The dark-haired woman, Kitri, drawled, “Except for the wives.”
Rhuan grinned. “That is true. As far as I am concerned, you are most welcome.”
Naiya touched the other Sister’s elbow briefly. “Shall we begin? Rather than force anything, we will hunt rocks in a different direction.”
Kitri displayed two buckets, handing one to Naiya.
On the brink of departing, Naiya looked Rhuan up and down appraisingly. “You’re with the hand-reader.”
He grinned. “I am.”
She met his grin—and dimples—with a seductive smile. “Pity.”
As they walked away, all Rhuan could do was laugh.
Chapter 25
IT WAS THE vision Karadath had given her. Scales instead of flesh, claws instead of nails, fangs instead of teeth. The pupils of her eyes were slitted, not round. Most of her hair was missing; what remained were thin, tangled strands, not enough to cover the gray-mottled skin over her skull. Even her nose had altered, forming serpent-like nostrils. From her mouth ran saliva but also blood.
She had eaten. She had eaten well.
Of Meggie.
Audrun opened her mouth to cry out but could not. The sickness was upon her again. This time hands helped her, hands grasped her shoulders and lifted her from the mattress, eased her onto her side, and held her head as she vomited into a bucket.
But nothing came up. She was empty.
Again she heaved, leaning over the side of the cot. Again, nothing. Her body simply didn’t realize there was nothing left to be rid of.
She had eaten. Eaten well.
This time Audrun was not trapped in silence by Karadath. This time she was able to emit a strangled wail, but of no coherency; it was not communication in words, only of sound, of desperation. Eyes open or closed, she saw the vision Karadath had conjured.
A shudder ran through her body. Mother, blessed Mother, make this vision stop. She forced her mouth to form a word. “Meggie—”
“Safe. Safe. Whole. In your Mother’s name, I swear it.”
It was a voice she did not know. The hands, she did not know.
“Meggie—”
“Safe. I promise you. Whole.”
It was difficult even to keep her eyes open, though it wasn’t sleep she wished for. She had never felt so weak in her life. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst.
“Here,” he said. She heard the sound of a cloth being squeezed of water. Still bending over the edge, she allowed him to clean her mouth before aiding her back onto the cot.
“You have been ill for some days. But you will mend.”
“Who—?” She peered up at him. But focusing hurt. “Oh. You.” She closed her eyes. It was easier. “Where are my children?”
“Safe. Well. Unharmed.”
“But where?” She enunciated as clearly as was possible, opening her eyes again.
Omri smiled. “Wait.” He rose, left her.
Audrun tried to blink away grittiness. Her eyes ached from the pressure of vomiting. Abdominal muscles already sore from childbirth were even more painful now. Everything ached. Everything complained.
Another petition. Blessed Mother— But she got no farther. Omri was back. Meggie was in his arms. The others came in behind him.
“You see—” Omri began, but a piercing shriek cut him off.
Audrun’s throat was so tight it hurt. “Meggie, please—”
Meggie screamed. Meggie tried in all ways to climb out of Omri’s arms. When she could not do so, she turned her head away and pressed it into his shoulder, her mewling sounds muted. From beneath tattered tunic and skirt, urine ran down her legs.
Torvic shouted, “She wants you to stop! She wants away from here! She wants to be somewhere Mam isn’t, because . . . because she knows Mam will eat her!”
“No,” Audrun cried, horrified. She braced an elbow and levered herself up. “No, Meggie, I promise. I will not. I promise you. I will not! Blessed Mother, child, I bore you in my own womb! I wouldn’t harm you—”
But Meggie screamed again. Again. Again. Omri, this time, set her down. She ran stumbling from the chamber with Torvic behind her, urgently calling her name.
Omri leaned over Audrun, resettled the coverlet. “I will care for her. I will see her clean, calm. She will be unharmed.”
Audrun had no strength to protest.
