“Do you think you can withstand Alisanos? You can’t even light a fire!”
Bethid did not look at him, though her jaw was clenched.
The wild, burning rage threatened to burst out of him. Once again he needed physical release. Brodhi reached blindly to the elderling oak next to him and employed a sharp flick of his wrist to yank a tattered branch from the trunk. With quick, vicious economy, he broke the branch into pieces. One step forward placed him looming over Bethid and her fire ring. He bent and quickly laid out the lengths of broken branches atop the rune sticks.
Bethid’s tone was crafted as if she spoke to a child. “That wood is green, Brodhi. And wet. It probably won’t catch fire, and even if it does, it won’t burn clean. It will only smoke.”
He knew that she knew that he knew that. She was patronizing him. It set his teeth on edge.
“Leave it,” he said sharply as she reached to remove the sticks. He leaned down abruptly, grasped her shoulder, and without gentleness shoved her from a kneeling position onto her buttocks in the mud. “I said, leave it.” He drew his knife, cut into the heel of his left hand, and, as it bled, held it over the fire ring. Smoke curled up as droplets struck the branches and rune sticks, followed by a flicker of clean, pure flame. He glared at her. “If you want to petition the Mother or any number of other gods, you might as well petition me. After all, I’m not in Alisanos. I am very much here.”
Bethid, still sitting sprawled with gaitered legs spread and elbows holding her torso up, stared at him in a mixture of shock, concern, and disbelief. “What is wrong with you, Brodhi?”
As the fire blazed up, Brodhi closed his bleeding hand. “What is wrong with me, you ask? I am trapped, that is what’s wrong with me! They have put me here and refuse to listen to any arguments I may muster, even in the wake of Alisanos going active. Rhuan they allow home, but me they do not.” He turned away awkwardly, took two long steps, then wheeled back to face her, repeating his words in a ferocious, bitter resentment. “Rhuan they allow home, but me they do not.”
“Brodhi—”
He gestured sharply, overriding her. “There is your fire, Bethid. I spilled my blood for it—let it not go to waste.”
She sat upright, wiping muddy hands against her leggings. “Wait, Brodhi.”
But he listened no more to her. He turned on his heel and strode away, taking long, ungraceful steps, steps that carried him from the grove, from the fire, from a young woman who could not possibly comprehend what manner of complexities, ambitions, and needs ruled his life.
She was human. She was not of Alisanos, to know what he was.
ELLICA, TUMBLED INTO the black floodtide of Alisanos as it consumed the Sancorran grasslands, roused to consciousness incrementally. But when at last she blinked the world into focus again, she discovered she lay sprawled on her back beneath a brown-tinted sky, bathed by the heat of two disparate suns. It was difficult to think, as if her mind were bruised. Her body felt heavy, too heavy; various portions of it ached, or stung as if scratched. Her spine in particular burned, and now that she was nominally awake, she slipped a hand beneath her back to discover the cause of the pain. She felt thick, blade-edged grass. Exploring fingers found that the grass appeared to have grown through her tunic and into her skin.
Panicking, Ellica heaved herself upward, fell sideways, landed on hands and knees. The grass beneath her body had not been crushed or flattened by her weight, but grew in perfect, rigid verticality, edges glinting like shards of ice. The webbing between her spread fingers, where she braced herself, bled from multiple hair-thin slices.
“Mother—” She lunged to her feet, holding her splayed, bleeding hands out in front of her, nearly fell again as a root or vine wrapped itself around an ankle, and remained upright only by virtue of grabbing at the striated, knotted trunk of the tree closest to her. But as she clung there, gasping in shock, the lower branches drooped down, down, and lower yet; uncoiling, unfurling, reaching for her, touching her scalp, her tangled hair, her wet shoulders, even her breasts, with a languid caress she found terrifying in its intimacy.
Crying out, Ellica tore herself free of the branches, twisting away to break their grip. Three more stumbling steps brought her to a large knobbed boulder half buried in the ground; she leaped onto its crown as if it were a savior. No more blades of cutting grass, no more seemingly sentient tree branches imposing themselves upon her. She stood there atop the boulder panting noisily as she tried to catch her breath, bleeding hands fisted. Her body tingled unpleasantly in the aftermath of sheer panic; perspiration stung her armpits. The edges of her vision frayed.
