Deepwood: Karavans # 2

by Jennifer Roberson

  Brodhi returned his attention to his map. “Back, are you?”

  “To stay,” she said. “Well, for a while.” She strode gracefully forward, placing hands around the horse’s muzzle. “Be still,” she murmured to the bay gelding made nervous by her arrival. “All is well. I haven’t come to eat you.” Then her attention returned to Brodhi. “Where are you going?”

  “Cardatha,” he said absently, still sketching. “Where the warlord is.”

  The woman moved from the horse’s muzzle to Brodhi’s right leg. Slim, pale hands with perfectly human nails stroked his thigh below the parchment. “Come down,” she said. “Come down off this horse.”

  Brodhi smiled inwardly. “I’m busy, Ferize.”

  “Busy doing what? Drawing pictures?”

  “Exactly. Pictures that may mean the difference between death and life, between sanity and madness.”

  Standing beside the horse, she was not tall enough to see the surface of the parchment. “For humans?”

  “For foolish humans, yes.”

  “Ah. And then what will you do, when this task is finished?”

  “Go to Cardatha, as I said.”

  “Drawing pictures all the way?”

  “Well, yes. So that when I return, I can offer the knowledge to the humans who survived Alisanos going active.”

  “Tedious.” Ferize closed fingers upon a tattered corner of the parchment. “Tedious in the extreme.” She tugged slightly. “I think you need distracting.”

  “I find you immensely distracting,” Brodhi agreed, “but this must be done while the memory is fresh. I came from here … to here.” He tilted the parchment up to display it. “See? From here to here.” Fingers traced the way. “Only to discover that the old road now lies in Alisanos, and so I must find another route to Cardatha. There, I will buy better parchment, perhaps vellum, and transfer the map to it.”

  “A mapmaker.” Small white teeth showed between her lips. “Such a demotion for a dioscuri.”

  Brodhi continued drawing. “If I, as dioscuri, choose to do this, the task is elevated.” He flicked a glance at her. “And if you spoil this, I will be most wroth with you.”

  Ferize laughed at him. “Wroth, is it? Because I spoiled something you intended for humans?”

  Her fingers now lay across the parchment, obscuring his work. Brodhi gathered up the fingers in his own and lifted her hand away. “Not now, Ferize.”

  “‘Not now,’” she mimicked, adopting a pettish tone. “I have been away, undoubtedly leaving him bereft, and he says ‘not now’ when I return.”

  “Not now,” he repeated. He slipped his foot free of the stirrup. “But if you wish to ride double with me when I set out again, you may as well come up now.”

  Ferize disdained the offered stirrup. In a swirl of full skirts, she leaped from the ground to land lightly atop the horse’s rump. Then she snuggled herself close to his body, wrapping arms around his torso. One hand drifted down. “I could make you forget all about drawing pictures for humans.”

  “I’m sure you could. But that would not be the responsible thing to do when lives are at stake.”

  “Human lives.”

  “Human lives.” He finished sketching a final tree, then carefully rolled closed the parchment. It and his lead were returned to the scroll case hanging from his saddle. “I think we need not allow additional humans to end up where they most want not to be when Alisanos has already fed so well.”

  Chapter 16

  IN ALISANOS THERE was no moon, neither Maiden, Mother, nor Grandmother, only the Orphan Sky. But this Orphan Sky, here in the deepwood, promised no reappearance of the moon in any guise. Two suns, nothing more, and when they slid below the treetops and then beneath the horizon, giving way to the dark, only stars shed light, unless one had a torch.

  Audrun did not. She sat in the clearing as the suns went down, beside the burned dreya ring, with a man’s head in her lap. She had vastly underestimated how much time would be required to undo all the braids, to allow her opportunity to spread hair loose and tend scalp wounds. Rhuan had not roused at her touch. She had washed his other wounds time and again, wishing she had spirits. His breathing was regular, without hesitation, but that was not necessarily good, she knew. She had heard of injured folk who went to sleep, and remained that way. Their bodies withered, curling up on themselves, until at last they breathed no more.

