Deepwood: Karavans # 2

by Jennifer Roberson

  His smile grew into a grin. Indeed, no dimples. “Alive and in the flesh. Though I doubt you recall our last meeting.”

  She arched both brows, trying not to let him know she was guessing based on information from Bethid. “You must mean the one we shared at the verge of Alisanos, not far from the river.”

  He had not expected that. She saw a brief, slight downward twitch in his eyebrows, but he recovered easily. “Good. This speaks well of you. Few humans—possibly no humans—might remember that.”

  He was male. Not human, but male. She knew males. “Well, I suspect you are often remembered—and you may take that in whatever vein you wish.”

  “A compliment, certainly.” He climbed the next two steps and ducked down to get through the low door.

  Ilona looked again at the braids, the ornamentation of the complex arrangement hanging down his spine. Rhuan had told her it was a Shoia tradition. But the question begged to be asked. “You’re not Shoia, are you?”

  He paused, and grinned at her. “Indeed not.”

  She kept her expression and voice casual. “Then Rhuan also is not Shoia? Or Brodhi?”

  “Occasionally,” he answered. “It serves very well as explanation for resurrection. The name is a euphemism—there are no Shoia anymore. We assume the name of an extinct race as means to make ourselves comprehensible to humans when we’re in the human world.”

  She recalled Rhuan apparently forgetting the number of “deaths” he had experienced. “Then you don’t die at all?”

  “We can be killed in your world, yes, any number of times—but it’s never permanent. We learned it was simpler to give ourselves six deaths in any one place before moving on.”

  She took the gamble. “And in your world?”

  He lowered himself to sit on the trunk opposite her cot. Their knees touched. Ilona moved hers aside to escape the contact. “My world is somewhat more perilous.”

  It was obvious to her now. “Alisanos.”

  “Alisanos. Yes.”

  “Are you a demon?”

  Teeth flashed in a grin. “I suppose it depends on your perspective. But no. We are not demons.”

  He looked so much like Rhuan that she had to ask it. “You’re kin, are you not? To Rhuan?”

  “To Rhuan, yes, and to Brodhi. Brodhi is to me what humans would call a nephew. Rhuan is my get.” He paused, seeing the flicker in her eyes, and amended it: “Son.”

  He had said “is.” Not “was.” Hope surged. “Then he’s still alive?”

  “For now.”

  “In Alisanos.”

  He smiled. “For now.”

  The rush of relief was immediate and tremendous, but seasoned still with fear. Not for herself; for this man’s son. His get. “What is it you want of me?”

  “You have no other memory of our meeting?”

  She saw no reason to prevaricate; this man, this—whatever—knew the truth. “Only that we met.”

  “I healed your arm.” Before she could stop him, he closed a broad hand around her wrist. “Don’t you feel the bone within renewed? Does your blood not sing?”

  “I was ill.” She removed her wrist from his grasp. “Nothing was singing.”

  “And now?”

  Now—yes. Weariness was banished, the last dregs of dullness. She felt entirely well and strong. Indeed, her blood sang. “You did this. Just now.”

  “Then, and now. Do you see how your body answers mine?”

  “Why did you do it? Why heal me?”

  “Because you will be most useful to me.” He leaned forward, elbows set on thighs. “I wish to make you my diascara. In your tongue: wife.”

  Of all the answers she might have expected, that was not one of them. Ilona stared at him blankly. “Your what?”

  “Wife.”

  “Blessed Mother of Moons! Why?”

  “Because I’m in need of one.”

  She gave up trying to recapture a casual demeanor; things now had gone well beyond dissimulation. “And you come to me?”

  “You,” he said, smiling, “may be the answer to my prayers.” His grin flashed. “Should I pray to myself, that is.”

  Ilona made a tremendous mental effort to snag her wits away from various odd wanderings, each incited by this man to follow a different line of thought. “Setting aside the undoubtedly great honor you do me,” she wondered fleetingly if he understood irony, “—why in the Mother’s world would I become your wife?”

  Surprising her with his swiftness, he caught one of her hands, raised it, and kissed her palm. Softly, he said, “Because I wish it.”

