Calling the Wild Page 16

  “What happened to change this?” Moira’s voice was soft, unobtrusive, as if she didn’t want to remind him of her presence, but also wanted to keep the story going.

  “The world grew calm and small.”

  “Small?”

  “Yes, for all that there were fewer people, in that time the world was a small place. One of the races of centaurs, those of brown coats, began to chafe under the restrictions of the world. The world was built and thriving, there were no forests to protect, no scourges of the Earth to fight back. They began to prey upon each other, then upon the humans, using them for sport.

  “The other race of centaurs, those of the bay coats, moved in to stop them, and a great civil war broke out. The differences grew more pronounced as the most temperate in each race were the first to go. The brown-coated centaurs lost all reason, the centuries of fighting affecting their brains so that when, after two hundred years of war, the bay coats drew back to regroup, the brown coats turned on themselves, the men fighting amongst themselves. When only the fittest and strongest survived, when every battle was so evenly matched that each ended in a stalemate, they turned on their women and children.”

  “The book didn’t mention female centaurs, were there any?”

  “There were. The brown coats raped and killed their own wives and sisters, driven by madness. The females were not defenseless, not without skills, but they were no match for the brilliant fighters that were left. Many sacrificed themselves to see that a few escaped, taking with them as many children as they could.”

  Moira turned away from his words, disgust showing in the way she hunched her shoulders and wrapped her arms over her midsection.

  “They found the bay-coat centaurs and begged for their help. When the bays reached the place where the browns had slaughtered their own kind, they found black earth and only a handful of centaurs left, all mad far beyond the point of salvation.

  “They killed them, and willed their blood to nourish the earth, rather then blacken it further. The war was over, but greater damage was done. The humans had grown while the centaurs weren’t looking, encroaching into the mountains they called home. Human villages had suffered under the madness of the brown centaurs, and enough generations has passed that many forgot what centaurs had given humanity.

  “The centaurs retreated, seeing that there was no bond left with the humans. A few, driven by nobility, ventured to bring light and knowledge to the humans, but it would never be what it had first been.”

  “And this, Chiron, he was one of them?”

  “Yes, he was the last centaur to go and help the humans.”

  “You are named for him.”

  “I am of his bloodline.”

  “But your coat is black.”

  “It is, when the brown-coated women married the bay males the result was black.”

  “What about the sacrifice you told me about? The one that created the forest. When was that?”

  “Not long after the races were united, just as the great civilizations of Greece began to grow.”

  “But if the populations had already dwindled from the war…”

  “There were less then a thousand centaurs when the forest of The Wild was created.”

  “How has your race survived?”

  “How is not the question. Why is the question. Many of the great races of beasts chose to fade away. We cannot. If we do, The Wild, and all its magic will die with us.”

  “You are…are trapped.”

  “Yes.”

  “Kiron.” she placed her hand on his arm, against the cuff she’d bound him with. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I feel selfish for complaining about my life.”

  “Do not pity me, for it is a burden I gladly bear. My anger is reserved for the humans who forgot the gifts of the centaurs and then destroy the earth we have sacrificed to protect.”

  “And you… are your responsibilities more because you were named for the greatest of the centaurs?”

  “I was named for him because they knew what I would be.”

  “Greater than the others,” she said, as if she’d just come to some realization.

  “Not greater, different.”

  “Did you suffer because of that? Because you were different?”

  He started to deny it, but changed his mind, choosing to speak the truth. “It was worse when I was young. I feel things the others do not and cannot. I see the way things come together, why the pieces must all come into play.”

  “I’m sorry.” She rubbed her hand across his lower back as they walked side by side.

  Somehow those two words and simple touch offered him more comfort than anything else had in his life.

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  “Your family, are they living?”

  “My family is every centaur, but my kin, those of my direct blood, are alive. My father is a great astrologer, my mother and her kin sisters keep the fighting ways alive.”

  Kiron realized he’d lapsed into the formal archaic speech patterns that were used for telling stories or speaking great truths. He willed himself to use vernacular English instead.

  “I don’t think we’re going to find your list today,” he added, proud of himself for sounding so native.

  “I know. I would call it a wasted day, but I learned so much about you I can’t.”

  “Moira, if you wanted to know something, you should have asked.”

  Moira gapped at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “I asked you a million personal questions, and you never answered any of them.”

  “I don’t recall those questions.”

  “Fine, Professor Kiron.”

  “Professor?”

  “Well, you’re descended from the famous teacher aren’t you? And now that I look back on it, all those times you helped me understand things, or asked leading questions to help me figure out the answer for myself, reminds me of some of my college occult professors.”

  “Do not call me professor.”

  “Sure thing, sensei.”

  “No.”

  “Rabbi?”

  “Again, no.”

  “Instructor? Teacher? Lecturer?”

  “Are you done?”

  “Nope. Ohhh, I have a good one.” They were walking side by side down a long hall, the entrances to the multi-room galleries bored into the walls on either side of the hall. Moira slid her arm through his as they walked.

