There seemed a horrible sense to it all; it looked like confusion, with the good and bad floating together, merging and parting. But all the pieces were there before her eyes. Posy had an odd, creeping suspicion that this thought applied to more than just these circumstances. Perhaps they applied to everything she had ever known or done. And if she could once see those scattered and broken pieces for what they were, guess at the sense and order of them, the whole world would shift and nothing would ever be the same again.
* * *
Kyran found them some time later. The sun was high in the sky; it could not be far past noon. Posy thought this must be the longest morning she had ever spent. He came into the trees, and when he called out to them, the two girls went running.
Evanthe embraced her brother. They looked at each other, and the thoughts ran palpable between them, though they did not speak. They had won, and won more than they ever dreamed. “Our father?” Evanthe asked at last, her calm voice belying the unease beneath.
Kyran’s face became grave. “He has been seriously injured. He is being carried to the castle as we speak. You and Posy must go back to the castle as well. You will be safe there, don’t worry. And our mother is not to be allowed from her own rooms.”
“The king’s soldiers agree to this?” Evanthe questioned, raising her eyebrows.
“Oh, yes,” Kyran smiled grimly. “They are completely ours now, sister. I’m not so sure they wouldn’t have joined us even if the king had not made the decision he did. The Wild Land has not been the only place of unrest and discontent.”
“Good,” the princess nodded. She glanced at Posy and gave her a quick smile. Then she walked a distance away from them, beyond the edge of the trees, discreetly waiting. Posy couldn’t seem to lift her eyes. She looked down at the mossy forest floor. The smell of damp earth and green life was all around her. The smell of fear and blood was still on her, though.
“Don’t cry, Posy,” Kyran’s arms came around her and he kissed her hair. “It’s all over now, little one.”
His words only made her cry harder. She wrapped her arms around him and tugged him as close as she could. Her fingers clawed into his back, her face pressed into his chest. She couldn’t seem to pull him near enough to her. She felt the sudden urge to share a skin with him—nothing else would seem to quiet this strange mixture of sadness and joy she always felt when she was near him.
“Posy,” he whispered, “when I found out my father had sent men to take you ... when I saw that you were gone ... I ... I think I might have murdered him right then if he’d been near me.”
“No, Kyran,” Posy shook her head against his chest. “You would never do that, not for anything. I’ve watched you, I know you ... and you love him. Don’t you?”
He nodded silently, tears slipping past his dark lashes.
“Oh, Kyran,” was all she could say.
When she pulled away from him, it was as if someone were pulling off part of her own body. It hurt far worse than a hundred talons in her skin, a thousand broken bones. How could one person need another so desperately? She had never known it was possible.
“You must go back to the castle now,” Kyran said with a weary sigh. “You must have your wounds seen to, and rest. I will be there soon.”
“Can’t you come now?” she choked out, feeling a sudden fear at leaving him once again.
“I have to stay with my men and clear the battlefield.” He gently took her arm and began to walk with her out of the forest. “So much has happened here at this Border, Posy,” he said distantly. “And now there is no Border at all. It is broken, and we are all the same. Nothing will ever be as it once was.”
“No,” Posy answered simply.
Kyran stopped and took hold of Posy’s shoulders. He leaned down to kiss her softly. She melted at the softness of his lips. The difference between this incredible tenderness and the hardened warrior she had seen on the battlefield amazed her. It seemed like a beautiful thing, somehow, such a difference, and she loved him for it.
“I will be with you soon, love,” he said again, his dark eyes looking into hers one last time. He turned to walk away.
* * *
Posy awoke to one great ache. She couldn’t specify where the pain came from—it seemed to come from every inch of her. Her head throbbed, her muscles were tight, the skin on her wounded back felt horribly stretched and stiff as leather. She groaned and tried to roll over. She opened her eyes into the glare of the sun shining boldly into her bedroom. Her bedroom?
No, it was the princess Evanthe’s bedroom. How it seemed like ages ago she had been here, yet it was only a matter of weeks. She gazed around the large high-ceilinged room at the tall windows, the white stone walls, the great rug before the fireplace that roared now with a fire. Posy forced her legs off the side of the bed and tried to stand. She found that her damaged ankle had been wrapped tightly and expertly, and though it pained her still, it felt much better. She walked slowly to the fireplace to stare into the blaze. How long had she been sleeping?
Eleven hours, that’s how long! The mist descended upon her, swirled lightly around her shoulders.
“And where is Kyran?” Posy asked quickly.
Oh, he has come to see you many times, but he only peeks in so as not to wake you. He has snatched an hour of sleep here and there, but most of the time he is pacing around the castle, working and talking, talking and working. He has much to do now, dear. He is King Kyran now, you know—or will be soon.
“King?” Posy exclaimed. Happiness and dread seemed to hit her at once. “Oh! Has his father died, then?” Her heart beat faster, knowing the pain this would cause to both Kyran and Evanthe.
