Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs (36 page)

The following morning, she works with Butte and Light Rain in spite of a steadily falling rain. And in the afternoon, she puts Max into the full-body harness after rubbing him all over with it to make sure he doesn’t mind the feel of it against his back and belly. Jayke had a term for this process:
sacking out
. Then, still walking behind the fully harnessed Max, she drives him around the ring, letting him get used to the weight of the harness and the jingling sound.

The following day, the rain having stopped, Malora wheels the rig itself into the ring, where Max stands in harness.

“What now?” his long-suffering eyes ask. He comes over and sniffs the seat of the rig and noses the two long staves. He looks interested but not particularly impressed. She brings him to stand between the shafts. His ears go back slightly. She waits for his nervousness to subside, and then rewards him for his bravery with a juicy apple.

The next day, beneath a brilliant sun, she has West get between the staves and pull the cart along behind the horse,
following wherever Malora leads Max. “I know this looks foolish, but it will get Max used to having the cart follow him. Otherwise, he might think it’s chasing him and panic the way Shadow did. But Max is smarter than she is, aren’t you?”

Max blows out and bobs his head in reluctant agreement.

“Okay, West. You come up here and take my place. Hold Max’s head and comfort him if necessary,” she says.

“Comfort him?” West says, coming around. “I’m the one who needs the comforting, boss.”

Malora goes behind Max and quietly hitches the staves of the cart to Max’s belly harness on either side. Then Malora directs West to lead Max around the ring, pulling the cart while Malora walks alongside and watches his reaction. Max seems unexcited, so at the next halt, Malora eases herself into the seat and takes up the reins.

“Zephele,” Malora says in a calm voice. “Open the gate for us, would you?”

Zephele does this. “Good luck!” she calls out softly as West escorts Max out of the ring.

“Do you need me to stay at his head, boss?” West calls back.

“I think we’ll be okay. Won’t we, Maxie, old boy?” Max’s ears twitch, and he chews the bit.

“He looks remarkably contented to me,” West says as he backs off.

“Away we go then!” Malora raises the reins slightly and says, “Get up!”

With these two simple words, Max sheds a dozen years and becomes a young horse again. His ears perk, his head
lifts, his chest puffs out, and off he launches into a sprightly trot. Max is, as he has been in the ring, wonderfully responsive to the reins. Malora has only to squeeze a rein ever so lightly in one hand for him to turn in that direction. She squeezes the right rein and he heads down the path toward the Upper Neelah’s western bank. Here, she has been told, a trail runs northward along the river. The trail is worn flat by the horses pulling the barges. She tests Max’s stop, pulling back on the reins with a “Whoa now,” and he comes down to a walk and, from there, to an easy halt. He looks back at her as if to say, “Satisfied?”

“Very good, Max. Shall we have a little run?”

Max tosses his sparse mane and paws his hoof at the dirt.

The river runs straight and the way is clear, so she snaps the reins and says, “Get up!” This time, Max lunges right into a smooth gallop. It is as if he knows that a canter will be uncomfortable for both of them. If anything, he is faster pulling the rig than he would be with her on his back. Perhaps, Malora thinks, not having the weight directly on his aging frame frees up his hips to power him forward. All she knows is that the countryside flies by in a soft, fragrant blur, green on one side, blue on the other, as they race along the riverbank.

When they have run for a good while, she decides it is time to test his stop from a gallop. “Whoa now!” she says, settling down on the rig seat and pulling back gently on the reins. Smoothly, he comes down to a trot, and from a trot to a walk, and then rocks to a halt.

“That was impressive, old man,” Malora says, breathless from the ride.

Max snorts as if to say, “That? That was nothing!”

Malora climbs down from the rig, pulls up a big handful of clover, and comes around to feed it to him. While he chews with his brown crooked teeth, she checks out the fit of the halter. She doesn’t like the way the leather strap rubs him across his nose. Beneath his fur, the flesh is already pink and turning red. Max’s aging skin is even more sensitive than that of the younger horses. With her knife, she saws off a piece of her wrap and winds it around the leather to offer Max a buffer. She will ask Cylas Longshanks to make a lambs’ wool covering for the harness.