  So many braids, so much hair. It wanted, needed, washing. Audrun had no idea how often Rhuan undid the braids, or how often he washed his hair. She knew only that this was necessary, this unplaiting, to gain access to his scalp. Other wounds she had cleaned. Only these remained.

  With the light gone, she halted her self-assigned task. Come morning she could begin again and unplait the balance of the braids. For now, so exhausted she trembled unremittingly, she needed rest badly. Her breasts ached, and the bodice of her tunic was damp with leaking milk. Though she had eaten the meat from the black-rinded melon she had opened to make a water bowl, she was hungry. She believed it very likely that she would topple over into unconsciousness if she didn’t allow herself to sleep.

  Earlier, she had found Rhuan’s leather tunic. Now she folded it and slid it beneath his head as she backed away on hands and knees. They lacked mat, blankets, anything that might be used as bedding. The spare clouts Audrun had cut for the baby had been made over into bandages. She was tired enough, she believed, that it wouldn’t matter that she lay on soil, grass, and deadfall. She had no idea how it might affect Rhuan. The only warmth was what their bodies carried. Audrun lay down carefully on her side, resting her body against his.

  Night sounds in Alisanos were far different from those in the human world. Were there beasts in the underbrush? Creatures come to eat them? If so, nothing would hinder the predators. Nothing at all. Here, she and Rhuan were prey.

  Her mind was as exhausted as her body. Slowly, she surrendered herself. And as she did so, she saw again in her mind the terrible image of the winged demon rising to the sky with Sarith in his arms.

  Sarith. Megritte. Torvic. Ellica and Gillan. Her children, gone. The fruits of her womb were trapped in Alisanos, even as she was.

  Now, in the dark, with nothing to do but sleep, Audrun, very quietly, allowed herself to weep.

  IN LIRRA’S CABIN, Meggie cried herself to sleep when the double suns set—if night were called night here—bringing darkness to Lirra’s cabin. Torvic had decided he must be strong for his sister, and did no such thing, himself. When he and his sister performed chores for Lirra, usually in the garden, or feeding chickens, he told Meggie that crying did no good. Crying wouldn’t bring Mam and Da back, or Gillan and Ellica. Only the Mother of Moons knew where their kinfolk were, and perhaps one day the Mother would see to it they were reunited. Meggie always agreed to stop crying so much, but each night, not long after Lirra had tucked them into their pallets on the cabin floor, the tears came again.

  Torvic kept track of the days by carving notches into a stick. But he knew time ran differently in Alisanos, because the days seemed to last longer than in the human world. He could only keep track of what he and Meggie experienced, not of what might be true in the human world. When they returned to their world, how much time would have passed? Weeks? Months? He dared not consider years. But the rhythms of his body were adapting to Alisanos. He could feel it.

  And found it terrifying.

  Torvic didn’t tell Meggie. He didn’t even dare hint to her that he felt different in the deepwood; it would worsen matters. And as she said nothing at all to him of feeling different, he believed she didn’t experience Alisanos the way he did. Rather than plant ideas in her head, Torvic held his silence on the matter. And hid the calendar stick as well, returning the knife to Lirra’s small collection after each notch was cut. He didn’t know if Lirra was aware of what he did. He didn’t know if she would care if she were. But he could speak to her of his feelings no more than to Meggie. It was a personal thing.

  But he di
d tell Mam and Da. Each dawn, before Meggie awoke. Before Lirra awoke. In his mind, he told them everything.

  BETHID MADE GOOD time, covering ground effortlessly atop smooth-gaited Churri. As on all assignments, she rested and watered Churri several times throughout the day, ate and drank in the saddle, stopped for the night as the sun went down, and was on the road again just before dawn. But this time she felt a sense of urgency far more demanding than usual. This time it wasn’t a message she bore on her shoulders, but quite probably the welfare of karavaners and tent-folk. With Brodhi on the road to Cardatha, it was imperative she find Rhuan as soon as possible.

  Thus, when she turned off the main road onto the shortcut to Atalanda and saw a man in the distance walking in her direction, relief came with a rush. The absence of a mount explained Rhuan’s tardiness. She shouted, waved, and asked Churri to increase his pace so she might reach Rhuan more quickly. And yet as she drew nearer, her relief plummeted. The man wore no braids; in fact, he was blond. Nor was he shaped as Rhuan was. Within a matter of moments she recognized him: one of the farmsteaders Rhuan had gone to aid. The husband, in fact.