“O Mother…” Ellica shut her eyes tightly, willing her breathing to steady, her body to cease its obstinate trembling. Mother Mother Mother … She clenched her teeth so neither outcry nor sob would escape. A farmstead contained its own occasional dangers, and her parents had taught her as she grew up to think through her actions, to sort out the appropriate response in a given situation, even if she were frightened. It was that fear, they warned her, that was the true danger.
But nothing they had told her spoke of Alisanos.
She knew. Even without opening her eyes, she knew. The grass had proved it. The tree. She was not in the human world any longer. The deepwood had claimed her.
Her hands crept up to her face. She bent her head. Fingers pressed into her brow; the heels of her hands squeezed the bottoms of her cheeks, shutting out the deepwood, shutting away the truth.
But knowledge remained, frenzied and painful. Despite her best efforts, Ellica could not stem the fear. As she lifted her hands away, tears dampened her cheeks, tracking rivulets through the coating of dust. Vision blurred.
Alisanos. She was in Alisanos.
Nothingnothingnothing had prepared her for this.
Though, she recalled with a stab of abrupt recollection, the Shoia guide had warned them all about it. In great detail.
O Mother of Moons … “Da,” she said on a rising tone of despair, “Oh, Da, you were wrong—”
ILONA WAS WEAK, trembling, felt sick to her stomach, and her left arm throbbed unremittingly. Somehow she had lost a period of time; she recalled being swept up into Jorda’s arms and carried, yet nothing at all of actually being taken into her wagon and placed upon her cot. But she was in her wagon and on her cot, atop the colorful coverlet with a pillow beneath her head, she roused now to pain, and to a curious detached sensation she feared was a precursor to fever.
But it seemed too bright. The canopy, even with sidewalls raised, should provide shade against the sun. Ilona opened her eyes, frowning, and realized there was no canopy at all. Just the carved, painted support ribs jutting against the sky. The Mother Rib was wind-stripped of dangling charms.
Ah. The storm. How could she forget, even for a moment?
The wagon creaked and shifted. Jorda appeared at the top of her steps, filling the doorway. “Bethid’s brewing willow bark tea,” he explained, ducking in, “and Mikal’s looking for spirits.” Yes, she recalled something of that being said before. “There’s no way around it, ’Lona. Setting your arm will hurt.”
Well, that was undoubtedly true. Bones were not meant to be broken. There was a price to be paid when they were snapped, cracked, or shattered. “Your horse fell,” she said woozily “I remember.” She did, if not clearly.
Jorda dipped his head, moving closer to the cot. “You broke your arm, I smacked my head.” He briefly touched the large blue-black knot on his forehead. “But nothing we need fret about, either of us. That storm was wicked—we might have got off far worse.” She agreed, but at the moment didn’t feel well enough to say so. Her body felt on fire, and yet she was cold. A shiver wracked her from head to foot, jarring her arm. And Jorda saw it; a moment later he was settling a blanket over her. “You’ll do,” he said. “Bethid can stay with you tonight, see that you’re all right.”
Her vision blurred. Jorda was an immense, looming form with four eyes, two noses, and beard enough for thre
e faces. She frowned, blinking. “Let me see your hand.”
“Leave it be for now. Later.”
“Jorda—”
“’Lona, my hand will keep. So will whatever future lies in it. You need to rest.”
But she reached out to him. “Please.”
Sighing, Jorda squatted down beside the cot and extended his right arm. Ilona caught and held the back of his hand in her palm, fixing her eyes on the calluses, the lines, the scars of his work. She blinked again, repeatedly, to clear her vision. The hand remained a hand, giving up nothing of substance.
After a moment she released it, aware of rising apprehension. “Sibetha,” she murmured distractedly, “have you deserted me?”
“No,” Jorda replied forthrightly “Your god simply realizes you’re in no shape to practice your art. Let it go, Ilona. Let be.”
But desperation rose up through the pain, the weariness. “I can’t read it, Jorda! It’s blocked. Very like when I attempted to read the hand of the farmsteader’s wife.” She saw he didn’t grasp the implication, and tried again. “Jorda—I can’t see.”
