Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs (17 page)

Standing on the other side of the table, the Lady Hylonome is as small and delicate as her mate is huge and hulking. She sports the same fashionable cap Malora has seen on Zephele. Made of rich purple stuff that has the texture of mountain moss, it looks much like an overturned bucket. Beneath the cap, her hair is white and her face is pale, and her eyes are a faded blue in which Malora can read deep sadness.

The silence draws out and Malora knows it isn’t her place to break it. She drops her eyes and studies the floor, where the stone beneath the table is well worn from the scraping of hooves. Worn, too, is the path leading from the door to the table. Into this room every day, Orion has explained to Malora, dozens of centaurs from the city and the Flatlands file to plead their cases, air their grievances, and get permission to do everything from choosing a Hand to building a new fence to taking on a mate.

The Apex finally breaks the silence. “So!” he says in a voice that vibrates Malora’s breastbone. “The report I received is accurate. Orion, bring the Otherian closer and let us get a better look at her.”

Malora takes two steps toward the Apex. Orion moves with her and stations himself just behind her left ear. She feels his hand on her left elbow, warm and slightly moist, and the smell of him—human sweat and horse and rose water—calms her.

“Tell me about her,” Medon says, his eyes still on Malora. His teeth have the same chiseled straight line as the other centaurs of the House of Silvermane. With sharp incisors, he would be truly terrifying, Malora thinks.

“We found her running with a band of Furies and—” Orion begins.

Medon cuts in. “Were there others? Humans, I mean. Or was this the only one you captured?” he asks.

Orion hesitates, then says, “She is the only one.”

Medon thumps the table with his fist and topples one of the paper towers. “Thank Kheiron!” he says with visible relief.

Malora feels her hackles rise. Why does everyone view it as such a blessing that all the other People are dead? Are they that afraid of retribution?

Orion goes on. “She was separated for several years from a lone settlement of the People. When she went to rejoin them, she found only bones. She believes that the People, save her, have all perished.”

“Better still,” says Medon.

Malora feels the lump rise in her throat. She has had many distractions in the past few days, but her grief for Thora comes back to her now, fresh and raw, aggravated by this hulking, heartless-seeming centaur.

Malora feels her eyes welling up with tears.

As oblivious to Malora’s pain as an elephant to a buzzing fly, Medon continues: “The last thing we need is some lost tribe of the People swarming up from the bush to avenge the Massacre of Kamaria.”

Orion squeezes Malora’s elbow gently. “Malora has no wish to avenge any ancient wrongdoing and holds nothing against us personally.” Orion leans closer to her ear. “Isn’t that true, Malora?” he says, prompting her with his eyes.

Malora blinks away the tears and nods, not entirely sure she means it at this moment.

“She seems to understand you,” Medon comments.

“Oh, she understands everything,” Orion says emphatically. “She’s most intelligent.”

“Really?” Herself speaks up in a voice that is soft and musical like her daughter’s. “She understands everything? Then perhaps she can assist us in resolving the latest Highlander-Flatlander clash.” She turns good-humored eyes on her son.
“Tell us, Orion, what in the name of Kheiron’s Ever-Watchful Eye happened to you? You look quite … undone.”

“I’ve been sleeping out of doors,” he says. “I gave my tent to Malora.”

“Was that wise?” Herself asks.

“Theon volunteered his tent, but I offered mine instead.”

“Theon tells us that the trip was not without its dramatic highlights,” Herself says, her eyes shifting meaningfully to Malora.

“We are told that the human attacked a full-grown lion with her bare hands,” the Apex says.

Malora blurts out, “I was armed and it was an old lion, past his prime. I didn’t kill him. I shooed him away before he could further harm poor West.”

“She sounds quite fearless to me,” Herself comments.

“Only fools are fearless,” Malora says. “I am more than capable of feeling fear. For instance, at this very moment, I fear that you will not let me stay here among you, that you will turn me out.”

This statement seems to unsettle the two older centaurs, who exchange a look across the table. Veracity, Malora says to herself, is probably as important in dealing with centaurs as in dealing with horses. And, besides, why not tell the truth? She has nothing to hide from the centaurs.