Oh, no, not dead. Injured, yes. Saddened, yes. But not dead. No, he listens to me now, does the old king—and not just to lead him down a hallway, mind. He listens to me telling him about the magic of the Plot. He grows well again hearing me whisper of the breathtaking possibilities that may now unfold. No one hears his thoughts, though—only me. He does not appear conscious to anyone—only I know what things are working and spinning in his mind while he lies in his sleep. And he knows, alas, that he can no longer be king. He does not wish to—and even if he did, they would not let him. The mist drooped gloomily.
“They? Who do you mean?” Posy asked.
Oh, the people of the Kingdom, of course, dear. The characters themselves! The mist leapt up cheerfully again and danced above Posy’s head. They insist upon crowning Kyran. They will have no other! And it will all be as it should be.
“Oh, my!” Posy said. “How much can happen in eleven hours! But you,” she said to the mist, recalling something, “you say Melanthius listens to you now? Does that mean you can leave the castle? Does everyone hear you now?”
In time, darling, in time they will, I have no doubt. Already I feel stronger every minute, and feel myself growing. Yet I will never be loud, you know—I cannot stand the thought of shouting at people! Oh, no. I must be heard because I am wanted only.
“We all want that, really, I suppose,” said Posy with a sigh.
* * *
Kyran and Valanor faced each other in silence. Kyran’s dark eyes saw a woman defeated, but too proud to face it; they saw a face of stone that bespoke of isolation and grief. And his heart felt sympathy, and even love, though she had caused him so much pain. He wondered what must have happened to her to cause such bitterness and unhappiness. He was sorry for it, whatever it had been, and wished he could do something to take the pain of it away from her.
Valanor’s pale eyes gazed disdainfully at her offspring, and they saw a mere boy, though admittedly much changed since she had seen him last. Oh, he was the same as he had been on the outside with his black hair falling to his shoulders and his dark snapping eyes. But there was a certain strength in his eyes now, a determination in the way he held himself. Valanor thought bitterly that it was a pity his father had shown none of these signs. Her eyes traveled up and down the prince, assessing coldly. Any see
d of hope she had in her past, any whisper of love she had ever felt, had been trodden on or scorned, and her only and strongest defense had proven to be this cold face, and this heart that felt ... nothing.
“I will forgive if you ask it, Mother,” Kyran’s voice came both soft and strong. “And I will love, even if you do not ask it.”
“Love?” she scoffed before she could stop herself. “Such weakness. Love can lead nowhere, son, except to destruction and humiliation.”
“Is that where it led you?” he asked quietly.
She could hardly stomach the look of sadness and sympathy in those black eyes. She turned away from him. “You may choose to do what you will with your love or forgiveness. I will never ask for either of them.”
“Very well,” said Kyran. “And so I will.”
Instead of turning to go as she had expected, he paced over to her and grasped her long beautiful hand. He pressed it to his cheek and kissed it before she could protest.
When the door closed behind him, Valanor took long strides to the window and gazed blindly out across the green spring fields and budding trees. Her face contorted and she made a choking sound, clutching and pressing at her chest as if to keep something down that would escape.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Forgiveness
Great doorways shining with embossed gold images, cobblestone floors that threw footsteps and voices off the lofty ceilings, stone walls with slits for windows that glimpsed the sprawling kingdom beyond. Everything was as Posy remembered from that first night she had been in the castle, when she had crept through the darkened passages to spy on the king and his councilors. Never mind that it was a few short weeks ago. Posy knew it had been an age past—another time completely—and that this was a new story.
It had been two days since the battle, and Posy felt much better, in part because she had been pampered and waited upon without ceasing since she arrived. Hot baths, beautiful clothing, and curls in her hair made for a wondrous difference. Her ankle had been bound tightly, and the physician had given her remedies to ease the pain.
But no matter how well her body mended, her spirit still felt tattered. Why have I been brought here? she thought bitterly. Why have I been dragged through all this pain and love, which feel so much the same? What is the lesson in it all? Her soul felt tired beyond imagining.
Now she made her way with the prince down the corridor that led to the king’s chambers. Melanthius had been in bed since the battle; he had only just regained consciousness. His wounds had been many, and deep. The guard that stood before the towering door stepped aside silently as they approached, and they entered the room.
It was dark. The blinds were all drawn tightly against the sun, and only candles lit the chamber, throwing long shadows across the walls and the king’s vast bed. The sharp sweet smell of burning herbs met Posy’s nose, but underneath the odor she could smell sickness and pain. She imagined she saw the mist hovering quietly above the bed, just high enough to be hidden by shadows.
The physician walked forward from his place at the king’s bedside. “He is awake, but seems to tire easily. Don’t be long.”
“No,” the king’s rasping voice addressed the doctor. “They must stay to hear all I have to say, no matter how long it takes.”
“Yes, Majesty,” the man bowed and quietly took his leave.
Posy grasped Kyran’s hand as they made their way to the king’s bedside. He was bandaged heavily—arms and chest, probably his legs, though they were hidden from view under the blankets. His face had long deep lesions, the scars of which would undoubtedly be with him for the rest of his life. Impossible to determine the extent of his injuries, really. Posy wondered how much of his weakness was due to guilt and regret more than any physical hurt. His shadowed eyes had changed from the man she remembered, and his large frame looked small and sunken, there in the bed heaped with blankets.
“First, my dear Posy, is you.”
