“What happened to you?” Davyn blurted.
Rhuan’s brows rose. “What happened to you? Your eyes are all bloodshot—ah.” He smiled lopsidedly, then winced and pressed a fingertip against his bottom lip. “You were in Mikal’s tent long after I was. You carry the odor of spirits, my friend, and also . . .” Belatedly, he let the blunt observation die away. “Well. You probably know what else you smell of. That’s often the result of too much drink.”
Davyn made note of the blackened eyes, the swollen nose, the bruises all over Rhuan’s face, a split and swollen lip. “And what is your excuse?”
Rhuan hitched one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Apparently three men decided they wanted my bones.”
Davyn nearly recoiled in shock. “Why in the Mother’s name would anyone want your bones?”
Rhuan’s brows rose. “I take it a Kantic diviner was not among the fourteen you consulted before beginning this journey.”
“It was not.”
Rhuan’s tone took on a note of instruction. “Well, they break up bones into chips, then burn them. Supposedly they can divine the future that way. And Shoia bones are much in demand because, I’m told, they provide clearer visions.”
Davyn blinked. “But you’re not Shoia.”
“They don’t know that. And best no one finds out, because who knows who might want other parts of my body besides bones.”
It made no sense. “But you can’t die.”
Rhuan grimaced. “No, but that doesn’t mean I’d like to die only to wake up chopped into bits.”
“Would you wake up if you were chopped into bits?”
The karavan guide scowled. “I have no idea. It’s never been attempted, and I’d just as soon leave it that way, thank you.”
“Aren’t you ever curious?” Davyn asked. “I mean, curious about how many ways of dying you could experience?”
“No, I’m not curious about how many ways I might die,” Rhuan declared, affronted. “Would you be?”
“But I would die,” Davyn pointed out. “The experiment would fail.”
“I’d just as soon not experiment with my body,” Rhuan said decisively, “because even if I do resurrect, it hurts to die.”
Jorda’s Summoner rang out again. Both men winced. “Go on,” Rhuan said in a tight voice. “I am going elsewhere as fast as my poor head will allow me.”
Gloomily, Davyn said, “And I have to go to it.”
Rhuan clapped a hand to Davyn’s shoulder. “Make the trip to Cardatha a safe one.”
As the guide—no, the Alisani-born—strode away, Davyn turned to watch him go. Unbraided, all of the coppery hair hung down in a river to the small of Rhuan’s back. Briefly, Davyn wondered why the hair was loose, but then went on toward the ale-tent, where he joined the crowd of men standing outside. Jorda stood before the door flap, as did Mikal.
“Today,” Jorda began, green eyes and tone serious, “there are several tasks before us. With your willingness—and we truly have no other choice—some will cut planks from the downed trees and plane them for the boardwalk. Others can gather up any kind of bucket or pot available and begin collecting stones for Rhuan, who is marking the boundaries prior to building cairns. Older children are welcomed as well, providing they obey, and any women who care to join you. We badly need a boardwalk before the worst of the monsoon arrives, or we’ll all be wading in muck. More importantly, because of the deepwood, we need to know where we are safe and where we are not. Do as Rhuan tells you.”
“Why depend on him?” a voice asked. “He’s a karavan guide, by the Mother . . . how do we trust him to know where this border is?”
Jorda did not look pleased to be interrupted. “Step out so I may see you.” As a man stepped out from the knot of other men, making himself visible, Jorda continued, nodding. “Ah, you are tent-folk; you would not know, necessarily. Rhuan is one of my guides, yes. He has land-sense. He can sense where the edges of Alisanos are.”
The man, frowning, asked, “How can he do that?”