Malora takes a deep breath and blows out. Max does the same, and adds a stomp of his hooves. The harness jingles. She feels her nervousness about the race dissipating. There is lots more work to do, of course. She will have to pace out the Hippodrome and create a mock track, as Anders Thunderheart has done. She will have to work with Max to make sure he maintains his balance on the turns. She will harness up Butte and run races between Max and Butte. Racing Max against the other horse will increase Max’s speed because he will not want to lose to an arrogant young stud like Butte. She will have to remember to ask Neal to get her one of the many-tailed horse whips so she can unleash it gently and let it slither over Max’s hide to get him used to the feel of it, then crack it in his ears to get him used to the sound of it. And she will have to train West to wield the mighty power of Max while keeping the reins out of the horse’s mouth.

Yes, there is a great deal to do and little time in which to do it, but it is all more than possible because Max is an honest horse and a willing one. Why, even now, having run full out, he looks eager to run again.

She is just climbing back into the rig when she sees it, a short distance away from the river. It is a high, crumbling stone wall rising up in the middle of a field of wildflowers. At first, she thinks it might be the ruin of some ancient stone edifice, but then she looks closer and sees the still-vivid mural painted on one side.

“Get up!” she says to Max, and they draw closer to pay their respects to the People who fell in the Massacre of Kamaria.

The paint is faded, but the composition is still intact. Malora sees a roiling pit of centaurs and People, rendered larger than life. Mount Kheiron, a simpler, less built-up version of it, is recognizable in the background, with flames leaping from it and human bodies tumbling down its sides. On the flats, most of the People are mounted on horseback and, in the tangle of human limbs and horse limbs, it is hard to tell one side from the other, except that the People, their mouths open in terror and agony, are wounded and bleeding, some sliding off the backs of their horses, others on the ground being trampled.

Off to the side, Malora finds one human, unhorsed, standing at the center of a circle of six centaurs. His arms are raised above his head, as if he were pleading for mercy, except that it is too late. Six spears transect his body at all angles, and his wounds spurt blood, covering the centaurs’ chests in gore. He is a giant of a man, with powerful arms and chest, his dark red hair tied back in a horse tail.

“Grandfather,” Malora whispers, tears of grief and pity swamping her. “I’m so sorry.”

There are plans in the making to build Malora a cottage near the paddocks, but in the meantime, she sleeps in a tent she has pitched between the spring and the southwest corner of the paddock. Now that they are outside the city walls, she doesn’t want to leave the horses alone. It isn’t predators she fears as much as Flatlanders with an interest in seeing the Silvermane bid for the Golden Horse fail yet again. While Mather’s banishment has placated many of the Flatlanders, Neal Featherhoof reports that there is still plenty of grumbling among them, along with plots to mount an outrage. It is this group of dissatisfied Flatlanders that Malora doesn’t trust, and neither does Neal. The Peacekeepers patrol the area to keep an eye out for troublemakers. The Twanian wranglers, whom the Apex has authorized to carry crossbows, sleep at the other three corners of the paddock.

Orion is quick to assure Malora that this is the way it
always is. “A great deal more brawling and horse thieving and prank playing goes on leading up to the race.”

They are sitting together at a camp table near the tent, where West has laid out a simple evening meal: bread and cheese and nuts and fruit.

“Aren’t brawling and thieving in violation of the Edicts?” Malora asks.

“Yes and no,” Orion says. “Often the brawling and thieving take place between Flatlander barns, or between the wranglers of Highlander barns and Flatlander. In any case, the Apexes have turned a blind eye to it and understand that a certain generally harmless elevation of spirits comes with the Founders’ Day fest.”

“I wouldn’t want any of my horses to get hurt during this harmless display of high spirits,” Malora says.

“Which is precisely why the Apex has permitted your Twani to be armed,” Orion says.

“Against predators wandered in from the bush, so he says.”

Orion smiles wryly. “Haven’t you always said that to a horse, almost anything is a predator?”

“True.”

“Do you have everything you need?” Orion asks. “Do you need more Breath of the Bush, or have you stopped using it since you took up hunting in the bush with Featherhoof?”

