His blue eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I haven’t told anyone that before.” He continued shakily, “It wasn’t until Vranians from other villages began to arrive that Charach’s plan became clear. We wanted a respite from centaur attacks, more land to farm, but he had a different goal. A few men tried to tell Charach that we didn’t want to go east. We never saw any of them again. And we also got our first look at Charach the Worm. He destroyed Vranille that day—all of it. Hundreds were killed. Others fled, but Charach had us hunted down. My mother was caught.” Abisina waited for Corlin to pause again, but his voice had gone flat, as if he’d moved beyond emotion. “Charach only spared those who could fight. His army needed more soldiers.” Corlin looked toward his companions. “He made sure we suffered, though, for trying to run.
“Soon after that he brought the centaurs in. He’d told us he would lead us against them, and then he
joined
with them—used them to control anyone who he suspected of rebellion. And when the minotaurs came . . .” Corlin shuddered again.
“How did you get away?” Findlay asked.
“We had nothing left to lose. We would slip away in the darkness, during a storm, or on a long march when the men loyal to Charach were too tired to notice. The centaurs were harder to evade, but some of us managed. We met other deserters in the forests, even some of the women who were brought to cook for the army. We’ve been shadowing them, building followers, hoping to make an attempt on Charach.”
“So there are some who will leave him?” Findlay pressed.
Corlin shrugged, his eyes hollow. “As I said, we have nothing to lose anymore. There are some who would leave, but not for you. Not for them.” He glanced uneasily toward the trees where he knew the centaur sentries were posted.
“What do you mean?” Abisina challenged Corlin to say it out loud, to call her an outcast, even now.
But he didn’t take the challenge. His voice was barely a whisper. “Their homes are destroyed, their families ripped apart. For some of them, Charach and the army are all they’ve got. They force themselves to believe his promise of power. And even if they would leave—you know what it was like, Abisina.” He looked at her again. “You know how the people of Vranille felt about . . . about”—he searched for a word that would not offend— “about the
creatures
of the land. My uncle was killed by a centaur. And, Kabe, do you remember him? The boy who was taken?”
Abisina nodded. The boy who could not be buried in the village burial ground.
“He was my cousin.”
Tears threatened Corlin’s voice once more, and Abisina spoke more gently. “But Corlin, these centaurs are different.” She remembered how angry she had gotten at Haret for saying the same thing. “All that we were taught about dwarves and fauns—and outcasts—it was all lies. Like Charach’s promises. . . . We have to convince them of that.” She looked toward the knot of exhausted Vranians. “And then they can help us convince those who are still with Charach.”
Corlin shook his head. “They won’t believe it.”
“Corlin, please. We need—
I
need your help. Again.”
His brief nod told her that he remembered that last day in Vranille. “I can try to talk to them,” he said finally. “It would be better coming from me.”
But when Abisina returned several hours later, Corlin had made no headway. As she approached the refugees, one of the Vranian boys ran toward her, fists raised. Neiall, who was with her this time, caught the boy and held back his hands, but not before he was able to spit in Abisina’s face. “Outcast!” he screamed. “We’ll never take help from you demons! Never! We’re Children of Vran!”
That high, bitter voice, so familiar.
“Lilas?” Abisina gasped. And it
was
her—blonde braid shorn off, a feverish light in her eyes, skinny and grimy, but it was Lilas.
Hearing the shouts, two centaurs galloped from the cover of the trees. Corlin raced toward Lilas, shouting, “Please don’t hurt her!”
But one of the centaurs caught up with him and held him back. “Are you okay, Rueshlan’s daughter?” the centaur called.
A maniacal laugh filled the air. “Rueshlan’s daughter? So the bastard has a father? And such a father! I’ve heard the truth!” Lilas’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Four legs, hooves, and
tail
! Where are yours, Outcast?”
Abisina walked away as Lilas yelled hysterically behind her, “Where are yours? Where are yours?”
Abisina found her father and Kyron inspecting trenchwork by the fairy archers’ stand. She needed to be near Rueshlan, to drown out Lilas’s laughter ringing in her head. But as she approached them, a fairy leapt from the trees, landing next to Rueshlan.