  She snatched her hand back. It made him laugh. “You have little experience of humans, don’t you?”

  “My most recent diascara was a human.”

  Ilona cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Where is she now?”

  “Quite dead.”

  It seemed not to touch him in the least. There was neither sadness nor even acknowledgment that a death might be undesireable. But then, he was not human. “If you are not Shoia, nor demon, what are you?”

  “I am what is worshipped.”

  Ilona laughed out loud. “Women fall at your feet, do they?”

  He didn’t smile. “I am quite serious.”

  “Why would you be worshipped?”

  Somehow both hands were in his. She did not recall how they got there. “Because I am a god.”

  Ilona stood upright, nearly cracking her skull on a curved roof-rib as she yanked her hands free. “Oh, no. No. No such thing. I am not so stupid—nor am I remotely swayed by what I admit, in all honesty, is your undeniable attraction—as to accept that as truth.”

  He was tall enough, even seated, that his head was not particularly lower than hers. “I can, of course, prove it to you. What would you like me to do?”

  “Leave.”

  He laughed at her. “No.”

  “Then bring Rhuan here.”

  The laughter died. For all the heat in his eyes, in his body, his stare now was glacial. “I think not.”

  “That is what I ask.”

  “Alas, you will simply have to wonder if it can be done.” Brown eyes remained cold despite the upward curving of his lips. “You humans value explanations, even if proof is presented. Very well. I am in need of an heir.”

  She could remain standing, or sit down and take support from the steadiness of her cot. Since he made no attempt to touch her again, Ilona sat down. “If Rhuan is your son, you’re in no need of an heir.”

  “That get is … inferior.”

  Her brows arched up. “Rhuan is inferior?”

  He took her measure carefully, evaluating expression, posture, tone of voice. Something flickered in his eyes, something briefly red and wholly hostile. But it passed, and she couldn’t be certain she had seen any such thing. Until he spoke. “My recent—wife—was initially uncertain. Let me assure you that she came to understand the needs of my people, and embraced them wholeheartedly. She gave me a son who might have grown to be everything I wished in an heir, except for one abiding flaw.”

  Ilona kept her mouth shut precisely because he expected her to speak.

  His lips twitched briefly. “He lacks dedication, my ge—my son. He would rather spend himself in cheap human whores, spilling his seed with no regard for his kin-in-kind. Do you believe he is above that? Be not misled. You are a hand-reader, and you have a true gift. But has he ever allowed you to read his hand? Or has he always found a way to refuse?”

  She could not hide the flicker of her own eyes as he touched on what had always troubled her.

  “My son,” he said, “is beautiful, as are all our people, and I understand at times he can be quite charming. He has the flame inside, but it is banked. He might one day have grasped my power, become the greatest of all the Thousand Gods, even as I am—but he has no sense of responsibility. He turns his back on his people and—”

  “—and wastes his time on humans?” Ilona didn’t smile. “You have yet to provide a single argumen
t for why I should believe that Rhuan is unfit.”

  “Ah, he has blinded you.” The tone was sorrowful. “Ai, he is a rogue who attracts women the way honey draws flies. I am sorry—I believed you too wise to be trapped as others are.”

  She might have smiled triumphantly, but did not. “Then apparently I am not well-suited to be your wife after all.”

  The humor in his eyes died. “Allow me to speak plainly.”

  A startled blurt of laughter escaped her mouth. “Oh, please do!”

  “I have a brother. Karadath. In our world, kin who are primaries compete for position within the pantheon. Attaining the highest level is dependent upon many things, not the least of which is the number of dioscuri we sire, and of course grooming the one we feel best suited to inherit after us. The dioscuri compete as well, and kill one another until eventually only one remains. All of my dioscuri are dead, save one. He should have been killed by one of his half brothers. He wasn’t. Karadath, too, has only one surviving dioscuri—”

  “Brodhi…” She felt numb—numb and battered.

  “And Brodhi is far more fit to inherit Karadath’s place than Rhuan is mine, which provides Karadath with an edge. It is a stain on me that Rhuan is so inferior—”

  “Wait.” She stopped the flow of words with a raised hand. Something inside her had turned cold, painfully cold. “Are you saying that Rhuan and Brodhi are supposed to try to kill one another?”

