Eucleia stared after them, then turned to Trephas. "Now, son of Nemeredes," she said, "tell us thy tale. How didst thou retrieve this treasure from the fey folk?"
Trephas hesitated, then bowed his head. "My lady," he said, "I first ask thy leave to call forward the humans who traveled with me."
Eucleia's eyes, shadowed by her mask, flicked toward the crowd, where Caramon, Dezra and Borlos stood. Caramon's cheeks reddened as the horsefolk turned to stare. It took both Borlos and Dezra, pulling his arms, to get him through the crowd, to the center of the Yard.
The centaurs cheered as the humans took their place beside Trephas. Flashing a toothy grin, Trephas bowed to Eucleia. "Thou wilt hear our story," he said loudly, "but not from me. There is one of us who is better suited at spinning stories."
Borlos's head jerked up. "Uh-oh," he murmured.
"This man," Trephas continued, undaunted, "is a bard. He left Solace seeking a tale to tell, and now he has it. Borlos, wilt thou do this for us?"
The bard hesitated, but the rapt stares on the centaurs' faces overcame his reluctance. Smiling in spite of himself, he unslung his lyre. Someone passed up a half-full jug of wine. He took it and downed a long draught, then handed it to Dezra and set his fingers to his strings.
"It began in Solace on the day of the Spring Dawning fair," he proclaimed, plucking a ringing chord. "A horse-man came, asking for aid… ."
33
When Borlos plucked the final chord from his lyre, the centaurs were silent a moment, then, slowly, began to stamp their hooves upon the ground. Beaming with pride as they shouted and whistled, he lifted his wine-jar, poured a measure on the ground, then took a long, deep drink.
Eucleia came forward once more, to stand behind him. She doffed her mask-the other chiefs followed suit-and flung up her hands, reaching toward the starry sky.
"Let the revels begin!"
At that, the shouting centaurs surged forward, filling the clearing they'd made for the Circle. Other musicians began to play, on lyres and pipes, hand-drums and tambourines. Laughing, Borlos joined them.
The dancing was was wild and boisterous, gleefully anarchic. The centaurs reeled in ones and twos, lines and circles, hooves clomping on the grass. More wine flowed, strong and plentiful. Shouts and laughter carried out into the darkness.
Dezra was finishing her second flask of resin-wine, light-headed and laughing as she watched the centaurs cavort, when she turned to her father and grinned crookedly. "Dance with me," she said.
Caramon, almost the only one in the Yard who was still sober, looked at her in surprise. "What?"
"Dance with me!" she shouted, tugging his hand. "You always used to, when I was a girl."
Caramon's face twitched with memory, then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dez," he said. "I'd love to, but… I'm just so tired."
Dezra's face fell. Her father had changed since the fight at Ithax ruins. He seemed smaller somehow, weaker and wearier. There were dark smudges under his eyes, standing out against the pallor of his face. His hand felt clammy in her grasp; the other strayed to his shoulder and rubbed it absently.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
Caramon tensed, his hand dropping into his lap. "Fine. A bit stiff, that's all." He looked past her and grinned. "Here comes someone who'll be your partner."
Surprised, Dezra turned to see a tattooed, piebald centaur lunge toward her, arms outstretched. She had enough time to drop her wine-jar and yelp in surprise before Arhedion grabbed her about the waist and hoisted her off the ground.
"Hoy!" he bellowed gleefully and spun her away, into the milling crowd.
Dezra spent much of the next hour being whirled about by various young stallions. It made her uncomfortable, at first, to be manhandled so, but soon she was laughing wildly as the centaurs passed her back and forth. Finally, though, she ran out of breath. Exhausted, she shouted for them to put her down. They complied, then bounded away to cavort elsewhere. Before he left her Arhedion bent down and kissed her on the lips.
She stumbled dizzily across the Yard, the crowd spinning around her. She got her hands on another wine-flask and downed it as she wended among the merry-makers.
In time, she realized she was looking for Trephas, and began to call his name. A young, brown mare, whose black mane spilled down over her withers, waved her over. The mare tossed her head, then gestured past the far side of the Yard, into the darkness. Nodding, Dezra went that way, through the milling crowd.
She found him standing in the shadows, beneath a rustling aspen. He smiled as she approached, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. "It took you long enough," he said.
Dezra stopped short, scowling. "Really," she said sourly. "And you were sure I'd come."
"Of course. You're here, aren't you?"
Dezra shrugged. "So are you. And you just called me 'you' again."
"So I did." Trephas's cocksure grin turned sheepish. She favored him with a crooked smirk of her own. He blew out his lips, then shook his head, his mane flying. "I could tell you it's because I owe you my life."
"You could," she said. "Of course, you'd be lying."
He nodded slowly. "So… ."
"So."
He looked at her, his dark eyes wistful. "Dezra, this isn't simple. My people and yours… we're not made for each other, if you understand. And besides, my father wouldn't allow it."
"You think mine would?" she replied, laughing.
He nodded sadly. "No," he said. He fell silent, looking away-then, impulsively, took her hands in his. He bent down, his head angling toward hers; she let him. Their lips crushed together, their bodies pressed close, hands grasping and searching.
Neither of them saw nor heard the dark, goat-legged shape that stole toward them, through the shadows.
Hurach hesitated, his hand straying toward his knife. Dezra and Trephas were too preoccupied to notice him. He could kill them both before they knew he was there, but stayed his hand. If the bodies were found before he finished his task, there would be trouble. Better to let them live. He moved silently onward.
With a hunting hound's determination, he'd followed Trephas and his companions into the mountains. True to his suspicions, they'd led him straight to this place. He'd snuck into the village in the companions' wake, then crouched in the shadows beyond the Yard of Gathering while Trephas gave the axe to the Circle. Hurach had watched as Eucleia handed Soulsplitter to her sons, then had hidden in the darkness for several hours, giving the horsefolk time to get drunk on resin-wine. Now, at last, with dark clouds gliding past the gibbous moon, he darted north out of Lysandon, his cloven hooves whispering in the grass.
It didn't take him long to pick out the cave where Peldarin's axe lay. The centaurs hadn't been foolish enough to light any torches, but that made little difference. Hurach could see in darkness as well as in full light. Scanning the steep slope at the vale's edge, he soon found what he sought: the dark shapes of two stallions, standing in the shadowed mouth of one of the cliff's many caverns. Phenestis and Xaor stared in the night, bows in hand, spears within easy reach.
He climbed the slope, at one with the night. His hooves moved from foothold to foothold with uncanny silence and speed. In only a few minutes he clung, still unseen, to the rock beside the cave mouth. Pressed flat against the stone, he slunk past the centaurs, into the cavern.
His eyes fell upon Soulsplitter. The urge to run to it was almost overwhelming. He had to force himself to move slowly, glancing furtively over his shoulder. It wouldn't do to become careless now. He edged toward the axe, lips pulled back in a snarl. He reached out, fingers trembling, lifted the axe, and turned. The gray stallions still hadn't noticed him.