“What is it, Mahnoa?” he asked, unruffled by the fairy’s sudden appearance.
Abisina thought Mahnoa was male—but she was still having trouble understanding fairy gender. Lohring and her closest three or four advisors were often in the Watersmeet camp to talk to Rueshlan, but most of the fairies kept apart.
“We’ve caught a centaur,” Mahnoa reported. “We would like Kyron to take him from our charge.”
“Now?” Kyron asked. “I need to finish this inspection.”
“He mentioned Icksyon. He may know something.”
Rueshlan put a hand on Abisina’s arm and said, “I’ll go with Kyron.”
Mahnoa began to lead them into the trees when Abisina called, “I’m going, too.”
Rueshlan stopped. “Abisina, why would you want to—”
“I need to see this centaur, Father.”
“Very well,” Rueshlan agreed.
Abisina leapt onto Rueshlan’s back, but with every step, her conviction grew weaker. She was on the verge of asking her father to let her get down, when a rough voice froze her words.
“My sister’s one of his captains! She’ll free me soon as she knows I’ve been taken!”
Drolf.
The brown centaur stood surrounded by five fairies. His chest was covered with hoof-shaped bruises, and he held one hind leg gingerly off the ground. Catching sight of Kyron first, Drolf cried, “Get them away from me! Is this how you treat a brother?”
Kyron spoke quietly, but sternly. “They will leave when we know we can trust you not to run. Do you know Icksyon?”
“’Course I know Icksyon! I’m in his herd! Well—my sister is.”
“Where is Icksyon? Where is your sister?”
“They’re—well, they’re— Hey! I’m not tellin’ you! I’m no herd-traitor—no matter what they done to me!”
Rueshlan came forward now, and Drolf stared at him, clearly awed by his size. He still hadn’t noticed Abisina.
“Is that what’s happened to you? Your herd turned on you?” Rueshlan asked.
The gentleness in his voice surprised Abisina. Could Drolf hear it?
“They didn’t turn on me!” Drolf shouted, but he held his hands in front of his chest as if to hide the bruises. “I—I got what I had comin’. I let a faun go. She was young, and cryin’ for her ma—but I shouldn’t’ve done that! I should’ve waited for Surl to come back!”
Abisina couldn’t listen anymore. She refused to pity Drolf. She remembered him wiping blood away from her nose when she’d said it was bleeding—but she fought this memory, too. She had faced Drolf to put her fear behind her. But instead she was plunged into more confusion.
Certainly Drolf deserves to be punished! And Lilas!
she told herself, even as doubt settled in.
The next morning, a centaur returned from a reconnaissance ride with a report of Vranian scouts moving through the woods two and a half leagues to the south. The centaur hadn’t been able to get a clear shot at them, but this news confirmed what the eagles and the steady flow of refugees had been telling them for days: Charach and his army were very near.
Rueshlan immediately dispatched an embassy of parley. He sent Lohring, Glynholly, Kyron, and Findlay. Findlay confided in Abisina that he was both honored and petrified. Abisina took his hand. She was petrified, too.
As the embassy prepared to leave camp, each carrying an oak branch to symbolize their mission, a faun trotted up with Corlin in tow. “Rueshlan, wait! This refugee wants to go!”
Corlin looked up at Rueshlan, who towered over him in centaur form. “I don’t think it will help,” Corlin said. “They’re mad with hate. But I’m willing to go. Sir.”
Rueshlan reached out a hand and laid it on Corlin’s thin shoulder. Abisina realized he was only a little younger than Findlay, but years of near starvation had left him much smaller, frailer.
“If—If I don’t come back, you’ll take care of the others?” Corlin peered back in the direction he had come.
“What do you mean, don’t come back from a parley?” Glynholly spoke up, color rising to her cheeks. “They wouldn’t dream of touching those who came to parley!”
“It’s Charach,” Corlin said. “And I’m a deserter.”
