ILONA, PERCHED ATOP the high bench seat of her wagon with wide leather reins in her hands, wearily applied the hand brake as the karavan ground to a halt. There had been some slight confusion when the column was turned away from its usual camping ground, but Ilona knew to trust Jorda. Going elsewhere to camp near the tent settlement was utterly unfamiliar, but she had no doubt there was a good reason. Jorda did manage to lead them to a scattering of trees so there was some daytime shade—and trees, for some reason, always made a campsite feel friendlier to Ilona, more private and personal—so she guided her team to a thick-trunked, wide-crowned tree and halted them under its leafy branches. Janqeril would come and unhitch the horses, leading them away for grooming and feeding—it was a boon allowed the karavan diviners that they need not spend themselves on their animals—but in the meantime she would begin to unpack the things used in her art. She expected to be busy this night, with so many lives and plans thrown into upheaval.
As she climbed down off the high, spring-mounted seat, she saw Darmuth riding the line. She hailed him, calling his name; he slowed, then turned back as he recognized her. He knew very well what her question was, and answered it before she could even ask.
“The usual grove hosts the sick and injured and homeless left over from the Hecari culling,” he explained. “You’ll be camping here instead.”
“How bad is it?”
Darmuth’s face was grim. “As bad as I’ve seen.” He eased his restive mount with a hand upon its neck. “I suspect you would be as needed at changing dressings as reading hands.”
“Then I’ll go,” she said immediately.
But Darmuth put up a hand and shook his head. “Stay here. If you go there, everyone will be thrusting their hands into your face even as you wrap a burn that is sure to rot otherwise. There are other women in the karavan who can help. Stay here and tend your business. Diviners can do as much as caregivers in times like these.”
“Only if I give them good readings,” she reminded him. “That isn’t always the case, Darmuth.”
His mouth twitched in a smile banished before it was born. “But hope can do much to strengthen a despairing soul.”
He was right, she knew. Countless times those whose hands she read merely wanted company, someone to listen. Someone to reassure them.
A strange expression crossed Darmuth’s face. “He’s not gone yet. He’s at Mikal’s, if you wish to find him.”
It was a knife in her gut, and wholly unexpected. But she ignored the pain. “I’ve already said my farewells. I’ll see him when he returns.”
Darmuth fixed her with a penetrating gaze. Then he smiled faintly, inclined his head, and rode on.
Ilona stood beside the steps of her wagon, hands full of silks she would spread over the low table. She had said farewell. She had wished him well of his journey. She did know he was gone.
For all that he was here, and so was she.
BY THE TIME Brodhi returned, Rhuan had washed himself of all but the faintest traces of blood caught beneath fingernails and drying in his braids. He had stripped out of the soaked tunic and rolled it up, setting it aside with the bloodied washing cloth. In its place he wore one of Brodhi’s tunics, a green one, found by digging through his belongings. Once again he wore his belt, his long knife, and the baldric of throwing knives, minus two. He fingered the empty loops, his memory a blank from the moment after his throat had been opened to resurrection. He had lost part of himself, just as when the poisoned Hecari dart killed him. Fortunately this time no one but Brodhi witnessed his death.
With time to think about it, it came as no surprise that he would be attacked for his bones. The tent settlement was in disarray, its people grieving and terrified the Hecari might return. One cure for fear was to know what was coming, and Shoia bones, burned, could tell them, provided there was a diviner left alive who could read them. Hezriah the bonedealer was dead, Brodhi had said; Rhuan briefly wondered about Dardannus, who was always prepared to pay well for Shoia bones.
He was tired and slow, weak from blood loss and shock. Revival did not put lost blood back into his body; it did not restore him to perfect health. It brought him out of death and healed such things as had killed him. But there was always a price to be paid as his body recovered, and because of it he would not be riding out to follow the farmsteaders this evening, as planned. The best he could do was start fresh at dawn, and ride at speed.
Brodhi appeared in the door of the tent. He grimaced as he marked the tunic Rhuan wore. “I stopped by the karavan—I see I should have picked up spare clothes when I dug out your bedroll.” He held out a hand. “Here.”