  Hiding disappointment, Bethid reined in as she reached him. “What’s happened?”

  The man halted. He was red-faced and wet with sweat, hair sticking to his head. His voice was hoarse, as if he had not drunk in too long. But Bethid saw he had plump waterskins looped across his shoulders. “My family,” he said, “has been taken from me.”

  “Alisanos,” she breathed. “O Mother—I am so sorry! All of them?”

  He scrubbed a forearm across his brow. “All but me.”

  “Did Rhuan find you?”

  “Rhuan?” Color drained from the man’s face. He was white now, blue eyes frigid. Anger was palpable, as was bitterness. “Oh, indeed, he found us. And delivered my family into Alisanos.”

  “Rhuan did?”

  “The guide,” he said. “The Shoia.” He spat aside and made a gesture Bethid recognized as a curse.

  She struggled to find words, to control her shock. “He wouldn’t! Why would you think so? Why in the Mother’s name—”

  “Because he did so!” the man roared. “He put my youngest two up on his horse, sent my older two north, and instructed my wife and I to go as well. He was explicit—”

  “He told the settlement folk to go, also,” Bethid cut in, “before the storm got too bad. He meant us to escape, and likely wished the same for your family.”

  “He meant no such thing! He delivered my family to Alisanos. He probably intended the same for you, even if it didn’t come to be.”

  Churri sidled, upset by the emotions. Bethid reined him in, absently patted a shoulder. “Why? Why would he do such a thing?”

  The farmsteader’s tone was venemous. “Maybe he’s not a Shoia. Maybe he’s a demon out of Alisanos. Or maybe the Shoia are demons, and come from Alisanos. All I can tell you is that he sent us all north. He carried my youngest north. I looked, you see, when the storm was over. I searched. All I found was Alisanos! No wife, no children. Only the deepwood!”

  She was sympathetic to his grief and anger, but couldn’t believe what he said was accurate. “I can’t imagine that Rhuan—” she began, and was sharply cut off by the farmsteader.

  “Do you know him so well, then? Does he confide in you? Do you know his thoughts, his intentions?”

  She did not. “I know Brodhi better, of course, but—”

  “Swear to me,” the farmsteader said. “Swear to me on the name of the Mother that the guide is incapable of doing such a thing.”

  On the name of the Mother? Bethid couldn’t do that. She knew who Rhuan was, but not the heart of the man. “I can’t,” she said quietly.

  “You see?” His smile was humorless, little more than a grimace. “I tell you, they are gone. All of them. Where they went is now part of the deepwood. Where he sent them.”

  She wanted to disagree. She wanted to convince him his belief was incorrect. But she had no evidence, and no words that might ease his anger.

  “I’m assuming,” the man said, “he’s returned to the settlement. The Shoia.”

  Bethid shook her head. “No one has seen him since he set out after your family.”

  The farmsteader swore, spat again. “I want him,” he said. “I want him so I can find out what’s become of my family. So he can guide me, not a karavan, into Alisanos.” He glared up at her. “Is the karavan-master at the settlement?”

  “He is.”

  “Then he is most likely to know where his guide might be.”

  “I don’t think Jorda knows,” she told him. “The storm broke not long after Rhuan left. As I said, no one’s seen him since.”

  “Convenient,” the man muttered. “I have not seen him on the shortcut. Perhaps he’s in hiding.”

  Bethid badly wanted to diffuse the situation. Accordingly she dismounted. “Here. Climb aboard. You’re too heavy to ride double behind me; take the saddle, and I’ll ride behind you. Best we get you to the settlement.”

  “I want,” he said, “to find my family. I need the Shoia to do that.”

  “And the most likely place you’ll find him, eventually, is the settlement.” She indicated the saddle again. “We’ll ask when he returns.”

  “If he doesn’t?”

  Bethid sighed. “Then there are two possibilities. He’s either dead—”

  “Or in Alisanos, where he sent my family.”

