Ilona pulled her hands from the earth and displayed them to the family. The still-rising wind blew her hair out of its confining rods so that the wild, dark curls fell down her back. “I say—I say, as a hand-reader—that we must all go. Now!”
Then Jorda was with her, helping her to her feet. He settled a large, calloused hand on each of her shoulders. “You as well,” he said. “Go, Ilona.”
Leaves were torn from limbs, wheeling away on the wind. Ilona felt the tug against her scalp as her hair was whipped into tangles. “I can’t, Jorda. There are children in the settlement.”
“That task is for Mikal to do, and Bethid. We’ve done what we can for our people.” He squinted as dirt and debris were thrown into his bearded face. “It’s time for you to go.”
Her skirts flapped in the wind. Ilona caught handfuls of blowing hair and tamed it by winding one hand in it. “You as well.” It took effort, now, to be heard above the wind. “You also, Jorda!”
“There is one more wagon,” he told her. “Then I’ll come.”
She thought he might not, that his pride would keep him among the wagons he had sworn to lead overland in safety. But she knew how to convince him to leave. “Then I will come with you, and we’ll go east together.”
A flicker in green eyes told her he knew what she intended. His mouth jerked briefly in annoyance, and then he nodded. “One wagon. And then we’ll go.”
BETHID FELT HAMPERED by a lack of information. How many people still mourning loved ones killed by the Hecari would heed her words? Yes, she could tell them Rhuan had specifically ordered the settlement residents to leave immediately, but Rhuan’s reputation among those who had stayed in the tent-village long enough to hear the stories was of a mysterious Shoia more than willing to kill if crossed. She and Mikal, hastening along the footpaths, told everyone they saw to leave, to go east, and to carry word to others, but she saw the doubt in their eyes. They had lost too much; leaving what little they still claimed was an impossibility.
“If Rhuan’s right,” she told Mikal as they walked hurriedly, “the people who stay will die.”
The ale-keep adjusted the patch covering one eye. “They may not die. They may end up in Alisanos, and lost to the world. That’s worse than death.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe Jorda and Ilona. If they trust Rhuan to be telling the truth, that’s enough for me.”
“Do you have any doubt at all?”
“More doubt than I care to think about,” he replied gruffly. “But if Rhuan is correct and we do nothing, could we live with ourselves?”
It took no time to consider. “No,” Bethid declared.
“And so we warn everyone and tell them to go east, knowing many of them, perhaps even most, will not do so.”
A gust of wind swirled between the two nearest tents. It gathered ash from the ground and blew it into their faces. Bethid stopped walking as grit lodged in one eye. It watered prodigiously. Even as she struggled to remove the grit, Mikal was coughing.
The wind continued to rise. Bethid attempted to turn her back on it as she worked on her eye, but it seemed to come from every direction. She swore as the grit scored a line of pain across her eye.
“Here.” Mikal’s voice was hoarse from coughing. “Let me.” He stepped in front of her, blocking the wind with his big body, and pulled down her lower lid. “My fingers are too large,” he said, “but I can tell you when you’ve got it—there, you’re on it.”
Bethid worked carefully, her eye still tearing. At last she felt the blessed relief of an eye freed of impediment. It still burned and watered, but the eye no longer hosted grit. She kept it closed and viewed the world through one.
“Now you are like me,” Mikal said lightly, “one-eyed.”
Bethid wiped her face with the sleeve of her tunic. “The wind is still rising.”
“Well, perhaps that will convince them when we may not.” Mikal’s arm at her back gently urged her onward.
The thought was sudden and startling. “This would be Kendic’s task.” She remembered other times when the head of the Watch had carried warning to the settlement of one thing or another.
“So it would be, if Kendic were alive,” Mikal agreed. “But the Hecari have seen to it that now we do his work.”
That was enough for Bethid. Newly inspired, she went on through the remains of the settlement, crying Rhuan’s warning and instructions in a voice ringing with conviction. And as the wind increased, as it lifted ash and debris from the burned tents and hurled it through the air, she found the people somewhat more attentive.
“Alisanos!” she called. “Alisanos is coming!”
