Ah. Bliss. After a long moment she raised the splinted arm into the air and tilted her head back, back, until her skull touched the water, soaking her hair. A somewhat deeper dip wetted the rest of her hair and her head, lapping at her face. Ilona released a sigh of relief; then, rising, clutching the soap ball in her right hand, began to scrub hair and skin.
She would be clean again. Clean. Ilona revelled in the water, shedding worries along with dirt. Such luxury!
It was as she lathered her hair, staring absently into the distance, that Ilona noticed the trees. New trees. Strange trees, all twisted upon themselves. They were unlike anything she had seen. The forest, perhaps a half-mile away, stood where no forest existed before. She was certain of it.
“Mother,” she murmured, chilling again. “Alisanos?”
It must be so. No other forest could simply arrive where none had been before.
Mother of Moons, the deepwood. Much too close.
Then, unexpectedly, apprehension faded beneath awed curiosity. Alisanos, visible. Alisanos, here.
And Rhuan, there?
With that thought, Ilona made short work of rinsing soap from hair and body, of climbing out of the pool, of ringing out soaked hair, of removing the rope, drying herself, and donning fresh clothing and slippers. She had not yet washed the garments she’d worn in the storm and for several days after, but that could wait. This might not.
Rhuan might not.
Cradling her splinted arm, with loose, wet hair hanging to her waist, Ilona began to walk. Away from the settlement. Toward Alisanos.
Chapter 17
AS ALL CITIES DID, Cardatha began as a small hamlet. In time, more folk arrived to stay, then more and more, all eventually putting up permanent dwellings and businesses. The province lord took up residence, building a large, impressive stone palace. For purposes of defense a wall around the city was also constructed, with a single large barbican gate manned by a contingent of the lord’s guard, permitting entry and exit. Originally all residents had lived within the wall, safe behind the defenses, but over time, later arrivals lacking the resources to rent or buy in the city instead assembled flimsy, impermanent market stalls, lean-tos, and shacks outside the wall. Cardatha, sited on a modest hill, sprawled downward, then outward, as if its skirt hem had been tattered.
Certainly the hem had burned.
Upon arrival at Cardatha, the Hecari, who, led by their brutal warlord, had overrun the province, killed every person living outside the wall, regardless of age and gender, and put to the torch the fragile dwellings and stalls. And though the heavy barbican gate, closed and barred against the warriors, initially promised safety to the citizens inside, the Hecari had proven too experienced at conducting a siege. In time, Cardatha—absent its lord, who fought elsewhere in the province because he believed Cardatha would stand—had fallen. And as the warlord and his warriors took possession, one tenth of the residents inside the wall were killed in a first decimation. Months later, another tenth died beneath Hecari warclubs. Shortly afterward, all in the city acknowledged the Hecari leader their lord, even as Sancorra of Sancorra, as he was called, had previously been their lord. Commerce continued. So did lives. No Sancorran suggested revolt. Not one soul made any kind of stand against the Hecari.
The city surrendered its identity. Cardatha retained its name, its dwellings, its businesses inside the wall, but all under the control of the warlord. The bodies of those killed outside the wall had been given rites and buried, but charred wood and collapsed huts, stalls, and shacks still lay in scattered piles against the encircling wall as a reminder to strangers and residents alike. Rain, wind, and time slowly broke down what had once been whole.
Disdaining stone dwellings, including the absent Sancorran lord’s luxurious palace, the Hecari had put up large, round, conical-roofed hide tents called gher throughout the city, filling the open areas. Cardatha became an amalgam of pale gray stone and fawn-colored hide, all flying the gold-freighted crimson banners of the warlord. The high city wall now provided the Hecari with a defense, though in the face of their warlord’s cleverness and the loyalty and brutality of his men, and with the former lord now in hiding, no one expected Sancorrans from elsewhere in the province to make an attempt to recapture the city. Cardatha was no longer home to Sancorra’s lord, but the principal seat from which the Hecari warlord ruled. All matters of business were brought before him. All taxes and tribute from it and other provinces, accrued to him. His power was absolute. And to remind the residents of this fact every single day, the warlord had his own palace constructed, a huge round gher put up in the only available space large enough to host the Hecari palace: Market Square.
