Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs (38 page)

Round and round the track they fly, Max’s hooves sending bits of turf spraying in all directions. Max runs so fast that Malora can no longer tell who is in front of them and who is behind. Up ahead, the whip of one Twan gets entangled in the wheel of another rig. Both rigs spin out of control and then right themselves, losing their momentum as Max and Malora streak past. Then Anders’s Athabanshee crashes through the inside rail and into the center of the oval, where it lies down to rest. Another rig takes over the inside track, but Malora decides to stay on the outside, where the way is clear.

When Max starts to flag, Malora unstops the vial and takes another small sniff of Victory. The trumpeting elephants renew their charge! Max sprints so fast, Malora sees nothing but the blur of the track between his ears. She cannot distinguish the roaring of the crowds from the trumpeting of the elephants and the howling of the wind in her ears and the beating of her heart. She smells a looming thunderstorm and, from behind her, feels strong arms encircling her.
In a deep voice she knows belongs to him, Lume whispers in her ear: “Victory is yours, Malora! Well run.”

Then a lone figure appears on the turf up ahead. It is West. He is waving the blue-and-white pennant of the Silvermane Stable. “You can stop now!” he shouts.

Malora heaves a deep breath and lets it out, willing the wall of elephants to turn around and go away. “Whoa now!”

Max slows and rocks to a halt next to West. The horse is panting and wheezing.

“Good job, Max!” West says, rubbing him ever so gently on the nose. “I’ve brought you a treat, but I reckon you should wait until you catch your breath and cool down before you eat this sweet radish.”

Max, having other ideas, helps himself to the radish, smacks his lips, and nudges West with his nose for more.

Malora hears the crowd chanting. It is the persistent three-beat song of the ring-necked dove, only amplified many thousands of times over.

“Ma-lo-ra! Ma-lo-ra!” the crowds chant.

Malora says, “They shouldn’t be cheering me! They should be cheering Max.”

“I’m sure they would, but as the Provost did not announce his name, they don’t know it and it wouldn’t do for them to cheer ‘Useless Old Nag,’ would it?” West says with a wink.

Zephele trots toward them across the turf, bearing a garland of flowers that she flings over Max’s neck.

“You old
darling
!” she cries, hugging Max and smothering him with kisses.

“Didn’t I tell you you’d get kisses?” Malora says to Max.

Zephele turns to Malora. “Do you realize that you and Max ran
thirteen
laps to everyone else’s nine and you
still
won! Max has broken every record there is!”

Malora is in the tent sponging Max down with warm spirits of spearmint when Orion finds her. “You did it, Malora! You really did it!”

“
We
did it,” she says, holding up the little red vial.

His eyes widen. “You used the distillation? I wasn’t sure.”

“I had to. Max wouldn’t move after that Flatlander pitched the rock on the track.”

“Can I ask how this particular vision manifested itself?”

“As a wall of murderously angry elephants.”

“Remarkable!” His eyes shine.

“Poor Max. I don’t know whether he shared my vision or my fear, but it worked.”

“I’m glad I was able to help.”

“Did you also help with West’s little attack?” she asks, arching a brow.

Orion folds his arms across his chest and recites: “The lavender fever berry’s bark, when pulverized, is a stomach purgative.”

“You remembered!”

“I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.”

“But poor West. You ill-used him.”

“Oh, he was always a reluctant driver. He was willing to do it to please you, but I think he was quite happy to be left on the sidelines. Are you crying, Malora?”

“It’s the spirits of spearmint. See? Max is crying, too.”

Max’s big brown eyes are as red and watery as they ever
are. As for Malora, Orion is right. It isn’t just the spearmint. She is overcome with emotion.

“I hope they are tears of joy,” Orion says. “You did exactly what you set out to do. You worked hard. And you succeeded admirably, against great odds. And for your trouble, the Apex has requested your presence at the very center of everyone’s attention, where I know you are least happy. But this is the price of your success.”

“The Apex doesn’t need me,” Malora says. “He has his Golden Horse at last.”

“But without you and Max, the jubilation is incomplete.”

Malora looks back at Max. “Did you hear that, Max? We have been summoned.”

Max continues to munch his hay and let off great gusts of gas. With a resigned sigh, Malora takes a blanket and dries off Max’s coat, ties on a halter, and attaches Jayke’s rope to it. “Grab some of that hay, will you?” she says to Orion. He scoops up an armload of hay and follows her out of the tent.

The crowds have spilled down from the hillsides onto the track, where they have gathered around the flatbed lorry parked in the center of the Hippodrome. Standing on the lorry are the Apex and Herself, Zephele and Theon and Honus and Ash and West and Sunshine, along with every last house Twan and Silvermane cousin. Surrounding the lorry stands the Peacekeeping Force, arms linked to keep the crowds at bay. Over the heads of the crowd, Neal Featherhoof sees Malora and Orion. He eases himself out of the chain and elbows his way toward them.

“Good work, you two!” he calls out to Malora and Max.

“Us
three
, you mean,” Malora says, indicating Orion.

“I think we all had a hand in the victory today,” Orion says. “Featherhoof, glad to see you giving that rock thrower his just deserts. You have my heartfelt thanks.”

“At your service, Silvermane,” Neal says with a grin.

“That will be the day.” Orion returns the grin.

“Make way!” Neal shouts, clearing a path for them to the lorry. “Make way for the victors!”

