Chapter Eighteen

The horsefolk began arriving at the yard of Catering shortly before sunset. There was no shouting or laughter among them, no music or games. It was no time for gaiety, with the dead among them.

Nemeredes the Younger's company had been more than fifty strong. The centaurs had recovered nearly thirty bodies. Now the slain lay atop their pyres, their weapons arrayed about them. Woolen blankets shrouded those who had died badly.

Those dear to the dead warriors gathered about the pyres, many weeping openly. They burned deer fat, poured wine on the ground, and laid tokens—bronze and silver jewelry, wreaths of laurel and oak—beside the dead. A father, a sister, a husband, a daughter, a lover, a friend. Nearly everyone had lost someone dear to them.

Nemeredes the Younger's pyre stood within the stone ring. His brothers stood beside him. His hands were folded across his chest, gripping the stout cudgel he'd held when he died. His face was peaceful; he might have been sleeping, but for the pallor of his skin and the ragged wounds where the enemy's lances had pierced him.

Dezra, Caramon and Borlos stood nearby. Though none of them had ever known Nemeredes, Caramon had placed three arrows from his quiver on the pyre, one for. each of them. Trephas and Gyrtomon thanked him, their eyes shining in the twilight.

The sun disappeared behind the mountains, and the stars winked into view. Darken Wood faded into night, and the centaurs began to wail.

It began quietly, rising across the Yard. Stallions rumbled deeply, and mares keened in reply. Slowly, it grew in pitch and fervor, building to a bellowing, shrieking crescendo. Centaurs pulled their manes and beards, pounded their breasts, stamped their hooves. Some smashed wine-jugs, then trampled the potsherds into dust. Many fell to their knees, shouting and shaking their fists at the sky. Others reared on their hind legs, flinging their arms wide. The humans clapped their hands over their ears. The air itself seemed to shudder with the horsefolk's grief.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the wailing stopped. The evening wind sighed among the trees. Crickets sang. From the Yard's edge came the slow thud of hoofbeats.

The crowd turned, began to part. Four banners, flapping in the breeze, moved through the gap: a green willow in full leaf, a blue river, a pair of gray horseshoes, and a long, black spear. The Circle had arrived. They strode behind their standard-bearers, backs erect and tails held high. On their heads were silver masks, engraved in the images of animals. Pleuron was a boar, old Nemeredes a hawk, Eucleia a wolf. Menelachos, a stag with a spreading rack of antlers, walked with Olinia the minstrel, her hand on his arm. Each of the masks had been crafted as though wracked by woe, with etched tears spilling down their cheeks.

The processional stopped at the stone ring, staring at the body upon the pyre. "Kin of the slain," Menelachos intoned. "Come forward."

Obediently, Gyrtomon strode around his brother's body to stand before the Circle. Trephas walked behind him.

"Gyrtomon, son of Nemeredes the Elder," declared Menelachos. "We come to grieve for thy brother."

Gyrtomon trembled, struggling to contain himself. "What tribute hast thou brought?"

"We bring nothing," said old Nemeredes, "save our tears and the blood in our veins." His shoulders shook as he spoke.

Bowing their heads, Gyrtomon and Trephas stepped aside. "It is enough," Gyrtomon said. "Pass, and be welcome."

Slowly, the chiefs strode forward to stand before the pyre. Old Nemeredes wept, his sobs echoing within his mask. Trephas and Gyrtomon stood beside him, resting their hands on his shoulders.

Menelachos raised his arms, holding his hands over the dead centaur's body. "Again, our young ones die before their time," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "For ten years now, we've lost those we loved to Lord Chrethon's wrath. So we have lost Nemeredes, son of Nemeredes, and those who rode with him. Chrethon believes that by slaying those dear to us, he can rob of us of our will to resist.

"He is wrong. With every centaur he murders or gives to the daemon tree, our resolve strengthens. So with young Nemeredes and his riders. Their memory gives us the will to carry on. When their flesh is ashes, their spirits will fight on, beside us."

The High Chief lowered his right hand, keeping his left outstretched over the body, and drew a bronze dagger from a sheath on his harness. It gleamed with moonlight as he raised it before him.

"We give our blood to the dead," he declared, "and pray they will bear our memories with us, as they ride beyond the stars. In Chislev's name."

Swiftly, he raked the dagger across his open palm. Blood welled forth, and he cupped his hand, letting it gather. Sheathing the dirk, he tipped his hand and poured the blood onto young Nemeredes's body.

One by one, the other chiefs repeated the ritual, staining the centaur's chestnut coat with their blood—old Nemeredes last of all, his dagger quivering as he opened his flesh. When the Circle was finished, Trephas and Gyrtomon followed the ritual as well. Across the Yard, mourners did the same, washing the bodies with blood. Finally, when the last dagger was sheathed, all eyes returned to the High Chief.

"Nemeredes the Younger lived a good life," Menelachos declared. "He died well, defending his people. We should not grieve overlong for those who die fulfilling their purpose. Let the mourning end."

"Let it end," the gathered centaurs murmured.

The four chiefs reached up as one, and the masks came off. Their solemn faces glistened with sweat in the cool evening air. Menelachos raised his voice in a shout. "Light the torches!"

All over the Yard, flames flared as the mourners lit firebrands and held them aloft. Again, the centaurs looked to Circle.

Menelachos, his torch raised high, turned to old Nemeredes. "My friend," he said, "he is thy child. The first touch is thine."

