“What?” Audrun demanded.
Laughter died to a grin. Dimples appeared along with a flash of teeth. “We are both of us unfit for polite company. You’ve hacked apart your underskirt, torn open your bodice, have welts and cuts all over your legs and a few on your face, seasoned with sap. And then, well … there’s your hair.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure it won’t all have to come off.”
Her hands flew to her head. “My hair?”
“Ah,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Now she understands.” He slid his damaged knife back in its sheath. Audrun was quite certain she would never be trusted with it again. “So. Melons.” He eyed her black-skinned cairn. “Perhaps tomorrow I can find something else.”
“Tomorrow?” She was surprised. “You aren’t well enough for that.”
“I heal very quickly. That is, if women don’t poke their fingers into my gut.” He surveyed the bandage wrapped around his torso. No new bloodstains. “Tomorrow, though. Not today.” He shook back a curtain of braid-crimped coppery hair, looking past her to the charred dreya ring. The humor left his eyes. He said something quietly in a tongue she didn’t recognize, then looked at her. “Rites,” he said. “That first, tomorrow.”
She nodded acknowledgment, then gathered the two halves of the melon she’d been using as bowls and rose. “I’ll go for water.”
He raised his voice as she walked away. “About now, I’m wishing we had spirits!”
“The better to clean your wounds with, yes,” she threw over her shoulder.
Much affronted by that blasphemy, he shouted after her as she stepped into the shadows, “I meant the better to drink with!”
Which did not in the least surprise her.
BETHID DISCOVERED THE red cloth hanging on a bush down by the river’s edge, near the pool used when folk wished not to pay coin to use the public bath tent. Of more concern, however, was that Ilona’s soiled clothing was there as well. That she should change into fresh garments after finishing a bath was not in the least unexpected, but finding the others abandoned made no sense. Bethid slid off Churri’s bare back and squatted to get a closer look at the stained skirt and tunic. She found nothing untoward. And the rope? She had no idea what that was for. Possibly someone else had left it.
A thought occured, one so obvious that Bethid rolled her eyes in self-derision. She should have known the hand-reader might seek brush other than where people generally left their clothing as they bathed behind which she could relieve herself. “Ilona? Are you here?”
No response of any kind.
She heard approaching hoofbeats and, as expected, Jorda arrived on one of the draft horses. Once he reined in, she gestured at the soiled clothing. “I found these. But no sign of Ilona. I called for her, but received no answer.”
Jorda, frowning, contemplated the red cloth and clothing a moment. Then he said, “I don’t like this, Beth. Fever can do odd things to people, and Ilona hasn’t been herself since she was injured.”
“I know she’s very concerned about not being able to read hands.” Bethid glanced at the grass on which she stood. “Jorda, I can try tracking her. The grass is tall here; it should be easy enough to find where her steps have pressed it down. Will you hold Churri for me and follow along while I track on foot?”
Jorda, nodding, accepted the lead-rope once the end was untied and took two wraps around his saddle horn, snubbing the gelding up fairly short. Bethid searched the verge until she found grass pressed flat, noted that indeed a faint series of indentations progressed along the riverbank, and began to follow it. Jorda fell in behind, keeping the horses well back.
The river swung right in a lazy curve, but the footprints did not follow it. They led Bethid directly to the west, into the open grasslands. Within a matter of moments, not far from the edge of the deepwood’s new incursion, Bethid saw Ilona. The hand-reader was walking back the way she had come.
“Ilona!” Bethid broke into a jog. “Ilona—are you all right?”
Ilona looked up and stopped. She waited until Bethid reached her before speaking. Puzzled, she said, “I’m not sure how I got here.”
“Here? You walked. I tracked you.”
Ilona’s frown deepened. “I have no memory of it. I recall bathing in the pool, no more.” She glanced back toward the forest’s edge, none too distant.
“Why in the world would I go toward Alisanos?” A brief shiver traveled through her body as she turned back to Bethid. “Have I been gone so long a search party was necessary?”
