Davyn was struck dumb. Even in dreams he could not have imagined such a structure. Huge, round, and hides of all sizes and shapes stitched together with leather thongs dyed red. It sat atop a low wooden platform on risers, and crimson banners flew from iron crooks, taller than a man, at each platform corner. A massive red banner hung from the flat-topped, conical roof. But it was the huge doorway that caught his attention after the first startled impression. The wooden doorjamb was sheathed in intricate, deep-carved, intertwined designs. And everywhere was the gleam of gold.
Warlord. So close. Just inside. The man who had sent death and chaos into Sancorra, riding with armies of brutal warriors who overwhelmed the province. Rivers of men wielding warclubs, blowpipes, poisoned darts; who built cairns of stripped Sancorran skulls. Thousands had died, women and children as well as those who attempted to defend the province. One man, just one man’s appetite for power had caused all.
Davyn noted the warrior-guards ringing the gher and posted at platform corners. Oiled skulls were naked save for scalplocks gleaming slick in the sun. Golden ear-spools stretched their lobes. Eyebrows were shaved. The lower halves of their faces were stained a rich indigo.
“Don’t stare,” Jorda told him sharply. “Never stare at a Hecari. It’s viewed as a challenge.”
Davyn choked out a blurted sound of disbelief. “What challenge am I? I’m a man who gathered his family and fled.”
“A wise man,” Jorda refuted, “against a race such as this. Now look aside, and we’ll go on. You can catch glimpses later, when we’ve got what we came for.”
As instructed, Davyn looked aside. But as he walked once more with Jorda, he shot quick, sidelong glances at the massive gher. How could a man not stare at it? It was wholly foreign. Wholly alien. It was, in its own way, more powerful a statement of domination than the piles of skulls scattered across the province.
Davyn raised his voice to the karavan-master, his tone plainly bitter: “Do you know, if I were brought before him, I would ask a question. I would ask him: ‘Why?’”
Jorda grunted. “Because he can.”
Davyn thought about that a moment. It struck him as no answer at all. Why would a man conquer provinces just because he could?
He petitioned the Mother. Help me to understand.
To understand why one man’s orders had stripped from Davyn everything he valued: farmstead and family.
One man’s whimsy?
AS GUILDMASTER, AS man, he had always intimidated Bethid. She supposed he intended that, but not necessarily because she was a woman—and the only woman in the guild, at that. She knew other young couriers, male couriers, were as intimidated, though they need not worry that he judged them the same as he did her. Because she was a woman. And it mattered to the Guildmaster.
She stood now in the chamber built of hewn stone, tall iron candle racks in each corner, shedding pale, ochre-tinted illumination. All four walls were tapestry-hung to cut the chill of winter when the stone grew cold. Wooden shelving contained scrolls in cases, end caps carefully marked with a symbol that identified each. On wider shelves, unrolled scrolls were carefully stacked in precise piles.
The Guildmaster was working in a logbook as she entered the chamber and assumed her place before the wide wooden table. Eventually he looked up at her. He waited.
Telling this man about the loss of Churri was the hardest thing Bethid had ever done. Not because her wages would be docked, but because the horse had meant so much to her. Along the way, sharing the wagon seat with the farmsteader, she had forced herself to think about how she might discover from fellow couriers if they would support her idea to draw Sancorrans from Cardatha and gather them at the settlement; about how to broach the topic. And then, about how they might go about implementing the plan.
Again, she thought about Churri. And in the presence of a man who would not understand.
Explanation finished, Bethid resolutely fixed her eyes on the huge map pinned to the tapestry behind the Guildmaster. As always, she marveled at the rich colors inked onto the vellum, the accuracy of detail marking where courier routes, rivers, cities, villages, hamlets, and various destinations lay. She noted, with a twitch of surprise, that the tent settlement and the surrounding deepwood had been drawn onto the map since she had last been in the chamber. Ah. Brodhi, of course.
