The Wild Road

by Jennifer Roberson

  Bethid drew in a breath. “No, but you can move aside so I can serve myself.”

  Laric smiled. He moved aside. “You’re Bethid.”

  Slicing bread, she said, “I am.”

  “My sister wanted to become a courier, but my father and mother made certain she understood it was not for her.” A different tone could have made that simple statement offensive. But while there was an undertone of amusement, it was not quite meant at her expense. Yet.

  “That is too bad,” Bethid said lightly. “It’s a hard life, but a good one.”

  “They told her a woman should only think of marriage and children.”

  Bethid was aware that Gathlyn, Hallack, and Corrid were no longer speaking. Her back was to them, but she knew they were listening intently, waiting to see how she might respond.

  She filled her mug, then turned the spigot to stop the flow. “Well, for most women, that is what they want.” Bethid turned, looked up and caught his eye. “But not all.”

  He watched her walk to the table. “Not for you.”

  She sat down. “No, not for me.” She set down plate and mug. “Of course, it will be difficult for the entire guild, now that the Hecari are here. They won’t care if we are men or women. In truth, I might be safer than you; Hecari won’t pay any attention to a woman courier.” She chewed and swallowed cheese, drank cider. Then looked directly at Laric. “Have they troubled you, the Hecari, when you’ve been upon the roads?”

  Laric grimaced. “They trouble all of us. And I suspect it will get worse. You know they will replace us with their own. The warlord suffers us because his warriors are not yet fluent in Sancorran.”

  Hallack said quietly, “I can’t imagine any warrior will desire courier duty. Carrying messages is much tamer than killing people.”

  “But,” Gathlyn put in, “they will do whatever the warlord orders.”

  Bethid nodded. Then she asked, trying to sound casual, “Do you think we would have any chance against them? For rebellion, I mean?”

  Laric laughed curtly. “There was a rebellion. It killed many people, including our own prince.”

  “No,” Hallack said. “That was a war to defend Sancorra. Any uprising now would be a rebellion. We must be clear on that.”

  “Why?” Laric asked. “Both mean the same: Sancorrans die.”

  Couriers always knew more of politics than most through the nature of their business. Bethid nodded, then set her elbows on the table and interlaced her fingers. “Would a rebellion have a better chance, do you think?”

  Laric grunted. “We’d probably die more quickly.”

  Bethid was aware that Hallack and Gathlyn, older men and veteran couriers, were watching her closely. Hallack’s eyes were narrowed. Gathlyn had assumed a perfectly blank expression.

  She put a touch of irony in her tone. “I realize it’s nothing more than words.” She shrugged. “But think of it. Couriers ride throughout Sancorra. Perhaps, if we had aided the prince by finding more soldiers among those living distant from Cardatha, we might have withstood the Hecari.” She laughed. “But I’m just a woman . . . I don’t know how battles are fought.”

  Hallack said quietly, “That depends on what kind of battle it is.”

  Gathlyn rubbed a finger just underneath his bottom lip. She saw him exchange a glance with Hallack.

  “A battle’s a battle,” Laric commented, unimpressed. “And we lost. Thousands died. And perhaps thousands more are leaving Sancorra altogether. There’s nothing we could have done then—” He crossed his arms, “—and nothing we can do now.”

  “No,” Bethid said, “probably not. We’re too beaten down.” And she looked over the rim of her mug at Gathlyn and Hallack as she tipped it up to drink.

  Gathlyn smiled faintly. Hallack tilted his head briefly, as if to indicate there might just possibly be another answer.

  Corrid, so young, rose to replenish his plate. He did so in quiet and returned to his place. “Seems to me a battle needs messengers, if it’s to be won.”

  Bethid blinked. She looked at Corrid to judge if he had any notion of what he’d said, or if it was nothing more than empty words. He had never struck her as particularly clever.

  Laric laughed briefly. “What conqueror in his right mind would allow couriers to aid a rebellion?”

  Again, Gathlyn smiled, but with his back to Laric it could not be seen.

