A Gathering of Wings (18 page)

“But where are the sharks?” she asks, staring down into the water, thinking, If the boat arrives before the sharks, what will I do then?

“Wait,” he says. “Be patient, beautiful girl.”

The next moment, the sea begins to boil and foam as the water erupts with the shiny, dark gray fins of sharks. Malora has never seen sharks, only heard them described by Honus. They are an ancient species, more ancient than the People. She observes their gray-green bodies angling through the water,
their heavy tails and fins, their jagged rows of teeth, their small black beady eyes. There are no predators on land with eyes as dead as these, she thinks.

“See?” he says with an elated smile. “There are at least six of them. What if it were you down there in the water, instead of the fish? You are at least as tender and tasty as fish guts. Aren’t you glad I came along in time to warn you of the dangers of the deep?”

“How will I ever thank you!” she says, giving him a tremulously grateful look. “But I’m afraid there’s not enough fish to feed them all. Will the sharks be very angry with us?”

“They’ll start in on each other when they have run out of fish,” he says in a distracted tone. He is looking out to sea now, not down at the sharks. “Where is that launch?” he mutters to himself. He steps to the end of the pier and raises both arms over his head. The moment has arrived. Malora hears a roaring in her ears louder than the sound of the feeding sharks’ snapping jaws.

She tosses the rest of the fish, net bag and all, into the roiling sea. She feels a curious calmness as she rises up onto her toes and walks toward the Capricornia’s broad back. Stiff-armed, palms flat, she shoves him off the end of the pier and into the water. He lets out one brief cry before the sharks cut him off. The sea bubbles red, like a pot of beets on the boil.

“It nurtures as it destroys,” she whispers. Nausea coils in her gut. Looking beyond the bloodied water, she remembers how she stopped Neal from murdering the big white raptor. But that had been a bird. The Capricornia was a sentient being, half human, with thoughts, plans, aspirations, a home, perhaps even a family. Does this make me a murderer now?
Then she bristles as she thinks, He was a predator, like a leopard or a lion or a shark. I had to kill him to save myself.

She swallows her nausea, bends down, and picks up the bag holding the ruby pomegranate. Then she edges back along the pier toward the port where no one—not the Ka tads diving off the pier nor the Suidean cargo mates—is aware of what she has just done.

At the morning meal, Malora presents Zephele with the pomegranate.

Zephele’s eyes pop. “How did you …?” she starts to ask, then stops herself. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Oh, wonderful you, to have thought of winning me such a prize—the one thing I wanted more than anything in all the marketplace of Kahiro!”

“That’s quite a statement,” her brother says.

When Neal sees the pomegranate, he holds out his hand for it. Reluctantly, Zephele places it in his palm. He turns it curiously in his hands. “You know, there are baubles such as this—fruits made of gems—in bowls in the salons of the Beehive,” he says. He lifts his eyes to Malora speculatively. “That’s the only place I have ever seen them.”

Before Malora can manufacture a white lie, Zephele explodes: “Neal Featherhoof! Do you mean to say that you have actually
been
to the Beehive?”

“Only once,” Neal says smoothly, “to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Liar!”
Zephele says, snatching the pomegranate.

“Is that gaffey I smell?” Malora asks as her nose picks up a pungent aroma emanating from the saffron-colored tent just ahead.

“It is indeed,” Orion says. He turns to the others. “The rest of you wait outside until Malora has finished her consultation.”

Neal holds up two zebra-skinned flasks. “So long as I get my refill.”

“Of course,” Orion says. “But business first.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you, Malora dear?” Zephele says in a low voice.

“I’ll be all right,” Malora says. It has been decided that only Orion will accompany her into the tent.

“You look fetching,” Zephele assures her, as if this were a jubilation or a banquet.

Malora is wearing the apricot silk saruchi Zephele purchased for her in the marketplace yesterday, along with a
turquoise tunic made of nubby cotton. After so many days of waiting to see Shrouk, Malora now finds herself light-headed and anxious.

Orion raises the flap and, with a lift of his chin, bids Malora to enter first. Ducking low so as not to snag her horns on the flaps, she steps into the warm darkness where the aroma of gaffey is so strong her glands prickle. In the center of the tent, a wrinkled miniature Dromad crouches on cushions, her camel-self hidden beneath a saffron-colored robe. Before her is a low table arranged with a copper ewer and a row of tiny gilded cups and saucers. Her blind, filmy eyes shining like mother-of-pearl in the gloaming, the Dromad beckons Malora forward with a long brown finger.

