Deepwood: Karavans # 2

by Jennifer Roberson

  For a moment, she could only lie there dazed, thinking over and over again, Let me not be hurt, let me not be hurt—There was Gillan to find, an infant to tend. O Mother of Moons, let me not be hurt. It mattered. It mattered that she be whole. For her children, for all of them, each of them, when they were found. She must be whole.

  Ah, but she hurt. Panic-bred strength was gone. She shook, now, as if she had a palsy.

  And she lay within the deepwood, beneath double suns.

  That drove her up, drove her to her knees, to her feet. But one step told the tale: she could put little weight on her right ankle. Off balance, she reached for support and found a gnarled branch. Flat, sharp-edged leaves cut into her palms. She bled. She burned.

  Fury rose, coupled with helplessness. Screaming with rage, Audrun struck out. She grabbed the limb, ignoring the slicing leaves, and twisted, twisted, trying to tear it from the trunk. But she had not the strength even for that. She ended up with a handful of stems, a few tattered leaves, stained with her blood.

  “Audrun!”

  Only instinct identified him as he came up on her, sidelock braids swinging. Still furious, Audrun faced him full on, trembling with rage, thrusting stems and leaves at him. “What good am I? What good am I to him?”

  “Audrun—”

  “I don’t know where he is! I can’t find him! I can’t even make my way through a forest! What good am I to him?”

  He stripped the leaves and stems from her rigid hands. He made no answer, merely drew up the long tail of her tunic and wadded it into her palms, rolling her fingers closed.

  “O gods … O Mother…” She let go of the tunic and lifted her hands to her head, pressing bloodied palms against her temples. She was empty of all save failure. A terrible, harrowing failure. “I’ve lost my children …”

  “There’s no time,” he said. “We must return to the dreya ring.”

  Gripping her head, she stared at him through a film of tears. Did he not understand? “I’ve lost my children!”

  His face was calm. “Sarith remains.”

  That was too much. Audrun wept.

  “Come,” he said. “We must go now if we’re to find the ring.”

  Her chest and throat ached, threatening to burst. “Don’t you understand?”

  “Come,” he said again. “There is Sarith to tend.”

  She was too exhausted, too weak, to argue. And the guide was correct. Sarith needed her. Sarith she could tend. Gillan … Gillan was gone. Ellica and Torvic. Megritte and Davyn.

  Gone.

  Chapter 9

  ABOVE THE PEAKS, against the sky, winged demons raged. Russet gold, both of them, terrifyingly beautiful, shedding scales as glints of gold. Talons struck, wings beat, forked tails whipped. Blood from slices, slashes, and gashes rained down, drop by drop, ruby in the unflinching light of double suns.

  She stood below them, atop a peak, wind from their wings tangling hair, stirring clothing. Around her fell their blood, staining grass, staining cloth. It burned against her face.

  Ilona roused abruptly as a large hand and forearm slid beneath her head, lifting it carefully from the pillow. A deep voice told her to drink as a cup was pressed gently against her lip. She did so; there seemed no other choice. Willow bark tea. She recognized its bitterness, its bite. She drank all of it. Then opened her eyes and saw a weathered, bearded face looming over her. Ruddy brows were knit together.

  Ah. Jorda.

  She felt odd. Distant. Detached. Her gaze traveled upward, discovering in mild surprise that her wagon lacked a canopy. Oh, but that had been the storm. Though she couldn’t recall when the storm had struck.

  Above Jorda’s head she saw the arch of glyphcarved roof ribs, and bare-branched trees. Was it winter? But amusement broke through, skittering across her mind: the grove, like her wagon, had been undressed.

  “Are you with us?” Jorda asked, carefully slipping his arm from beneath her head.

  She stood atop a peak as demons in the sky shed their blood in battle.

  “Ilona?”

  She said, “One of them will die.”

  Frowning, he leaned down to set the empty cup upon the floorboards. Overhead, perched upon a tree limb drooping over the naked wagon ribs, a mockingbird sang tangled melodies.

  “You’re fevered,” Jorda said. “You’ve broken your arm. It’s set now, and splinted. Time will tell us if it’s to grow straight.”

  Her arm was of neither consequence nor relevance. “One of them must die.”