Two throwing knives, cleaned. Rhuan tucked them back into their loops, pleased to have a full complement once more.
Brodhi motioned with his head. “Come. We’re going to spend the night in the trees.”
That was startling news. “Why the trees?”
Brodhi stepped all the way into the tent and knelt down, gathering up his beaded bag and blankets. “You can’t stay here; courier tents are reserved for couriers alone. And all the undamaged tents are full of survivors, many of them still in shock while others are grieving. Loudly.” He grabbed up his leather courier’s pouch and scroll case, slung both over a shoulder. “I suppose Mikal might let you sleep on his bartop, except more and more men who’ve been burying and burning bodies are gathering there to drink themselves insensible, and that will probably go on until dawn.”
Rhuan frowned in perplexity, shrugging. “I’ll just go back to the karavan.”
“To let the hand-reader look after you again?”
Unexpected warmth rose in his face as he heard the trace of contempt in Brodhi’s tone. “No. She doesn’t need to know I died again.” Especially since he wasn’t certain how many deaths she knew about. He had a vague, uneasy memory that he had told her the last one was sixth, which meant this one should have been a permanent death. “I’ll sleep elsewhere.”
“Just as well.” Brodhi rose, staring down at his kinsman. “I had a brief but enlightening talk with Darmuth. It seems that you have not been fulfilling a portion of your responsibilities. Darmuth is most displeased by it, since it places him in a precarious position.”
Heat rushed to Rhuan’s face. A brief flicker of red crossed his vision. “That is not your concern.”
“How long has it been since you allowed Darmuth to Hear you?”
Ordinarily Brodhi’s probing questions would have amused him, even as he ignored them, or replied with a quip. But he was tired in body and soul, and reaction to the latest death was likely to set in at any moment. “I don’t have the same relationship with Darmuth that you do with Ferize. I’m the prodigal, remember?”
Brodhi arranged his bag and blankets under one arm, then reached down and caught Rhuan’s elbow, exerting upward pressure. “Come with me. We have a long night ahead of us.”
Rhuan stood up because he had no other choice. But once on his feet, he twisted free of Brodhi’s grip. “Let be. This is not your concern.”
Brodhi said something very succinct in their milk-tongue, the language all male babies learned first and spoke until their voices broke, at which time they were allowed to begin speaking the tongue of adults. It was an intentional insult in and of itself, but from Brodhi, for whom arrogance was an art, it fired Rhuan’s blood and turned his vision crimson.
“If you behave as a child, you shall be treated as a child,” Brodhi declared, seeing the reaction. “And if you wish to challenge me here and now, be certain I shall win. You haven’t the strength to defeat me.” Once again he clasped a hand around Rhuan’s elbow, intentionally tweaking a nerve so that Rhuan hissed in discomfort. “We are going away from here for the night. But before you sleep, I will Hear you. In every detail. I insist upon it.”
“What, so you can tell Ferize? She’s hardly my advocate.”
“She’s hardly mine, most of the time,” Brodhi countered dryly. “Would you rather have me fetch Darmuth?”
> Rhuan considered the last time he and Darmuth had spoken. “We’re not on good terms at the moment.”
“Neither are Ferize and I. So, that leaves me. Not your choice, perhaps, but in this world I am a trained courier; I know how to carry messages exactly as they have been given to me. But if you like, I will spill blood for the oath.”
Rhuan winced, feeling at his throat. “I think there’s been more than enough blood spilled tonight.”
Brodhi’s gaze was steady. “We will do this. It is a part of the journey, as you well know, and weighs a great deal in the final outcome. You have made it abundantly clear to me and to our sires what you want, so I suggest you fulfill all the oaths you made if you expect to have your wish granted.”
Another time, Rhuan would have challenged Brodhi. Another time, he would have freed himself of Brodhi’s grip and walked away, secure in his own strength to do so. But not tonight. Not after a death that had bled him nearly dry.
“All right,” he said, “but let go.”
Brodhi’s grip remained firm on Rhuan’s elbow. He waited.
