Chapter Fifteen

They traveled in darkness, the centaurs holding guttering torches. The humans walked among them. They'd ridden only the first two hours from where they'd fought Thenidor and his men, then continued afoot the rest of the way.

Not for the first time, Gyrtomon's warriors began to sing. They were fond of music, and knew many songs. They sang in the centaurs' ancient language, so the humans didn't understood the words:

It went on, a steady drone that set a good pace for marching. The centaurs' rich, baritone voices reverberated among the shadowed trees. Soon Caramon began to hum along. Dezra glared at him, but he didn't notice. With a muttered oath, she slowed down, letting her father and the other centaurs pass. She resumed her pace again when Borlos caught up with her. The bard walked with his head bowed, his forehead sporting a yellow bruise.

"You're awfully quiet," Dezra noted.

The bard cast her a despairing look. "Do you expect me to sing with them? Without my lute to play? I can't believe you and Caramon left it behind."

Dezra shrugged. She'd last seen the instrument floating down the Darkwater, riddled with arrows. "It wouldn't have played properly anyway," she told him. "It sounded bad enough when it wasn't full of holes. Besides, you had better luck than some."

Borlos paused, then glanced over his shoulder at the second-last centaur in the party. The horse-man still carried Uwen Gondil's cold, stiff body.

"Poor lad," he said. "At least it was quick. I'd sing a dirge for him… if I still had my lute, that is."

"Leave it lie, Bor."

Dezra looked around, surveying the horse-men. They were still chanting. She suspected they could go on for hours. She tapped the nearest centaur on the arm. "What's this bloody song about, anyway?"

He stared at her, annoyed by the interruption; she met his gaze steadily. He stopped singing, his eyes glinting in the torchlight.

"Is very old," he replied, chin rising. He spoke with a thick accent: Unlike Trephas and Gyrtomon, he was unfamiliar with the common tongue. "We are always singing, after good hunting or fight. Is come-home song."

"You mean a homecoming song."

The centaur regarded her as if she were slow-witted. "Is what I say, yes?"

Dezra let it pass. She raised her eyebrows. "We're almost to Ithax, then?"

"Almost," the centaur agreed. "Soon we in hills—then town."

Sure enough, before long the land began to slope. The forest thinned, letting shafts of pale moonlight through the leaves. Oaks yielded to groves of olive trees. Dezra was impressed that they could grow this far south, where the winters were so harsh.

More of the forest's magic, she told herself. Who's to say there is winter here?

Suddenly, a sound rose before them that made Dezra stiffen: the creak of drawn bows. She clapped a hand to her sword as she peered ahead, trying to make out the archers in the darkness. The centaurs stopped, but didn't reach for their own weapons.

"Phante!" came a harsh call. "Po khansi?"

Dezra understood. "Who goes there?" had a certain tenor, no matter what the language.

"Gyrtomon ot Trephas" Gyrtomon replied. He extended his hands, showing they were empty. “Nemeredou mokhai.”

A moment passed as several voices muttered together in the darkness. Then the speaker uttered a sharp word, and all fell silent. The unseen bows creaked again as the horse-men relaxed their grips.

A strange centaur stepped out of the shadows. He was piebald, his coat and skin a patchwork of black and white. He wore a war harness and a quiver of arrows to go with the longbow in his hand. There was war paint on his fur and tattoos upon his skin. Rings hung from his ears and nose. His mane was shaven, save for a long, white braid.

"Arhedion!" Trephas called. He strode toward the piebald, beaming. They clasped arms, then the piebald did the same with Gyrtomon.

"Welcome back," Arhedion said. He spoke the common tongue easily, so the humans could understand. "I see thy journey bore fruit, Trephas."

"Aye," Trephas declared, gesturing toward the humans. "Any news from Ithax?"

The piebald shrugged. "Very little, since thou left. It's been quiet, mostly. Except—" He stopped suddenly.

"Except what?" Trephas asked sharply.

"A war party. They left town some hours after thee, Gyrtomon. Nemeredes the Younger led them."

"Our brother?" Gyrtomon asked, glancing at Trephas. "Where was he bound?"

"North and east. I… know not where."

Trephas regarded the piebald, his brow furrowing. "That isn't all, is it?"

Arhedion looked down, pawing the ground with his forehoof. "Forgive me," he said. "I should not say. Thy father will tell thee."

Gyrtomon and Trephas exchanged worried glances.

"I'll ride on ahead and herald thy return," Arhedion continued, still not meeting the brothers' gaze. "The Circle shall wish to meet with thee, I'm sure."

"Wait," Trephas said. "Arhedion, what about—"

Before he could say anything more, the piebald wheeled and trotted away into the forest. Trephas and Gyrtomon stood still, listening as he rode away, then turned and signaled to the others.

"Come on," Gyrtomon declared. "Ithax awaits."