  The karavan-master’s lips flattened briefly. Then he sighed. “Sleep, Ilona. Rest. Bethid’s to come and stay the night. You won’t be alone.”

  The skies rained blood.

  Ilona said clearly, “One of them must die.”

  THIS TIME, DAVYN did not weep. He spent no more of himself on tears, no more of his time in prayers. His family was taken from him as surely as the Hecari had burned the farmstead, swallowed by a forest he dared not enter. Yes, he wished to; what he wished most was to stride across the blackened earth and into the vanguard of trees that formed his horizon, filled his eyes. But now what rose up within him in place of grief, in place of frenzied impulse, was the cool and clear understanding that were he to enter Alisanos here and now, he could do very little to find or save his family; he might, in fact, do very much to lose them forever by losing himself.

  The guide had been very clear that certain safety lay in the direction he took Torvic and Megritte on horseback. In the direction he sent all of them; to safety, he said. Away, he said.

  And into Alisanos.

  Davyn rose. He stood upon feet in mud-weighted boots and stared hard at the deepwood. Then he turned his back on it and began to walk swiftly, steadily, away toward the wagon. Food was there, water, clean clothing, supplies. There he could outfit himself for the journey that he knew would require time and determination and unrelenting endurance. The tent settlement lay days away by wagon; on foot, it lay farther, and longer yet. But it was there, and only there, that he was likely to find the guide; if not him, then the karavan-master, Jorda, who employed the guide. And who might be able to divulge where the guide was, since clearly he would not have taken himself into the deepwood. No sane man would.

  But Rhuan, the Shoia, claimed to have land-sense, to know where Alisanos lay, to know when it intended to move. Likely he also knew where it intended to move. And he had come upon them in the midst of maelstrom, riding out of the storm, to direct them in a different direction than Davyn wished to go.

  No sane man, no human man, would send a pregnant woman and four helpless children into the deepwood.

  But the guide wasn’t human. He himself had said so.

  Questions would be asked. Answers would be demanded. Davyn intended to learn exactly who and what the Shoia was, because he would insist. As he would insist, too, that Rhuan, who knew the land, who sensed Alisanos, would take a husband and father into Alisanos safely and directly to his family, then guide them out again. Each and all of them.

  Davyn repeatedly recited the names of those to whom he would speak, if not to the guide himself. Jorda. Ilona. And Darmuth, the other guide. Someone would know where the Shoia was. One of them, or all of them. Someone would know. And someone would tell him.

  He would insist.

  THE WOMAN, RHUAN saw, had injured her ankle and could barely walk, though she tried. Time grew short; it was vital they reach the dreya ring as soon as possible. Ignoring her protests, he swept her up into his arms and strode on steadily, ducking limbs and vines.

  He shielded Audrun as much as possible, and she put up her left arm to fend off vegetation as well; her right arm was hooked around his shoulders. Avoiding the glittering edges of frondlike leaves that would slice into their flesh, Rhuan stepped over the endless lattice of roots broken free of soil, pushed through drifts of leaf- and vine-mold, threaded his way through groundcover and grasses. High overhead, tree canopies merged, broke off, fell away from the suns. He walked from shadow into li
ght and back again, over and over, lowering the red scrim of membrane over his eyes against the worst of the blinding shafts cutting through the canopy, retracting it again when shadows defeated light. It painted the deepwood in hues of rose and ruby, purpling the darkness.

  When they came upon a stream, Rhuan halted. Carefully he lowered Audrun until she stood in the edge of the creek, water lapping above her ankles. Rhuan gripped her hands so she wouldn’t slip. “We’ll wait here a moment or two,” he explained, “and cool your ankle. It will help. But then we must go on.”

  Rage had left her, along with the feeling of helplessness. She was calm now, almost cold, and stood as he recommended, balancing carefully. Tawny hair had come out of its braids entirely, snarled from shoulders to midback. Her face bore cuts, scrapes, and welts, was reddened and swollen in places. Homespun tunic and skirts were in tatters—twigs, thorns, and leaves were caught in snags. Her forearms, too, were full of welts, criss-crossed from wrist to elbow. He knew beneath the skirts, bare legs were as damaged. But then he bore his own innumerable blemishes, being bare-chested save for the baldric holding his throwing knives. He was grateful for his braids; they kept his hair from mimicking hers.