“Hello, Shrouk,” Orion whispers.

Shrouk’s face turns sharply toward Orion and she breaks into a wide, gummy smile. “Silvermane!” she says in a hoarse whisper, holding out a warty hand for Orion to kiss. “Gentle centaur, come in and imbibe of a freshly brewed pot of Shrouk’s very finest. Sit, sit.” She points to the pink and orange silken cushions scattered on the floor around the long, low table. Malora sinks into one of them, cross-legged, while Orion folds his legs beneath himself on the bare ground beside her. The under-scent of Orion’s anxious sweat—human and horse—grounds Malora.

Shrouk tips the copper ewer and pours a thin stream of dark brown liquid into a cup, the liquid spilling over the tips of her fingers, which are stained as dark as the brew. She fills both cups, stirring a lump of sugar into each with a small filigree spoon and adding parings from the rind of a fat ripe
lemon. She serves it up to them, a cup in each hand, her rheumy eyes sparkling with gentle mischief.

“Gaffey,” she cackles. The eyelashes that brush her dark cheeks are white.

“This is Malora,” Orion says. “The faun maiden has need of your all-seeing eye.” He takes his cup and nods to Malora to take the other.

“Is that a fact?” the Dromad croaks, then cackles.

Malora bobs her head. “It’s a fact,” she says softly.

The Dromad hocks a wad of phlegm into a nearby copper spittoon and wipes her lips on the sleeve of her robe. “True, you may have need of my sight, but you are no faun. Shrouk knows when she is in the presence of … the
People
.”

Malora sets down her cup with a clatter. She whispers to Orion, “I thought you said she was blind!”

“Shrouk sees with the Inner Eye,” the ancient Dromad says, tapping her forehead. “Now, why have you come?”

“I have lost a stallion,” Malora begins. “His name is Sky, but he is so much more than a horse. He is my family, my heart, my soul’s companion—and I must find him because I know he is in danger. Orion thought you might be able to tell me where he is.”

Shrouk smiles as her head wobbles. “Drink up, my beautiful children. Drink up!”

Malora feels Orion’s anxious eyes on her. He has not touched his gaffey. She picks up the cup and saucer and holds them beneath her chin, inhaling deeply. She sips. The beverage is bitter, sweet, nutty, earthy, tart. It seems to tug and stroke her tongue every which way, from sweet to salty to sour to
bitter and back to sweet again. As if illuminated by a flash of lightning, she sees Sky rearing, straining against ten ropes held by ten naked male centaurs with wild hair, inked skin, and pierced flesh. As quickly as it appeared, the vision vanishes.

“The wild centaurs have him,” Malora says, setting her cup and saucer on the table. She is put out, because she wasted three days finding out what she had already suspected before she ever passed beneath the city gates.

“I was afraid you’d see that,” Orion says, dropping his chin onto his chest.

“What she doesn’t see,” says Shrouk, “is that the wild centaurs worship the horse as a living god. Shrouk urges the human not to seek his liberation. It is for the best.”

Malora’s anger grows. “Why is that?” she asks.

“Shrouk foretells
death
.”

Orion’s head jerks up. “Whose death?”

“If she sets out to rescue the horse, Malora will
perish
. Shrouk sees the whole centaurean nation mourning her. Shrouk sees a faun, with tears streaming down, soaking his pointed beard. He is trailing the procession, piping a dirge.”

“Shrouk!” Orion says, his voice cracking with outrage. “How
dare
you?”

“Shrouk has no choice,” she says with a lift of her frail shoulders. “It is what she sees. Shrouk is very tired.…” She trails off, settling into the folds of her robe, and is soon snoring lustily.

Malora rises and blunders her way out of the tent. Outside, she blinks against the lemony midmorning sun.

Zephele points to Malora’s hand. “Your Dream Wound!” she says in a stricken voice.

Malora looks at the bandage. It is saturated with blood. She peels it off and wipes the palm of her hand with it. “It’s nothing,” she says.

Orion follows her out of the tent. “It is
not
nothing,” he says. He draws the others off to the side and speaks to them in hushed tones.

