The Wild Road

by Jennifer Roberson

  He looked again into Alario’s eyes. This time, Brodhi did not lower his own.

  Chapter 20

  BRODHI KNEW IT was essential to stand his ground, to recover what he could of his pride; to banish also the shock of Alario’s announcement and end his laughter. But now was not the time to consider whether the announcement was true; instead, he focused solely on the hand-reader, on what Alario intended for her. For Brodhi, play in the game had suddenly gone much deeper. He had to craft his words carefully, control his attitude, and shut down any avenue Alario might take—would take—to undercut him.

  “She’ll die,” Brodhi said. “Your seed will kill her when labor is upon her.”

  Alario shrugged. “Does it matter? I want the child. Not her.”

  “The child is at risk as well. If the woman dies too early in labor—”

  Alario detested Karadath’s get almost as much as he hated Karadath. He let it show. “If she begins to die before the child is born, I will open her belly and take it.”

  “And if I summoned her here now, to hear this?” Brodhi gestured toward Ilona’s wagon some distance away. “Human women have methods of ridding themselves of troublesome pregnancies. And she’s a hand-reader . . . very likely she could see what was to come of her if one path is followed, or another.”

  “Then I will come again and again,” Alario said, clearly amused. “How many times could she rid herself of my seed before the very act of ridding cost her her life? Because it would. You know this.”

  Brodhi did know that. It was a choice between dying sooner, or dying later. But dying, certainly. And she would not resurrect.

  He drew a breath. “If you took her to Alisanos now in order to remove her from the human world, it would be too perilous for her. She could well die before giving birth. Or the change might come upon her and render your seed entirely useless. Or twist it into something that could never be a dioscuri.”

  Alario scoffed. “My seed? Never.”

  “Then take her.” Brodhi was delicately casual. “Take her to Alisanos and see what might happen. My human mother was taken to the Kiba. Oh, yes, she died—how could a human woman not die giving birth to a dioscuri? But that death came after I was born. If taken to Alisanos early, there is no certainty that the hand-reader wouldn’t die before giving birth. Or before the child had the strength to survive.”

  Arms folded against his chest, Alario examined him. Brodhi saw it, knew it, hated it. While true that he could challenge Alario and be within his rights, those rights were his only after successful completion of the journey. If he and Rhuan should attack Alario in tandem, they might well defeat him. But that was not considered part of a successful journey. And Ferize and Darmuth were required to report the truth to the primaries. On pain of being unmade, they must be accurate and honest, detailed and precise.

  “She may remain,” Alario said abruptly. “Twice nine. But then I will come for her.”

  Brodhi had no stake in whether Ilona survived childbirth. Human females died often enough in labor, or after the child was born. In Alisanos, it was a certainty. In no way would it affect his life if Ilona were to die. But he had a stake in what might affect his sire, and therefore his own chances of ascending. If the hand-reader were taken to the Kiba, he could no longer watch the progress of her pregnancy. And it was vital that he should do so, so he would know when, and if, Alario’s new dioscuri would one day be a threat to Karadath.

  It was not impossible that here in the human world, in the characteristically violent birth of Alisani get, the halfling might die even as its mother did. But it was necessary that the child be here, where no one could save it.

  “Eighteen months,” Brodhi said, using the human counting method. “You’ve bred her; there is no more for you to do.”

  Alario smiled. It was a dangerous smile, and yet also one of agreement. One of certainty that, in due time, none of what was said here would matter. He took two paces away, then swung back. “You need not be concerned, Brodhi. It will be years before Karadath’s new dioscuri is capable of challenging you.”

  It was meant to provoke him, to rob him of confidence. Brodhi ignored it. But he saw Alario look first at Darmuth, still kneeling, then at Ferize. Brodhi knew very well what such potent dominance would engender in them. They were but demons. By a primary’s presence, they were diminished.

  Darmuth struggled to his feet. Ferize set a steadying hand upon his elbow.

  Alario bared his teeth in a feral smile. “Be quit of here.”