Jorda paused a moment, then went on briskly. “He’s Shoia. You’ve heard of Shoia, yes? Well, it allows him some abilities we don’t have, such as land-sense.” He caught Davyn’s eye and continued, moving smoothly away from the subject. “Today some of us leave for Cardatha to buy supplies. We should be back in five days, unless the rains slow us. In the meantime, questions may be asked of Mikal regarding how to plan, for now, and if you hear the ringing of my Summoner as you did earlier, answer it. You will not hear it except when you are needed, or when you are at risk.” Jorda lifted both bars and tapped them in a tattoo of deep, quiet chimes. “This sound is for flying beasts. That draka we saw. If this signal is heard, all who are outside should lie down at once. No talking, no shouting, no crying, but above all, no movement. Make this very clear to the children.” He looked over the gathered menfolk as if weighing each of them. “Understand me. There is no predicting if that beast will return, even Rhuan said so. But we must be prepared. And this—” Again he tapped a tattoo quietly, “—means find shelter. Tents, wagons, even beneath trees in the old grove. Anything that may be used as shelter. Make certain your women and children know this.” He handed off the Summoner rods to Mikal. “We’ll bring staples back from Cardatha. Meanwhile, have your women count up how much and what kind of food is left to us all. When I return, we will assemble all the food—yours, and what we buy—and store it here in Mikal’s tent.”
“Store it!” another man said in startled disbelief. “Why should we store it here? We have wagons and tents of our own.”
This time, Mikal answered. “We must change many habits in order to survive here through the monsoon. We must be fair and equitable, until the season improves and we can plant crops. Meals will be cooked and served here, at my tent. This—” he raised the Summoner rods and tapped out a muted, brief rhythm, “—means meals are ready.”
Davyn was unsurprised by the low-voiced grumbling and scowling among the men. He wasn’t certain about this system himself.
Jorda raised his voice. “If you wish to leave, you may. We cannot keep you here. But for the sake of your welfare, I ask that you stay, at least through the monsoon. All of the land is altered because of Alisanos. All must be freshly mapped. I am a karavan-master, and I don’t know what the terrain looks like or where the roads are now. Will you risk Alisanos as you navigate the passageway? Set off across lands you don’t know? Face the rains alone? Risk being found by Hecari while alone in the grasslands?” Jorda nodded as no one answered. “As for the meal lines, it’s the only way of insuring every person, be it a child, a woman, a man, has enough to eat. We can’t afford to serve only ourselves, or only our own families, while others run out of food. Not now. Not with the Hecari on one side and Alisanos on the other.”
Davyn nodded. That explanation settled his concerns. And from the expressions on the faces of the others, they understood as well.
Five days, Davyn reflected, thinking again about the journey to Cardatha. Five days when he would have no time to think only of his losses. Five days when he had a job to do, the means to aid tent-folk and karavaners alike. Rhuan had been correct to suggest he accompany Jorda. He saw that now. But oh, the condition of his head and belly would be made worse by today’s journey.
“No more spirits,” Davyn mumured to himself. “Ale, perhaps, and not often, only now and then—but no more spirits.”
AUDRUN WAS AWARE of heat, of chills, of sweat, of a body ignoring anything she might wish it to do. It had come upon her of a sudden, a terrible fatigue that turned her bones to water. She remembered speaking to Gillan, remembered feeling weak, recalled seeking her cot. That she had reached it, she knew, because she lay in it now.
The bodice of her tunic was soaked with breast milk, but it was not enough to relieve her of the ache. She badly needed an infant to nurse from her. It would help, to
o, with the laxity of her womb. But there was no infant, no newborn who had issued from her body. Nothing to hold. Nothing to love. Nothing to begin life ignorant of Alisanos. The child had been born in Alisanos; Audrun vaguely remembed Rhuan saying that the baby was also of Alisanos. And she feared for her. For Sarith. The third daughter she and Davyn had made.
She lay upon her cot and shivered. Heat coursed throughout the interior of her body, but the exterior was cold. Her hands and feet were numb. Her mind, too, felt cold. She could not think clearly. None of her thoughts stayed put, neither new nor old. Everything drained out of her body, out of her head. She was stupid with exhaustion. There was nothing left of her save a shell of a body over which she had no control.
But she had four children to tend.
Four children who, she realized abruptly, were no longer present.
The other room—? Audrun, curled on her side against the chills, slowly worked herself upward onto a braced elbow and squinted into the common chamber. Even her eyes ached.
No Gillan, no Ellica. No Torvic or Megritte. No one at all.
She could not permit herself to stay in bed, no matter how ill she was, while her children were missing.