  He frowned. “No. Of course not. The heir is supposed to kill the sire, to assume his place. But the challenge can only be approved when the heir has completed various tests, when he is believed to be mentally and physically fit, and when the true need comes upon him. All are required elements.” He lifted one eloquent shoulder. “If the dioscuri is killed by his sire, then the sire is expected to bring another candidate forward if any are living. If not, he is expected to sire another. This competition among siblings, among sires and dioscuri, makes certain only the strongest ascend.”

  “Your people …” She drew in a breath, trying to parse out a clear, precise response from all of the things she wished to say. “Your people have a frighteningly brutal way of living.”

  “At the next ascension, Karadath will hold a higher place than I because Brodhi is more fitting. Rhuan is weak. He is inferior—”

  “And thus you are vulnerable to challenges by others.”

  “None of them is capable of killing me,” he said matter-of-factly, “but yes, having an inferior heir does weaken my standing among the pantheon. Karadath is gaining support. I must prevent that. Therefore I wish to sire another dioscuri, one who will raise my standing. I believe it is possible you may provide me with that son, a true dioscuri, strong enough to one day kill me, fit to inherit my place. I believe you will do so.” His clear, cold gaze locked on hers. “And I believe that to arrive at that result, one must do as one sees fit.”

  She knew enough of him now to take that as a threat. Precisely as he meant it.

  Ilona rose. She moved past him, bumping his knees, and opened the wagon door. She stood there in the sunlight, meeting him eye to eye across a distance of eight feet. “Leave.”

  Once again, he evaluated her. His thoughts she could not decipher. He rose, ducked, moved to the door. They stood so closely her breasts nearly brushed his chest. She was not unaware of the power of his presence, the incredible maleness that reached out to her.

  She clamped her teeth closed. Lifted her chin. Held his eyes, and did not waver beneath them.

  Surprisingly, he smiled. “Precisely what I want.”

  She stared after him as he dropped from floorboards to ground, disdaining her folding steps. He walked away from her wagon, away from the grove, striding easily toward the trees a half-mile away.

  Toward Alisanos.

  Ilona sat down in the doorway, one leg bent beneath her. She felt quite strong, stronger than one might expect after her experiences, but her mind felt bruised by so much startling information. Information she could not believe, but felt she must. If she were to survive.

  Rhuan is expected to kill his father.

  As Rhuan had, apparently, killed all of his brothers.

  GILLAN PRESSED HIS spine and the back of his skull into the tree he leaned against, grabbing up fistfuls of tough groundcover as Darmuth changed the dressing on his leg. The pain was immense as air touched the burns. A few days prior, when he shamefacedly begged for a way to stop his screaming, the demon handed him a modest length of tree branch, cleaned of bark, and told him to bite on it. Gillan did. The stick did not halt the cries or suppress them completely, but they were muted. His teeth left impressions in the wood.

  This time as Darmuth unwrapped the bandaging, Gillan looked. He had avoided doing so for several days, afraid of what he would see. But when Darmuth muttered absently that it was “much better,” and “it’s taking,” Gillan forced himself to view the demon’s handiwork.

  What he saw shocked him into nausea.

  “What did you do? What have you done?”

  Darmuth said matter-of factly, “Given you flesh.”

  Gillan trembled so hard he thought his teeth might chatter. “But—but… it’s not… it’s not—”

  “Human? No.” Darmuth began to wrap more shielding around the wasted lower limb.

  “Wait—” Gillan lurched forward off the tree and grabbed Darmuth’s hands. “Let me see—”

  Accordingly, the demon removed his hands. He waited.

  Still, Gillan shook. He stared in shock at his calf. It lacked muscle to define the shape from knee to ankle, but it was a leg. It was his leg. Except for the flesh covering the bone. That was scaled.

  “O Mother … O Mother …”

  “You will walk,” Darmuth said. “Be not so ungrateful.”

  “It’s-it’s—”

  “Demon flesh. Yes. So?” Darmuth lifted an eyebrow. “Would you rather have lost the leg?”