As Brodhi and Ferize approached the massive barbican tower and gate, Ferize took her leave, saying she had business of her own. It might or might not be true; for all he knew, she planned to surprise him again at some point in the city. So he rode on alone, and as expected his blue courier’s cloak and silver badge gave him immediate entrance before others in long lines waiting to be questioned by the gate guards. Hecari gate guards, not Sancorran; the lord’s guards had been executed. Cardatha was now a Hecari stronghold, but those from all provinces overtaken by the warlord had business in the city nonetheless.
Ordinarily, Brodhi would have ridden directly to the couriers’ Guildhall to make his report, take some rest, and to accept new assignments, were any in the offing. But things had changed since the arrival of the Hecari; instead, he headed first to Market Square, to the warlord’s lattice-and-hide palace. As always, the narrow dirt lanes were crowded, some nearly impassible because the market vendors, deprived of their traditional place in the city, had set up stalls along the lanes that radiated from the square like spokes on a wheel. With the populace strolling those lanes, pausing at various stalls to argue over the prices and quality of various items, and a plethora of loose dogs, cats, and poultry, it was nearly impossible for Brodhi to make his way through. Though Cardathans gave way at once to mounted Hecari, a stranger on horseback who was clearly not Hecari occasioned no such reaction.
Eventually he broke out of the crowded lane and entered the cobbled square, faced on four sides by an assemblage of various guildhalls. The warlord’s palace was a huge affair. A broad wooden platform was raised several stair-steps off the ground, and a freestanding hide gher, large as six stone dwellings, rose from it. It was round and tall, with a flat-topped, conical peaked roof, incorporating criss-crossed lattices of saplings to form sidewalls over which the hides were laced into position. It also boasted an intricately carved frame for the single door. The exterior hides, stitched together with sinew and leather, were assembled skin-side out, forming rectangular, square, and triangular sections that alternated in color and texture from dark to light, spotted to plain. From the flat roof-ring a crimson banner flew; at each platform corner an iron crook taller than a man also displayed the red banner. As always, thirty Hecari warriors encircled the palace as guards, their hair shorn save for a scalp lock, eyebrows shaved, lower faces painted indigo. Earlobes, stretched long and wide, bore heavy golden spools. Four warriors upon the platform stood guard at the gher’s door, a heavy slab of joined wooden planks carved into curvilinear and interlinked patterns of immense precision.
Most Hecari warriors knew Brodhi because of his coming and going, reports given to the warlord, messages received from him. Those who didn’t know him personally recognized his cloak and badge. He dismounted and a warrior came forward to hold his horse as he retrieved the scroll case from his saddle. Brodhi mounted the triple steps and stood silently upon the platform, the cloak pinned to his right shoulder and looped behind his back through his left arm. He waited.
As expected, one of the door guards eventually asked his business in weak Sancorran. Brodhi, speaking clear if not fluent Hecari, offered an abreviated version; details were due the warlord, not his guards. The warrior went into the huge gher and a moment later came back out and indicated Brodhi should follow him.
Brodhi took care not to step upon the golden threshold, which was offensive to the Hecari. He took care not to look at those gathered within the round palace; from him, it was also an offense. He took care to watch only his own feet, and to monitor his position in reference to the guard’s. But he knew the palace well from previous visits. And also he knew the warlord.
Within, the criss-crossed sapling lattices tied with straps of red-dyed leather formed curving walls as tall as a man. Above the walls, red painted wooden rafters, carved in a spiral pattern and wound about with strips of stamped gold, rose to a flat-topped peak where they were fastened to the roof-ring. From the rafters hung banner after banner, all of different colors, shapes, and sizes, figured, painted, and plain. Also suspended from the rafters were iron candle racks with fat ocher candles set into iron cups. Gilt-edged prayer flags and beaded gold wire wrapped around stone animal fetishes dangled over Brodhi’s head. Vivid tribal tapestries in an amazing array of colors divided the gher into rooms, but half of the palace was reserved for the warlord’s private reception chamber. At that tapestry, Brodhi halted as he was gestured to do. The guard slipped in; a moment later he pulled the tapestry aside and motioned for Brodhi to enter. Brodhi did so, keeping his head down. He also displayed the palms of his hands, and knew not to withdraw them until bade to do so, no matter how long it took.
