she scans the bush, her head turning slowly. “I smell lion,” she says. Then, incongruously, she yawns and stretches with her fingers linked high above her head.

“Really?” Orion says, his eyes shifting nervously.

“Yes,” says Malora, lowering her arms languorously and smiling sweetly. “I’ll ride ahead and alert the others. You should be fine. Stay with the herd.” She makes the kissing sound and off she gallops on Lightning.

Orion looks around nervously. The bush looks as it always does to him. He can’t
see
any lions. Then again, with its tawny bushes, rocks, grass, and hills, the entire bush is lion-colored, so he wonders whether he would be able to see lions even if they were here. Earlier, the bush was teeming with impalas and kudus and zebras and baboons and even elephants, but now they all seem to have vanished. Orion wonders whether they have gone off somewhere to hide from the lions. Where would he hide, he wonders, to keep himself safe? Orion shivers. Malora is right: the air
does
smell different, rank and damp and strangely
meaty
. Since centaurs—at least the Highlanders—eat no meat, this scent is not a familiar one, nor is it pleasant. It makes him think of his own body reduced to the raw meat of someone else’s meal. It takes all of his self-control not to abandon the herd and dash after Malora in a cold-blooded panic. But he doesn’t want to appear cowardly in her eyes, so he masters himself and walks on.

It is just before dusk when they come to the horse camp on the banks of the River Lapith, whose course they will follow until it merges with the Upper Neelah. They will follow the Upper Neelah until they reach Mount Kheiron. They have left behind the circles of ironwood saplings built by Malora’s father, the master horseman. This camp has two sturdy paddocks, built by Flatlanders who have gone on previous horse hunts. They are made of posts and rails, with high grass growing inside so that the horses can graze protected, wild horses in one, domesticated in the other.

The Twani herd the wild horses to the river to water them. Other Twani unhitch the domesticated horses and lead them to their own section of the river. Whenever a horse
from the domesticated group gets close to a wild one, ears go back and lips pull away from teeth. Gift bawls at the Twani to keep them separated.

Gift makes his way down the riverbank and says to Malora, “That swaybacked one over there, you can’t tell me he’s a Fury.”

“No, he is not,” she says. “He is Max.”

“Well, if it’s all right with you, miss, I’m going to cull him from the herd when we get to Mount Kheiron.”

“Max stays with the herd.”

Gift looks to Orion, who shrugs and says, “The nag stays. That is the way of it, Gift.”

“As you wish,” Gift says. But Orion can tell from the gnashing of Gift’s sharp little teeth that he is not happy. Orion actually understands. Gift wants to make the best possible impression on the Apex. The flea-bitten, swaybacked Max will ruin the otherwise flawless presentation.

“Max may be no beauty,” Malora says as Gift slinks off, “but he is honest, and he is a good horse. I rescued him from certain death. That horse would do anything for me.”

“As well he should,” Orion says absently. “Tell me, do you happen to still smell lion?”

“Can’t tell,” she says, pointing to the dancing branches of the trees. “The breeze is carrying the scent away.”

Lions or no lions, Orion is relieved that they have finally come to the river. It means they are that much closer to home. And the breeze, while not conducive to detecting scents, is wonderfully refreshing. While he stands on the bank enjoying it, Theon sidles up to him.

“The others want to wade and wash off the dust of the
bush,” he whispers in Orion’s ear. “Ask her if there are hippos in the water.”

“Ask her yourself,” Orion says.

“You’re the one who jabbers with her incessantly. You ask,” Theon says, and wheels around to join the rest farther down the bank, where the tame horses are. The wild horses make Theon and the cousins nearly as uneasy as the human does.

Malora wades into the water, her long red hair swaying behind her. She wears it bound in the back like a horse’s tail. It is nearly as long as his own tail, only not as carefully groomed. She keeps her clothes on in the water. She doesn’t ever take off the leopard-skin pelt because, as she has explained, she has sewn it onto her body. She will wear it until it is too tight, and then she will rip it off and sew on a new piece of hide. What an extraordinary relationship to have with one’s clothing, Orion thinks, more second skin than aesthetic display.