The wagon creaked. “Jorda?” It was Bethid, climbing the steps. “I’ve got some tea brewed. Here.” She handed over the tin mug.
Ilona felt Jorda ease his left hand beneath her skull. His palm was broad enough to cradle it easily, as if she were a child. He lifted her head slightly, then brought the mug to her mouth. “I’ll hold it,” he told her. “Get as much down as you can. Mikal will be here soon.”
The tea was dreadfully bitter, lacking any sweetener that would lessen the bite. Ilona managed three sips, then turned her face away.
“Beth,” Jorda said diffidently. “I told her you’d stay the night with her.”
“Of course,” the courier said. Then, more tensely, “But I would like some time before that to look for Timmon and Alorn. They are friends, and fellow couriers. I haven’t seen them since before the storm.”
“Bethid?” This time it was Mikal, but he did not attempt to climb into the wagon. “Here, I found some spirits.” Ilona, squinting against the sunlight, saw him hand Bethid the cork-stoppered bottle made of heavy blue glass. “And I’ve got the makings for a splint.”
Jorda, accepting the bottle from Bethid, smiled grimly at Ilona. “Not putting it off, then. Drink up, girl, and then we’ll be about repairing that arm.”
She attempted to tell him that she had no need of spirits. But then the world slid sideways.
“Ilona?”
Jorda. And Bethid, saying something. But though her eyes remained open, Ilona could see little that made sense. Only the world turned sideways; awareness was bleeding away. She was cold to the bone, fading from consciousness, sliding from comprehension of where she was, and why; of who she was.
Ilona. Ilona. Hand-reader. Jorda’s employee.
But sense spilled away, like sand from a shattered hourglass.
“KEEP GOING,” RHUAN urged as he ran. Audrun was in front of him so nothing would pull her down from behind without warning. “Run until I tell you to stop.”
The infant in his arms had awakened, jostled from sleep by the headlong run. With one arm he pressed both body and head against his chest, protecting the fragile neck. Without both arms outstretched, grasping at branches to keep himself upright and in motion, his balance was affected, but Rhuan did not doubt his ability to keep going, to keep moving, despite the hindrance of the child.
Audrun had yanked her skirts up initially, but dropped them when she realized her balance was almost nonexistent if she didn’t use her arms. He caught glimpses of outstretched hands clawing vines and branches aside, shielding her face. Audrun pushed through impediments, working hard to remain upright even though she tripped and staggered. She fell twice, but each time pushed herself up again, regaining her feet and balance.
“Swing right—there, at the next tree …” One-handed, he caught the branch she released as it slashed toward his face. “Duck under that tunnel of drooping vegetation—see it? Straight ahead … duck under and crawl.” He dropped to his knees behind her, bracing himself with one outstretched arm. Tall, sharp-edged grasses cut his flesh, vines and vegetation slapped at him as he fended them off haphazardly while shielding the baby.
On hands and knees, Audrun swung sideways to look back at him. Her eyes sought the child. Her face was a mask of grass cuts, sap from trees, welts from slashing branches. Strands of tawny hair stuck to blood and perspiration. He noticed that the front of her tunic was wet across her breasts. “The baby—” she gasped.
“Alive,” he said. “Keep going. Keep crawling—we should be able to stand in a moment when it clears out … there. Just ahead. Go, Audrun. A crying baby is at least a living baby!” On two knees and one hand, he scrambled through behind her, lurching upright from the tunnel of vegetation under the last low tree branch.
Audrun stopped short in front of him as she came upon the bank of a rushing creek.
“Cross it. Cross it.”
She splashed onward, working hard to hold her balance as the water-covered rocks rolled beneath her feet and the current caught at her skirts.
Audrun was across, hiking soaked skirts to climb up the knee-high bank. “Path?”
“None,” he answered, leaping up behind her. “No paths … no tracks … Audrun, bear left. Left.” She did, and he followed. “Ring …” he gasped, relief surging through his body. “Dreya ring …” She wouldn’t know what that was. “Audrun, the silver-colored trees just ahead, see them? They form a ring—go through and stop inside. Stop in the center. You’ll see.” The massive pale trunks were close-grown, tangled branches indistinguishable from one another. He saw Audrun’s clothing catch, slow her; saw her tear the fabric free. He ducked, felt a branch scrape his scalp, appropriating some hair, but he was through and into the dreya ring. “Here,” he said, “halt. Audrun, stay here. Stay inside the ring.”