“Father, please, you have to let me keep her!” Orion says. “She is meant to be among us.”

Medon glares at him. “Meant?
Meant?
Don’t talk rubbish.”

Chastened, Orion says, “I promise you she won’t be any trouble, you’ll see. She can stay here with us.”

“Under the roof of the Apex?” Medon thunders in a voice that combines wonder with outrage.

“Honus has room to spare in his suite. He says he is looking forward to civilizing her.”

Medon glances at Malora. “I will consider this petition only on condition that there be no further violence nor use of arms of any kind. This is a civil society. We do not square off against each other like animals. The Edicts must be adhered to in Mount Kheiron, even by Otherians.”

Malora looks quickly away. In the mirrored wall, she sees herself standing hunched and looking not in the least bit civil. She quickly straightens her shoulders and turns to deliver what she hopes is a harmless smile to the Apex. That this colossal leader of centaurs might be in some degree afraid of her is unbelievable. She finds herself thinking of rabbits in the paddock.

Orion is saying, “Malora understands and respects the Edicts, Father.”

“I wonder …,” the Apex mutters, staring hard at Malora.

Malora wishes she knew what he is thinking.

Orion says, “And Honus will school her, along with Zephele.”

“Is that advisable?” the Apex asks. “For all we know, the Otherian might exert an adverse influence on your sister.”

Herself laughs shortly. “Knowing our Zephie, I rather think it’s the other way around.”

“How true,” says Orion. “But, Father”—he clasps his hands to signal a change of subject—“wait till you see the Furies!”

Medon suddenly lights up with more enthusiasm than Malora has yet seen in him. “Both Gift and Theon have been here to sing the praises of these horses. I intend to go down to the stable first thing tomorrow and inspect them. Gift tells me he has never seen such healthy horses. No burs, no ticks, no diseases, and none of the usual infirmities caused by living in the wild.”

Malora speaks up. “That’s because they
aren’t
wild.”

Orion elbows her.

“It’s the truth,” she whispers to him.

“I beg your pardon?” Medon says, with that same ferocious look in his eyes. Malora is coming to the conclusion that
ferocious
is simply the way he looks. Its source is the wild gray eyebrows, perhaps, or the sheer enormity of him, or the commanding voice that keeps the other centaurs in line.

“I have known most of these horses since they were born,” Malora says. “I have cared for them and trained them to respond to my hand or foot or glance.”

“Ah, but are they trained to
race
?” Medon says smugly.

“They can outrun predators, if that’s what you mean,” Malora says.

“But can they run fast … 
around a track
?” Medon makes his four meaty fingers gallop in the air.

Malora remembers the days of monotonous running around the pen. Forbidden from riding out on the plains, she and Sky had been relegated to relentless circling. What a foolish thing to do if you don’t have to, like chasing your tail. “If that’s what you want them to do,” she says tactfully, “they can do that, too.”

“There is little time to lose. Gift will begin the training at
once, culling out the slow ones and concentrating on the very fastest,” Medon says. “The fastest of the fast will be entered into the competition. And we will win. Do you hear me?” He draws himself up and menaces his own reflection behind them. “We will win! And winning will help subdue the upstart Flatlanders that are rising on all sides of us.”

“Yes, of course,” Orion says softly. “Does that mean you will let Malora stay? You can’t very well take her horses and not take her. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Let me make this clear,” Medon says in a quiet, exacting voice. “They are no longer
her
horses. They are the property of the House of Silvermane. Is that understood?”

Malora’s eyes narrow. The Apex can say anything he likes, but the horses will always be hers. She nods almost imperceptibly, to minimize the lie, and feels Veracity taking a tumble.

“The Otherian can stay on a probationary basis,” Medon says.

“But, Father—” Orion protests.

Malora interrupts. “The Apex is right, Orion. I must first prove that I can live peacefully and civilly among the centaurs. That is fair.”

Orion looks relieved that they have managed to settle the matter.

“You must understand this, my son,” Medon says. “If her presence here causes either a local stir or, worse yet, interest or curiosity beyond our boundaries, I will cease to look so favorably on her continuing to stay among us.”

“What do you mean?” Orion asks.