Rhuan sighed. “Dioscuri to dioscuri.” It was pledge enough. Brodhi released him.
Rhuan swore in the tongue of the humans, but he accompanied his kinsman away from the settlement.
Chapter 37
THE OXEN, WHO had preferred traveling with the karavan and objected to being turned away, were slow and recalcitrant. Davyn told everyone to walk in hopes the lighter wagon might improve the animals’ attitudes, but it made no difference. And nothing he did hastened them, either. The best distance the family made by dusk was a day or two away from the turnoff that would take them to Atalanda more swiftly. Come morning the oxen should have forgotten what it was like to be in a karavan, and they could make better time.
Davyn was walking a handful of long paces ahead of the wagon. “Here,” he called to Gillan, who was guiding the oxen. “We’ll pull off …not too far. Head for the trees.” There was a modest grove of trees not far off the track, and Gillan waved a hand to indicate his understanding.
His family was scattered on either side of the road, avoiding the dust raised by oxen and wagon, though they had left off face scarves now that they were no longer at the end of a long karavan. Torvic and Megritte were, as usual, challenging one another to games and dares made up on the spot—he tried to remember when he had such energy, and failed—while Ellica walked near her mother. His daughter had at some point undone her hair, so that it hung down her back like a fall of rippled pale silk. She was growing into the promise of a prettiness, not obvious, not astounding, but evident in her complexion, the curve of cheekbones, the long eyelids, the under defined browbone, and the well-molded shapes of her jaw and nose. She was tall, taller than her mother, with a body just beginning to lose the angles of girlhood, to soften and mature into womanhood.
She did not, Davyn thought, resemble her mother as much as in childhood. She had his coloring, with nearly white-blond hair, blue eyes, and extremely fair skin, though his skin was much weathered now. Audrun’s hair was the color of a dun horse, though the sun had bleached streaks of gold into it, and her eyes were brown. After four births and a fifth child on the way, she lacked the bloom of youth her elder daughter claimed, but retained a refinement in the features of her lean, tanned face. Audrun was gold and bronze; Ellica, rose and white.
It was well they were going to Atalanda, Davyn thought; there were few available young men in Sancorra because of the war. Ellica would have a much better, and much safer, opportunity to find a husband in Atalanda.
And that made him smile as he headed toward the grove. Audrun had been Ellica’s age when they married. Often it felt like yesterday, and it seemed impossible that their own oldest girl might well be marrying and starting her own family within a year or two.
Davyn nodded, content with the life he and Audrun had made. He gave thanks to the gods, to the Mother of Moons, and asked them to grant the same health to the unborn one, a baby who would never see the face of war, of loss, of tragedy. A baby who would never see a Hecari, but only hear about the painted, brutal warriors who had overrun Sancorra as they had overrun two other provinces, a flood tide of killers. Atalanda lay on the far side of Alisanos; Davyn believed not even the Hecari would attempt the deepwood.
Not far from the grove Gillan halted the oxen. With Gillan’s aid, Davyn chocked the wagon wheels and unhitched the oxen, directing his son to lead them off for forage in the lush prairie grass. They would be hobbled against wandering too far, but with plenty of succulent grass at hand Davyn doubted they would take more than two or three steps even left free.
Already Audrun had sent the two youngest, with Ellica’s help, to round up rocks suitable for building a fire ring even as she began to gather the makings for stew. Meatless stew; it had been a week or more since they had eaten fresh meat, and Davyn resolved that tomorrow would be a halfday on the road so that he and Gillan could set snares and hope for a hare or two. Cooked and packed in salt, the meat would last them a day or three; more, if they were lucky with their snares.
They carried a store of kindling and firewood at all times, and though they had the makings to start a fire, they also carried a small cloth-wrapped iron coal pot. It was Gillan’s task to keep the coals inside alive, to monitor how many hardwood chips were needed to preserve the coals. With this pot and dried kindling they need not worry about the challenges of starting a cookfire in wet weather; beneath a wide section of oilcloth stretched out from the wagon and attached with cloth torn into strips to poles planted upright in the earth, they could cook even in rain, huddling together under the cloth.