She was bereft of breath, gasping for air in noisy whoops. His own ran ragged in his chest, burning his throat. He went to one knee, cradling the child in both arms. Still the infant cried, a thin, wailing, unceasing complaint. Speechless, he nodded acknowledgment as Audrun turned and reached out. No doubt allowing the child to nurse would quiet it, and ease the ache in Audrun’s breasts.
With the infant held against her chest, she sat down hard. Still she gasped, sucking at air. He saw her fumble at the neckline of her tunic, watched her find a thorn-ripped hole. She tore it, tore at the smallclothes and binding beneath it, bared one breast. Within a moment the baby had latched on, cries silenced.
For a moment he watched, smiling, relieved beyond measure, until he became aware of a hard, fixed stare, the glare Audrun bestowed upon him over the head of the nursing infant.
Still short of breath, it took him a moment to sort out her expression. But he arrived at laggard realization, nodded understanding and waved an apology, then fell over onto his back as he continued to suck in air, staring fixedly overhead at the silvery canopy of interlocked branches. It was all the privacy he could give her, in the aftermath of their flight.
Chapter 4
GILLAN ROUSED TO crushing heat. A miasma of dampness, of clammy sulfur stench, bathed his body, filled his nose. He found himself on his back. He lifted a hand to cover his mouth and nose, and coughed. His lungs felt thick, laden with weight. Now that he had begun, he could not stop coughing.
He rolled onto his left side, levering himself up onto an elbow as his lungs continued to spasm violently. His world was filled with heat, humidity, steam, and clinging sulfur. His eyes, even closed, ran with tears. His skin itched. His chest ached. He began to bring up a sticky substance, and spat it out twice, thrice, until a steady, heavy coughing once again overtook him.
From close by, something exploded with a wet, phlegmy sound. A spattering of burning liquid rained onto Gillan, spotting his flesh. He cried out, lurched to his hands and knees, and tried to see through eyes awash with stinging tears. His skin was freckled with pain, with droplets tha
t burned worse than the hot rain that had swept over him in the grasslands of Sancorra. With the pain came a rolling wave of sulfur, a thick stench that threatened to choke off his lungs entirely.
Desperate, Gillan thrust himself upward, into a staggering, lurching run. He rubbed tears from his eyes, caught a glimpse of steam cloaking the ground, rising in plumes from blackened mounds. The ground beneath his boots felt crusty, hot, frighteningly fragile. It trembled as he ran, as he wiped at his eyes, waved at steam, coughed unremittingly.
And then his right foot broke through the crust. His leg plunged through into a liquid heat that swallowed him to the knee. In agony, Gillan screamed.
In reply came a howling.
THERE WASN’T ENOUGH room for two men as large as Jorda and Mikal in the hand-reader’s tall wagon. Mikal remained outside as Bethid, answering Jorda’s request, agreed to help him set Ilona’s arm. She could tell the karavan-master was worried about his hand-reader. She was neither unconscious nor awake, but caught somewhere in between, as if fevered. And yet there was no heat in her flesh. She was ashen beneath the smears of dust, dark circles beneath her eyes.
“She’ll choke if she drinks now,” Jorda muttered, setting aside the bottle of spirits Mikal had found them. “Even though she’s not truly conscious, we need to tend this now. If she wakes up all the way, I’ll give her spirits then and hope she can sleep.”
Bethid knelt next to him. “What shall I do?”
What gusted from Jorda’s mouth was only half a laugh. “Odd as it sounds, I wish you to lie across her body. On the diagonal. Try to keep her legs and right shoulder pinned.”
“Lie on her? Why not just hold her legs down?”
“Because that leaves her torso free to move. I need her kept still, Beth. Can you do this?”
Bethid’s brows arched in speculation. “Well, I have ridden difficult horses. I suppose this is no different.”
“Have any of them thrown you?”
“Not since I was a child,” she replied tartly. “I’m a courier, remember?” She paused a moment, moderating her tone. “I have fallen off, but that’s not the same.”
Deepwood: Karavans # 2 Page 4