  Ferize and Darmuth shared a moment looking at one another, lean faces taut, eyes acknowledging they must do as a primary ordered. Ferize did not even so much as glance at Brodhi, and that concerned him.

  Scale patterns bloomed, ran like water over every exposed portion of their bodies. Their faces, though shaped differently, took on eerie semblences of something other than human. Claws extruded from fingertips. The flesh of their backs flowed aside, granting room for wings.

  And then they let darkness lift them from the earth. Let darkness take them.

  As Brodhi stared after them, he heard Alario’s quiet laughter. “One day,” he said, “you will have the ordering of demons also. You will be able to make and unmake them. But for now, these two answer to me.”

  Brodhi watched as his kin-in-kind turned away from the light of the coals, turned away from the moon called Mother, and disappeared into darkness.

  THROUGH DARKNESS AND moonlight, Darmuth went directly to Rhuan. As he landed, wings withdrew into his back. Scale pattern faded. Claws became fingernails. He felt the brief pain in his eyes that betokened a change of pupils from slitted to round. Inwardly, he was demon. Outwardly, human.

  He caught his breath. Whole again, yes. But losing substance was infinitely weakening, infinitely dangerous. He needed meat. Tonight. Very badly. Very soon. Now was best, but “now” insisted he tend his dioscuri.

  Rhuan, sitting up, appeared not to have noticed the method of his arrival. Bruises had begun to form on his face. Darmuth very nearly winced in sympathy. Rhuan would heal significantly sooner than a human, but in the meantime he would nonetheless be in pain. And others would see all the bruises and swelling and ask what had happened.

  It mattered that none of them knew the truth. And mattered that Rhuan did not, also. He would challenge his sire. Well before time, he would challenge, and die in the doing of it. Darmuth dared not let that happen. He himself was too vulnerable.

  “Hirelings,” Darmuth said matter-of-factly as Rhuan raised his head, “or men who took it on themselves in hopes of finding a bone-dealer at some point. Everyone here still thinks you’re Shoia; that remains a believable explanation for you.”

  Rhuan, muttering various vicious comments about hirelings, bone-dealers, and Kantic diviners, rose to his feet with great care. “That’s what I thought.” He paused. “Did you kill them?”

  Darmuth wove the lie effortlessly. “I killed them and fed them to Alisanos. There are no bodies to be found.” Which was perfectly true; there had been no bodies at all. “No questions will be asked.”

  Rhuan squinted at him, feeling a swollen cheekbone. “Oh, there might be questions. If they have families.”

  Darmuth shrugged. “No one has come looking for them. I think likely they were men traveling alone and believed they saw an opportunity. They all smelled of spirits; maybe they hatched the idea because of too much drink.”

  “How many?”

  “Three.” Darmuth bent, took the crude map and backing board from the ground, flipped oilcloth over it, and handed it to Rhuan.

  “Three,” Rhuan said in eloquent disgust. “Three humans against a dioscuri, and they won.”

  “But they’re dead. For good.” Darmuth put a hand on Rhuan’s back and pushed. “Go to Ilona. Rest. Or don’t rest . . . it matters little to me if you bed her twenty times a night.�
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  Rhuan’s response was a breathy blurt of sound as he tucked the map board under an arm. “Why not say thirty?”

  “Because you’re not a primary yet.” Darmuth decided it was worth a tentative test. “Have you recovered any memory of what happened?”

  “I don’t even know when it happened. My brains are scrambled.”

  Clearly Alario had removed any memory of the meeting between himself and his dioscuri. Now came the most delicate falsehood of them all, and the most important. “You left Ilona because you had forgotten the map. The attack happened on your way back to collect it.”

  “Oh. Well, whatever you say. I don’t remember any of it.”

  Darmuth nodded. “Try not to get yourself killed while I’m in Cardatha.”

  The canopy of the hand-reader’s wagon glowed gently in the light of the Mother’s moon. Darmuth slapped Rhuan on the shoulder and left him. But even as he faded away into the shadows of the grove, he felt a faint breath of cold air tickle the back of his neck.