  He tried to summon a smile, but failed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know this is difficult for you. I wish I might improve matters.”

  Brown eyes were steady, as was her voice above the gurgle of the creek. “We should go on. I must reach my daughter. I know that you said the dreya would tend her, but they are trees. She needs a human. She needs her mother.” Audrun lifted her chin and took in a deep breath, as if preparing for something. “And when I am there to tend her, I want you to leave us.”

  It startled him. “Leave you?”

  “I ask you to look for my son.”

  He shook his head. “You and Sarith would be endangered.”

  Appeal in her eyes lessened the tension in her voice. “You said the ring was safe. You left my baby there, did you not? You can leave us both. Find my son, Rhuan. Please.”

  He desired very much to do as she wished, but could not. “Audrun …” He shook his head. “Forgive my bluntness, but he may already be dead.”

  She was vehement. “Then I need to know that.” She pulled one hand from his and shoved hair away from her face. “Look, I mean no disrespect, but you aren’t human. You’ve said so yourself. And that children, here, are raised in a creche, not by their parents. Possibly your folk don’t feel the same way about children as humans do—wait! What are you doing?”

  She was in his arms again, though stiff and awkward with surprise and dismay. Rhuan splashed his way across the creek and climbed out the other side. “My priority,” he said, striding swiftly, “is to return you to Sarith in the dreya ring, then find us food. After that, we can discuss searching for your family. As to your implication that we don’t feel the same way about children as humans do, well …” He sighed. “—unfortunately that may be so. Things are different here. But first we must survive, you and I, before we can search for anyone. We owe that much to Sarith.”

  The tone in her voice was raw. “Please don’t tell me I must choose among my children!”

  He didn’t hesitate, though he knew it was cruel. “Audrun, it may come to that, yes.”

  “You can’t ask a mother to do such a thing! No one can!”

  “It wouldn’t be me doing the asking,” he said. “It will be Alisanos—and the deepwood won’t ask.”

  “Rhuan—”

  “We’re here.” He set her down and turned her, aiming her through two trees that formed a silver archway. “Tend Sarith.” He pushed gently on her spine with his hand. “We can’t have a fire in a dreya ring—too dangerous for the trees—but I saw fruit along the way. That will do for now. Remain here … it isn’t safe for you to leave. I will return as soon as I may.”

  She had knelt, taken the baby into her arms, and now stood facing him. She was within the ring, he without; perhaps two feet apart, but it felt like two miles. “And if something happens to you?”

  None of his habitual lightheartedness answered his summons. Only grimness. “Pray to your Mother that nothing does, else you and Sarith might not survive the night, let alone a ten-day”

  Her brows shot up. “You said we were safe in this ring.”

  “You can’t live in a dreya ring, Audrun. Seek respite for a night or two, yes; the dreya will keep out vermin and beasts, but they are not proof against everything that dwells in Alisanos.”

  The baby squirmed in her arms and began to cry thinly as Audrun tipped her head back to gaze a moment at the spreading canopy. She nodded blankly in his direction, thoughts on the infant, and turned away, fingers working to loosen tunic and smallclothes so the baby could nurse.

  He did not believe, as she lifted the hungry child to her breast, that Audrun was aware the leaves of the dreya trees fluttered in response to Sarith’s cries.

  BETHID LED THE bay gelding down the beaten path from the settlement to the shallows of the river. Churri had been glad to see her when she found him, shoving his muzzle hard against her as she stroked his face. Now he moved with urgency, nearly clipping her heels as she walked ahead of him. Bethid paused long enough to remind him that he should walk on his own shoes, not hers, and he gave her space for a few moments, but soon closed on her again. She hadn’t the heart to truly reprimand him, not under the circumstances, and simply stepped out more smartly.

  She took him down along the river’s edge and to a shallow pool, stripped off her gaiters, boots, and stockings and rolled up her pants legs, then led him into water that reached halfway to her knees. The halter rope was long, but she knew Churri wouldn’t wander. Grazing along the river was good. Churri dipped his head and sucked in water, then let much of it dribble back out as he lifted his head and turned to Bethid, splashing her liberally. Smiling, she flipped the halter rope across his shoulders, then tied it loosely beneath his jaw so it wouldn’t fall and hinder him, or tangle in his legs. As the bay grazed on the succulent grasses drooping into the water, she wetted a rough cloth she had unearthed in the settlement and began to tend the scrapes and swellings in his hide, and to cool down his legs. There were no true injuries, but the compress would soothe any inflammation possibly lurking in or beneath the skin.