Mother, I beg you. Blessed Mother, care for my children. Let no harm come to them.
She did not ask for herself. Only for her children.
Tears came too easily.
Chapter 23
BETHID COLLECTED HER mount, Churri, from the picket-line and made sure her bedroll and supply bags were snugged behind the cantle and tied on, along with her blue courier’s cloak. She wore rain gear over her clothing, in anticipation of showers, and would don the cloak for added protection if necessary. Her silver courier’s brooch, for the time being, was attached to the top of her weather clothing.
She, Timmon, and Alorn inspected tent pegs, sledging them yet again to drive them deeper. They checked the guy-lines for tension as well as fraying and tied the flaps closed. Storm-snapped poles had been replaced. The custom was to leave the common tent clean and ready for the next couriers to come through.
Bethid wasn’t sure the tent would remain standing if the deepwood displayed another temper tantrum. Against Alisanos, all they could do was their best.
She could not deny a fair amount of trepidation about the journey to Cardatha. Couriers knew the roads as well as karavan-masters and often better, as they took other roads in addition to the wagon routes. But this time they were riding without a road to follow and no knowledge of what might await them along the way. Brodhi had found the narrow passageway leading to the settlement on his way back from Cardatha, and she knew his memory was sound; it was one of the traits the Guild required of couriers. Once through, she would know the way as well, but for now they were wholly dependent on Brodhi.
Bethid counted off those who would be on the journey. Herself, Brodhi, Timmon, Alorn, Darmuth, Jorda, and the farmsteader. If the heavens opened and poured, there were enough people to break the wagons free of mud, but only on the journey out; Jorda would lose four of them once they reached Cardatha, leaving only Jorda, the farmsteader, and Darmuth. She did not expect them to linger in Cardatha; Jorda would want them back on the road as soon as possible to evade, if at all possible, bogging down. The rains had only begun yesterday, so perhaps there was, as yet, no danger of the heavy wagons getting stuck in the mud.
She cast a discerning eye at the sky to see if rain appeared imminent. It did not. But the sun had only just risen; plenty of time remained for clouds to build up. For now, all was dry save for a heavy film of dew.
Bethid put foot in stirrup and swung up onto Churri, settling easily into the saddle. The horse bobbed his head as she gathered reins, stamping with front hooves as he blew noisily through his nostrils. He had been picketed for several days, had survived a terrible storm, and was more than ready for a ride.
Bethid leaned forward in the saddle and smoothed a hand down his warm neck. “I know, sweet boy. We’re going. I promise you a good ride to soothe the itch. But for now we go to where Jorda told us to meet. Then we’ll head out.”
She lifted reins and turned Churri in a tight half-circle, then rode him out of the grove. He had snatched at grass as she mounted and now had a large clump, roots still intact and clogged with wet soil, hanging off one side of his bit. Bethid shook her head. “Whatever dignity you may have had is now lost. You just look silly.”
Churri was aware of the clump as well. He twisted his lips into a grasping sideways motion and yanked the grass out of his bit rings. A violent shake of the head rid the clump of mud, and then he ate it.
“Awww,” Bethid drawled affectionately. “I thought you might save that for a midday meal.” She set him to a long-trot, transferring weight from the saddle through bent, flexing knees and muscled thighs, and cut across the center of the settlement between the bonfire circle and Mikal’s tent, where men gathered. Jorda nodded at her as she rode by. She heard something about storing food at Mikal’s but was out of range before she could hear any questions or Jorda’s answers.
AWAY BY HIMSELF in the old but still surviving grove, Brodhi stopped. A look at his hands confirmed trembling. He felt ill, wishing to vomit. A chill coursed through his body. Finally, he allowed his legs to bend, to deposit him onto his knees. After a suspended moment, he settled back onto his heels.
Karadath intended to make another dioscuri? Karadath? Alario, yes, because Rhuan was not suitable. But he? He who had killed all other challengers for the favored position? He was more than suitable!
He heard the sound of leaves rustling overhead. Just as he glanced up, a Hecari warrior, painted and armed, came down through the branches. He landed in front of Brodhi, war club at the ready.