As he exited, she pressed hands across her mouth and cheeks so Gillan and Ellica would not see how badly she wanted to cry out, how her mouth opened to do so. Thoughts circled, chasing down other thoughts. But of none could she make sense. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t. She rejected it utterly. Not real not real not real. No, none of it was real. Omri was not real. Karadath was not real. Alisanos was not real.
But it was. All of it.
A wave of helplessness washed through her. Oh Mother . . . oh, Mother, please . . . make this no more than a bad dream.
She wished it very strongly, did Audrun, yet knew no such dream existed. It was real, all of it. Alisanos. Omri. Karadath.
The latter who, with a single conjured vision, had nearly destroyed her daughter. Meggie was so frightened of her mother, so utterly terrified, that she could not hold her urine.
Audrun looked at her two remaining children, her eldest. Her most sensible. Overwhelmed, she reached a hand out to Gillan and Ellica. She needed to touch them, to feel their very human warmth, the flesh and bone that she and Davyn had made.
Ellica said, “I must go to my tree.”
“Ellica—” It was part astonishment, part command. All Audrun could summon of strength, she put into that tone.
Ellica looked at her. “I have to.”
“Ellica, please—”
But no. Ellica was gone. Now only Gillan was left.
He came forward and knelt close beside the cot. She saw the worry, the weariness in his eyes. She reached out a trembling hand and touched his hair. Felt the texture, the tangles, the stiffness of dirt and sap.
She swallowed hard. “Don’t leave me.” I can’t do this—can’t do this by myself.
“No,” Gillan said. “I won’t.”
That brought fresh tears from aching, stinging eyes. “It’s just a vision,” she said unevenly. “A false vision. Not the truth. Not real. I would never, never, harm Meggie—”
“Mam, I know. I know, Mam.”
“Never, Gillan!”
“Mam, I know.”
Everything within her cried out, “But Meggie doesn’t know! She sees it, too! And she believes it!”
He nodded. “She will know. She will, Mam. I make that my task. Here, let me sit.” Gillan turned and set his back against the cot, arranging his body carefully, as if he hurt. And she remembered that he did.
Fear. So much fear. By itself, the fear in her was overwhelming, but not for herself. For her children, yes.
So much wished of the Mother. Audrun, mute, again begged for aid. For peace.
But she didn’t know if any such thing as peace existed in Alisanos. Nor whether the Mother of Moons existed in Alisanos, to hear her.
DAVYN SQUINTED AGAINST the sun as he walked. Too bright. Too bright for his head. He wanted to go somewhere and sit quietly in the shade, but instead he was walking across the settlement. Ahead he saw two outfitted supply wagons. Both four-horse teams were hitched and waiting in place, attached to the earth by no more than a rope and modest weight.
The woman courier was already there, bent low in her saddle to stretch out along the horse’s neck as if in conversation. Even as Davyn headed for the wagons, two of her fellow couriers rode past him to join her. Neither man appeared to be feeling particularly good, or any better than Davyn, come to that. He had a hazy memory of the two men spending a great deal of time in Mikal’s tent, drinking a
great deal of spirits as they entertained two of the Sisters.
As the men reined in at the wagons, the woman’s smile grew to a grin. She waggled a minatory forefinger at them, clicking her tongue as she did it. “You know better. You know you know better. You know you know better every time you do this.”
One of the men squinted at her. “Bethid, don’t expect me to parse that. Not this morning.”
“Because you know it’s true,” the woman said smugly. She glanced at Davyn as if seeking agreement. But the smile died out of her eyes as she stared at him. “You, too? Did none of you remember last night that we’re due to leave for Cardatha this morning?”
“I’m not sure,” Davyn began, “exactly when I forgot.”
Bethid shook her head. “You know Jorda will not coddle you.” Looking at Davyn, she tilted her head in the direction of the two male couriers. “They at least know that. But you—”
Davyn raised his voice. “I won’t shirk my responsibility.”