  Nine months. Nine months of life left to Ilona, if she were pregnant. And nine months left to—no. Not nine months left. Twice nine. He had been thinking in human terms. Twice nine bought Ilona and Rhuan more time. And more time before Alario came for Ilona.

  Darmuth nodded to himself. More time to perhaps devise a plan for escaping Alario.

  ILONA AWOKE AS the wagon creaked. Tangled in blankets upon the floor, she worked herself free, but did not rise. “Rhuan?”

  “Yes.”

  A single word, and it kindled pleasure, joy, anticipation. Smiling, she lay back down on one side, planted an elbow, and propped her head up. Through a yawn, she asked, “Where did you go?”

  He ducked in, bumped his head on the unlighted lantern, swore, pulled the door shut behind him, and promptly tripped over a fold of blanket. He caught himself even as Ilona lunged out of the way in case he fell. “I left the map out with my markers.”

  She heard him set the board and map out of the way and also heard a few well chosen words she hoped he would never speak in the presence of children. “Here Rhuan, light the lantern before you fall flat on your face. There is flint and steel, just by it, tucked in that leather pouch hanging from the doorjamb.”

  She felt the wagon rock gently as he moved, heard the rattle as he took the lantern down from its hook, heard also, and smelled, the scrape and spark of steel against flint, the astringency of the resulting bloom of flame, and then the wick was lighted. He cupped his hand around the vents for a moment, then lifted the lantern to hang it once again.

  Ilona sat up abruptly. “Sweet Mother, Rhuan, what happened?” The lantern and its light were behind him, but all of the wagon interior was now illuminated to some extent, and she could see the blood and swollen flesh perfectly well. “You did fall flat on your face!”

  “Not without help.” He slowly lowered himself to his knees.

  “You look terrible! What happened?” She moved closer and indicated he should sit down on the cot mattress and blanket-padded floorboards. He did so with teeth clenched, moving gingerly. When he at last was seated, leaning against a leather-wrapped trunk, she knelt before him, then gently cradled his jaw with both hands, searching his eyes. She saw pain there and a faint trace of shame. Even embarrassment. “Oh, your poor nose.” She didn’t dare touch it. “Is it broken?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are going to be so bruised come morning!”

  “Yes.”

  “Here . . . I’m going to wash your face. Your nose bled quite a bit, and I see you have a split lip as well.” She took up the modest jug of water she kept beside her cot for middle of the night thirst, found a soft cloth, wetted it and turned back to Rhuan. She scrunched up her face in sympathy. “Let me do this . . . I’ll be gentle.”

  He sucked in a sharp breath as she lightly pressed the wet cloth between nose and mouth. “You said you’d be gentle!”

  “That is gentle. Hold still—Rhuan, let me do this. Stop pushing my hand away.” And as he scowled, she added, “You’re worse than a child.” She was as gentle as she could be to remove blood that was nearly congealed. His nose was definitely swollen out of shape, as was one side of his face. No cause for a smile and dimples, but she did wonder briefly if the swelling would fill in the dimple. “The bruises are coming up already.” She refolded the cloth for a fresh side and applied it once again to his face. “But if you don’t tell me what happened, I may give you another one.”

  “Ow,” he said. “Ilona—that hurts.”

  She eyed him critically. “Did you get into a fight at Mikal’s?” If so, it might be difficult to find any measure of sympathy for him after all.

  “No.”

  “You’ve done it before. I think I’ve lost count—or would have, had I been counting.”

  His tone was aggrieved. “But not this time! I wasn’t even at Mikal’s.” He pushed away her hand. “Let it be, Ilona. The rest can wait until morning.”

  She shook her head. “You’ll be worse in the morning, and this will hurt more. You can’t go around with blood all over your face.”

  He smiled wryly then looked pained as he pressed fingers against his split lip. “I heal quickly. It’s an advantage.”

  She stared at his mouth. “Are you missing a tooth?”

  Now he looked guilty. “Yes.”

  “And will that heal by morning?”