Brodhi sighed. “Ferize.”
The warrior asked, in Ferize’s light voice, “Will I pass?”
“Not to me.”
“I know not to you.” She scowled as the warrior guise simultaneously melted away and was replaced by a human form. Today her fine-loomed belted tunic and skirts were a deep purplish red, the color of mulberries. Hair was black, eyes as well. Brodhi had yet to see a guise that did not attract him. Or perhaps it was what lay beneath the clothing. Or maybe nothing more than the tease of sweet musk in her scent. “The question is, will I pass in the warlord’s dwelling?” Then she waved the question away. She knelt facing him, knees to knees. She took his hands into hers. She was in human form, but in the back of her eyes he could see the demon, see the depths of a fierce, dangerous loyalty. See the ferocity usually kept restrained.
Ferize locked eyes with his. “You will kill him.”
Brodhi shook his head slightly. “You know I can’t. I’m not ready. I know it.”
“Not your sire,” she said with careful clarity. “The one who would supplant you. Kill him in the creche.”
It painted a picture before his eyes. But he shook his head again. “He must be old enough for a true challenge. And for all that, he may be a she.” Brodhi brightened as relief sparked in his belly. “A daughter. Diascara she might be, but she could not withstand me.”
“Think,” Ferize commanded. “Think, Brodhi. Only rarely does a female challenge a male. One another, yes . . . but almost never males. She would be no impediment to you. You will be back in Alisanos well before she is old enough to challenge anyone.”
“But I would have to challenge Karadath.”
“Of course! And if you win, the world is yours.” Ferize shrugged. “If the offspring should be male and named Karadath’s dioscuri, well, nothing changes. He would challenge you when he was old enough.”
Brodhi’s mouth hooked sideways. “And if he won?”
Ferize pronounced a vulgarity. Her hands pressed more tightly on his. “Impossible. It is, and would be. Impossible.”
The concerns were serious, but he could not hide a smile. “You are dangerous in you
r dedication.”
She squeezed his hands one last time, released them. “You are the best of all. I chose you.”
That stopped the breath in his chest. “You . . . chose—?” It was unthinkable.
“Of course.” She leaned forward and set a palm on either side of his face. Her eyes sparked. “Did you think we had no say in the matter?”
“Yes,” he admitted flatly. “No say in the matter at all. I believed you were assigned.”
“If I chose badly,” she said, “and the primaries could not countenance it, then yes, I would be denied the dioscuri I preferred. But I chose well. And it was done.” Her smile displayed fangs. “You allowed me to unbraid your hair and then to rebraid it. Even the primaries know when a bond should be left as it is.”
Brodhi had never asked of Ferize how she had been made. One day, she just was. And she was beautiful in a way no human could understand. She wore the form at need, but never did he see a human in her place. Only a seeming. Behind the eyes, behind the smiles, behind the desire, much more lived in her. He had always simply accepted what she was. She was, in a way, a part of him.
“Now,” she said, “Darmuth and I shall meet in Cardatha, and we will see what we will see of the Hecari, he and I.” She leaned forward, planted a kiss on his brow. “Go to bed, Brodhi.”
He smiled. “With you?”
“I think not. I think it best that you sleep with no one in your bed, even if that bed is under a tree.” She smiled at him with a world in her eyes. “Good night, Brodhi.”
“Ferize!”
But she was gone. He could not even sense her.
Karadath intended to sire another dioscuri. Tamped fury replaced desire for Ferize’s company.
Male or female, he would kill it.
THE MEN AT Mikal’s tent had dispersed, intent on relaying instructions to women and children regarding the Summoner tattoos, food disposition, and other things. Jorda and Davyn, too, were gone, joining those who would accompany them on the journey. It left Mikal alone in front of his tent with metal bars in his hands. He turned and ducked back in, put Jorda’s Summoner in a convenient place, and strode to his bar. His morning tasks were always to wipe down the bar planks and the tables, check inventory—Jorda would return with sloshing kegs from Cardatha as well as supplies—wash cups and tankards, check the oil level and wicks in each candle cup or lantern, and make up new platters of bread and cheese.
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