The Guildmaster sat back in his chair, idly tapping quill against his chin. “A draka,” he said.
Bethid met his gray eyes and nodded. “Yes, sir. It would have had me as well, but Brodhi pulled me to safety in time.”
His face was tanned and weathered from years of riding under the sun. He wore his usual black with the heavy silver Guildmaster’s brooch fastened at his left shoulder. Short-cropped hair was graying. The ice in his eyes did not promise an easy interview. But then, he had opposed admitting her to the guild. He had been newly appointed, and it was his predecessor who had permitted Bethid to enter the trials.
Irony shaded his tone. “Heroic of Brodhi.”
Bethid felt warmth rise in her face. She bit back what she wanted to say: No doubt you’d rather I were taken than Churri. Which was undoubtedly true, but not something one said to the Guildmaster. She had always been scrupulously polite around him, to give him no reason for dismissing her from service. She knew he would do it more quickly to her than anyone else.
He ran the feather through one hand, studying her. “You grew attached. I see it in your eyes.”
Bethid damned her eyes. “I did, sir. Yes.”
His faint smile was not kind. “Women and animals. That’s weakness, Bethid. It undermines a courier’s duty.”
“I didn’t intend for it to happen—”
He cut her off. “But you’re a woman, and it did, and now you’re heart-sore.”
Bethid kept her tone very carefully under control, offering nothing more than crisp professionalism. “He was a good horse, sir.”
He tilted his head slightly. “I allow couriers to settle on specific horses because it aids our rides. When you know a horse well, less time is lost. You know his habits. But attachment, Bethid, can be troublesome. I expect you will now go to his empty stall and cry.”
She had anticipated nothing less than the arrogance and mocking tone. But she had done her crying on the road. “No, sir. First I would like to eat. It has been a long journey—” She indicated the map behind him with a motion of her head, to note the added detail. “—and then I will go to the horse-master to select a new mount.”
A faint smile, containing less irony, twitched one side of his mouth as he sat forward and put down the quill. “You will need new equipment as well,” he observed. “The debt will be a large one.”
Bethid clamped the inside of her lower lip between her teeth so he would not see a reaction, and nodded.
“So we are to have you among us for quite some time as you pay this back.”
She felt a knot in her belly loosen, as did the stiffness in her shoulders. The Guildmaster had the option of dismissing her for the loss of a valuable horse and his gear. She had, in fact, expected it.
He nodded. “Get something to eat, then see the horse-master.”
“Yes, sir. Sir—”
“And try to avoid drakas in the future.” He tilted his head toward the door. “You may go.”
As she departed, Bethid tried to sort out whether the great relief she felt was as much for leaving his company as it was for retaining her job. She inhaled deeply, then blew out a noisy breath.
And she did want to go to Churri’s empty stall.
But wouldn’t.
IT WAS DISCOVERED, as Rhuan and Ilona rode some distance from the settlement, that Alisanos did not form a precise circle. In one area the deepwood fell away on both sides for a short distance, and scattered copses of perfectly ordinary grassland trees offered safety and shelter b
eneath spreading boughs and leaf canopy. Not far ahead, the untainted land rose into a modest hill crowned with a massive tumble of stones. Not far beyond it, Alisanos once again drew close.
They rode side by side. Rhuan, diverted from the vista by Ilona’s presence, watched her in profile, elated that at long last they were partnered. For so long he had loved her, but was reluctant to say so, to show it, because of his journey. No part of the journey forbade him or any dioscuri from bedding human women, but to the Alisani these women would never be honored as equal partners. Certainly Brodhi kept himself to Ferize. She could take the seeming of a human woman, as she often did, but she could not truly pass as a human. And that, Rhuan believed, was precisely why Brodhi bedded only a demon. Likely he believed it would soil him, to lie with a human female. Once, Rhuan had asked Darmuth if he had ever taken the seeming of a woman. Darmuth had laughed at him, green gem glinting. Rhuan had got no answer other than that—which wasn’t truly an answer—but he expressed neither annoyance nor frustration. Darmuth expected him to ask for clarification, so Rhuan did not.