BRODHI STOOD WITH Ferize at the jagged border between trees and settlement. He could not help it: he smiled.
“Yes,” Ferize said. “Oh yes, it’s nearly time.” She looked into his eyes. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”
His smile became a grin. “I do not fear Alisanos.” Ferize laughed.
“Nor do I, of a certainty! But all will be changed. Even you.”
“Yes, but my journey will be ended.” He turned to her abruptly, clamping hands upon her upper arms. “Ended, Ferize! No more petty humans in their petty world—”
She didn’t let him finish. “Will it be ended? I wonder.” Her pupils flickered between round and elongated. “Do you believe the primaries will accept you if the journey ends too soon?”
He hissed displeasure. “Through no fault of my own.”
Ferize’s laughter rang out. “Do you think that will matter? To them? Only a fool might believe so.”
Brodhi felt an unaccustomed emotion: apprehension. “They wouldn’t ask it of me again. They wouldn’t ask me to begin again!”
Ferize turned her face to the sky as the wind came up. “They may. They may not.”
“But—”
She cut him off by placing a hand across his mouth. “No more. Not now. Don’t you feel it?” Her grin widened as fangs replaced human teeth. “It’s coming.”
Ferize had banished his hope that his journey might be over. Now he feared what might become of him. Would the primaries require him to begin again?
He growled frustration. But it died away in surprise. “Where are those people going? Ferize, look …”
She did so. Then shrugged. “As you might say: humans. Who can explain them?”
He continued watching. It began as a straggling line of people exiting the settlement. Men, women, children. Some carried belongings while others were empty-handed. Then came the horses—big draft horses, not smaller everyday mounts, carrying two humans at a time and occasionally three, if the burden were children. Karavaners.
“They’re leaving the settlement.” Frowning, he knelt and dug a hand through turf and into the dark soil. He felt it, felt the power leaping upward, wrapping tendrils around his fingers.
And he knew.
“Rhuan.” Brodi pulled his hand free and rose. “Rhuan has done this. He’s warned the settlement.”
A hint of scale pattern mottled Ferize’s pale throat as she smiled. “Your kin-in-kind is not prepared to end his journey too soon.” Rising wind lifted waist-length black hair. “Clever dioscuri. That will please the primaries.”
AUDRUN’S WORLD WAS full of raging wind and flying debris. Flapping skirts hampered her as she tried to run with Davyn, the fabric tangling around her legs. Eventually she gave up holding her hair with one free hand and snatched at her skirts, yanking them up around her thighs. But there was so much fabric that still she was impeded. Without Davyn’s strong hand pulling her onward, she feared she would be unable to continue simply because the strength of the wind was so overpowering.
Her children were somewhere ahead of her. The youngest were with the guide, and though she worried about them she knew they stood a better chance with Rhuan. Ellica and Gillan had disappeared into the flying dirt and debris. The sun, so bright at dawn, was now blotted out. The world was swallowed by a light brown curtain.
She clung to Davyn’s hand. He did his best to guide her, but Audrun knew he could see no better than she. All they could do was continue on, taking care not to turn in one direction or the other lest they go off course and lose all the children.
Davyn was coughing. Though her hair would be a tangled mess by the end of the storm, it still offered her face shielding of a sort. Davyn’s was naked and taking punishment.
Mother of Moons, she whispered inside her head, guard my children. Keep them safe. She put her hand over her belly. Even this small one, if you please.
The ground fell out from beneath her feet. Audrun lost Davyn’s hand as she was thrown down hard. She lay half-stunned, aware of trembling in the earth in concert with that of her body. “Davyn!” She yanked hair away from her mouth. “Davyn!”
She heard nothing but the keening of the wind.
“Davyn!” Audrun rose to her hands and knees. Mother, let me find him … “Davyn!”
Beneath her, the ground rumbled. She braced herself against it, braced herself against the wind. From behind she was struck by a large tree branch, its leaves stripped away. Even as Audrun tried to catch it, the branch spun into her hair, was caught, then blew free and wheeled onward with a hank of torn-out hair tangled in its branches.