“Hah,” the woman said briefly, then looked beyond him. “Here’s Darmuth. And Jorda.” She glanced around. “Where’s Brodhi?” Then she waved a hand as if to dismiss her question. “Never mind. He’ll arrive when he feels like it.” She smoothed a hand down the neck of her horse. “Of course he had a woman last night, so who knows when he might trouble himself to join us?”
The other couriers were astonished. “Brodhi—” one began.
“—has a woman?” the other finished, the final word sliding up his register.
Darmuth arrived on his horse. Davyn noted again the shaven skull, the length of silver braid doubled under into a club of hair and wrapped with crimson-dyed leather strapping. Davyn, who had seen him during the karavan’s ill-fated departure, had forgotten the guide’s eyes: pale as ice, with something lurking just behind the surface.
Demon. Davyn knew that now. He knew also that Darmuth was very much aware that he, Davyn, knew. The guide grinned, displaying perfectly normal human canines. The emerald set in one tooth glinted in the morning sun.
Jorda briefly assessed each individual. Then climbed up into the lead wagon, retrieved something, jumped down. He tossed the something to Bethid, who caught it. A leather-wrapped tin flask.
“Not me,” she said. “My fellow couriers, yes—and the farmsteader. Alorn, catch.” She tossed the flask a short distance to the courier.
Alorn uncorked the flask, drank, handed it to the other male courier. “Timmon?”
Timmon drank. Then he tossed the flask to Davyn, who caught it akwardly. “What is it?”
“A stirrup cup,” Bethid answered. “Tradition.”
“Tradition if you drink too much the night before,” Jorda growled. “Drink it, farmsteader. They say it helps.”
Davyn blinked, brows rising. “You don’t know?”
The karavan-master unhooked the rope and weight from the front wheel-horse’s bridle. “I,” he said, winding the rope, “have never needed a stirrup cup.”
That surprised Davyn. “You don’t drink?”
“Oh, I drink.” Jorda put the coiled rope and weight into the lead wagon. “But not to excess and certainly not the night before I’m to drive a wagon over terrain that has never, to my knowledge, seen a wagon wheel.” He gestured. “I’m lead wagon. Drink your share, put away your weight, and climb aboard. We’re wasting daylight.”
Davyn observed the flask a moment. Spirits. After he’d sworn to himself he would not imbibe again. But a glance at Jorda showed him a man not much used to people delaying the execution of his orders. Davyn raised the flask to his mouth and tipped it, swallowing a goodly gulp.
Jorda grunted satisfaction and gestured for Davyn to toss him the stoppered flask. He climbed up onto the high bench seat, tucked the flask away, unwrapped the reins from their hook. Ruddy brows ran up. “Daylight?”
“Sorry,” Davyn muttered. He gathered up rope and weight, put them away, then climbed aboard. “What about Brodhi?”
“He’s there,” Bethid said, gesturing with a thumb. “Waiting for us.”
So he was. Out in front of the party at some distance.
“Oh,” Davyn said. “I drank off the last of the spirits.”
“Don’t worry about him,” Bethid drawled. “The last thing he needs is spirits.”
Jorda set his team into motion with reins and voice. The lead wagon creaked as its wheels slowly began to revolve. Davyn hastily unwrapped his reins, sorted them out, and urged the team to fall in behind Jorda’s wagon.
It was true. The stirrup cup had indeed settled his headache to some extent. He found it amazing.
His belly, however, was unimpressed.
Chapter 26
ILONA FELT SWEAT break out on her body as she found memory in a callused hand. The fabric beneath her arms was soaked. Droplets rolled down her temples, into her eyes. For a moment she was pulled toward the present, but a centering phrase sent her flying again, literally flying, as the draka lifted her in the girl’s place and flew away from the sun.
Tight pressure against her body, enough to steal her breath; the clamp of claws around her torso, cutting flesh. Blood spilled, poured from body into sky. She opened her mouth but could not scream.