“Do you think there are hippos in this water?” Orion asks.

Malora shakes her head, her tail of hair whipping behind her.

“What makes you so sure?” he asks, reluctant to follow her into the water all the same.

She gestures up and down the river. “No river grass. The hippos eat river grass,” she says.

The wild horses follow her into the river, snuffing and splashing, chasing each other into the deeper water and immersing their entire bodies. Others buckle their forelegs and roll on the muddy banks. Orion takes their frolicking as
confirmation of Malora’s assessment that the river is, for the time being at least, free from the predators that killed his brother.

West helps Orion unlace his boots and he wades in up to his shanks, enjoying the icy sensation of the water on his aching hooves and legs. The horses all around him drink deeply, their mouths making a steady sucking sound as they pull in great drafts of water from the river. He resists the urge to dip his face into the water and drink like a horse. It probably wouldn’t work, his face being snoutless.

West and the other Twani stand along the bank and, as if responding to some silent cue, all commence to lick themselves clean. They are careful to stay clear of the water. West once explained to Orion that soaking in water dries out the oils in the Twanian skin and hair and makes them itch.

When West is finished washing himself, he hands Orion a skin of water he has previously boiled. “Drink up. You’re parched from the bush.”

“Come on in!” Malora shouts to Orion as she treads water in the middle of the river, but Orion demurs. Centaurs are as leery of water as the Twani, although for different reasons. Centaurs feel awkward and vulnerable in the water. They are not built to move gracefully in it. He envies her the lithe, simple body that lets her do so many things that his ungainly horse half will not permit. She climbs out of the water and shakes herself, then casually dries off against the shoulders and haunches of a horse that has remained onshore.

When the breeze dies down abruptly not long afterward, the scent of lion falls heavily upon them, like something rancid is burning. The Twani scurry to set up the tents and light
a fire. The fire is for safety rather than for heat or cooking. Their evening meal will be cold leftovers, for tonight the Twani will be otherwise occupied. Gift now walks among his fellows carrying a sack of leaves that Malora introduced him to and helped him gather. Each Twan reaches in for one and then chews it. The leaf, Malora tells them, is a stimulant that will keep the Twani from succumbing to their natural inclination to nap. They will patrol the perimeter of their camp all night.

“I hope the dear little Twani can protect us from their tawny cousins,” Malora says before she goes to check on the horses.

Orion finds it strange that Malora isn’t anxious. On the contrary, she seems to find the situation a source of some amusement.

Just after dark, the centaurs sit down at the long table by the fire to a meal of dark bread, creamy goat cheese, and a pitcher of honeyed lemon tea. Orion has invited Malora to join them, but she prefers to eat with the horses.

The animals that have been hiding from the lion earlier seem to have reemerged under cover of darkness and are making a racket: elephants trumpeting, painted dogs howling, hooligan baboons hollering, owls screeching, and a whole mob of insects shrieking away, the likes of which he never hears back in Mount Kheiron. Over the noise, Orion can still make out the softer sounds of the horses in the nearby paddocks as they blow out and munch grass, and the urgent whispers of the Twani as they orbit the camp, swinging their lanterns, crossbows strapped to their backs. Theon and the others are laughing and joking nervously. They have all gone
without their evening shower and still wear the same dusty wraps they traveled in all day. The fire burns low, but no one volunteers to venture off to get the wood to feed it.

“Why don’t you ask
Malora
to fetch us some wood? I’m sure
Malora’s
very good at that,” Theon drawls. “Perhaps we should add
wood gathering
to the list of the Hand.”

Orion is in the process of telling his brother to use his precious
tail
to fuel the fire when they hear the first roar.

Every other creature in the bush is struck silent. It isn’t that the sound is loud so much as it is deep and mighty enough to vibrate the plates on the table and bring tears to the eyes. The cousins bound to their feet, mouths agape.

“Lions!” Mather says.