  Hallack stood up, clearly intending to depart. “Laric’s right. There’s nothing to be done.” He paused a moment. “Here. Or now.”

  Bethid understood. She saw that Gathlyn did as well. Corrid, she couldn’t be certain of; but nothing more would be said—or implied—in front of Laric.

  Bethid rose and returned her plate and mug to the sideboard. Idly, she said, “I’m off to see the horse-master.”

  She was aware that Gathlyn and Hallack followed her with their eyes. Bethid nodded to them as she departed the refectory.

  No one would count it much of a beginning, but it was begun. She had seen it in Hallack’s eyes and in Gathlyn’s.

  BRODHI STALLED HIS horse at the Guildhall, then walked across Market Square to the warlord’s gher. He paused before the three steps leading up to the platform, briefly bowed his head in respect to the gher, then climbed and walked across the platform to the door. There he waited, head lowered, staring, as he always did, at the gold strips worked into the intricately carved wood of the doorjamb, and at the threshold made of solid gold. In all, thirty warriors ringed the gher. He spoke to those closest to the door.

  He quietly said that he was to see the warlord, because the warlord would wish it. All of the warriors knew that. All of them knew him. But there were rituals to follow.

  The wait was somewhat longer this time, but eventually a warrior returned, carefully stepping over the threshold so as not to profane it with his unworthy self. Brodhi was told the warlord would see him.

  He followed the warrior inside, but knew better than to expect an immediate audience. There had been times when he was made to wait half a day. His activities in Cardatha now depended on the warlord’s wishes. It mattered not at all what other things a man might need to do.

  Escorted by the warrior, Brodhi passed through room after room separated by brilliant tribal tapestries hanging from carved, red-painted rafters. Suspended, too, were countless banners of different shapes, sizes, and colors; prayer flags of every hue; stone animal fetishes dangling from gold wire. Illumination depended on a multitude of hanging candle racks, but also, in good weather, on the large round opening in the top of the palace.

  Admitted to the warlord’s audience chamber, Brodhi kept his eyes lowered and turned his palms over to show they were empty. As always, beneath his boots lay thick rugs layered atop one another. Cushions were everywhere. But one lone cushion, a rich, deep red, was squarely placed before the chair from where the warlord ruled.

  The man in the chair was perhaps forty. Silvering strands threaded the black, braided scalplock that fell forward over one shoulder, decorative gold clasps running the length. As was the custom, his eyebrows were shaved, golden ear-spools stretched his lobes, and the lower half of his face was tattooed in indigo ink. This day he wore green, and multiple fetish necklaces hung against his chest.

  At a gesture, Brodhi took his seat upon the red cushion. The warlord’s chair was low to the ground, but the high back arched forward, curving over the warlord’s head. Carved, polished wood glinted with inset gemstones.

  The warlord was, by Sancorran standards, a very wealthy man, rich in conquered provinces as well as gems and precious metals. But he wanted more, and he continued taking what others had held for hundreds of years. Someday, possibly, the world in its entirety would belong to him.

  Brodhi wondered what the warlord would have left to do then. But he kept the thought from his face. He simply
waited, palms on his thighs, eyes downcast. It was not for him to begin any conversation.

  The warlord’s Sancorran was accented, but passable. “Speak.”

  Brodhi raised his head. He appreciated the man’s lack of ceremony and diplomacy; he need not concern himself with either, which among ordinary Sancorrans was expected. “Your warriors are dead.”

  The warlord’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “All four?”

  “All four.”

  “What killed them. You?”

  “No, lord. Alisanos took them.”

  The warlord contemplated him a while. A very long while. Brodhi held his silence. He knew quite well the man was weighing whether he had been told the truth. But Brodhi need not dissemble; he had not killed the warriors.

  Eventually the warlord asked, “At this place you call the deepwood?”

  “Alisanos. Yes, my lord.”

  “The Alisanos-deepwood took my warriors?”