  “Coach. Coach Kiron.”

  “No. I do—”

  Moira stopped, her cessation of movement so abrupt that Kiron rocked on his heels as she pulled him to a stop. Her eyes were focused in the middle distance above his head. Awareness prickled Kiron’s neck, and he turned to look over his shoulder. There was nothing there.

  Moira darted into one of the galleries.

  “Moira!”

  He ran to the gallery entrance, pausing in the doorway.

  She ran several steps and then turned to look over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

  Kiron followed her, heavy footsteps echoing her light ones as he followed her through the gallery. The walls here were cream rather than stark white, lit by soft indirect light with pure halogen spotlights on the art pieces.

  Moira was a few steps ahead of him, weaving though the freestanding pedestals, her shoes squeaking against the high gloss floor.

  “It’s here, it’s here. It’s calling me.” Her voice was bright pink with excitement.

  “What do you feel?”

  “Always trying to understand, huh, coach?” She threw a smile over her shoulder.

  “Are you going to stop that any time soon?”

  “Hmm, let me think. No.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “It’s not like anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s familiar.”

  “Moira, be cautious, this could be a trap.”

  “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Your powers are growing more refined, but your ene
mies may be growing more familiar with your power.”

  His concerns hung in the air, ignored as the first snaking tendril of smoke from a growing fire is dismissed by the doomed. Moira was turning, twisting. She took a few steps to the left, shook her head, then came back to her original position. Kiron stepped behind her and ran his hand down her back. He pushed his magic out of his hand, until it coated him like a thick, chalky white glove.

  Running his magic-sensitive hand over her body did not give Kiron a better idea of what was going on, he could feel nothing in her but her own, utterly distinctive, magic. She laced their fingers together.

  “This way.” Her words were no more than a breath, spoken with the reverence of a believer before the altar.

  She led him through the narrow gallery, and Kiron looked around for the first time. A donor’s plaque on the wall carried the name “Textiles Gallery”.

  They passed a nineteenth-century William Morris carpet, a late Endo-period silk and damask furisode and a woven raffia panel from Kenya.

  The gallery was shaped like an L, and as they rounded the corner of the L the object of Moira’s desire came into sight. Hanging on the wall at the end of the short gallery hall was a large tapestry.

  Moira shivered, and it passed to him, leaving goose bumps down his arms and back. He opened himself to his magic, letting it swell through him until it colored his vision, allowing him to look with more than his eyes.

  The hanging pulsed with virulent blue light, bright and dark at once. The object was rich with power the way chocolate is rich with taste.

  “Moira, this is dangerous, that thing is vibrating with power.”

  “Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it? You’re the one that said the list would have magic.”

  “Yes, but I am not talking about the life in the piece being activated, I mean that it is pushing magic out into the room.”

  “What?”

  “Look at it.”

  Moira turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, centering herself. When she looked back, she jerked in surprise, bumping into Kiron.

  “Awesome.”

  “It is.” Kiron was thinking it was more “awesome” in the traditional use of the word rather then in the latest vernacular sense.

  “Come on, we need to get a look at it.”

  “Careful.”

  Moira nodded and started forward, Kiron at her side. Ten feet away they were able to better see the hanging, which looked like a medieval tapestry. The green, blue and gold threads were unnaturally bright.

  They hit the edge of the object’s magic, and fear swept over Kiron.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beside her, Kiron stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” Her question was mere form, her attention on the tapestry.

  “Moira, stop, danger is here.” The conviction in his voice, the way it had dropped until it vibrated hollowly in her ears, was enough to have her stopping and once again assessing the object.

  The blue-tinted magic tempered the air just in front of her. Moira took a deep breath, drawing it in. The magic tingled through her, as powerful as the magic she could draw from Kiron, but different. This blue magic tingled under her skin, decadent in a way Kiron’s was not, though whether that was due to the novelty of it or a real difference in the magic, Moira couldn’t say.

  “It’s strong magic, but I don’t feel anything dangerous.” She started forward, forcing herself to go slow and be cautious. What she wanted to do was dash at the thing and get some answers, but Kiron’s presence at her side was a six-foot-two reminder to be cautious.

  Kiron kept his hand laced with hers, and they pushed forward. The closer they got the thicker the air became. Each breath was heavy, and Moira expected it to be wet, the way humid air would be, but the air was dry.

  Moira took another step, and the air abruptly lightened. Kiron, who’d stayed at her side, stopped and looked over his shoulder. Moira turned to do the same and saw that a thin veil of blue ebbing atmosphere separated them from the rest of the room.

  “It’s a shield,” he said.

  “Can we get back out?”

  Kiron pushed his way into the shield, turned around and came back. He appeared unharmed, but his shoulders were tense, a frown drawing his dark brows so they disappeared behind the sunglasses he wore.

  “It appears we can exit.”

  “Is it a spell?”