  Part of him wished to scream Yes! Part of him remained so horrified that all he could do was stare. Gray, gleaming flesh, tissue quite fine, overlaid with black-edged scales. He could not bring himself to touch it.

  Gillan fell back against the tree, aware of tears in his eyes. But shock was fading and now the pain returned. He winced, closed his eyes, fumbled for the stick.

  Darmuth put it into his hand. “Recall, if you please, that a demon has kept you alive.”

  He knew that. He knew that. But it was one thing to be tended by a demon, and another to have demon flesh become a part of his body.

  “I took it from my thigh,” Darmuth said casually. “It had to be living flesh, not from a corpse; and I know of no demon who would, while alive, give up his flesh to a human.”

  Gillan’s eyes popped open. He took the stick from his mouth. “You did it.”

  “You may thank Rhuan for that.” Darmuth’s hands, skilled and efficient, began wrapping the limb. “He cares about your family more than any other. And I suspect you will be able to thank him in person. In the flesh, as it were.” He displayed perfectly human teeth in a sardonic grin.

  As the leg was covered, some of the pain diminished. Gillan still trembled, but speech was easier. “Rhuan’s here, too?”

  “He was with your mother when the storm came down.” Darmuth applied a length of cloth stripped from Gillan’s tunic. “He will be making his way to the Kiba to address the primaries. We should be there.”

  Now he was confused. “Be where?”

  “At the Kiba.”

  “But—”

  “He has displayed an increasing tendency to protect and defend humans,” Darmuth continued, “which no doubt will infuriate Alario, but it will also please Karadath and those who oppose Alario. I suspect he will ask the primaries to let you and your mother, provided she still lives, be returned to the human world.”

  Hope leaped painfully within his chest. “We can go back?”

  “Pin no hopes on it,” Darmuth suggested. “It’s highly unlikely—and will you wish to go back, wearing demo
n skin?”

  Gillan stared at the bandaging. His thoughts tumbled in his mind like creek water over stones. “I wear trews,” he said finally. “Who will know?”

  Darmuth’s eyes were pale, pale gray. The pupils elongated. “Living skin grows.”

  Gillan blinked. “What?”

  “Eventually, no amount of clothing will hide your scales.”

  His reaction was instantaneous. Gillan cried out, pushed himself sideways off the tree, scrabbled away. The limb would not support him. Pain renewed itself. Eventually he fell backward, landing upon his elbows. He stared at Darmuth in almost paralyzing shock. “Take it off! Take it off!”

  “The skin is living. Your blood runs in its tissues.”

  “Take it off! Cut it off!”

  Darmuth raised an eyebrow. “The leg?”

  “Cut it off!”

  “How will you survive Alisanos with only one leg?”

  Gillan screamed.

  Sighing, Darmuth picked up the forgotten stick. He rose, went to Gillan, and squatted down beside him. With no ceremony at all, he shoved the stick into his open mouth and held it there. “Your choice, boy. Be a man, or be a child.”

  Sweating from pain, trembling in shock, Gillan stopped screaming. Tears coursed down his face.

  “Better.” Darmuth removed the stick. “Weeping is quieter.”

  ILONA SAT FOR a long time in the open door of her wagon. She watched the sun set. She watched twilight come. She watched the first stars appear in the sky, and Mother Moon brightening among them. She heard snatches of conversation from others carrying within the grove, karavaners sorting out cookfires and the evening meal. She wondered why she wasn’t hungry. She wondered why she remained on the floor of her wagon when there were things to do.

  Rhuan’s father wanted to sire a child on her.

  It was a small sound at first, a brief, choppy exhalation coupled with something that was precursor to laughter. Ilona closed her eyes, leaned her head against the doorjamb behind her, and gave way to honest if quiet laughter shaped by a plethora of emotions, most of which she could not name. They passed through her mind too quickly. It was ridiculous. It was ludicrous. It was entirely, absolutely, incontrovertibly unbelieveable.

  When the laughter stopped, leaving behind a grin, she brushed her hair back from her face and opened her eyes. And found a woman waiting at the bottom of her steps.