  After a moment, reluctantly, Bethid nodded. She did not believe, could not believe Rhuan would do such a thing, but she recognized that the farmsteader would not be convinced otherwise. Not yet. “Let’s go,” she said. “If what you say is true … well, Jorda needs to know.”

  “Everyone needs to know.”

  It was difficult to agree, but she did. “Yes.”

  Satisfied with that, the farmsteader mounted Churri. Then he shook the stirrup free of his foot and reached out an arm. Bethid set her left foot into the stirrup, caught his hand, and swung up onto the horse’s broad rump.

  He was wrong, the farmsteader. He had to be wrong. Bethid retained a very clear memory of Rhuan coming into Mikal’s tent, urging them to go east, urging them to tell everyone in the settlement that safety lay in going east, that doing so might deliver them from Alisanos. It made absolutely no sense for Rhuan to send anyone into danger. Not on purpose.

  And then another memory came. Rhuan had freely admitted, there in Mikal’s tent, that he couldn’t tell them how he knew they should go east. He simply knew, he said, and asked them to trust him. And they had, she and Mikal, when Jorda and Ilona expressed their faith in Rhuan. Those two knew him best. Those two believed. Jorda’s and Ilona’s trust in Rhuan had been enough for her, enough for Mikal.

  Bethid had gone east, as Rhuan instructed. And she had survived. So had others.

  This man’s family had gone north, also directed by Rhuan. North was not east; she wondered why the change in direction. Especially now that all in the family but the farmsteader were lost to Alisanos. And Rhuan himself was nowhere to be found.

  He’s wrong. He must be. Rhuan wouldn’t do such a thing. Not intentionally. Indeed, it was more likely, Bethid felt, that he might well be trapped in Alisanos himself, as helpless as the farmsteader’s family.

  But Bethid kept that thought to herself. The man in the saddle was understandably upset, desperate to find his family, and as desperately afraid he could not. Rather than give in to grief and despair, he conjured something in which he could believe, something that supported an irrefutable certainty that Rhuan was to blame for his family’s fate because, she knew, it provided a goal. Something to which he could anchor himself. Something that allowed him to be a man, not a soul paralyzed by a terrible loss.

  Perhaps once he spoke to Jorda, his conviction could be altered. But it would take two or three days to reach the settlement. She would not ask Churri to resume the pace she had required while on the way to the shortcut. The farmsteader was a big man, and now the horse carried
two. But even walking, Churri would get them to the settlement more quickly.

  So many things, too many things, to think about. To stave off confusion, to dismiss the image the farmsteader had planted in her mind of a family sent intentionally into Alisanos, Bethid sought and found her own certainty: When Rhuan arrives at the settlement, he’ll explain everything.

  BEHIND A MASS OF underbrush and shrubbery near the river’s edge, Ilona took the red signal cloth from beneath the rock that weighted it and hung it where it could be easily seen by anyone approaching from the settlement. Then she stripped out of her soiled clothing. It was awkwardly done because of her splinted forearm, but eventually she managed it. Tunic, skirt, belt, and smallclothes; she would remove her felted slippers at the grassy verge just before she stepped into the water. Then, odd as she knew it was, she tied one end of the rope near the roots of the largest bush and knotted the other end around her waist. She acknowledged her weakness, seeing no shame in it, and realized that though the river’s current, here, might not be so strong, she wished to take no chances. Jorda, Mikal, and probably the Sister would admonish her if they learned what she did; the achoring rope provided her with a small defense against them.

  She played out the rope as she walked carefully down the riverbank, placed the towel and slippers near the edge, then, gripping the ball of soap in her left hand despite the splint, used the right to let herself down. The entire process felt strange, almost comical, but eventually she stepped down into the water, balanced on stones beneath her feet, shivered from the chill, then worked her way carefully down into the pool carved out of the riverbank. The cool water would do well by her broken arm as well, she felt, and if there were any slight residue of fever, that, too, would be banished. Ilona slowly sank into the hiphigh pool, hooking the splinted arm across the top of her head, though she imagined no harm would come to it if she got it wet. But she wouldn’t do it intentionally; that would give Jorda yet another thing to chastise her for.