The Wild Road

by Jennifer Roberson

  “No one in the settlement will understand what it means. They aren’t your people.”

  He stretched out the lock of hair, banishing the curl from it. Released, it sprang back into a ringlet. “This will be a task,” he murmured. “And no, the others will not understand what this means, but we do.” He stopped, looked into her eyes. “I’ve been selfish, haven’t I? Would you wish a human rite, to say the same to your people?”

  “Oh,” she said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Would you wish it?” He was even more serious now. “It would be fair, if you did. And I would do as you asked.” He paused. “What do humans do?”

  Ilona laughed. “Worried, are you?” She shook her head. “Not so much, Rhuan. We stand up before the people, invoke the Mother, exchange vows, and it’s done.”

  He considered that. “Too easy.”

  “And then we walk away on our own, leaving all behind, and beneath the moon we cut one another’s wrists and spill our blood onto the soil.” He looked so startled that she laughed. “No, we do no such thing. That last bit, I mean. We do walk out under the light of the Mother after public vows, when darkness falls, and make private vows to one another.”

  He nodded. “But I would do the other, if you wished it. Except my blood would burn the grass.”

  “Somewhat destructive,” she observed. “Not precisely what the Mother would expect.”

  “Well, no.” His hands returned to braiding. “Probably not. Such a bond should be based on something growing, not dying.”

  She wanted to laugh at him. So very serious! But she muted her amusement as he once again concentrated on her hair, which was not terribly cooperative about being transformed from wild ringlets into an orderly braid.

  And then she stopped smiling. She looked into his face. She again noted the clean lines and hollows of angled cheekbones, the fit of his nose, the shape of his mouth, the smooth warmth of his skin. He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful to her. But not as a woman was.

  It was a straightforward question she asked, not a coy introduction to conversational foreplay. “Do you remember when we met?”

  “Of course I do. I died.”

  A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. “Well, yes, so you did. But that isn’t what I meant.” Amusement faded. “I was mourning Tansit.”

  “And you found me quite rude and arrogant, but also charming.”

  “You were rude and arrogant. I did not find you charming. I found you insufferably proud of yourself—a man accustomed to women falling at his feet.”

  “No woman fell at my feet. Ever.” He paused. “Well, except for that once. But she tripped.”

  “Looking at you, she tripped. Yes.” But the irony faded. “You believed you could charm me into recommending you to Jorda, as he had lost one of his guides.”

  His eyes flicked to hers. “I was perhaps too forward in that. Then.”

  “Yes. Then.”

  Then: Tansit, Jorda’s guide and her lover, had been dead for all of three days. Charm meant nothing when a woman grieved. She was in no way prepared for, nor desirous of, a man with Rhuan’s undeniable appeal.

  Neither was she prepared to see him rise from the dead.

  “Don’t stare,” he said.

  “I’m not staring.”

  “Yes, you are. It’s very difficult to concentrate on your hair with you staring at me.”

  “I’m not staring. I’m looking. What else am I supposed to do with you right in front of me—roll my eyes back into my head?”

  He winced. “Please don’t.”

  “Then this.” She closed her eyes.

  “That will do.”

  And so it did; very much, it did. She had not expected it. But with her eyes closed she could give herself over to tactile sensation, a quiet exhilaration of the body. The touch of his hands upon her hair, separating narrow locks; the sliding of beads onto it; then the braiding of all, together. Already she could feel the weight of ornamentation, and she found it pleasing. More pleasing yet was the seduction of his fingers, the languid pressure against her scalp as he braided. For a moment she opened her eyes, wondering if he felt the same, but he was intent upon his handiwork. She closed her eyes again and gave herself over to memories.

  AS THE TERRIBLE wind died, as the clouds broke apart, the sun resumed its strength. Bethid, bereft of speech, throat tight, rode next to the farmsteader on the wagon bench. Eyes stretched wide, she stared hard, almost fixated, at the rumps of the wagon team in front of her. By the sun, approximately three hours had passed since the draka’s attack.

  Three of the courier horses had been found, as expected, judged sound, and mounted by Timmon, Alorn, and Brodhi. Until she reached the Guildhall, she could only ride in a wagon.

  Churri had not been hers. She had never owned him. All horses belonged to the Guild. In time couriers settled on one or two horses, and occasionally three, that they found pleasing. Although she had done so, the other mounts she rode had never pleased her as much as Churri. Since she had no intention of ever leaving the Guild, she understood that she would very likely outlast Churri’s lifespan. Certainly she rode other horses—distances were too great for only one mount—but Churri was the one who held her heart.

  It was strongly advised against, such bonds. Best, as a courier, to attach no importance to one horse over another. But she couldn’t help it. The men, who seemed somewhat amused by her affection for Churri—one had even said it was expected of a woman—nonetheless stopped requisitioning him. Eventually, no one else used him. Only Bethid.

  Only Bethid, who now was horseless altogether.

  She rubbed at cropped hair, which had dried into spikes. Brass ear hoops swung against her neck. She wished, very strongly wished, not to be sitting on a wagon seat. She should be free beneath the sun, riding horseback across miles of grasslands, along wheel-cut roads. And that would come again, of course; she would use one of the other horses on her journeys. But he wouldn’t be Churri.