This time, the warlord granted him the right to seat himself immediately. Brodhi bowed slightly and did so, placing his hands palm down on his thighs. The platform within the walls was richly carpeted, and colorful cushions were scattered here and there for guests. Brodhi knew to take the one placed in front of the warlord’s low marble dais, also draped in vibrant tribal rugs. Light was admitted through the open roofring; it glowed as well from the hanging candle racks.
The Hecari warlord sat in a heavy wooden chair bound with strips of stamped gold, flanked by six guards, three on each side. The chair legs were quite short so that the cushioned seat was low, but the carved and painted back was very tall, curving forward over the warlord’s head at its zenith like a wave in the ocean. Gold affixed to the wood gleamed in the light; gemstones glinted. The man in the seat, darkskinned and black-eyed, wore amber-dyed silk trews and tunic, beaded slippers, and a fawn-hued tabard heavily embroidered with golden thread. His scalp lock was threaded with a few strands of gray hair, braided, and brought forward over his left shoulder. Decorative gold clasps ran the length of the braid from skull to just past his shoulder, and his ear-spools were gold set with emeralds. In the tradition of his people his head was shaved save for the scalp lock, as were his brows. But while the warriors merely painted their faces, the warlord was indelibly tattooed in indigo ink so that no amount of sweat, blood, or rain could make the paint run or smear, and the enemy, in battle, would always know him.
Brodhi, who reckoned the man around forty, kept his head bowed and his eyes lowered, fixed on the carpet directly in front of his cushion. It was not his place to open a conversation with the warlord, only to be prepared to answer any question, to follow any command. If he did not do so willingly, the guards would guarantee it.
This time it was command. “Tell us,” the warlord said in accented but passable Sancorran, “about this—Alisanos.“
Brodhi did.
OVER SEVERAL ALISANI days, as she reckoned them, Audrun made numerous trips to the stream to fetch water, following the fabric strips she’d tied onto bushes and branches. With the other half of the melon scraped out, she actually managed to fill and carry both, one carefully stacked on top of the other, then cradled in her arms. She still wore Rhuan’s knife tucked into the drawstring waistband of her skirt and acknowledged that in order to use it she would have to drop the melons, but until that time came—if it came—she felt more secure armed. Her ankle yet pained her, but she kept it wrapped tightly for support, and her limp grew less troublesome.
Rhuan remained unconscious. Audrun began to suspect the demon’s talons had contained some form of poison, though he showed none of the expected signs. Other than bruises, there were no discolored streaks radiating from his wounds; if he had a fever at all, it was low; and he never appeared to feel cold. In the dark, Audrun did. And she discovered that if she lay close to Rhuan, resting her body from back to ankles against his, the nighttime chill faded somewhat. Wryly, she reflected that he was rather like the heated, cloth-wrapped bricks she and Davyn put into their beds during winter to provide warmth.
His braids were at last undone. With water at hand, Audrun had spread the crimped hair, found and examined the scalp wounds, soaked them with wet muslin. All were shallow, causing no problem beyond pain and bruised flesh. The biggest concern continued to be the wounds in his abdomen, but Audrun felt those were improving as well, bit by bit. There was no smell of rot, and the edges were clean.
Food was scarce. The other two melons Rhuan had brought back provided sustenance for a while, if only enough to take the edge off her hunger, but didn’t last. So Audrun took a hollowed half with her for comparison and went into the trees along the cloth-marked pathway, hoping to find where they had come from. She knew from harvesting pumpkin and gourds that the melons would grow on the ground, linked by woody stems, so she spent her time searching through thick grasses, brush, groundcover, and leaf mold. But the world was shadowed, the forest dense, and it was difficult to see much other than choking brush and vegetation. In the end, she tripped over a root and fell, nearly crushing her nose against a black-rinded melon obscured by undergrowth. Fortunately it matched in all ways the half she’d brought with her, and she harvested as many as she could carry, a clustered weight in a skirt held up to form a makeshift basket. When she returned, she made a small cairn out of them, piled within reach, keeping one aside to open at once.
