He drew on his pipe, then puffed clouds of redolent redleaf smoke as he contentedly watched his family. He could afford it now, with a place in a karavan secured. Audrun, stray strands of fire-gilded hair curling at her hairline, knelt beside the ring of rocks, lifting down the kettle from the iron hook Gillan had pounded into the ground. As always, she wrapped the handle in damp cloth and deftly poured a stream of liquid into two dented pewter mugs. Ellica sat near the fire, head bent over something in her lap, while Gillan busied himself packing away the battered tin plates, pots, and iron griddle. Torvic and Megritte, having done their parts in scouring the dishes with sand and cloth sacking, were now at the far edge of the small camp arguing over something intently, but quietly enough that Davyn did not break his peace to reprimand them.
“So,” Audrun said, bringing him tea and then settling down next to him to sip her own, “we are to join Jorda’s people at first light. He says we won’t get terribly far the first day, so there shouldn’t be as much dust as we otherwise might expect.” She tilted her head to direct his gaze to their oldest daughter. “I’ve set Ellica to making us scarves out of an old apron that we can tie over our faces.”
From the darkness came a man’s voice. “Wise thought, that,” it said, then added the ritual phrase used when approaching a camp: “May I share your fire?”
“Come ahead,” Davyn invited, and rose to offer his hand in greeting as the visitor stepped out of darkness into the ruddy light of flames and coal. Davyn marked the coin—rings and beads, the countless complex braids twisting down the stranger’s spine. The light upon his face threw carved cheekbones into relief and set shadows into the sockets of his eyes.
Audrun stood as well, setting her tea behind the wheel rim so it wouldn’t be knocked over. “Davyn, this is—”
Without warning Megritte began to shriek, even as Torvic produced a sound akin to a calf’s startled blat. Ellica, looking up, shot to her feet and backed away from the fire, clutching her handiwork. Gillan, standing at the wagon’s tailgate, stiffened to attention. His eldest was not a coward, but he was naturally and commendably cautious. Clearly he was concerned.
In three strides Audrun reached her youngest and clamped hands upon Torvic’s and Megritte’s shoulders, shaking them briefly. “Stop. Stop. You will deafen all of us.” She looked across at Davyn, attempting to restore courtesy. “As I meant to say, this is our guide.”
“Demon!” Megritte announced, even as Torvic declared, “You killed that man!”
“He had claws!” Megritte added. “We saw them!”
Ellica nodded. “Before Mam found us.”
The new arrival was clearly taken aback by the reception, as well he might be, Davyn reflected, who was as startled as the guide. But as he prepared to reprimand his youngest, he held his silence when he saw the expression on the guide’s face. Surprise, first, as anyone would reflect following such an outburst, followed by comprehension and acknowledgment; and lastly, wholly unexpectedly, unfettered exasperation.
“I did not kill that man,” the guide declared with no little vehemence, “and I am becoming extremely annoyed that whenever someone dies around here, I am the one who’s blamed!”
That silenced them all, including the query Davyn was crafting, save for the clang of tin against wood as Gillan dropped a plate.
Davyn noted the guide seemed to realize such a response did nothing whatsoever to confirm his innocence, or provide an explanation. He made an odd, graceful gesture of apology, glanced at Davyn and Audrun briefly, then turned to address Torvic and Megritte specifically. “Let me begin again at the beginning. I killed no one, and I am not a demon. Ever. Certainly not yesterday, today, or even tonight. Not even at this particular moment. In fact, never. And while in general I do not bare my soul in public before folk who are utter strangers to me, especially before those who insist on accusing me of being a murderer or a demon—or perhaps even both—let me make an exception.”
Ellica’s tone was flat. “We saw you in that tent. With that man. The dead one.”
Davyn, aggravated that everyone save himself appeared to be aware of what was being discussed, interjected, “What dead man? In whose tent?”
Audrun caught his eye and mouthed the words, “I’ll tell you later.”
But the guide, who obviously did not wish to have any such thing as a murdered man and the possibility of his own involvement discussed among strangers, looked at each of them with a single sweeping glance from his eyes.