“It’s just me,” Bethid told her, “and Jorda. And no, you haven’t been gone all that long, but when the Sister couldn’t find you at your wagon, she was concerned. So were we.” Before Ilona could protest, Bethid placed a hand against her brow. “But you don’t feel fevered.”
“I feel fine … well, as fine as one can be with a broken—O Mother, what did I do?”
Bethid understood the question and concern at once. Ilona’s left arm was naked of splint and wrappings. “Well, we can resplint it when we get you back to your wagon.”
Frowning, Ilona raised her left arm. She made a fist and rotated her hand, then looked at Bethid in astonishment. “There’s no pain at all. It feels like it always did, before I broke it.”
“Bones don’t heal that quickly,” Bethid said. “It will be weeks before you’re out of the splint—or should be out of the splint, that is.” She stepped closer. “May I look?”
Ilona offered her arm. Bethid very gently took it into her hands and began to press carefully in different places along the forearm. She expected Ilona to discover that the arm did in fact hurt, but no such comment was forthcoming. They looked at one another with identical expressions of confusion.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Ilona repeated. Then she looked beyond Bethid and her mount. “Here’s Jorda.”
Jorda reined in as he came up on them. His eyes were only for Ilona. “What happened?”
She shook her head. “I have no recollection of anything. Just the river. Jorda …” She lifted her left arm once more. “Somehow, I’ve healed.”
He scowled as he saw the arm absent of splint. “It’s too soon for you to be healed. Why did you take the splint off?”
She shook her head again. “I have no memory of doing so. But it’s healed, Jorda.” She rotated a fist again. “Ask Bethid.”
Bethid nodded as Jorda looked to her for confirmation. “It certainly appears so. When I examined it, she said there was no pain.” She took Churri’s lead-rope from Jorda and knotted the end into the gelding’s halter.
“It’s whole,” Ilona insisted. “There is no reason for me to claim it’s healed if it’s not. By the Mother, I swear it feels fine.”
Still frowning, Jorda looked beyond his diviner to the edge of the forest. “How far did you go, ’Lona?”
She glanced back a moment, then met Jorda’s eyes. “I don’t know. All I remember is bathing in the river.” Her tone went dry as she glanced down at herself and smoothed the fresh tunic with her right hand. “But apparently at some point I changed clothes, for which I’m most glad.” She encircled her forearm with her right hand as Bethid had, moving her hand up and down the forearm, squeezing as she did so. “Truly, it feels whole. There is no pain. But I have no explanation for it.”
Jorda glanced at Bethid. “Fever?”
“None that I could tell.”
The karavan-master sighed deeply, then looked back at Ilona. “Healed or no, it would put me at ease if you returned to your wagon to rest. Ride behind me, if you would. I’ll deliver you.” He glanced at Bethid as he dismounted. “I am remiss—I should have collected her other clothing at the river. Would you bring them?”
With the lead-rope rein in place again, Bethid grabbed mane and swung up onto Churri’s slick back. “Of course. But first, well, I believe I’ll undertake a little exploration.”
He knew at once what she meant.
“Beth, that’s dangerous. It’s too close. You put yourself at risk.”
“
I have every intention of being remarkably careful.” Bethid smiled crookedly. “But if you like, I can make another vow to the Mother concerning this reconnaissance. And I did return from the other one.”
Jorda gestured at Ilona to step into his linked hands for a boost up behind his saddle; he clearly didn’t trust her left arm to stand for pulling her up. “This is very much different, and you know it.”
She sighed, nodding. “I know. But it must be done, Jorda. Something happened to Ilona. We need to learn where she went.”
Jorda thrust Ilona upward and gave her time to settle her legs and skirts into place, then mounted by placing left foot in the stirrup and swinging his bent right leg forward and across the horse’s neck and saddle, since Ilona’s presence behind him prevented a normal mounting. “I don’t like it.”
Bethid expelled a short laugh. “Oh, I don’t like it. But I think it needs to be done.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go on, Jorda. Get her back to her wagon. I’ll return shortly. I’m not expecting to find anything, but that in itself may be an answer.”