  “No, it’s just magic, raw magic. Most humans, who instinctively fear magic, would avoid this piece, even if they didn’t know why.”

  Together they turned to look at the tapestry. If it wasn’t for the thick wall of magic at their backs, there would be nothing exceptional about this piece, surrounded as it was by other priceless works.

  The tapestry hung from a large wooden dowel near the top of the wall. A second dowel at the bottom held the fabric straight and taut.

  It had been created using primarily blue and green threads, with gold, red, and pale grey for accent. There was no white anywhere on it.

  The focus of the piece was nine images, three rows of three, each image housed in a square bordered by vines, which were deep green against sky-blue background.

  Moira looked at Kiron. His expression had closed, unreadable to her even though he’d pushed the sunglasses up. He lacked animation, his handsome face losing much of its attractiveness because it had gone still, frozen. He was so lovely that a bronze cast in his likeness could grace one of these galleries, but what attracted her to him, his vibrancy, was locked away. He was radiating dislike for this object. Considering how supportive he’d been up to this point, it seemed odd that he’d balk and close down now. Moira turned to the tapestry. There was a small plaque beside it.

  This medieval tapestry, dating from the early 1100s, is one of the finest examples of detail work currently known. Experts believe that this piece was part of a private collection, hence its good condition.

  Though no previous record of this piece exists, it is believed to have originated in Germany, traveling to the U.S. with immigrants, before it was anonymously donated to the Institute in the 1990s.

  Scholars are still debating the meanings of the nine scenes depicted. They represent no easily recognizable biblical or mythological themes commonly found in medieval tapestries. Another unique fact is that each of these scenes has its own title, which is stitched into the bottom right corner of the image. Even with these titles, the meanings still elude scholars.

  In order from left to right:

  Row 1: The Hidden Mountain, The Maniac King, The Golden Death

  Row 2: The Black Emperor, The Mourning Star, The Dark Queen

  Row 3: The Red Sea, The Sorrowful Lady, The Lost Isle

  Moira’s heartbeat slowed, her breathing growing deep. There it was—the list, the prophecies. A shudder of pleasure, nearly ecstasy, swept through her. She’d found it. She’d done it.

  The titles tantalized, dancing through the mind with light steps. It was the sort of mystery that intrigued humanity, invited them to imagine things beyond the pale reality of their words. Humans did not know that each image, each prophecy was routed in the truths of time, earth and sky.

  Moira backed away, moving to stand slightly right of center. She had her list, there was no need to write them down, their strange and beautiful names were committed to her memory.

  She’d worried she would not know which was hers, which she was looking for, but she did, it was right there, last square in the center row. It belonged to her and she to it, and like soul mates they, she and the prophecy, recognized one another.

  Her fingers brushed the embroidered picture of a woman in dark blue, her body turned to offer the viewer only a small slice of her pale gold face. Her hair was covered by a long blue veil, anchored in place with a gold and black crown. She looked out at something, but her figure was alone in the square, save for the small words that named her. Whatever she looked out on, the truth of her kingdom, was hidden.

  As her index finger stroked th
e gold thread of the crown the image came to life. Moira took a breath, expecting the small figure to move, to come to life as the guitar player had, but it did not. Dark threads shot out of the tapestry, weaving themselves around Moira’s fingers. Reality snapped back into focus, the strange mood that had gripped Moira as she looked at the tapestry sliding away under a rush of adrenaline. She jerked back, the wooden dowels at the top and bottom of the tapestry banging against their brackets as her movement pulled the entire piece away from the wall.

  “Kiron,” she yelped.

  The threads around her hand pulled tight, forcing her hand, palm forward, fingers spread, flush against the fabric.

  Moira’s vision went black.

  “Kiron!” she screamed, but no sound came out. If he responded, by voice or touch, it was lost to her. She was trapped, blind, mute and paralyzed in the suffocating dark.

  The darkness lifted, as suddenly as it had descended, and Moira closed her eyes, an odd reaction to being forced to stare, wide eyed, at the darkness.

  Calm, calm, she whispered to herself. You’re okay, and if you’re not, you’ll find a way out. Open your eyes.

  The tapestry, the museum, they were gone.

  She stood in a cave. Crystals glittered in the rough, arched walls of the cathedral-like space. There was no visible light source and yet the crystal flecks glowed with light. Light that ebbed and rose as if the cave were…breathing.

  She needed to get out of here, fast.

  Taking a few steps to the side, Moira reached out to touch a rock spur, but her hand passed through it. Moira moved along the wall, testing different sections, in each place her hand passed through the rock. She was tempted to walk into the wall, keep going until she reached the outside of this illusion, but she feared being lost forever in the illusionary mountain that housed the cave.

  If the rock walls were not really there, what was she standing on? Moira looked down at her feet. Each shoe was sunk into the illusionary rock, the soles disappearing into what appeared to be solid rock. On the other side of the cave a spill of boulders offered her what she needed. Moira headed for them, hesitating when she passed under the tallest part of the cave.