Posy started at the king’s words. She hadn’t realized he had even known her name.
“Yes, yes.” He gave the suggestion of a smile. “Come here, child, and take my hand.”
Posy walked closer and hesitantly took his bandaged hand in her own. The only skin she could see or feel were his fingertips, which were warm and alive. “There would be much to say to you if I could say it, child. But I am not a man for those types of words—at least not yet. I think if I ask you to forgive me, you would understand all the rest.”
Posy felt a sudden indignant anger flare up within her. He could ask her this, after all that had happened? But she tried to ignore it, and forced herself to say, as kindly as she could, “Yes, I forgive you.” For wasn’t forgiveness more an action—a decision—than a feeling?
“I thank you,” the king spoke sincerely. “For I do not deserve it, my child. And now …” Melanthius’ dark weary eyes turned to his son, standing solemnly behind Posy. “We must speak.”
Posy knew the many things that might pass between them, and she knew she must leave them alone to speak them. She made her way quietly to the door. Just before she closed it, she turned and saw Kyran smoothing his father’s hair away from his injured face. She could only feel the injustice of such mercy, and she turned quickly to shut the door behind her.
She waited in the wide corridor. A window alcove with hanging drapes was across the way, and she went to sit there and gaze out across the fields toward where she knew the Border was, and the Wild Land beyond. Yet there was a Border no more. Kyran had told her they were all the same now, Wild Folk and characters of the Plot. Were they, really, though? He would have his work cut out for him as king, reconciling his people, getting them to live at peace together.
Her eyes drooped with sudden weariness, and she leaned her head back against the stone wall behind her. A moment later, she was swooping like a winged creature across fields and villages.
Things passed by her at an impossible speed, a sort of smearing cloud of memories. She tried to make sense of them, but she was flying too fast and couldn’t slow herself. She saw flashes of beasts attacking in a darkened wood; ghostly skinless faces that stared with hollow eyes; the clash and gleam of swords on a battlefield; a loneliness that clutched her by the throat until she felt she couldn’t draw another breath; the ripping sound of claws across flesh; the king holding a knife to the heart of his son with a smile on his lips that made Posy shudder even in her sleep. Then everything stopped abruptly. But before her mind could halt along with it, she was flying again. Now she saw a door slammed, heard the shout of an angry voice, felt the isolation of withdrawn love, and a brokenness that left her empty and raw. She had to escape. If dreams could kill, she was sure this one would kill her. The sky suddenly became glass, and she flew into it, wings flapping wildly, once, twice, then broke through with a horrible crash.
She was awake, but found she had not escaped at all. For she knew before she opened her eyes that everything she had dreamed was real, part of her past, or part of her future. So much pain—rivers of it, oceans of it. Would it pursue her the rest of her life?
Well, my dear, I suppose there are words I could say to you ... many of them. The mist floated through the drapes of the window. But I believe you know the answer to your own question. And after all, I only ever tell people what they know already.
“Well, not me,” Posy answered angrily. “I don’t know.” She leaned forward to press her forehead against the windowpane.
Only weak people put the blame on another, my dear, and only faint hearts say they have no choice. You must learn to rise above the hurt that others have caused you. You must not remain a slave to it forever.
“I’ve tried,” said Posy, tears coming to her eyes. “I’ve tried. I don’t know what else I can do.”
Oh, but there is more to do, you know. Because once you have risen above it, you still don’t have freedom ... not until you love.
“I have to love the pain that I go through?” Posy asked skeptically. “I can never d
o that.”
No, darling, not the pain, came the mist’s patient voice. But you must love the giver of the pain. It dissolved through the glass of the window and merged with the spring wind that wafted and twirled around the castle like a carefree child.
Well, wasn’t that what Kyran was doing now? For Posy had seen the way he looked at his father, heard the way he spoke to her of his mother—and they were both the givers of his pain. She felt she had no right to withhold forgiveness from her parents, when she saw how completely Kyran had forgiven his own. She knew also—something faint and secret whispered to her, something she had ignored for a long time—that her parents had never meant to give her pain—not like Kyran’s.
Melanthius and Valanor had made mistakes, taken evil counsel, deceived, mistreated and killed. Any love they might have had for their children was drowned in their own schemes and trickery. But it didn’t matter to Kyran, for he had a different love now, one that didn’t need anything in return. Posy knew it, because she knew him, loved him, could read his face like the dearest story she had ever read.
Yet how could she know him so well, and not understand where this strange mercy had come from? What had he found that she couldn’t?
The door to the king’s chamber opened, and Posy peeked around the drapes to see Kyran’s dark head ducking quietly out of it. When he reached her, she didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“Why, Kyran?” she burst out. “Why do you still love him? It’s not ... it’s not fair.”
“Fair?” and he gave a sad, sighing smile. “Oh, Posy. But that’s what mercy is. If everything was fair, mercy would have no place in this or any other world. For it has nothing to do with justice.”
“But it’s not just mercy. Mercy I could understand ... but ... but there’s more. You love them, your mother and father, and they have hurt you so badly. I have hated them for your sake. Why don’t you hate them, too?” her voice broke in anger.
The Word Changers Page 26