  “I’m sorry,” the farmsteader said.

  She stared straight ahead, preferring to neither answer nor embark upon any kind of conversation about the loss of her horse. She allowed purposeful rudeness to shape her tone into an aggressive flatness that would cut off further comments. “Why should you be?”

  He did not react to the rudeness. “Because it was a terrible thing, what happened.”

  After a moment she swallowed back the tightness in her throat and hitched one shoulder in a casual shrug. “You had nothing to do with it. Why should you apologize?”

  “Because one may feel badly for another. Because one may wish to express regrets.”

  Again she altered the tone of her voice. Now she used Brodhi’s inflections. “He was just a horse. There are others at the Guildhall.”

  “I have four children,” he said, “and not a one of them hasn’t cried over the death of something beloved. My youngest, only weeks ago, cried over an old hen who crossed the river. One might say ‘it was only a chicken,’ but that devalues what my daughter felt.”

  Bethid looked at him sidelong a moment, trying to read his face. “You’re suggesting I cry?”

  “Oh, no, I would not make that suggestion. It isn’t necessary. I know you will cry, when you’re ready. But for now you are a woman among men, a woman who works only with men, and you would want none of them to see you cry, lest they believe you weak. Lest they use it against you in poor jokes.”

  Bethid heaved a sigh, surrendering her crumbling emotional wall to actual conversation. “They will anyway. Some of them.”

  “Are they men you care for?”

  She frowned. “No.”

  “Then does it matter what they think of you? What they joke about? Have you not proven your mettle to men you respect?”

  Sh
e looked at him thoughtfully, chewing her bottom lip. They rode too near one another on the bench for face to face conversation to be comfortable, but she did now wish to see his expression. What she found was calmness, and compassion.

  So his daughter had cried over an old, dead hen.

  “What did you do?” she asked. “With the hen?”

  He smiled briefly. “We held rites for it.”

  “And you believe I should do the same for my horse?”

  He glanced at her. “You will do whatever it is you wish to do. Again, I make no suggestion.”

  “Then why are you telling me these things?”

  “My wife cried when the cat died.”

  Frustration rose high and hard. “Why are you telling me these things? Are you saying only women cry because an animal has died?”

  “When I was small,” he continued, “a squirrel used to take acorns from my hand. Then one day our dog caught him. And I cried.”

  For the third time, now, in something akin to desperation, she asked, “Why are you telling me these things?”

  “Grief,” he said. “Happiness is from the Mother, and so is grief. There is room for it in the world.” He worked the reins, made a clicking sound in his mouth to urge a bit more speed out of the team. “I have four children, as I said. They learned never to be ashamed of their grief.”

  “And you think I would be ashamed of my grief?”

  He smiled slightly. “As I said, you are a woman among men, a woman who works only with men.”

  “I don’t think any of them would cry over a squirrel.”

  He glanced at her briefly. “Or a hen?”

  It nearly made her smile. “Well, no, probably not.”

  “But a horse, yes.” He nodded. “Some would.”

  She shook her head. “How would you know? You’re not a courier.”

  The farmsteader shrugged. “I’m a father.”

  Bethid stared at him for a long moment. She turned her face toward the muscled rumps of the wagon team. Eyes prickled.

  She remained a courier. She would always be a courier. Nothing else in her life had she wanted, nor wanted now. The Guildhall was home.

  With Churri, or without, the Guildhall was her home.

  She allowed her eyes to fill. She allowed the tears to fall.

  Chapter 31

  AS RHUAN BRAIDED her hair, Ilona gave herself to memory.

  She had seen, in her life, many deaths. It rode the hands of all humans, though few could read it, and fewer still could interpret the conflicting information. But this was Tansit’s death. Never had she read the hand of someone she cared for as she had cared for him, only to see his death. Now she lived it.

  Ilona had never not been able to see, to read, to interpret; when her family had come to comprehend that such a gift would rule her life and, thus, their own, they had turned her out. She had been all of twelve summers, shocked by their actions because she had not seen it in her own hand; had she read theirs, she might have understood earlier what lay in store. She was not, after all, their daughter. Not of the blood. They had taken her in. Now they turned her out.

  In the fifteen years since they had done so, Ilona had learned to trust no one but herself, though she understood that some people, such as Jorda, were less likely to send a diviner on her way if she could serve their interests. All karavans required diviners if they were to be truly successful. Clients undertaking journeys went nowhere without consulting any number of diviners of all persuasions, and a karavan offering readings along the way, rather than depending on itinerant diviners drifting from settlement to settlement, stood to attract more custom. Jorda was no fool; he hired Branca and Melior, and in time he hired her.

  That night, it had been cool. Ilona had tightened her shawl and ducked her head against the errant breeze teasing at her face. Mikal’s ale-tent stood nearly in the center of the cluster of tents that spread like vermin across the plain near the river. A year before there had been half as many; next year, she did not doubt, the population would increase yet again. Sancorra province was in utter disarray, thanks to the depredations of the Hecari. Few would wish to stay who had the means to depart. The increased population would provide Jorda, as well as his hired diviners, with work. But she wished war were not the reason.