“Won’t they go for the horses first?” Theon whispers.

No one answers him.

Around them, the Twani shout to each other as they stumble and crash through the bushes, either to get away from the lion or to discover where it is.

Orion’s heart thumps in his chest as the thought hits him: Malora is in the pen with the horses.

The centaurs make sudden desperate lunges for the lanterns, each swiping one from the table and somehow leaving none for Orion. Before he can protest, they have scattered to their tents, leaving Orion alone in the dying firelight. He stands there for a moment, listening to the sound of his breath rasping, and arrives at a decision. Lions are not going to make him run like a scared rabbit. The lions might very well eat him tonight, but he is not going to give in to his fear. Determined to maintain his dignity, Orion makes his way slowly to his tent.

He hears the other centaurs calling out to each other, fumbling to fasten the flaps on their tents, like tortoises retracting into their shells. Orion makes another decision. He will keep the flaps on his tent wide open. If a lion is coming for him, Orion wants a clear view of it through the tent’s flimsy mesh. His childhood friend Neal Featherhoof, a Flatlander, wears around his neck the claw of a lion he has slain. It is as long as Orion’s middle finger and three times as thick, sickle-shaped and razor-sharp. A lion could enter his tent, he reasons, with no more than the swipe of a single paw. That being the case, Orion would rather see the lion coming than be taken unaware by the harsh sound of ripping cloth.

Suddenly, he thinks, Serenity! Just the thing to calm my nerves! But he gave Theon the last vial of the scent just this morning. “Are you
drinking
the stuff?” Orion asked his brother. Theon has gone through three vials in less than five days. “I can’t help it,” Theon said in his own defense. “The bush
riles
me.”

Thoroughly riled himself now, Orion settles onto his camp bed and watches the lanterns of the Twani shuttle this way and that, their voices calmer now. Perhaps the lions are just passing through.

Let the lions take me while I’m asleep, Orion thinks, as exhaustion overtakes anxiety and his eyes grow heavy.

He awakes to a sound like heavy fabric being ripped by a powerful hand. Opening his eyes, he blinks. The air in the tent is sweltering even though the flaps are wide open. The sound he hears, he realizes, is that of a very large cat purring. The three-quarter moon has risen, and through the netting at the front of his tent, Orion sees an enormous male lion
padding down the path, his shaggy head swinging back and forth, his great haunches swaying and shifting.

Orion has never seen a lion this close-up before. He has seen them as mere dots on the horizon, no bigger than the nail on his small finger. As the lion’s tail thumps the side of Orion’s tent, he smells damp fur and raw meat and hot breath scalding the night air. He wishes he had an entire bucket of Serenity to pour over his head to wash away the musk and soothe his nerves. He wishes Neal Featherhoof were there with his spear and his bow and arrow. Orion actually thinks he hears the juices in the lion’s great belly gurgling, digesting his previous meal or preparing to receive the next one.

Then he sees West standing gamely in the lion’s path with a crossbow loaded and the arrow pointed at the lion. Orion sits up. “West!” he whispers. “Don’t do it!” But the Twan doesn’t seem to hear and, besides, West seems determined to stand his ground, the fine hairs on his body bristling as he bares his sharp little fangs in an effort to make himself as ferocious-looking as possible. Orion watches the Twan fumble with the crossbow as the lion pads almost casually toward him. Panicked and frustrated, West flings the whole apparatus at the lion’s head and turns to make a run for it. The lion leaps at him. West lets out a shrill cry as the lion clamps its huge jaws around his head and begins to drag him off into the bushes.

Orion looks around the tent in vain for something, anything, to use as a weapon against the lion. Never in his life has he felt so helpless and inadequate. He curses the Edict that forbids Highlanders from owning weapons.

Then he sees Malora. He wants to call out, to warn her
about the lion, but then he realizes that she is striding with purpose directly toward the lion. She holds a stout stick that is taller than she is and sharpened to a point. Coming to a halt not five paces away from the lion, she pounds the dull end on the ground.