Chapter Sixteen

Ithar was a jumble of buildings with little sign of order. There were no real roads, but rather meandering trails that wound this way and that. Its huts were simple, made of daub and wattle, interspersed with tall oak trees. None was taller than a single story—the horsefolk had no love for stairs—and few had foundations. There were skin tents as well, painted with spirals and knotwork patterns. Many structures were simple frameworks with open sides beneath thatch or bark roofs. Torches mounted on stakes guttered, and bonfires crackled in the open.

Then, of course, there were the centaurs. They were as varied as horses and men. Some were jet black, others brown or gray, bay or chestnut. A few were mottled with more than one color, as Arhedion was, and even those who weren't had some mark of another color on them—white fetlocks on one, a black streak running down another's face. They wore their manes and beards long, though some tied them in braids or tassels, and others had shaved parts of their heads. None, however, tied their tails. These they left long, free of tangles and burrs.

There were signs everywhere of the ongoing war. Most of the horsefolk wore harnesses and quivers, and carried cudgels or spears. Many were scarred, and some were missing an arm or hand. They nodded in recognition as Trephas and Gyrtomon passed, but regarded Caramon, Borlos and Dezra with mistrust.

"Where are all the women?" Caramon asked.

"Most will be preparing for the funeral," Trephas said softly. "Though there are some about, here and there." He pointed with his chin. "See? There's a filly, over by that stump."

Caramon looked, and spotted her. He wasn't surprised he hadn't noticed any other females before. At first glance, her beardless face was all that marked her apart from the stallions. She was well-muscled, with a brown mane that tumbled down over her shoulders, hiding her bare breasts. She wore a longbow across her back, and had the same hard look about her as the males. The horse-women were warriors, just like the men of their race.

The huts grew larger and grander as the party wended toward the middle of Ithax. Some had antlers and animal skulls mounted on their walls; others sported bone-and-wood windchimes or bright hangings of woven wool. A few stood dark and empty, with no fires burning inside or out. Leafy bundles were nailed to their lintels.

"Those are the homes of dead warriors," said Trephas. "Our brother, it seems, was not the only one slain. Their bodies rest within, and the fennel stalks"—he nodded at the leafy bundles—"protect them from evil. Tomorrow, they'll be tom down and made into pyres for the fallen."

"Whist," Gyrtomon bade. "We're almost to the Yard of Gathering."

At the crest of the hillock the town was built upon was a broad, open pasture. Torches flickered at its edges, illuminating green, sweet-smelling grass. The Yard was large enough to accommodate hundreds of centaurs, but now it was nearly empty. In its midst, nearly lost in darkness, stood a handful of horsefolk. They looked up, toward Gyrtomon and Trephas, then turned away again, murmuring in hushed voices.

"What now?" Caramon whispered.

"We wait, until the Circle calls us," Trephas replied. "Then we'll partake of the grass and go to stand before them."

"Partake?" Borlos's eyes widened. "As in eat?"

"Aye," said Trephas. "That's the custom."

"I don't know if you realize," Dezra said, "but humans don't eat grass."

Trephas frowned, but Gyrtomon nodded. "We understand," he said. "It isn't necessary for thee to observe the rite."

"No," Caramon said. "We'll follow the ritual."

Dezra and Borlos looked at him. "But—" Dezra began.

"We'll follow the ritual."

"And spend the rest of the night ritually puking up our suppers," Borlos muttered.

"Here comes Rhedogar," Trephas said, looking out across the Yard.

The silver-furred centaur trotted back across the meadow. Arhedion was with him. They stopped before the companions, bowing.

"The Circle of Four welcomes thee," Rhedogar declared. "They ask the sons of Nemeredes and the humans to partake and come forward."

Solemnly, Gyrtomon and Trephas knelt, plucked handfuls of grass from the ground, and placed it in their mouths. Caramon followed suit, chewing a few blades and swallowing hard. Shrugging, Dezra followed suit. Borlos went last, and smacked his lips in distaste as they strode across the Yard, toward the Circle. The rest of the party stayed behind, with Rhedogar and Arhedion.

A ring of stones, worn with age, stood in the Yard's midst. Within, a brass brazier gave off a low, ruddy light. Three centaurs stood around it, their faces shadowed, watching as a fourth laid something on the glowing coals. Steam billowed, accompanied by loud sizzling. The smell of burning fat wafted to meet the companions.

Caramon's stomach rumbled like an ogre in full battle rage. "Gods, that smells good," he sighed.

"That," Gyrtomon snapped, "is a sacrifice. The deer fat is for the gods to savor, not mortals."

"Sacrifices, libations," Dezra said. "You do know the gods are gone, right?"

"They've left before," Gyrtomon said quietly. "When thy kind brought down the fiery mountain. They returned then; they will return again."

Dezra opened her mouth to argue, but caught a glance from Caramon and held her tongue.

They were almost to the standing stones, and could make out the features of the centaurs by the brazier. One was the color of coal and immensely fat, his girth putting Caramon's to shame. His right arm ended in a stump below the elbow. Beside him was a gray mare, whose iron hair was tied in a tight bun, and whose eyes glittered like ice. Next to her was a tall bay stallion, almost Caramon's age but still in fighting trim, with hard, corded muscles. His long beard hung in braids beneath a scarred face. Before them, kneeling by the brazier, was the fourth member of the Circle. He was quite old, his chestnut fur shot through with white. His age-lined face was wet with tears. Not seeming to notice anyone was approaching, he picked up another ragged piece of deer fat and laid it on the brazier. Smoke rose, and he vanished for a moment.