She was seated next to Rhuan, hammering his knife into the hard rind, when he stirred and made a sound.
Audrun stopped bashing the knife with a rock. She let the melon and the crude hammer fall, but held onto the knife. She moved closer to him, kneeling at his side. “Rhuan?”
Lids fluttered. He inhaled a hissing breath. One hand moved to touch the bandages at his abdomen. After a moment he opened his eyes, frowning faintly.
Audrun smiled, relieved. “I have melon,” she announced. “Will you take some? I’ve been giving you a mush made with water, but if you intend to stay conscious now, you can feed yourself.”
His expression was perplexed as he peered up at her. Red flickered in his eyes, then retracted.
Audrun, who had witnessed the confusion in a wounded man when he first came to, decided to assist his memory. “I don’t know how many days we’ve been here,” she said, “not in Alisanos time, but I’ve seen three passes of the suns below the horizon. Three nightfalls. You’ve slept since then, or something akin to it.” She smiled crookedly. “I did manage to get the mush down you and a little water, but you weren’t particularly helpful. So if you’re hungry, blame yourself.” She paused. “Do you remember the fire? The demon?”
His voice was weak. “The dreya are dead.”
“Yes, and their ring.” She saw his gaze slip by her, saw it light upon charred trees. Saw the horror and grief enter his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There was nothing to be done. You were badly injured, and the fire moved so fast—”
“Dreya trees are hollow,” he rasped. “They conduct heat and flames as a chimney does. Once afire, no dreya tree, or dreya ring, can be doused.” He shifted a little, winced, investigated with care the sore areas in his abdomen. Then looked into her face, acknowledged what she had not mentioned. “He took the baby from me.”
She nodded. She could not speak of it. Not so soon.
Rhuan indicated his bandaged abdomen. “Is this all?”
“Some gashes in your thighs, and slices in your scalp. I cleaned all as best I could with water. I’m sure there are medicinal herbs and plants, even here, but I know none of them and dared not risk it. Perhaps you can tell me what to look for, now that you’re awake.”
“I took out your braids,” she told him. “It was necessary so I could get to the wounds. To wash them.” She smiled. “I believe your hair will be longer than mine, once the crimping is out.”
“No,” he said. “Oh, no … no.”
“It was necessary,” Audrun repeated. “You can braid it again. And I kept all the ornamentation safe.”
Rhuan shakily combed his fingers through a wavy section of hair, lifted it for viewing, then let it fall. “Audrun.” He swallowed heavily, expression somewhat peculiar—almost as if he suppressed a laugh, which she found quite odd. His voice sounded rather strangled. “Oh, Audrun, this was a mistake. A significant mistake.”
She frowned at him. “Unbraiding your hair? Come now, Rhuan, how can something so innocuous be a mistake? Particularly a significant mistake?”
He placed his palm over the upper half of his face, blocking his vision. Yes, he was laughing, if very quietly, which baffled and annoyed her even more. “Audrun …” He sighed, then removed his hand. She saw a rueful amusement in his expression, his flickering dimples. “Oh Audrun, I’m so sorry, but by unbraiding my hair, well… it means you’ve married me.”
Chapter 18
DAVYN—RIDING a horse with the smoothest gait he’d ever felt, even carrying two—was astonished to discover the karavan grove beside the settlement was mostly upended. And a high percentage of the tents, he saw, were missing entirely, with only a handful standing in the wide, flat, foot-beaten area that had once hosted as many as a hundred families, uncounted diviners, and various makeshift businesses. He saw charcoal raked into piles, a collection of broken tent poles, yards of ruined oilcloth. He smelled dirt, burned paint, damp ash, and death.
Deepwood: Karavans # 2 Page 16