  “Lord, it did.” Brodhi had thoroughly explained about Alisanos and its properties on his previous visit to the warlord. It was why four warriors had been dispatched to accompany him, to see Alisanos as well as the settlement.

  “How did it take them?”

  “They rode too close.”

  “You warned them?”

  “Indeed, lord. I said it this way: ‘Devils abide there, and they will behead, dismember, and eat you.’” As a trained courier, he could easily summon any tone, any inflection or accent. “I am not certain they believed me. I’m not Hecari; why would I tell them the truth?”

  A quick flash in the warlord’s eyes suggested that reaction entirely believable. He studied Brodhi. “But a man can make it through, yes? You have. Other couriers did. Wagons did.”

  It came to Brodhi as no surprise that the warlord knew about the party from the settlement. “It’s not impassible,” Brodhi said. “Merely dangerous if one is not careful and rides too close.”

  “Four rode too close.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  A tone of irony entered the warlord’s speech, and it was underscored by a hint of threat. “Were they taken simultaneously? All rode too close at the same moment? Because three would have learned from the death of one not to do as he did.”

  “Lord, I cannot say. I led the way through. They were behind me.” He spread his hands. “Perhaps the three attempted to rescue the one, and so all were taken.”

  The warlord’s lips tightened. “My warriors do not do such. If a man is foolish enough to get himself wounded or captured, he is left to die.”

  Brodhi waited. It was not his place to ask questions of his own, or to broach any subject.

  “Twelve,” the warlord said. “Twelve warriors, this time. I will see to it they understand the danger of this Alisanos-deepwood. You will take them through safely so they may learn the truth of this place of many gher.”

  Brodhi inclined his head.

  “Go.” The warlord made a gesture. “Go to your guild-place.”

  Brodhi rose silently, briefly bowed his head, then turned to follow a warrior out. Another followed him.

  Much as Brodhi detested the idea, he would Send to Rhuan so the people would be warned of the large Hecari party. Somehow, this time, they would have to devise a way to kill twelve of the warlord’s men.

  DAVYN COULD NOT make his eyes behave. His vision was doubled. He concentrated very hard to merge everything into one image. He was successful, but only briefly.

  He had consumed more than one mug of spirits. He recalled being served two, but beyond that he couldn’t say. He recalled, also, that at one point he had tipped over his stool and landed on the hardpacked earthen floor. Men had laughed at him but also helped him up, righted his stool, and settled him upon it once more. Hands had clapped him on the back in companionship. And, in bitterness, he had told them his wife was gone, his children were gone, because of the Hecari.

  That stopped their laughter.

  He asked them why. Why had the warlord decided to conquer Sancorra.

  No one answered. And no one looked at him anymore.

  Davyn drank. But when he finished his drink the pub-master arrived at his table. This time he did not set down a fresh mug.

  “Best you go,” he said.

  Davyn looked up at him blearily. “What?”

  It was said more forcefully. “Best you go. I won’t have talk of the Hecari in here. A warrior might come through that door any moment; they do that sometimes. Or a man might see his way to coin rings by telling the warlord we were speaking of Hecari. Do you see? Too dangerous. Go home, farmsteader.”

  “Home is gone,” Davyn told him. “Burned. Hecari did it.”

  The pub-master bent down, shut a hand around Davyn’s upper arm, and yanked him up from the stool. He swung Davyn toward the open door. “Go somewhere. Go out of here. I don’t care where. But I won’t have you in here.”

  Davyn stumbled forward as the man pushed him toward the door. He nearly fell but regained his balance with effort. He realized then that he was weeping. With as much dignity and steadiness as he could muster, Davyn made his way out of the pub and into the lane.

  It was nearing sunset. Clouds blocked much of the sky. People had begun to go in for the evening. Open windows were shuttered. The lane was nearly empty now. Davyn considered trying another pub, but he remembered that he was to ask for the Red Deer.

  He wiped tears with the back of his hand. The cobbles were uneven. He nearly fell twice as he staggered onward toward Market Square. And when he reached it at last, he saw the huge gher squatting on its platform. The stands at each corner glowed with candlelight. Davyn, at the cusp between lane and Square, did what Jorda had told him never to do. He stared.