The day somehow grew blacker. Audrun remained on hands and knees. “Davyn!” He did not answer; or, if he did, she was unable to hear him over the roaring of the wind. “Davyn!”
But he must be ahead of her. If she searched to right or left, she might easily become disoriented. She dared not lose her sense of direction. If she were to recover her children, she must remain on the path taken by the guide.
She felt for hoofprints in the turf. But the ground was a place she no longer knew. Beneath her hands the thick grasses lay down, obscuring foot- and hoofprints. Mother, O Mother, where is he? Where are my children? Her scalp felt lacerated. Grit and debris had been driven into it as the wind blew it into tangled flags.
Audrun stopped crawling as desperation overwhelmed her. She attempted to catch her breath, but there was so little air. Everything was a mass of flying dirt, grass, leaves, and the Mother knew what else. When her eyes teared, the wind whipped them away. There was grit in her eyes, in her mouth, even in her nose. She could see nothing. No husband, children, or guide. She could hear only the wind.
Panting, Audrun tried to tear a strip of skirt fabric to use as a face shield, as she had done at the end of the karavan. But when a sizzling streak of crimson lightning lanced groundward from the storm-darkened skies, she forgot all about tearing fabric. The lightning was close, so close it was accompanied by a crack of thunder so loud she felt it deep inside her head and chest. Audrun clapped her hands over her ears and flattened against the earth.
Her world now was an odd reddish hue. All around her thin bolts of lightning struck but paces apart, over and over, like rain. She smelled the power, smelled the smoke of fired grass. Even as the thunder rolled across the land, the land itself rumbled and shuddered.
She could run. She could crawl. She could remain where she was. Audrun knew it didn’t matter what her choice might be. In such a storm as this, there was no escape. She would survive, or not.
She tried a last time. “Davyn!”
But it was lost in thunder, in the rumbling of the land, in the roaring of the wind.
Chapter 45
THE STORM SWEPT down upon the tent settlement. What wasn’t anchored in the earth blew over immediately. Small items, light items, were carried off like wingless birds, tumbled over and over, and eventually dashed to the ground. Ash from the fires coupled with soil and grit shrouded the settlement in a haze of gray and ocher. Those who had refused the suggestions to leave, those who had disbelieved the news of Alisanos, now ran to catch up to those who had wisely fled.
The grove hosting the remains of Jorda’s karavan was stripped of leaves and smaller branches. There was little grass in the shade of broad tree canopies, so the wind lifted the soil and hurled it into Ilona’s face. She heard Jorda cursing and spitting.
Then his rumbling voice rose above the storm. “One horse. It will have to carry us both.”
Ilona saw the lone horse then, one of Jorda’s own draft horses. Janqeril had put two halters on the animal in case one wouldn’t hold, with accompanying lead ropes. The big bay was clearly frightened by the storm, ears pinned back, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling in their sockets so that the whites showed. The horse had been tied to Jorda’s wagon, and the karavan-master lost time trying to soothe the animal as he untied the lead ropes.
Ilona kept out of his way. She spent the time rebraiding her hair, stuffing it down the collar of her tunic. But the wind merely snatched it loose again, even as it yanked at her skirts.
Jorda used a wagon wheel as a mounting block. Bareback, with only halters and lead ropes fashioned into reins, he had reduced control of the draft horse. Clamping his legs around the horse’s deep barrel, he leaned down and reached out a thick arm. “Jump,” he shouted. “I’ll swing you on behind me.”
It was an awkward, ungainly mounting, but with Jorda’s help Ilona was able to scramble onto the broad bay rump. She put her arms around the karavan-master, locking hands into his belt. “Go!”
RHUAN FELT HIS MOUNT’S distress as they passed from grasslands into stands of trees and out again into the wide, wild land. The girl and boy were small, but the spotted horse nonetheless carried three in the midst of lightning and thunder and shuddering earth beneath his hooves. He galloped on, as Rhuan urged, but his strides flagged and his gait grew rough.