Nemeredes regarded the High Chief, his eyes like open wounds, then bowed his head. He bent low to kiss his dead son's forehead; then, tears running down his cheeks, he placed his torch on the pyre. The flames leapt up swiftly, spreading around the centaur's body. As the fire rose, the rest of the Circle added their brands, then Gyrtomon and Trephas did the same. The horsefolk at the other pyres did the same, and soon the Yard of Gathering shone with golden light. Glowing embers drifted up toward the stars.

As the pyres burned, Olinia stepped forward. She set her fingers to her lyre and raised her voice in song:

Over and over she chanted, going through the cycle again and again. The other centaurs joined in, reciting the verse with her as they watched the flames.

Borlos tapped Caramon on the shoulder. "We've seen all we're going to see," he said. "And we've still got poor Uwen to attend to."

Caramon blinked, shaking his head. The centaurs' chanting had entranced him. "Right," he said. "Come on, Dezra. Let's—"

He stopped, looking around. His daughter was gone.

The centaurs had given their human guests a hut to sleep in while they were in Ithax. It was tall and plain, with walls of bound branches and a roof shingled with old, mossy bark. Caramon had begged a blanket to cover the open doorway, to keep out the draft. Now he shoved it aside and peered inside, searching.

The floor was bare earth, with mats of woven rushes for beds. There were two large clay jugs—one filled with wine, the other with water—and a small, bronze basin for washing. Other than that, and a crude table, there was no furniture. Built as they were, the horsefolk had no use for stools or chairs. Nor was there a chest or trunk in which the humans could store their gear. It lay in heaps against the far wall.

Caramon was relieved to see there were three piles. Between his armor and weapons, and Borlos's pouches—on top of which rested a simple lyre, a gift from Olinia—were Dezra's sword and packs.

"Her things are still here," he told Borlos, who stood behind him, craning to see. "I thought for a moment she'd left Ithax."

"Me too," the bard agreed. "Nothing else?"

Caramon shook his head.

They went on, walking deeper into the darkness of the centaur town. The horsefolk's chanting and the light from the pyres faded behind them. Finally, as they neared the southern palisade, they came to another expanse of grass and trees. It was small compared with the Yard of Gathering, but large enough that the shadowy form of Uwen Gondil's pyre looked little from where Caramon and Borlos stopped.

"There she is," said the bard.

Squinting, Caramon saw the silhouette of a woman by the pyre. Dezra's back was to them. If she heard their approach, she gave no sign.

Their eyes never left her as they crossed the grass. When they were twenty paces from her, Caramon touched Borlos's arm and gestured for him to stop. The bard gave him a questioning look, and Caramon nodded toward his daughter. Borlos looked, and after a moment he saw what her father had spotted. Her shoulders were hunched, and shook slightly as she gazed down at the farmboy's body.

"You go ahead," the bard said. "I'll wait here."

Caramon smiled, patting Borlos's arm, then walked on alone. He stopped behind his daughter, coughing quietly.

"We can come back, if you want," Caramon said.

"No." She glanced over her shoulder, and he saw her eyes were red. "We should get this over with. You bring a torch?"

Caramon had one, tucked into his belt. He stepped forward, joining his daughter by the pyre. He looked down at Uwen's face: the hollow cheeks, the waxen skin. He wondered what he'd tell the boy's family when he went home.

"Bloody shame," Dezra murmured.

They were both silent a moment, then Dezra reached to her belt. Steel scraped as she drew her dagger, then cut her palm, as the centaurs had done. Blood dripped onto Uwen's face, ran back into his shaggy, blond hair.

Clenching her fist, Dezra offered the dirk to her father. He looked at it a moment, then nodded and took it. He added her blood to hers, then returned the blade.

"You have your aunt's smile, you know," he said quietly.

Dezra's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Kitiara's smile. It was just like yours." He nodded. "All crooked, one corner higher than the other. It always meant she was up to something. I remember one time, when Tanis and Sturm were—"

"Spare me," Dezra snarled abruptly. She shook her head. "Just this once, keep your bloody stories about Tanis and Sturm and Kitiara to yourself."

Caramon flushed, his mouth working soundlessly. "Dezra…" he growled.

"Get something straight, Father," she went on. "I don't care. You may have been as big a hero, once, as you claim to be, but that was a long time ago. I look at you now, and all I see is an old man living in the past."

Something in Caramon gave way. "Hold your tongue, girl!" he barked, drawing back his hand.

Dezra flinched. A heartbeat later, however, she raised her chin, silently offering it to him. Caramon flushed, ashamed, and let his arm drop to his side. Never, in his life, had he raised his hand against his children. That was for other men—weaker men.

They stood silently a while, then Dezra shrugged. "Well," she said, turning to go.

Caramon slumped, shaking his head. Borlos crept forward. "You all right, big guy?"

"Help me get this torch lit," Caramon snarled.

Borlos studied Caramon's face, then nodded, reaching into his pouch for flint and steel. "Sure thing, big guy."

It took a few strikes before a spark kindled on the brand. When the torch was burning brightly, Caramon turned to face Uwen's body. He should say something, he knew, but all that came to him was the thought that had been rolling in his head, ever since the arrow struck the boy dead: I should never have let you come along.

Softly, Borlos cleared his throat. He began to chant, echoing the horsefolk at the Yard of Gathering:

Sighing, Caramon laid the flickering torch on the pyre. He bowed his head, feeling tired, as the flames rose.