Jorda said nothing more, but his eyes were unhappy. He nodded and turned his horse. Bethid watched them go, then reined Churri in the other direction and rode straight toward the deepwood.
Chapter 21
THE COURIERS’ GUILD in Cardatha opened onto Market Square, as did all of the major guildhalls. It was a hollow square of hewn masonry, with three sides consisting of stable blocks, stalls, and paddocks for the horses; in the very center stood a large round pen for breaking and training mounts. The fourth side of the Guildhall contained the barracks: refectory, meeting chamber, private chambers belonging to the Guildmaster and his assistants, and one large communal chamber hosting sleeping pallets. At any given time, the sleeping chamber was inhabited by weary couriers. Those awake, if not seeking amusement in taverns, generally spent their time in the refectory near food and drink, seated around a huge rectangular slab of table, trading stories and jests.
Brodhi rode in through the main gate just off the Market Square, the clatter of shod hooves on stone becoming a quieter thump on the packed dirt. As usual, one of the junior couriers was there to meet him and take his horse; Brodhi dismounted, collected his scroll case, saddle pouches, and personal belongings, then handed the reins over. His first task, now, was to report to the Guildmaster. Later would come food, drink, and rest. Too much later, likely, for the balance of the day and night promised to be short; Brodhi had no doubts that the Hecari warriors would arrive at the Guildhall just after dawn, and he had much to do before he fell into bed.
He made his way through the heavy front door of the main hall, strode down a corridor, and came to a halt before a chamber door. The door stood open. Brodhi placed himself in it, but did not enter. The Guildmaster, going over a logbook at a table, looked up, registered his identity, beckoned him in. Brodhi walked in and waited before the table.
This chamber, too, was of hewn stone, with candle racks in each corner, three chairs set against walls bedecked with tapestries, wooden shelving stacked with unrolled scrolls pressed flat by the weight of others. Pinned to the tapestry directly behind the Guildmaster’s table was a large map of Sancorra province made of fine, scraped vellum, carefully inked in rich colors to show roads, passes, rivers, lakes, waterholes, hamlets, villages, cities, forests, and other various landmarks couriers might encounter on the roads. An ornate compass rose in the lower right corner showed the cardinal points, and the entire map was bordered by rich colors touched with gilt. It was art, and it was utility, and it was very nearly priceless.
The Guildmaster, dressed in black, cropped dark hair beginning to silver, set aside his logbook and quill pen and sat back in his chair. Gray eyes were shrewd but unwelcoming; Brodhi knew full well that his attitude irked the Guildmaster. He dropped scroll case, saddle pouches, and other belongings into a chair, then skipped the preliminary courtesies. “Alisanos has moved.”
The Guildmaster blinked; Brodhi knew he hadn’t been anticipating any news of that sort. “Good Mother,” the man said, “tell me this is a very poor jest.”
Brodhi shook his head. “I was present.”
The Guildmaster closed his eyes briefly, then sat forward and rested his arms on the table. “Where, exactly? Such as you can tell me, of course. What about the roads?”
“There is a settlement where folk gather to join karavans headed out of Sancorra. Near a shortcut to Atalanda, which has been used only rarely in the past forty years because of its proximity to Alisanos. It’s not precisely a hamlet or village, just a gathering place. It has no name. But I went there too, when I found it, to announce that Sancorra of Sancorra was executed, as bade by the warlord. Several days later the deepwood moved, swallowing much land. No one knows, now, how its boundaries lie upon the earth. But I can tell you that a portion of the road to Cardatha from this gathering place is now blocked by the deepwood. I had to find another way.”
The Guildmaster rose, handed Brodhi a thin, glyph-carved map-stick—skin oils and grime would stain the vellum—and indicated the map on the wall behind him. “Show me.”
Accordingly, Brodhi rounded the table, found Cardatha on the map, and began to move the stick westward from the city along the established road. Then he halted the movement and tapped lightly. “Here is where Alisanos encroaches. I went this way …” He traced the route he had made, pointed out the crossroads for the northbound and southbound roads, then drew an invisible circle in the midst of emptiness on the map, save for a blue-inked river. “Here, approximately, is where the settlement lies. Because of the northern road, because of the river and two immense groves, karavans began using this area as a gathering place. But some people remained. Now, there may be one hundred people here at any given time, even when there are no karavans.” He caught himself. “Fewer now, because of Alisanos going active. But here is where a portion of the deepwood lies now. Very close, as you’ll see.”