Malora cries out, “You
knew
I was hunting with Neal?”

“Who do you think suggested the outings to Neal in the first place?”

“You?” Malora says, utterly surprised.

Orion nods. “I sensed, after the Apex turned you down, that you were in need of a recreational outlet.”

“Did Honus know about this?”

He hides a smile, but Malora catches it. “Absolutely,” he says. “He didn’t approve, mind you. He seems to think you are some sort of delicate national treasure that needs to be wrapped in wool batting.”

“And you two just sat smugly by and let me make up all those falsehoods about my visits to the studios? And what about all the poems I memorized to distract Honus?”

“We found your cover stories highly amusing. And Honus would never discourage the memorization of great poetry.” Orion’s smile widens and gradually gets the better of her irritation. “So, tell me, do you require more Breath of the Bush, or does the wrangler in chief require an uncompromised nose?” he asks.

Malora shakes her head ruefully. “Uncompromised. But I have to say that I will miss the visions.”

Orion tilts his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know—the visions and dreams that come from inhaling the scent,” she says.

The color has drained from his face. “No, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

Malora says hesitantly, “That is the purpose of alchemy, as I understood it from you: to alter moods, to set tones, to bring about transformations. Breath of the Bush has transformed me to a radical degree.”

“Go on, please.”

Malora takes a deep breath. “The first vision I had was when I crept into Mather’s tent that first night. I was hungry
and thirsty, and I sniffed his scent flask and saw him and Canda Blackmane standing in a field of flowers. Then, when you let me sniff your own scent cloth that day in the bush, I saw Honus’s bedchamber, days before I ever set foot in it—every detail, right down to my rope hanging on a hook on the wall.”

“You can’t mean this.” The look of utter astonishment on his face gives her momentary pause.

But Malora goes on. “Breath of the Bush has given me the most vivid nightly visions of riding Sky. It was Sky, on one of these rides, who warned me that the boys and girls were in danger, but I was too thickheaded to understand.”

He stares at her, his face still ashen. “Is that all?”

“Let’s see … not quite.” She exhales. “There was a very disturbing vision I had one morning in your tent when I sniffed from the little bottle on your camp table.”

“Orion’s Heart,” he says, his voice faint.

“I saw you and Theon … but you were much younger bucks, and you were playing a game with small, smooth black and white stones.”

“It’s called Go,” he says helpfully.

“You were playing Go, when suddenly, this burly, black-haired centaur with black flanks barged in and yelled at you. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he wrapped his big hands around your throat—”

“And strangled me until I lost consciousness,” Orion says in a flat voice. “He did that whenever I had the temerity to stand up to him.”

“He?”
she asks.

He heaves a sigh. “My departed brother, Athen. He was
a ruthless bully.” His eyes have taken on a vague, unfocused look. “He was most abusive to my brother and me, but my parents wouldn’t hear a word against him. He was the firstborn and he could do no wrong in their eyes.” Orion shakes his head, his gaze returning to her face. “You saw all of this simply by inhaling Orion’s Heart?”

Malora feels an odd impulse to apologize. “I thought that’s how scents worked for everyone.”

“Not quite,” he says carefully.

“Oh.”

“It would seem that I don’t fully understand the power of my own Hand on the human psyche,” Orion says, a smile beginning to play on his lips.

When Orion takes his leave of her not long afterward, he seems more distracted than she’s ever seen him. Malora wonders why she didn’t also tell him about Lume, the vision she saw under the influence of gaffey. But Orion had nothing to do with that, she thinks, and the knowledge of Lume is not something she is ready to share with anyone—even as good a friend as Orion.

Several days later, the horses droop and begin to excrete thundering cascades of brown water. At first, Malora thinks they have all been felled by the same malady. In the Settlement, when all the horses in the stable took sick at once, Jayke used to say that gremlins were in the feed bin, which meant that bird or mouse droppings or insect larvae had somehow gotten mixed in with the feed, sickening the horses. Malora combs her hands through the feed, which she is always careful
to keep covered, and sees nothing to indicate any foreign objects. Just to be sure, she eats some of the feed herself. By midday, her stomach is cramping and she is showing the same symptoms as the horses.