Now he rode beside the woman he wished to take as his own in the Alisani way, while adhering to Ilona’s customs as well. He wanted Ilona recognized as his dioscara, so that his people would accept her as she was. Because one day he would take her to the Kiba. She had braided his sidelocks according to his directions in the pattern of marriage braids, ornamented with glass and metal beads. There had been no time to do the rest of his hair, to make and plait together all of the complex multiple braids. Another time. For now, the sidelocks were enough.
“What are you grinning about?” Ilona asked, suspicious.
“Us.”
“Ah.” She smiled. “Worth the grin, then.”
He nodded and began to say something more, but Ilona abruptly reined in. Her face had lost color and her hazel eyes were enormous, blackened by expanded pupils. Her mouth loosened.
Rhuan blurted in sharp concern, “’Lona—?”
“It’s what I read.” She pointed straight ahead toward the rise in the land. “Those rocks. The girl’s remains are there.” She drew in a deep breath, then released it and looked at him. She seemed completely Ilona again. “Can you sense drakas? Do you know if one is nearby?”
Rhuan shook his head. He understood what she was asking. A draka had taken the girl; it might yet be close to the remains. Or it might be hunting elsewhere.
He still didn’t like Ilona’s color. “If you can describe the area, I’ll go and fetch the remains,” he said. “You can wait at that tree just ahead.”
Ilona looked puzzled. “No, I’ll go up into the rocks as well. I can’t be sure of the exact place without being present. Why should I stay at the tree?”
“Because you look ill,” he said bluntly.
She shook her head. “I feel quite well.”
“You don’t look well—” But he didn’t finish, because once again her eyes widened. What she saw, he realized, was not of the here and now.
Rhuan dismounted swiftly, slipping down between their horses. He reached up, caught an arm, and gently tugged Ilona downward into his arms. Carefully, he lowered her until she stood on her own feet, but he held her shoulders to steady her.
He still had the impression she wasn’t truly present. “Ilona!”
She blinked, and her eyes refocused. She seemed surprised to be off her horse. “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” Rhuan said, his voice grim, “but we’d best go back to the settlement.”
“No! No, Rhuan. We can’t. Not without the girl’s remains. I promised her mother.”
“If you’re ill—”
Ilona cut him off. “I don’t feel ill. I feel as if I’m reading a hand. Except there’s no hand in front of me, just snatches of visions.” She shook her head. “It’s different, Rhuan. Not an illness. I swear it.” She closed her hands around his wrists, pushing slightly so he would release her. “We must find the remains and soon. That poor woman . . . there will be no peace for her, but she will at least know the girl’s spirit is with the Mother once the rites are done.”
Rhuan still hesitated. “That may be, but I don’t want you falling out of the saddle and knocking yourself unconscious.” He held up a silencing hand before she could protest. “So, you will ride double with me. And no protest, or we turn around now. I’ll lead your horse.”
She wanted to refuse. He saw it. But after a moment, mouth twisted, she nodded.
“Good.”
Rhuan mounted, then slipped his left foot free of the stirrup and reached down. Ilona put her own foot in the stirrup, caught hold of Rhuan’s arm, and scrambled on behind him in a motion made awkward by her skirts. She settled into place and wrapped her arms around him.
“Perhaps this was a good idea,” she said with a cheek laid against his shoulder.
Rhuan grinned. “Of course.” He took a firmer grip on the reins of Ilona’s mount and tapped his horse into motion, leading hers alongside.
But when she spoke again, there was no lilt of humor in her tone. “Mother willing, we’ll lose no more to this draka. Or to anything else of Alisanos.”
Rhuan might have agreed with her merely to agree. But he couldn’t. He knew it was very likely there would be more lost to the draka and to other aspects of Alisanos.