The crowd parts before them and then resurges around them. Malora feels hands—Flatlander and Highlander—reaching out to touch her arms and tug gently at her braid. The centaurs, more reticent about touching Max, pull back to stare in a kind of horrified fascination at the wonder horse with the scarred hide and jutting bones. Up ahead, the Apex cradles the Golden Horse in one arm and beckons to Malora with the other. Malora marches up the wooden ramp, Max behind her. As she passes Honus, he reaches out and catches her arm. “You are the
one
!” he says.

Theon grins. “I placed my nubs on you, and now I am a rich buck!”

Zephele, weeping with happiness, throws her arms around Malora. “Oh! I’m so proud of you and dear, darling Max!”

The Lady Hylonome takes Malora by the shoulders and hugs her hard, then kisses her on both cheeks and the forehead. “Thank you, Daughter,” she whispers in a voice choked with emotion.

Daughter of the Plains, Malora thinks. And now Daughter of the Centaurs.

Malora approaches the Apex. His right hand, with the Ever-Watchful Eye tattooed on the palm, passes over his
heart and then rises. She touches her own heart and raises her hand, and a hush falls over the crowd. She looks up into his face and sees tears swimming in his fierce gray eyes. And she finds herself doing what she has wanted to do since she first saw him. She reaches up and, with her thumb, neatens his errant gray eyebrows, as if she were straightening the unruly forelock of a horse. This gesture makes his tears fall, and hers soon follow. She turns away from him and looks out through the dazzling lens of her tears to see the vast expanse of centaurs, filling the track and running up the hillsides, all of them looking up at her with proud eagerness in their eyes.

Orion kneels before Max and sets down the hay beneath his nose like an offering. Max resumes munching. The centaurs erupt in cheers of approval. Max rolls an eye toward them.
It’s only hay. I’m only a horse
, his look says.
What is all this excitement about?

“Centaurs of Kheiron, hear me!” The Apex’s magisterial voice rings out, silencing the throng. “I stand before you today, like you, in awe of our victorious horse and driver.”

The crowd bursts into applause.

The Apex continues, “Never, in the many years since these races have been run, has there been such an overwhelming victory won by a horse and a driver, much less by a horse as humble and unassuming as this one, and by a driver who is an Otherian and, of all things, one of the People. And that, my fellow centaurs, is what we are really celebrating today—the simple miracle of the human being among us, a miracle that I will confess, when I first beheld it, filled me with a sense of unease and fear. But I submit to you that it is no accident that she has come among us, she who is descended from the
fugitives of Kamaria. No, it is no accident. It is, my fellow citizens of hill and plain, a sign. It is a sign that the time has come for us to be not two groups of centaurs, but one group united beneath the Hand. Many years ago, Kheiron preached tolerance and forgiveness and kindness. Today, I listened in wonder as you, the centaurs of Kheiron—Highlanders and Flatlanders—set aside your differences and your grudges and lifted your voices as one to cheer for Malora Ironbound and her noble steed.”

Malora looks over to see if this compliment has registered on Max, only to realize that the noble steed has fallen fast asleep with his nose in the hay. Bits of straw poke out of the sides of his mouth, and a single fly, having discovered his whereabouts, buzzes around the only part of him that shows a vestige of life, his ears.

The Apex’s voice rumbles on, gaining steadily like an approaching thunderstorm. “You have demonstrated today that you are not two, divided by a city wall, but one. And it is for this reason that—much as I have, perhaps weakly and vaingloriously, coveted it for so many years that I have ceased to count them—I cannot accept this Golden Horse.”

The crowd moans in disbelief.

“No, this Golden Horse does not belong to me,” the Apex says. “It belongs to you, the centaurs of Kheiron, Highlanders and Flatlanders. And I pledge to you that I will install this Golden Horse in a place of honor above the wide-open gates as a symbol of our oneness, as a symbol of the living spirit of Kheiron among us, as a reminder that we, the centaurs, have been forgiven our past transgressions by the spirit of the People through their lone surviving descendant,
Malora Ironbound. Let us mingle and feast this night to celebrate she who has brought us together, her fleet-footed horse, and our newly forged unity!”

Over the crescendo of cheering, he roars:
“By the Hand! We stand! Together!”
His hand rises, palm out, and everyone else brings his or hers up in the air to meet it.

Malora switches Jayke’s rope to her left hand so she can join in. And then the rope slips from her grip as centaur hands reach for her and pull her onto their shoulders, passing her over the crowd as if she, and not the Golden Horse, were the trophy that they shared. And with a sudden surge of joy, Malora realizes that she is at home, at last, among the centaurs.

1. Centaurs shall live their lives in imitation of Kheiron the Wise.
   
2. Centaurs shall choose from amongst themselves a ruler, the Apex, the first among equals.
   
3. Unless authorized by the Apex, no centaur shall own, carry, or wield weapons of any kind.
   
4. No centaur shall eat the flesh of any living thing, be it fish, fowl, or game.
   
5. No centaur shall kill any living thing.
   
6. No centaur shall imbibe or partake of spirits or stimulants.
   
7. Centaurs shall be modestly clad.
   
8. No centaurs shall argue or brawl in a public place.
   
9. No centaur shall steal, tell a falsehood, or bear false witness against another centaur or Otherian.
   
10. No centaur shall lie with the mate of another.
    
11. At age twelve, all centaurs shall take up and cultivate a Hand.
    
12. All centaurs shall learn to read and write.
    
13. Any centaur who does not abide by the Edicts shall be turned out from the society of other centaurs.
    
14. In order to ensure domestic and universal peace, no centaur shall take up arms, or aggress in any fashion, against another centaur or an Otherian.
    

Denizens of the Settlement