  Rhuan felt carefully at his nose. “Possibly not by morning. It may take a couple of days. But the worst of the bruising should be fading by dawn.”

  “Hmph,” she said, considering him closely. “I don’t smell any spirits on you.”

  “I said I was not at Mikal’s. I wasn’t at Jorda’s supply wagon. I have been nowhere that I could drink spirits!” He paused. “Though possibly under these circumstances a mug would be medicinally helpful if applied to my insides.”

  Now she believed him. Rhuan teased, Rhuan exaggerated, Rhuan told tales as it suited him, but this time he was truthful. She heard it in his voice. “Then how in the world did this come to be?” She gestured. “All this damage?”

  He adjusted his position against the trunk, then closed his eyes. Lantern light tinted his copper-hued flesh ochre. It set unbound hair aglow. “Darmuth says it was men after my bones.”

  That shocked her. “But there is no Kantic diviner here. I’m the only diviner, and bones are not my responsibility, thank the Mother. Why would anyone want your bones when they can’t be sold or used?”

  Rhuan was quiet a moment. “Bones are not perishable.”

  “Of course they’re perishable. That’s why the Kantic diviners want them. They break them up and burn them, don’t they?”

  “Bones are not perishable in the usual way,” he emphasized. “They’d dump me on the anthills, and when all the flesh, organs, and tissue were eaten away, the bones would be perfectly clean. And easily packed up and carried away.”

  “Oh.” He was so matter-of-fact about it. “But did they kill you? And how many deaths would this be?”

  “No. At least, they never got the chance. Darmuth arrived.”

  Ilona sighed. “I suspect those men are now dead instead of you.”

  “Well—yes.” He paused. “Wouldn’t you prefer it that way?”

  “I prefer it hadn’t happened at all. But as it did . . . here—lie down. Just lie down. You may hurt too much to sleep, but at least you’ll rest. Lie down, Rhuan.”

  Eventually, he eased himself down upon the bedding. “Ow.”

  “Here’s a pillow for behind your head.” She lifted his head even as he complained and settled it gently against the grass- and herb-stuffed pillow. “I’ll brew willow bark tea in the morning.”

  He made an inarticulate sound of distaste. “Bitter.”

  “Bitter makes you better.” She smiled a
s he looked at her, surprised. “It’s what we tell the children when they have to drink it.”

  Rhuan grunted. She had the feeling he would not make a good patient. In fact, she had the feeling he would be a most difficult patient. It would be a very good thing indeed, if he healed quickly.

  “If Darmuth stopped the attempt on you, then I assume he disposed of the bodies? Or are we to discover them tomorrow on a morning stroll?”

  He gripped his brow with the palm of a hand. “He said he fed them to Alisanos.”

  A chill ran through her. “That’s . . . Rhuan, that’s horrible!”

  “They were dead!”

  “It’s still horrible.” Ilona put away the capped water jug and spread the damp, bloodied cloth out to dry atop the bed platform they were not using, its stuffed mattress and coverlets upon the floorboards. “Will they . . . ?” A perverse curiosity would not let the subject drop. “Won’t they be—eaten?”

  “You don’t bury or burn anyone in Alisanos,” Rhuan explained from behind his hand. “Demons crave meat. Of course they’ll be eaten.”

  She stared at him, stricken. “Human—meat?

  “Any kind of meat. Mine, for that matter. They are not discriminating. They just . . . feed.”

  Ilona lay down next to him, careful not to jab him or jar his head. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Please, ‘Lona, don’t speak so loudly.”

  “I’m not speaking loudly . . .” But she lowered her voice anyway. “Couldn’t Darmuth have just left them where they were?”

  “So they’d be discovered on someone’s morning stroll?”

  Her mouth twitched in a tacit acknowledgment. “We could have given them rites and buried them decently. But to be eaten . . . It sat ill on her stomach. “What was Darmuth thinking?”

  A breath of laughter escaped him, then he winced. Carefully. “Darmuth is a demon. What do you expect?”

  Ilona sat upright abruptly, ignoring his blurt of pain. “You’re not telling me Darmuth eats humans!”