A gesture indicated the embellishment of his clothing, the ornate patterns of his braids. “You very possibly have never seen anyone like me before. But that should not suggest I am a demon. What I am is Shoia. We are uncommon in Sancorra, perhaps, and her neighboring provinces, but not so rare in others. And yes, we are … different. In several ways. But while we may indeed enjoy the tender flesh of such livestock as sheep, cattle, game, and fowl, we do not eat humans.” He looked straight at wide-eyed Megritte. “Of any age.”
Gillan spoke quietly. “We did see you there, in the tent. With the dead man.”
The guide absorbed that, then shook his head, grimacing. “To be absolutely certain we understand what we saw, and not what we think we saw, let me clarify.” He made certain he had their attention before continuing. “That man came into the bonedealer’s tent, collapsed, and struck his head on a block of stone. Whether he died before he fell or after he struck his head, I can’t say. What I can say, with absolute certainty, is that I did not kill him.”
Torvic announced, “He came to the wagon first. The dead man.”
“But he wasn’t dead then,” Megritte added.
Frustrated, Davyn inquired, “Will someone please explain? Who came to the wagon?”
“A demon,” Torvic replied.
Megritte said in her light voice, “The other demon. Not him.” She pointed.
The guide, gritting his teeth, continued his defense rather than answering. “I sent Hezriah for the Watch, such as it is.” Now he looked at Davyn, according him his place as head of the family. “We don’t generally leave bodies lying around for people to trip over. We do try to find out why they died.”
Davyn, still at sea, believed the guide. He knew of no guilty man who would send for the Watch.
The visitor—Shoia, he’d called himself—looked at Megritte again, studying her face as if he wished to be certain of her opinion. As if, Davyn realized, it mattered a great deal what the children thought of him. “My name is Rhuan. I am not a demon.”
Davyn, who knew his daughter’s stubbornness, smiled around the stem of his pipe. And Megritte did not disappoint.
Lips pursed mutinously. “You might be lying.”
“But I’m not,” the guide countered, seemingly unoffended. “I have given you my name. Were I truly a demon and you knew my name, you would rule me. You could order me to leap into the fire and burn myself up, and I would have to do so. You could order me never to eat again, and no food would pass my lips. You could even order me to wait on you hand and foot, and naturally I would. But of course that you might find pleasant, which is not what you expect of a demon.”
“Roo-un,” she said, trying it out.
“That is my name,” he affirmed gravely. “Be careful with it, if you please. Names have power.”
Megritte asked, “What if I told you to fetch me a puppy?”
“I might be inclined to do so,” he answered promptly, “providing your da and mam allowed it. But I wouldn’t have to. Only demons must do your bidding when their names are invoked, and I am not a demon.”
“Rhuan,” Megritte said, certain of it now.
“You may ask,” the guide told her, “and I may do it. But never order. It isn’t polite.”
Davyn, amused, exchanged a glance with Audrun through a trickle of pipe smoke. She was very grave, but he saw the spark in her eye leap to meet his, sharing the irony: Trust a stranger’s lesson to carry more weight than a parent’s.
“We did see someone lik
e you,” Ellica said. “Earlier today. His hair was braided, too.”
“He was mean,” Megritte added.
The guide laughed without restraint, startling all of them. The expression, astonishingly, exposed long dimples. “Brodhi,” he said, grinning. “Yes, he is indeed mean. I have told him so on numerous occasions, but so far it has made no difference. Brodhi doesn’t much listen to me.”
“Is he your brother?” Torvic asked.
“No. In your tongue, we are cousins. Blood-bound, we call it. But of course that doesn’t mean the blood-bound are always in agreement.”
“In point of fact,” Audrun declared with some acerbity, catching Torvic’s eye, “it often means they are in disagreement.” She looked back at the guide. “Will you take tea?”
Dimples faded as he made a gesture of polite refusal. “Thank you, but no. I came to show you the route we are taking, as you have been added so late.” Rhuan indicated the beaten ground beside the fire. “Let me do this quickly, so you will have time to visit the diviners.” Squatting, he smoothed the ground with one deft hand, then used his knife to draw the outline of various provinces and the roads and rivers that cut through them.