  Mikal’s ale-tent was one of many, but he had arrived early, when the settlement had first sprung up, a place near sweet water and good grazing and not far from the border of the neighboring province. It was a good place for karavans to halt overnight, and within weeks it had become more than merely that. Now merchants put up tents, set down roots, and served a populace that shifted shape nightly, trading familiar faces for those of strangers. Mikal’s face was one of the most familiar, and his tent a welcome distraction from the duties of the road.

  Ilona took the path she knew best through the winding skeins of tracks and paused only briefly in the spill of light from the tied-back doorflap of Mikal’s tent. She smelled the familiar odors of ale and wine, the tang of urine from men who sought relief rather too close to the tent, the thick fug of male bodies far more interested in liquor than wash water. Only rarely did women frequent Mikal’s: the female courier, who was toughened by experience on the province roads and thus able to deal with anything; the Sisters of the Road, taking coin for the bedding; and such women as herself—unavailable for hire, but seeking the solace of liquor-laced camaraderie. Ilona had learned early on to appreciate ale and wine, and the value of the company of others no more rooted than she was.

  Tansit had always spent his coin at Mikal’s. Tonight, she would spend hers in Tansit’s name.

  Ilona entered, pushing the shawl back from her head and shoulders. As always, conversation paused as her presence was noted, then Mikal called out a cheery welcome as did two or three others who knew her. It was enough to warn off any man who might wish to proposition her, establishing her right to remain unmolested. This night, she appreciated it more than usual.

  She sought and found a small table near a back corner and sat, arranging skirts deftly as she settled upon a stool. Within a matter of moments Mikal arrived, bearing a guttering candle in a pierced-tin lantern. He set it down upon the table, then waited.

  Ilona drew in a breath. “Ale,” she said, relieved when her voice didn’t waver. “Two tankards, if it please you. Your best.”

  “Tansit?” he asked in his deep, slow voice.

  It was not a question regarding a man’s death but his anticipated arrival. Ilona discovered she could not, as yet, speak of the former and thus relied upon the latter. She nodded confirmation, meeting his dark blue eye without hesitation. Mikal nodded also, then took his bulk away to tend the order.

  She found herself plaiting the fringes of her shawl, over and over again. Irritated, she forcibly stopped herself. When Mikal brought the tankards and set them out, she lifted her own in both hands, downed several generous swallows, then carefully fingered away the foam left to linger upon her upper lip.

  Two tankards upon the table. One: her own. The other was Tansit’s. When done with her ale, she would leave coin enough for two tankards, but one would remain untouched. And then the truth would be known. The tale spread. But she would be required to say nothing, to no one.

  Ah, but he had been a good man. She had not wished to wed him, though he had asked. She had not expected to bury him, either.

  At dawn, she would attend the rites. Would speak of his life, and of his death.

  Tansit had never been one known for his attention to time. But he was not a man given to passing up ale when it was waiting.

  Ilona drank down her tankard slowly and deliberately, avoiding the glances, the stares, and knew well enough when whispers began of Tansit’s tardiness in joining her.

  There were two explanations: they had quarreled, or one of them was dead. But their q
uarrels never accompanied them into an ale-tent.

  She drank her ale while Tansit’s tankard remained untouched. Those who were not strangers understood. At other tables, in the sudden, sharp silence of comprehension, fresh tankards were ordered and were left untouched. Tribute to the man so many of them had known.

  Tansit would have appreciated how many tankards were ordered, though he also would have claimed it a waste of good ale.

  Ilona smiled, imagining his words. Seeing his expression.

  She swallowed the last of her ale and rose, thinking ahead to the bed in her wagon. But then a body blocked her way, altering the fall of smoky light, and she looked into the face of a stranger.

  In the ochre-tinged illumination of Mikal’s lantern, his face was ruddy-gold. “I’m told the guide is dead.”

  A stranger indeed, to speak so plainly to the woman who had shared the dead man’s bed.

  He seemed to realize it. To regret it. A grimace briefly twisted his mouth. “Forgive me. But I am badly in need of work.”

  Ilona gathered the folds of her shawl even as she gathered patience. “The season is ended. And I am not the one to whom you should apply. Jorda is the karavan-master.”

  “I’m told he is the best.”

  “Jorda is—Jorda.” She settled the shawl over the crown of her head, shrouding untamed ringlets. “Excuse me.”

  He turned only slightly, giving way. “Will you speak to him for me?”

  Ilona paused then swung back. “Why? I know nothing of you.”

  His smile was charming, his gesture self-deprecating. “Of course. But I could acquaint you.”

  A foreigner, she saw. Not Sancorran, but neither was he Hecari. In candlelight his hair was a dark, oiled copper, bound back in a multiplicity of braids. She saw the glint of beads in those braids, gold and glass and silver, and heard the faint chime and clatter of ornamentation. He wore leather tunic and breeches, and from the outer seams of sleeves and leggings dangled shell- and bead-weighted fringe. Indeed, a stranger, to wear what others, in time of war, might construe as wealth.