The Guildmaster’s eyes seemed distant, as if he were looking elsewhere. Then his gaze sharpened. “I lived through the last movement of Alisanos. I prayed there would be no more.”
“There will always be more. Those who believe otherwise are shortsighted, and place themselves in harm’s way.”
The Guildmaster studied him a moment, evaluating, Brodhi knew, whether the comment was intended for him personally, or was about people in general.
“Alisanos cannot be predicted,” Brodhi continued. “I have land-sense enough to know when it’s on the verge of going active, and in what direction part of it might go, but no one alive may predict what may come. All we can do is try to avoid it.”
After a moment the Guildmaster nodded. “We need new maps.”
“I’ve begun.” Brodhi gestured toward his pile of belongings. “But it will take time to reconnoiter the new footprint of the deepwood. Until then, I can only offer a limited amount of information.” He paused. “The warlord is sending men tomorrow to ride back with me. He wishes to be certain I’m telling him the truth. There was a decimation there not long ago; he wants to know how many folk Alisanos killed or swallowed, and how many remain.”
“Was he aware of Alisanos, and what it is?”
“Until I told him, no.”
“Were any other couriers present at this settlement when Alisanos moved? Were any killed?”
“None killed. Timmon and Alorn are there, and Bethid.”
“Bethid.” The Guildmaster grimaced; he had been one of those most adamantly opposed to Bethid joining the guild. “Well, we are fortunate that none were killed. They remain there?”
“Many folk were killed. Those who survived have no alternative for the time being and are determined to rebuild. Timmon, Alorn, and Bethid stayed to help. I came here.”
“Very well.” The Guildmaster’s mouth was set in a thin, flat line. “By the Good Mother, it is difficult enough having to deal with the warlord, may the Mother one day lift that presence from us. And now Alisanos?” He shook his head. “By morning I need a map
of this area, Brodhi, as clear as you can make it under the circumstances; it will be incomplete, of course, until we can send members of the Mapmakers’ Guild to survey the area, but any knowledge is vital. For now, with four of you in this place, I need send no more couriers there. Finish the rough map before morning, if you will, and I’ll have it sent to the mapmakers for fair copies. When we know more, it will be added to this master.” He turned back to his table and chair. “Eat and drink first. Then begin.” His casual gesture was dismissal.
Brodhi inclined his head briefly, gathered up his gear, and departed the chamber.
WITH AUDRUN GONE for water, Rhuan felt more motivated to climb to his feet, if at all possible, because then he would have no audience if it proved more difficult than he hoped. What he had told her was true: despite being capable of dying in Alisanos, he healed more quickly even here than a human, as he did in the human world. Her ministrations had indeed kept the wounds clean, so the healing process was not delayed. The abdominal wounds remained the worst, but they too, despite the remaining pain, had begun to heal.
Kneeling, he placed one hand against the earth and pushed himself up. The effort required two tries to gain his feet and he felt a little light-headed, but he managed to stand. Triumph indeed. No doubt after he had a normal meal instead of mashed melon he would begin regaining strength. In the meantime, he wished to reenter the dreya ring, if only briefly. Fortunately it was only a few paces away.
The trees themselves were charred skeletons, many with broken limbs. Living wood had burned through, so that little force was needed to break other limbs. It was possible that if Rhuan leaned on one of the burned trunks, he could knock the tree down entirely. He walked through ash, crunched across charcoal. The heaps at the bottom of each trunk were not recognizable as women, or even as formerly living beings.
Rhuan stopped in the center of the ring and turned in a circle, looking up into the hole left in the forest canopy. The light from two suns, unhindered by leaves and limbs, shone blindingly bright. He dropped the membrane over both eyes, now viewing the world through a red scrim.
Deepwood: Karavans # 2 Page 19