The outer fringe of a forest rose out of the dusty, reddish gloom, highlighted by streaky lightning. At the border between trees and grasslands, Rhuan eased the horse into a ragged trot, a stumbling walk, and at last reined him to a halt. The spotted head drooped. Sweat ran down his shoulders and flanks.
Rhuan twisted in the saddle so the boy might hear him. “I’m going to set you down,” he said. “Take my hand and slide off.” But when the boy’s hands remained locked into his tunic, Rhuan was forced to peel the fingers loose. “We’ll find cover in the forest—get down, boy. Take my hand. Then I’ll put your sister down.”
The boy, disentangled, clung tightly to Rhuan’s hand. Rhuan swung him over the horse’s right hip and leaned down to dangle the boy as close to the ground as he could. He let go and turned his attention to the younger sister, her spine pressed against his ribs.
“All right,” he said evenly, keeping concern from his voice, “your turn, little one. I’ll set you down with your brother.” He encircled her chest with one arm and shifted her over. He steadied her with his free hand and carefully let her down, shifting his hold to grasp her arms as she slid groundwards. She dropped the final foot to the ground and sat down hard. Her face was dampened by tears, filmed with dust and grit. “Follow me.” Rhuan dismounted. “Hold hands, and follow behind the horse. We need to find you cover.” It would make more sense were they to walk before him where he could see them, but he felt they’d be safer if he put himself and the horse ahead of them as a shield going into an unknown forest.
Lightning streaked over their heads, shearing through trees. Even as the girl screamed in terror, thunder drowned her out.
“Follow me,” Rhuan repeated, and led the horse across the ragged line between rolling grasslands and thick, overgrown forest.
BETHID SHOUTED, “GO! Run! Run east!” She heard Mikal’s bellow, the thin wailing of crying children. It was next to impossible to see her own way in the storm, let alone mark where other people were. But even as she jogged along a footpath, dodging debris, more and more people gave up trying to save their tents, shouting for news, for a promise of safety. They had ignored all warnings and now realized their folly.
“Go east!” Bethid yelled at them indiscriminately. “Run!”
The dust in the air took on an eerie reddish tinge. A moment later crimson lightning streaked across her vision with thunder in its wake. A second, then a
third bolt followed the first.
A shiver took her from head to toe. “Close,” she murmured. “Too close—”
Lightning sizzled just overhead. Bethid threw herself flat, hands clamped over her ears. Even then her head ached with the magnitude of accompanying thunder. The world around her was red now, dyed crimson by the lightning. Thin, bright streaks of that lightning came down like arrows, striking everywhere at ground level.
“Bethid—” It was Mikal, reaching to pull her up from the footpath. “We can’t stay any longer! We’ve done what we could—it’s up to the people now to make their own decisions.”
She was willing enough to leave, especially now that she was no longer alone. The ale-keep grabbed her hand with his own and they ran, ran and ran, passing tents in the process of being ripped and shredded, stakes uprooted, poles thrown down. What the Hecari had not burned now was lost to the storm.
East, Rhuan had said. But how far? When could they halt? When would they be safe from Alisanos?
Beside her, Mikal labored. She was markedly smaller than he, and much swifter. It was a simple matter for her to run on and on, but not for him. He was a large man, a sedentary man who was two decades, possibly more, older than she.
They carried no water. No food. Nothing but themselves.
“Keep on,” Bethid shouted. “Keep on, Mikal!” But inside her head she said something entirely different. Mother of Moons, when is it safe to stop?
With lightning all around them and thunder in their ears, as the earth beneath them trembled, they ran and ran and ran.
AT FIRST DAVYN blessed the rain. It would knock down the worst of the dust and debris and allow him to see again, to find his wife. Audrun had disappeared just as his children had, any cries for help were swallowed by the fury of the wind. He shouted for Audrun time and time again; he searched, on hands and knees, the area immediately surrounding him, but he found nothing. His family was simply gone.
Davyn’s sense of direction had always been good. He considered backtracking to find Audrun, but realized that this storm, the pressure in his ears from unceasing thunder, played havoc with his ability. He knew which way the guide had gone with Ellica and Gillan in his wake; it was best now, he felt, to continue on in that direction, and pray Audrun did the same.
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