  As she worked, dipping, rinsing, and soaking the cloth again, Bethid could not help but reflect upon how profoundly her life had changed in just a matter of days. First, she witnessed a brutal Hecari decimation, then discussed province-wide rebellion with a select few; next, she aided Mikal in warning folk to flee the storm; last, she laid out specific proposals and plans to Brodhi, relying upon him to do as she suggested, which had never been his habit. The responsibilities she had set herself transcended the duties of a courier, and yet she could see no other way. She knew her ideas were sound. But she wasn’t quite certain why she felt Bethid the courier could offer suggestions regarding the fate of Sancorra and of the folk remaining at the tent village. Yet it was a combination of certainty, conviction, and determination that drove her to speak, to act, when a matter of days before her only task had been to carry and deliver messages. Her world felt immensely larger, as if she saw more now, comprehended more, understood what could, and what should, be done. It was as if an entirely new future packed with brand new goals had suddenly unfolded, kindled by the Hecari decimation of the settlement, by the fury of a storm blowing out of Alisanos.

  “Who am I to think I offer answers to an entire province?”

  And yet she knew. Knew she was right to do as she did.

  “I must be mad,” she told the gelding. “Undoubtedly I am. But—it feels right, Churri. In my head and my heart and my soul.”

  Churri snorted, blowing dampness from his nose with a large clump of uprooted river grass clenched in his front teeth, muddied roots dangling. He shook his head hard, throwing mud off; much of it splattered Bethid. She grinned at him as she wiped the worst of it from her face with the wet cloth.

  “Trust you to ha
ve an opinion.” Churri chewed noisily, watching her with the classic, slow-blinking passivity of a horse thinking his own thoughts. Bethid tried to wipe away the clots of mud clinging to her tunic. “There’s just no help for it,” she explained, scrubbing. “We must find a way to defeat the Hecari, and relying on couriers is a good beginning. Brodhi’s right that it will take years, but what else is there to do? Live like oxen beneath the Hecari yoke? Or become wolves, wolves hungry for freedom?”

  She grimaced, giving up on the mud stains. Then a thought occured, and she leaned down and down, dipping her hair into the water. She scrubbed at her scalp with stiffened fingers, hoping to shed most of the grit and dirt deposited by the storm. When she stood upright again she slicked her hair back, squeezing out excess water.

  “And Brodhi’s right, too, when he says it’s dangerous,” she continued. “But something in me says Sancorra is worth that kind of service.” Bethid rinsed out the cloth, watching absently as the horse yanked yet more grass out by the roots. “This is my home, Churri. This province. It’s just… it’s just something I feel that I must do.” Bethid’s mouth jerked briefly. “Well, if nothing else, the Hecari will never believe a woman is involved in a rebellion. That might be the only saving grace.” She wrung out the cloth firmly, then tucked it into her belt and untied the halter rope. “Come, sweet boy. It’s time for me to look after the hand-reader. I’ll take you to good grass later this evening.”

  Churri protested briefly as she climbed back out of the shallows, but came willingly enough when she insisted. Bethid donned stockings, boots, and gaiters again, wondering how long it would be before she could go back on the road as a courier. Or if she ever could, depending on the whereabouts and the nature of Alisanos.

  Chapter 10

  BRODHI FASHIONED a cookfire and a spit near the elderling oak hosting the skinned deer, then lit the wood with his blood. He could very well have done as he’d instructed Bethid and brought a spill from the fire by the hand-reader’s wagon, but this was quicker. And no humans were present to witness it. Those who had returned from the flight to escape the storm gathered now at the approximate center of where the cluster of tents had stood. From time to time, as he worked, he heard raised voices. Men, mostly, though occasionally women’s voices punctuated the upended grove. The tones were tense, desperate, and occasionally shrill, rising and falling in response to varied emotions. Brodhi, shaking his head slightly, ran the spit through the carcass and fixed it over the fire. Thereupon he took a seat upon the ground, resting his back against the huge trunk, and waited, right arm draped casually over an upturned knee.