“Don’t you worry,” Glynholly replied. “We’ll take care of your people—and you.”
Abisina watched them walk out of camp—the fluid movements of the fairy, the jouncy trot of the faun, the rhythmic paces of the centaur, the gangly stride of one boy and the halting steps of the other. Were they hopeful? Did they—or Rueshlan—believe this parley had a chance?
Do they really expect Charach to give up without a fight?
After an interminable hour, the embassy did return—empty- handed—as Abisina expected.
“Charach sent a centaur and two Vranian generals to meet us,” Findlay confided in Abisina later. “One of the generals was so insolent in his looks and the way he carried himself that I knew we would get nowhere. But then he saw Lohring! She had been waiting in a tree, and she leapt down. She landed inches from where he was standing. His face went white and he looked like he might run.” Findlay chuckled, but then stopped himself. “It’s not right to enjoy his fear. We won’t get anywhere if we seek revenge!”
Abisina’s tension and confusion over the last few days erupted. “He wants you
dead
, Findlay! He’s got nothing but hatred for you—and you feel guilty because Lohring scared him? Tomorrow he will try to
kill
us. This—this clemency, this working with the Vranians—it’s all a dream! The parley was a waste!”
“Was it?” Rueshlan asked, coming up behind them.
Abisina spun to face her father, chin lifted in defiance, but she faltered under the power of his gaze. Findlay was staring at her, too, and Abisina remembered too late her promise not to take her frustration out on him.
“You understand what we have to do?” Rueshlan continued. “The absurdity of it? We must fight a war to persuade our enemies of our
mercy
. We must convince them to trust us and join with us by holding them at the point of a sword. We have to show them the evil of Charach as he fights
with
them and we fight
against
them. I had no hope the parley would work either, Abisina, but it was not a waste.
“We must do the impossible,” he said, “so why even try? Isn’t that what you’re asking? But what are our choices? To save Watersmeet, should we sacrifice the Motherland? Or to save the Motherland, should we sacrifice the Vranians? That parley may still do some good. Right now, the Vranian forces are mocking me for thinking they would want my clemency. But I hope that offer will be a seed that bears fruit. When Charach is dead, I hope our work with Corlin, our offers of clemency, our conduct on the battlefield will convince the Vranians to join us. If we cannot come together—human, centaur, dwarf, faun, and fairy—some new Charach will rise—lured out of his hole by our hatred. You or your children or your children’s children will again stand on this battlefield. So, no, I cannot agree with you. Any parley genuinely offered is not a waste.”
“I want you to be right, Father. I want to believe the way you do,” Abisina said softly.
“When the time comes, Abisina,” Rueshlan said, “you will know what to do.”
Abisina touched the necklace around her throat. He spoke Vigar’s words.
Abisina had been standing with the archers on the eastern rise since before dawn, her fingers growing stiff and cold against her bow. As the gray light spread across the sky, she could make out the army arrayed to her right: more archers in the vanguard, interspersed with dwarves carrying long, sharp pikes. Behind them, the centaurs stood ready to gallop forward—after the archers had done their work—and break the Vranian line. Humans, fauns, and fairies clustered on either side of the centaurs in order to follow them into the chaos they would create. Hidden somewhere to her left was Neiall and a phalanx of soldiers prepared to strike the Vranian flank. More dwarves manned the trenches dug to protect the high ground and the fairy archers’ position in the trees on the other side of the battlefield. Though she could not see the fairies among the branches, she wondered if their fingers, like hers, ached to nock an arrow.
In the low light, Abisina strained to catch sight of Findlay, but she couldn’t pick him out in the tightly packed ranks of soldiers. Rueshlan had put him near the back because of his youth, but Abisina knew he would work his way to the front if he could. Haret and Hoysta, with her enormous axe, were somewhere in the trenches below her.
But it was Rueshlan who commanded her attention as he stood as a centaur in the middle of the front line, waiting to give the order for the battle to begin. Next to him stood Corlin, who couldn’t bring himself to lift a sword against his countrymen, but who had agreed to advance with one final attempt at parley.