AFTER THE THIRD stop to purchase supplies and send them to the wagons via young men willing to carry, Jorda looked at Davyn quizzically as they departed the shop. “From the expression on your face every time we come outside, I’m assuming you’ve never seen Cardatha before.”
Davyn shook his head. “I’ve never seen a city at all.”
“Then it is no wonder your eyes are so large.” Jorda laughed at him. “Go on, then. Take time to yourself. We’ll stay the night at an inn I know. It’s called the Red Deer. Anyone can direct you.” He slapped Davyn on the shoulder. “Come back when you’re ready.”
Davyn watched the karavan-master turn back into the crowds of people moving through the lanes, finding their way to market stalls displaced by the huge gher.
He grinned to himself. “Must have resembled Torvic and Meggie, discovering something new.” And the grin died. He felt a clenching in his belly: renewed memory of what had been taken from him.
For a moment Davyn stood frozen in place, struggling to keep the grief from showing. They weren’t dead. He had been told it plainly. But just as plainly, he knew more was at stake than survival. It was survival of self.
He would walk the lanes later. For now, he wanted spirits. Ale would not do.
THIS TIME, IN her dream, Audrun stood in the very center of the road rather than beside it. Behind her lay the deepwood; before her, a clearly defined if narrow road. Again she heard sounds of chopping, of trees falling, crashing down to earth—jarring landings. Again she heard the screaming of predators, and prey.
Upon this road her husband would come. Once more a family, and with baby Sarith as well—Karadath had agreed—they would set forth again for Atalanda. They would leave behind a diminished, desolate province overrun by Hecari. They would be free, all of them, to begin anew, to build a home, to till the fields, to reap what grew in the garden. Davyn had said they would settle closer to a village. It would be easier this time, and less isolated. It was a tunnel, this road. Despite the felling of massive trees and the cutting down of thick grown vegetation, Alisanos still loomed, canopies entangled high overhead. Anyone would travel in fear, despite the promised safety of the road. It was wild here. Too wild.
Something behind her shrieked. Audrun jerked around, terrified. But she saw nothing other than trees. The road ended behind her. In this place, upon the road, she was apart from the deepwood. So long as she kept to the road, nothing of Alisanos would harm her.
Such fragile safety. A way through the deepwood. A road to their future.
But in
the meantime, Alisanos worked to alter her children.
Faster. The neuters who built the road must work faster. For her children, she would insist.
BETHID FOUND HERSELF alone in the Guildhall refectory, but solitude didn’t last. Corrid, the youngest of them all, came in; not long afterward Hallack and Gathlyn arrived. And after them, a new courier she didn’t know at all. She’d heard of the addition. Laric, if she remembered rightly.
She cut herself a piece of ham and laid it atop a fat slice of crusty bread. Carved a sliver from the pale wheel of goat cheese and added it to the ham. Cider was always her drink, and she filled a mug from the keg. Cook would come in soon to prepare supper, but this would do well enough for now.
She slid onto a bench at the long table. The others helped themselves to food and drink as she had. Corrid, Gathlyn, and Hallack all found places at the table, but Laric did not. He leaned against the wooden plank counter and picked at both bread and cheese. He had poured himself a mug of dark, foamy, pungent ale.
Bethid slid a glance at him. Now she looked at all couriers with questions in her mind. What did she know of them? Were they Sancorran patriots? Did they wish to look the other way and keep themselves out of harm’s way? Would they possibly be willing to consider forming a confederation of rebels?
Laric was, she judged, in his late twenties. His hair was light brown, his eyes blue, and his face was tanned from days upon the roads, riding from one place to another. He had put off his blue cloak and silver brooch and wore only brown tunic and leggings, his calves wrapped in leather. Stiff riding boots had been exchanged for soft house boots.
Bethid ate her way through bread, cheese, and ham, and emptied her mug. Quietly she rose, returned to the counter, and purposely moved close to Laric. She paused before him, wooden plate in one hand and mug in the other.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I would like more.”
He was, as all the men, much taller than she. He looked down at her. “Am I to serve you?”
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