“As you said yourself, she is the last of the People.” Medon speaks carefully and clearly, pointedly
not
looking at Malora.
“Who knows what purposes those of the Otherian nations may wish to put her to? She is a living symbol, and symbols can be useful scientifically, politically, strategically. She may be a source of contention, and we centaurs pride ourselves on avoiding confrontation of any kind for any reason.”

“Then let us make good use of her while she is with us,” Orion says. “Honus has declared her a living artifact. He says there is much we can learn from her.”

“Then may I make a suggestion, dear one?” Herself puts in. “Go and bathe the artifact—and yourself—rather thoroughly. You bring shame upon your Hand coming in here, the two of you, reeking of the bush as you do.”

“Yes, Mother,” Orion says with a humble bow. “Good night to you both, and thank you for your consideration.” He turns Malora around and sweeps her toward the door. “That went
very
well,” he whispers.

Catching a final glimpse of herself in the mirror, Malora sees a less than triumphant look on her face. Giving her horses over to some surly trainer? Lying to the Apex to get her way? Agreeing to go without weapons and to follow the other Edicts, whatever they are? Is all of this really worth the price of a soft bed, good food, fine clothes, and lively talk?

Malora certainly hopes so.

Zephele takes Honus’s shaving blade to Malora’s leopard tunic and, with surprising strength, saws it up the front.

Hooking the pelt over one finger, Zephele trots it over to the door, her black braided tail swinging saucily behind her. She has shapely legs of tawny brown encased in bright red leather boots with shiny black buttons running up the sides. She sings out, “Honus darling, West dear, anybody! Can somebody please come and take this
abomination
away and burn it?”

Having divested herself and brushed her hands clean, Zephele comes trotting back to stare at Malora in frank fascination. She reaches to take off the malachite stone, and Malora holds fast to it, shaking her head.

“You wish to bathe with this item of crude jewelry?” Zephele asks, wide-eyed. “Very well. It makes you seem slightly less bare naked, I suppose. Tell me, do you scrape the
rest of your fur off, or have the rigors of the bush rendered you quite bald?”

Malora looks down at her naked body, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “No, this is just the way I am made.”

“You don’t say! Imagine, having so little hair on one’s body,” Zephele says. “In that case, I don’t understand why you can’t keep it clean. But we’ll take care of that.”

Honus’s washing place, which Zephele calls the marble convenience, is a big square room tiled in pale green stone just off the sitting room. In one corner stands a cloth screen, painted with flowers and purple salamanders. Behind the screen, Zephele shows Malora a stone grate in the floor. She instructs Malora to do her business, then pull one cord that sends a stream of water to wash the waste away and a second cord that sprays scented water on her parts.

When Malora asks her to repeat the instructions, Zephele says, “You mean to say you didn’t have a similar facility where you come from?”

“In the Settlement,” Malora explains through the screen, “we all did our business in a single building. It was a long board with holes in it, hanging out over a reeking hole swarming with flies and poisonous snakes.”

Zephele peers around the screen with a look of horror on her pretty face. “Great Hands! I’m sure my bowels would turn to stone. Come with me, you poor darling.” Zephele leads Malora over to large green trough. “You’re lucky. Honus has the only bathing tub in all of Mount Kheiron. And I daresay you’re going to need it.”

“How do you centaurs bathe?” Malora asks.

“We take showers,” Zephele says. “Usually twice a day.
Otherwise,” she whispers behind her hand, “we start to smell like horses. Honus
loathes
our custom of showering. He is very sensitive about temperature since he was recovered from the frozen north. He says showering is like getting pelted by a downpour. This tub is his pride and joy. It’s made of green onyx,” she says, patting it fondly, “carved from a single piece of rock, imported from Suidea, I think. Honus adores precious and semiprecious stones. He is the Apex’s pet, you see, and that’s why he got the tub he asked for.”

“Honus is Medon’s pet?” Malora asks. This is yet another detail Orion has neglected to tell her.

“Oh, yes. Just like you are Orion’s pet. Orion is truly following in the footsteps of the Apex, bringing you home. So you must be sure and ask the world of Orion and see if he can deliver,” she says with an impish grin.