A low hill. A tumbled outcropping of stone piled one upon another. The draka flew closer, then backed air with huge wings shining red-gold in the sun. As it prepared to settle, Ilona knew she had no more time. She printed the outcropping in her mind, burned it there, and just as the claws around her torso began to loosen she reached for reality: her wagon with high, yellow wheels and new steps Rhuan had fashioned; the tea kettle sitting next to the fire ring; the elder grove, leafy canopies raised high against the sky. She wrenched herself out of the draka’s claws and fell.
Ilona jerked her hands away, releasing Herta’s. She trembled violently, wiping her palms against her skirt repeatedly, used a sleeve to blot her face. She heard her own breathing coming in gasps, in gulps. Vision returned before hearing did. She saw the woman’s pallor, the size of staring eyes, the mouth as it moved. Then hearing was regained, and she heard Herta asking again and again if she were all right.
No. She was not.
Ilona drew in a breath. “I have the place. I saw it.” She pushed upward to her feet, stumbled three steps to wagon. She clung to one big wheel, clamping hands around the rim. “I’m sorry—you must go. I saw the place. Your daughter will be brought back for rites. But now . . . now you must go.” Without the wheel as stability, Ilona knew she would collapse. “Please.”
The woman rose, moved close. “Can I help you? Is there anything I might do?”
“I need . . . I need to be alone . . .” She knew it might sound rude even as she said it. But very few words were left in her mind. “I need to rest. Please, just go.”
And so the woman did. Alone, Ilona hung onto the wheel and made herself move, hand over hand, step by step, to the back of the wagon. She nearly fell over the steps, but caught herself. Still trembling, she managed to turn, to sit, to plant feet and brace her legs, elbows on thighs. Ilona leaned forward and lifted her hands so she might rest her head in them. Her belly cramped. She gulped air then exhaled very hard through pursed lips. As saliva filled her mouth, she swallowed it back down.
I will not be sick . . . will not.
She pressed both hands against her mouth, sealing it. She could not stop herself from the slight rocking of her body. A childish thing, that. But she could not help it.
What she had seen . . . oh, what she had seen. A moment only, inside the draka’s mind.
Maelstrom. Just as she had seen in Rhuan’s hand, once. But worse. Far worse.
Nausea slowly receded without the results Ilona feared. Some small amount of strength seeped back into her body as she sat upon the wagon steps. She had best move now, she knew. She stood, turned, managed the last two st
eps into the wagon. Mattress and blankets remained on the floor, reminders of the intimacy she and Rhuan had shared. But this time she didn’t smile in recollection. This time she knelt briefly, then followed the wishes of her body and rocked forward, letting outstretched arms take her weight. Then elbows. And finally she lay face down upon mattress and blankets, head turned so she might breathe.
Still, Ilona shivered. She wished herself warm but nothing came of it; that was not her gift. A searching hand found a loose blanket and pulled it over her body. She turned onto her side, drew bent legs close, tucked her jutting shoulder under the blanket. A hand pressed briefly against her brow found skin cold to the touch, abnormally cold. She dragged more blankets over herself and tucked her head down beneath a corner.
Memory swooped in, ignoring her mental effort to banish it. She lost herself again, saw the earth far beneath her feet, felt the bite of claws into flesh.
Maelstrom. Just as she had seen in Rhuan’s hand, once. But worse. Far worse.
Then Ilona realized memory was repeating itself. Memories of flying, of draka. Of the outcropping upon a hill. Of a woman’s hand, burned. And of the other hand, scored from finger to the heel. And of what she saw, so briefly, in Rhuan’s hand, the night they met.
Of Herta. Of Herta’s daughter, stolen by the draka.
For a suspended moment of time, Ilona had been that daughter.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Mother, please.”
The Mother did not please.
RHUAN PLANTED THE last branch marker for cairns and straightened, rolling tight shoulders, stretching his neck. He pressed thumbs into his spine, twisted his torso in two directions, all of which resulted in the desired and satisfying pops. He winced nonetheless; sore spots left by the beating had stiffened. Possibly by tonight he might feel considerably better, but for the moment he ached the way any human would. And leaning over each time he planted a tree limb made his head feel heavy, about to burst. Which did his broken nose no good.
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