Davyn joined the others crowding around the guide’s unorthodox palette. A proper map drawn by a man who knew the routes so well was invaluable.
“This is Sancorra. And we are here, beside the river.” Rhuan indicated it with a finger. “This is Hecar province, abutting Sancorra to the west. And this is Atalanda, south, where you are bound.” He hesitated a moment, fingers stilling, then laid in crude cross-hatching with his knife’s tip. “And this area, as best we know, is Alisanos.”
Torvic murmured, “The bad place.”
The guide nodded solemnly. “A very bad place. It’s my duty to keep you safe from the deepwood, so you may arrive in Atalanda safely.”
Megritte said, “I don’t want to go there. Bad people go there.”
“Like that man,” Torvic asserted. “The one with claws.” Davyn expected the guide would answer the childish fancies with casual dismissal. But he did not.
“Not everyone who ends up in Alisanos is bad,” Rhuan said. “An active Alisanos doesn’t care about such things. It simply takes.”
Ellica’s voice was harsh. “Like the Hecari. Like the Hecari did when they took our home. When they took our futures!”
Davyn stirred. “Ellica—”
Tears welled in her eyes. “No,” she said stubbornly. “I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to do this, any of it! I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to go overmountain. I want to go home!”
“Ellica,” Audrun began, “we can’t—”
“‘We can’t.’” The girl mimicked her, cutting her off.
“Can’t do this, can’t do that. I’m sick of hearing it!” She turned, took two stiff strides away, hesitated a moment to turn back briefly. “All we’re doing is running away!” And she was gone into the darkness.
Chapter 8
AUDRUN, FLUSTERED, NOTED the guide— Rhuan—watched Ellica’s retreat with startled interest. She blurted, “Gillan, would you—?” even as she caught hold of Torvic and Megritte before they could chase after their sister. Her eldest, rolling his eyes, said he would and departed.
Audrun noticed Davyn’s gaze on her, brow furrowed. Then he said stiffly to Jorda’s guide, clearly embarrassed by the outburst, “My eldest daughter has not grown used to the idea that we must go elsewhere.” He gestured.
“Please continue. My son will bring her back.”
It sounded uncaring, but Audrun understood Davyn’s priorities; a proper map drawn by a man who knew the land so well was invaluable. And Gillan would bring Ellica back. If they still lived at the farmstead, she wouldn’t be concerned about Ellica’s sulks and tears and abrupt departures. But here, in a strange place, they could not afford to leave her to herself.
Jorda’s man hitched one shoulder in a slight shrug, then turned back to explaining the crude map on the dirt. “We’ll cross the river—here—first thing tomorrow morning.”
Long fingers moved deftly, indicating routes. “Then we go here, along here, up to here. You turn off here, onto this smaller road—do you see?”
Audrun saw Davyn’s brief nod, intently focused on memorizing what the guide laid out for them.
“But if you turn off here, as you have planned to do …” His expression was serious. “This is the shortest route. But another might promise more safety.” He grimaced briefly. “If such can be found anywhere in a province newly conquered. But if you remain with the karavan a while longer there is less risk.”
Davyn shook his head. Audrun noted a peculiar intensity in the guide as he squatted over his map. And his eyes, dark in the dusk, seemed to be waiting.
“I do know,” her husband said finally, aware of the guide’s concern. “But we must. That route is shorter, and less likely to attract Hecari.”
Rhuan said quietly, emotion banished from his tone, “That route skirts very near Alisanos.”
“Yes,” Davyn agreed, nodding. “And it is because that route is used so infrequently, if at all, that I believe it offers us more safety.”
“The Hecari are only one among many dangers. Better to face them than risk being overtaken by Alisanos.”
Audrun looked more closely at the guide’s face, then glanced at her husband, trying to keep the sudden concern from her features.
Davyn, grim-faced, saw it regardless, but did not react; he turned to the guide once more. “We have discussed it, my wife and I. We will go.”