Meanwhile, Malora wonders what to do. She can go after her horse and tempt death. Or return to Mount Kheiron, where it is safe.

Neal backs away from the huddle. “And you all actually believe that steaming heap of elephant dung!”

“Thank you, Neal,” says Malora, relief flooding her. Neal is right. Shrouk is just another market vendor. Sometimes her goods are worth something, and sometimes they are shoddy. The words
buyer beware
ring in her ears.

But Zephele believes Shrouk. Tears roll down her cheeks as she says, “But, Neal, everything Orion has ever learned from Shrouk has come to pass. Oh, what if it’s
true
?” She stares at Malora in misery. “The thought of losing my dear, sweet friend is more than I can bear.”

“And what is your thinking about this, Silvermane?” Neal asks Orion.

“I don’t know
what
to think,” Orion says as he gazes back at the tent. “All I know is that I am very much to blame. If I hadn’t suggested coming here, if I had let Malora simply comb the bush in search of her horse, we would not now be faced with this distressing dilemma. I’d like to disbelieve Shrouk. Perhaps the ravages of age have clouded her inner sight, but I am afraid that we do this at our own—at Malora’s—peril.”

“I think,” says Honus in a quiet voice, “that our best
option, our
only
option, is to take Malora back to Mount Kheiron, where we are in control of circumstances.”

“For once, I’m with the Learned Master,” Dock says.

“Dear Honus, that’s
brilliant
!” Zephele says, throwing her arms around the faun’s neck. “Isn’t Honus brilliant, Malora?”

Malora says nothing at first. She remembers what Honus told her on the day they went to Cylas’s shop to commission her disguise. If the hibes of Kahiro ever discovered her humanity, they would
kill her with kindness
. Is this what her own friends, however well-meaning, would do to her now? Take her back to Mount Kheiron and keep her in a satin bag, like some precious treasure? “What about Sky?” she asks.

Her friends stare at her sadly and one by one shake their heads.

“You heard what the Dromad said,” Neal says. “He’s a living god. Leave him to his new life, and let’s get you back home. But not before I go in there and fill these two flasks, because I, for one, like the taste of gaffey and have never once in my life had a single vision from it, ill or good. And do you know why?” he asks, glaring at Orion and Zephele. “Because I’m a sensible, rational, thinking individual who doesn’t subscribe to supernatural theories.”

They hurry to check out of the inn and leave Kahiro in the early afternoon, stopping only after nightfall to pitch camp on the banks of the river. Leaning on her serpent stick, head blessedly free of the horns, Malora stands and stares across the Neelah. Above her, the fronds of date palm trees, laden with copper fruit, rattle in the evening breeze. Honus comes to stand beside her.

“That may very well have been the quietest meal of the entire trip,” he says, puffing to get his pipe going.

“What lies on the opposite bank?” Malora asks. She is fairly sure she knows, but she needs Honus to confirm it.

“The last leg of the Dromadi caravan route,” he says, gesturing with the point of his beard.

“And the Downs?” she asks.

“You can’t see them now, but you will in the morning,” he says.

She squeezes the Kavian snake staff in her right hand. Her Dream Wound throbs constantly now. It is like a drumbeat, inciting her to action. But she knows she must wait a little bit longer.

“Thank you,” Honus says to her.

She turns to look at him. “For what?” she asks.

“For putting our concerns about you above your own about Sky,” he says. “For so graciously letting us take you home with us.”

She turns back to the river, her face burning with guilt. Honus has misinterpreted her guile for grace. Her real intention is to break away from her friends early tomorrow morning and swim across the river to the Downs. There she will take her chances and go alone in search of Sky. When they discover she is gone, her friends will be angry with her at first, but they will forgive her in time. She only hopes they won’t follow her into the Downs. She predicts that they will not. If Zephele were not with them, they might. But Malora cannot imagine them braving the sinkholes with the Apex’s daughter in tow.

After Zephele has fallen asleep, Malora writes a note by
lantern light. Everything is ready. She will sleep in her clothes. Beneath her cot she has stowed her belt—the pouch full of ripe dates and flatbread wrapped in oilcloth, two flasks full of boiled river water—and her serpent stick. When she finally drops off to sleep, her dreams thrum to the rhythm of the throbbing Dream Wound.