But the skies, though darkening at dusk, were clear, with the first exuberantly bright stars starting to appear. Days before, Grandmother Moon had turned her face away, giving way to the Orphan Sky, the time when the elderly often died, crossing the river to a land where there was no darkness, no cessation of light. It was a time when diviners experienced better custom, when people handled their necklets of charms and prayed for a return to light, to the Maiden Moon’s mercies, a sliver that slowly, as the Maiden gained confidence, bloomed into the full round face of gravid motherhood. The Orphan Sky had passed. Maiden Moon rose now, easing toward the welcome light of the Mother.
Davyn’s necklet of charms had fallen inside his tunic. Pausing to give thanks skyward, he pulled the thong out and felt the individual charms, distinct in shape, with callused fingers. Pewter, brass, carved wood, even two costly glass beads, both a streaky red. And lumpy knots scattered along the length of leather, tied into the thong by the moonmother who had spoken ritual chants over the necklets asking the gods to look kindly on the wearer, to bring him to worthiness before he crossed the river.
He heard high-pitched voices and saw his two youngest sharing the load of an oilcloth bucket. It sagged between them as they came down the freshly cut wagon ruts, briefly scraping up soil as they carried it toward their mother. They were mired in an argument over who had found the largest rock and were negligent in their care for the bucket, dragging it in the dirt time and time again.
Not far behind them was Ellica with another oilcloth bucket. She caught his eyes, mouth twisted as she set down her load beside the place Audrun had selected for the fire ring. “I don’t recall Gillan and I arguing this much.”
Davyn shook his head in negation. “More.” Grinning at her immediate protest, he rescued the bucket from the ministrations of his two youngest and carried it to Audrun, already busily spading up thickly-rooted grass in preparation for the cookfire. The routine of preparing dinner was well-known, and there was little more to do save oversee Torvic and Megritte so that they didn’t neglect their responsibilities.
Gillan came back from the oxen. “No stream that I could find, so I’ve watered them from the barrel. They’re eating well.”
Davyn nodded. “Good. Perhaps this slower pace will put flesh back on them.” He noted Gillan’s faded blue tunic for the first time. “Isn’t that mine?”
Gillan nodded, somewhat shamefacedly.
“I gave it to him,” Audrun said from where she supervised construction of the fire ring with Torvic’s and Megritte’s haphazard building skills. “Your son has outgrown his own in the shoulders; the seams need to be let out. Ellica can begin that task tomorrow.” She glanced up, offering a private smile for him. “I think he’ll be taller than you once he’s grown.”
“Can’t he let out his own seams?” Ellica asked acerbically.
Her older brother stared at her, startled. “That’s woman’s work!”
“I’ll trade,” she offered. “I’ll tend the oxen tomorrow morning, and you can let out the seams of your tunics.”
Audrun raised her voice slightly. “I don’t think you want to see what will become of the tunics if your brother lets out the seams.” She paused a beat. “Or your father, for that matter. Not with their big hands.”
Davyn and Gillan, simultaneously, looked at their hands. Davyn nodded ruefully; they were broad, calloused hands, fingers scarred from years of work. He dared not take up Audrun’s precious silver needle, or it would be lost certain-sure.
Broad hands, broad shoulders; Davyn smiled as it dawned on Gillan that he was being accorded a man’s place, not a boy’s. At the farmstead, it had been easy to see Gillan merely as a boy as the years passed by. But this journey had made a man of him even as it guided Ellica across the threshhold of womanhood.
“Well done,” Audrun said of the fire ring. “Hands?” Torvic and Megritte displayed their palms and fingers. Their mother nodded, gesturing to the water barrel on the back of the wagon. “Wash up. And try not to get them dirty again before we eat!”
They would, Davyn knew. He grinned to see Audrun quickly change out several rocks to strengthen the lopsided affair Torvic and Megritte had built. Then he surveyed the heavens critically. “Tomorrow, then. Not enough light left.” He glanced at Gillan. “Snares. First thing tomorrow morning. We’ll delay our start until after midday and hope for fat hares.”
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