The guide held Davyn’s gaze a moment, then glanced at Audrun. “It matters to me that everyone is kept safe.”
She believed him; she had seen how he was with the youngest of her chicks, treating them neither as children nor as adults. As if they were merely humans, deserving of respect. And because of that, because she wanted him to think she wasn’t wholly ignorant, she resorted to saying what struck her as obvious. “But a road is there, just as you have drawn. If it were so very dangerous, would they have put it so close to the deepwood?”
The guide’s faint smile suggested he had expected the question. “They didn’t.” Graceful hands dangled over bent, leather-clad knees, knife clasped loosely. Beadwork adorning fringe glinted in firelight. “The road was there first. Alisanos came later.” He seemed very relaxed, yet Audrun had the impression the guide was anything but. “You come from a region of Sancorra that Alisanos hasn’t threatened in—”
Davyn broke in roughly, “We know what it is.”
“—hundreds of years,” Rhuan finished, unperturbed by the interruption. “And it has been forty years since the deepwood shifted so much as a pace. Folk have grown accustomed to it being there, as I have drawn it.” He indicated the crosshatched area. “Generations have been born knowing precisely where Alisanos is, and how to avoid it. But too many have forgotten its greatest threat.” His eyes were very steady, as was his voice. “Alisanos moves. It is sentient, as much as you or I, for all it is a place. And we cannot trust it.”
GILLAN CAUGHT UP to Ellica before she got too far away from the wagon, though she had managed to reach the narrow footpaths winding through the tents. Dyed oilcloth, lighted from within, glowed dully in the twilight, marking his route. Gillan was irritated and impatient; the stranger, who swore he was neither demon nor murderer, seemed to have important things to tell them. But Ellica had pitched her fit—yet another in a string of them since they’d left the farmstead—and now he was missing out on the interesting things.
“Ellica. Ellica.” He caught her sleeved arm and swung her around. “Will you stop? What is wrong with you?”
Her blond hair had come loose from its binding, straggling down over narrow shoulders. She was not at that moment particularly attractive, with tear-streaked face and reddened eyes. He knew her courses had begun the year before, and her breasts had begun to grow a number of months earlier. She was, most days, inordinately proud of her burgeoning womanhood, b
ut just now she looked thin and blotched and wretched in her dull gray tunic and skirts.
Gillan released her. “You’d best come back before Da himself comes after you.”
She scrubbed tears away with both hands. “I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to have anything to do with this going overmountain. I just want to go home!”
“But there’s no home there,” Gillan declared in frustration; he had told her this more times than he could count. “They burned it down, Elli. You saw what was left, when we passed by on the road. The Hecari destroyed everything. Nothing’s left!”
“We could rebuild.” Abruptly fresh tears welled up into astonishly blue eyes. “Adric is there.”
“Adric!” It shocked him. “This is about Adric?” Gillan stared at her, suspicions forming. “Were you and he—”
Tears spilled over.
A chill descended upon him. “Elli—you’re not with child, are you?”
Her mouth fell open. “No! We never did that. We just—we just …” She was clearly at a loss, twining fingers together nervously as color rose in her face. “We talked, mostly. Sometimes he kissed me. But we knew it was meant, Gillan. It was! Just as it was meant for Mam and Da. She was fifteen when she and Da got married.”
It remained incomprehensible to Gillan. “Adric’s gone, Elli. He went to join the armies.”
“But when he comes back,” she said in desperation, “we’ll be gone! How will he find me?”
Gillan opened his mouth to tell her Adric might not be coming back at all; he had overhead Da telling Mam that most men who were not trained soldiers, for all they loved their land, didn’t have the same chances for survival as true soldiers did. It had shocked him to hear that, for he and Adric had pledged to meet under the oak tree on the border between their neighboring farms when the war was over; of course Adric would be there. But then the Hecari had overrun their lands, the oak tree had been chopped down for wood, and the farmsteads burned. Gillan, seeing the devastation, realized Da was right: Adric indeed might not be coming home.
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