"There should be music," Trephas murmured. "Flutes, lyres and drums—and singing, too."

The humans had moved up to walk near the front of the party, alongside the brothers. The hills around them were nearly treeless—a strange thing, in the heart of Darken Wood—and rowed with vines. The vineyards were poorly tended. The plants were sickly and brown, and weeds grew among them. The war had turned so dire that the wine-loving centaurs had neglected the coming year's vintage.

"Music?" Dezra repeated skeptically. "In the middle of a war?"

Gyrtomon nodded. "It's our custom to welcome chieftains' sons that way, even when times are dark."

"There should be folk dancing among the vines, colts and fillies tossing silverwood blossoms across our path," Trephas said, worried. "Instead, no one. Something ill has happened, I fear."

They wound onward. They passed several thatched huts, crudely built of branches bound with withes. All of them were dark. Gyrtomon's warriors grew nervous, reaching for their weapons at every shadow. Finally, they crested a low ridge and came to a halt, looking down into the broad valley below. In its midst stood a mound, and on top of that was a town.

It was surprisingly large, a mass of trees and roofs made from thatch or bark shingles. Smoke drifted from stone chimneys, glowing orange with reflected firelight. A tall palisade of sharpened logs ringed the mound. Torches blazed atop the wall, illuminating the guards who paced the battlements.

"Ithax," proclaimed Gyrtomon.

Trephas nodded, smiling. "Home."

"Sure seems well-guarded," Caramon observed.

"The Skorenoi have tried to attack before," Trephas replied.

"They'll try again," Gyrtomon added, "before the summer is ended—the Circle is sure of it."

Below, one of the guards peered across the valley and saw the torches Gyrtomon's party bore. He waved an arm, shouting: "Hai! Gyrtomon temerikhai keleion!"

Gyrtomon returned the gesture, then reached to his harness, where a curved horn hung. He brought it to his lips and blew a long, blaring note that echoed across the vale. With that, he started down toward Ithax. The others fell in behind him.

"What happens now?" Dezra asked as they followed a narrow, dirt path through a pasture of grass and clover.

"Arhedion has gone within, to tell the Circle of our arrival," Trephas replied. "Our father will come to the gates to welcome us with the Wine of Greeting."

Borlos's eyebrows rose. "You greet each other with wine?" he asked, grinning. "Why am I not surprised?"

The gates were built of stout oak, bound with black iron; they looked heavy enough that a giant would have to struggle to open them. The palisades were strong—not as mighty as a stone wall, but close. Suspicious eyes and nocked arrows tracked Gyrtomon's party from above as they drew near.

Half a dozen guards rode forward to intercept them, lances ready. Gyrtomon stopped, raising a hand.

"Keleion he phomenos!" he called.

There ensued a short conversation in the centaur language. In the end, the guards couched their weapons and stepped back. Through their midst strode a large, silver-coated centaur. He wore his snowy mane and beard braided, and his face was weathered and hard.

"Your father?" Dezra asked.

Trephas shook his head, staring as the silver centaur bent down to lift a heavy, eared jug. "No," he said. "It's Rhedogar, the leader of our people's warriors."

"But you said—" Caramon began.

"I know!" Trephas interrupted curtly. He pawed the ground with his forehoof. "Something's wrong."

"Rhedogar!" Gyrtomon called. "Why hast thou come to greet us? Where is our father?"

There was deep sorrow in the grizzled centaur's eyes. He came to a halt before the party. He held out the amphora. It was intricately painted, with twining black grape vines and capering red horsefolk. "I offer wine, sons of Nemeredes," he declared formally. "Drink, and be welcome."

His face drawn with worry, Gyrtomon accepted the jug. He poured a crimson stream on the ground as a libation, then raised the amphora to his lips and gulped down a deep draught. He handed it to Trephas, who repeated the ritual, then returned the wine to Rhedogar. The old centaur drank last of all.

"I ask thee again," Gyrtomon said. "Why hasn't our father come to greet us?"

Reluctantly, Rhedogar met his gaze. "I'm sorry to say this. Nemeredes the Elder is not here because he is in mourning."

"Mourning?" Trephas blurted.

"It's our brother," Gyrtomon interrupted. "Isn't it?"

Rhedogar nodded.

"How?" Trephas exclaimed.

The silver centaur shook his head. "Thou shouldst hear it from thy father. He waits at the Yard of Gathering, with the rest of the Circle."

With that, he turned and strode through the gates, setting the amphora down as he went. Trephas and Gyrtomon hesitated. Their faces were ashen, and their eyes shimmered in the torchlight.

"Well?" Dezra asked. "Are we going in, or do we just stand out here all night?"

That earned her angry looks from both Caramon and Borlos, as well as several centaurs. It also snapped Gyrtomon and Trephas out of their stupor, however. Haltingly, they started forward, leading the way through Ithax's mighty gates.