"Your father?" Borlos murmured.

Trephas nodded slightly. "The rest of the chiefs stand with him—Pleuron the Fat, Lady Eucleia, and High Chief Menelachos."

They stopped at the stone ring's edge. Trephas and Gyrtomon prostrated themselves, extending their right forehooves. Caramon knelt a moment later, and Borlos did the same. Only Dezra remained standing, hands on her hips.

"So," she said, "you must be the Circle."

The chiefs regarded her coldly. Dezra didn't quail before them, however, and after a moment the muscular bay raised his hand. Golden bracers gleamed on his wrists. He wore a matching tore, studded with sapphires, about his neck. "Rise," he bade in a booming voice. "Stand before the Circle, guests, and be welcome."

They obeyed, Caramon wincing as his knees popped. The chiefs watched in stony silence. Old Nemeredes rose unsteadily from behind the brazier, smiling sadly as he beheld his sons.

"Gyrtomon, Trephas," he quavered. He strode forward to clasp their arms. "This lightens a heavy heart. We must share wine later. Thou hast heard about thy brother?"

The brothers nodded. "Rhedogar told us," Gyrtomon replied. "He didn't say what happened, though."

Nemeredes sighed wearily. "What is it ever, in these dark days? Yesterday morn the scouts reported a party of Skorenoi, not five leagues from this place. Thy brother took a war-band out—a large enough company, he thought, to put a quick end to them."

"But it wasn't?" Trephas guessed.

"No." Nemeredes shook his head. "It was a trap. Thy brother led his company straight into slaughter."

Gyrtomon bowed his head. "Were all slain?"

"Not all. The Skorenoi took a score of thy brother's warriors captive, back to Sangelior," Nemeredes replied. The centaurs all made warding signs, their faces grim. "Thy brother, thanks be to Chislev, wasn't one of them. He died, taken through the heart by a spear. It was quick… he didn't suffer… ." He stopped, choking with tears.

Pleuron came forward, his girth bobbing, and laid his good hand on Nemeredes's shoulder. Trephas and Gyrtomon each held one of their father's hands, comforting him.

Caramon found himself weeping as well. He'd lost two sons, and knew the agony the old chief was going through. He looked up at the cloudy sky, blinking back tears.

"As usual, the Skorenoi sent back one survivor, to tell what happened," said Pleuron. His eyes flashed. "I rode out today, with a much larger company, to bring back the bodies. Thy brother lies in his hut, his wounds washed and his weapons laid out with him."

Gyrtomon looked up, his face damp with tears. "My thanks, Pleuron," he said. "We would see him tonight."

Dezra had watched the tearful scene with growing restlessness. Now she cleared her throat loudly. "Excuse me," she said.

Everyone turned to look. The centaurs were incensed, their nostrils flared with anger. "Be still, girl," Caramon growled.

"Nay," Menelachos said. "The lass is right. We shouldn't neglect our guests, no matter how deep our loss might be." He looked the humans up and down. "These are the ones thou hast brought back, Trephas?"

Wiping his eyes, Trephas stepped back from his father and faced the High Chief. "Aye, my lord," he said. "There was a fourth, a young man, but he was slain on the way here. My brother wasn't the only one to fall into a Skorenoi trap—Thenidor and his lot waylaid us, on the banks of the Darkwater."

Menelachos's bushy eyebrows lowered. "Then we owe the Skorenoi double for what they've wrought. But please, introduce our guests."

"Of course, my lord." Trephas waved his hand. "This is Borlos, a bard of Solace, and Caramon and Dezra Majere."

"Caramon?" Menelachos repeated. His hawklike eyes studied Caramon critically. "The same Caramon Majere who knew the Forestmaster, and fought the dragon-armies?"

Caramon's face burned. "That's me," he said. "I'm sorry to hear what's happened to the Forestmaster. I want to help."

Eucleia's lip curled with disdain as she regarded the humans. "This is the best thou couldst do, Trephas? An unmannered girl, a bard and an old man?"

Dezra glared at the steely-eyed mare. Before she could retort, however, Menelachos interjected. "Lady Eucleia," he said, "these humans are our guests, and are to be shown respect. We bade Trephas to bring back a Majere—he has brought two. They are our hope of surviving the war with Chrethon—and of saving the Forestmaster."

"Then we're likely doomed," the mare said. She tossed her head, leveling her glinting gaze on Trephas.

That was enough for Caramon. "Pardon me, lady," he said, "but we've come a long way from home, although we don't know exactly why—and one of us has already died because he wouldn't turn back. If you expect me to stand here while you insult me, you can go to the Abyss."

The Yard of Gathering fell silent, save for the hiss of the sacrificial fat on the coals. After a moment, Eucleia smiled tightly.

"I misjudged thee, Majere," she said. "I took you for a man with no fire left in him. It seems I was wrong. I apologize for speaking ill of thee."

"Oh," Caramon said lamely. He hadn't expected to win the argument so easily. "Well, good then."

Dezra shook her head. "I don't want your apologies. I didn't come here for you, or for the Forestmaster. I was promised steel."

The Circle looked at Trephas. "Is this true?" asked Menelachos.

Reluctantly, the young centaur nodded. "It was the only way I could convince her to come."

The High Chief regarded Dezra sternly. "Very well, lass," he said, his voice heavy with disdain. "We centaurs honor our bargains. We will pay thee… and then, thou wilt learn why we've summoned thee here."