  And more: he walked slowly toward the platform. It was difficult to maintain perfect balance, as much as it was difficult to maintain clear vision. But he tried to walk, and he tried to see.

  He stopped at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the platform. Warriors encircled the round gher, were posted at platform corners. They watched him with fierce black eyes.

  Two of them moved toward him.

  Davyn said, “I just want to know why—”

  He felt no pain as the knife cut through his throat. Blood gushed. Davyn fell to his knees. The last thing he saw in life was the Shoia courier at the top of the steps, frowning down at him. There was neither pity nor surprise in his eyes. Merely contempt.

  RHUAN AND ILONA rode his horse double and led hers to the top of the rise crowned with gray-green stones. The deepwood was just beyond, close enough to make her nervous.

  Rhuan seemed to know what she was thinking. “It’s not preparing to move,” he said. “I don’t feel anything. And the draka’s not here; it would be in the air already. Now, can you get down, or should I help you?”

  “Just give me the stirrup and your arm.”

  He did. Ilona, gripping the arm, slid down far enough to catch the stirrup with her left foot. As she swung her right leg over the horse’s rump, she let herself down. Rhuan dismounted once she was clear.

  Tumbled piles of massive boulders surrounded them. Cracks and crevices abounded, small cave-like openings where stones leaned one against another. Thin, sparse grass grew nearly knee-high. Both horses began to graze as Rhuan tied up the reins so a misplaced hoof would not lead to trouble.

  Ilona stood still, closed eyes, and gave herself over to the heart of the place. Silence was absolute. No breath of wind. No insect noise. No birdsong. Even in sunlight, Ilona felt cold. She wished she had a wrap.

  Rhuan stepped up beside her. Ilona opened her eyes. “Sadness,” she said. “Grief.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Are you seeing that?”

  She shook her head. “No. I just feel it.” She turned in a full circle, witness to unknown, u
nremembered deaths. “People died here, Rhuan.”

  “The girl was dead before the draka brought her here,” he told her quietly. “Not so bad a thing, that.”

  “No, not the girl. People. But a long time ago.” Ilona shivered. “The girl . . .” She closed her eyes and summoned the images she had seen in the mother’s hand. She made herself see again details of the boulders, the shapes, the patterns of how they stood like a throw of oracle bones. Then she opened her eyes and began to pick her way slowly through the crown of stones.

  It did not take her long to find what she sought. This stone, there. Another, here. And a crevice between them. Blood. Bone. Worse.

  Ilona swung around to stare wildly at Rhuan. “Mother, oh Mother—” She pressed both hands against her mouth. Blood and bone, and offal. The carcass of what had been a young girl. The arch of rib cage, the crushed skull, all clad in torn flesh.

  She stumbled two steps, took her hands from her mouth, fell to hands and knees and was violently ill.

  “Ilona.” He was beside her, squatting. “Ah, ‘Lona, I’m sorry.” He placed a hand on her bent back, but did not attempt to prevent the heaving or to ease her position. He knew enough to let her do as she had to do without interference, even if well-meant. “I’m so sorry.”

  For the girl? For her? For both? It didn’t matter. It was enough that he was present and that he understood.

  When Ilona was fairly certain she was done, she caught up a fold of her skirt and wiped her mouth and tears. She rose shakily, and Rhuan steadied her as he stood.

  “We’ll go to the horses,” he said. “I brought canvas for the task, and rope. You can wait there.”

  For a moment she wasn’t sure what he meant, and then she was. “I should be with you,” she told him. “With—her.”

  “’Lona, I’ll do it. Just wait with the horses.”

  She shook her head and turned. Took the two steps. Looked again upon the remains.

  The world turned black. But she didn’t fall. She wasn’t faint, she wasn’t sick, she wasn’t on the verge of collapse. She saw.

  “Ilona?” She was aware of him, but blind to him. She felt him come up behind her. “Ilona!”