Audrun glanced at him sidelong. His mouth quirked. “Darmuth says too much.”
“But that is Darmuth’s duty, Rhuan. To observe you, and to report to us. How you conduct yourself is very much a part of this journey.” The female—Ylarra—glanced at Audrun. “Your human husband is not, nor ever has been, in Alisanos. Whether he is alive or dead in your world is not known to us.”
Relief nearly took her legs out from under her. “Thank the Mother,” Audrun whispered as tears welled.
“Audrun.” Rhuan’s voice sounded odd. “Audrun, turn around. Look at the top of the steps.”
She did so, and cried out. At the top of the steps four of her children waited. Gillan stood with weight on one leg, Darmuth next to him. Ellica held what appeared to be a sapling wrapped in her skirts, cradled close to her breasts. Torvic stood beside Brodhi, who held Megritte in his arms. None of them spoke. All merely stared. But in Gillan’s eyes, in Torvic’s and Ellica’s, she saw a stark, desperate hunger for her presence.
“Wait.” Rhuan caught her arm as she began to move. “Audrun, wait.”
She tried to wrench free and couldn’t. “Let me go to them!”
His face was tense. “The primaries are not done with us, Audrun. This isn’t your world. We are not free to act as we will. Your children are safe for the moment. Let them be.”
“Wise words,” Ylarra said dryly. “And to think Alario believes you empty of them.” She walked around to stand in front of Audrun, blocking her view of the steps. “No doubt you wish to return to your husband and take your children with you.”
“Yes.”
Ylarra turned to the other primaries. “What say you?” She looked at one particular male. “Karadath?”
He rose. His eyes were those of a predator. “Alisanos took her. Alisanos keeps her.”
“My children,” Audrun appealed.
He met Audrun’s eyes, and she saw nothing of humanity in his. Only cruelty, as Rhuan had warned. “Alisanos took them. Alisanos keeps them.”
RHUAN SAW THE FURY rise up in Audrun. She was nearly incandescent with it, and in that moment every bit as commanding as a primary. He watched her let all of the anger, all of the frustration, all of the fear for her children build within her, and watched too as she let it flow into her voice. The scorn was so thick it was palpable.
She didn’t shout; she did not need to. “And so I am proven right. You are not gods. Alisanos rules, and you and all of your people are its sycophants.”
Every primary rose. An angry, deep-throated roar filled the Kiba.
She had given him the opening. Rhuan raised his voice before Ylarra or Karadath could say anything. “This woman has challenged you within your own Kiba, questioning whether you are gods or no. In your own house, she challenges you. And I add my voice to hers: prove yourselves.”
He had surprised all of them: Audrun, Ylarra, Karadath.
“There is war in the human world,” Rhuan said. “One man has made himself a conqueror, claiming land that belongs to others. Thousands have died. Thousands have lost their homes, their livelihoods. More yet will die as this man enforces his rule. Because of him, folk like Audrun, alone and with their families, are fleeing their homeland to begin again in another. And it is because of this war that this family put itself in harm’s way. They had no wish to tempt Alisanos! But in their journey to escape the depredations of this conqueror, they ventured too close. The deepwood took them. And while I understand that what Alisanos takes, it keeps—there is a way to give this family back much of what it has lost.”
He saw the alarm in Audrun. “What are you saying?”
“In the human world, I am a guide,” Rhuan continued. “And Brodhi is a courier. We were reared here in Alisanos, knowing that there are no fixed, reliable routes through the deepwood. But we have lived, too, in the human world, and now understand the value of such things. What I propose, then, is that you prove to this woman that you are indeed gods, not sycophants. Give her a road.”
Ylarra’s tone was startled. “A road?”
“If she and her children can’t return to the human world, let the human world come to them.”
Ylarra’s response was immediate. “Impossible!”
“Because you can’t do this thing, or because you refuse to?” He turned sharply as Karadath took two long strides into the center of the Kiba. “Will you say the same, uncle? Ah, forgive me, that is a human word. But will you admit before this human woman, in direct response to her challenge, that this is impossible?” He flung out an arm toward the steps, pointing. “Your own son, your last dioscuri, has returned before his time. Would you have said that Brodhi was capable of such a thing? Impossible, is it not, that he would do so. Yet here he stands.” He lowered his arm and looked again upon the primaries who stood within the Kiba. “Safe passage through Alisanos, to Atalanda province. That is the challenge.” He met Audrun’s eyes, lowering his voice. “Anyone who wishes it can be brought through. Undoubtedly Davyn will be first.”
“Through Alisanos?” Her voice trembled. “To what would you bring him and the others? To death? To physical transformation?”
“To safe passage, Audrun. Alive. Whole. Human, as long as they’re on the road.” He flicked a glance at Karadath, whose face was stone.
She was white to the lips. “You could do this thing? Make a road, and bring Davyn to us?”
“Not I.” Rhuan’s smile was wry. “I’m merely a dioscuri, and an inferior one at that. But yes, they can do this.” He glanced briefly at Ylarra, at Karadath. “Brodhi and I have private business, and you need to meet with your children. If given leave, I will come to you after.”
She heard something in his voice. She flicked considering glances at the two primaries standing closest, then looked back at him. “Are you in danger?”
“Among the primaries?” He smiled. “Always. But then, I have always refused to play the game.”
“Rhuan—”
He lifted a hand. “Let it be, Audrun. For now, let it be.” He turned, then, to Ylarra. He took the leather thong he had used to tie back his hair from his belt, and offered it to her. When she took it, he held out his arms and crossed his wrists.
But it was Karadath who stepped forward, who ripped the thong from Ylarra’s grasp. Rhuan gritted his teeth as his wrists were too tightly bound, the thong too tightly knotted.
“You should know,” Audrun cried as Karadath turned him toward the steps, “that this ‘inferior dioscuri’ has more honor in him than any of you! Than any of you!”
THE SUN HAD set. Bethid, in Mikal stent sharing a table with Timmon and Alorn, was working her way through a second tankard when the Sister of the Road, the woman named Naiya, tore open the tent flap and stepped inside. Her face was drained of color.
“Bethid,” she said breathlessly, as if she had been running. “Mikal. Jorda says to come. Come at once.” Her eyes, too, were stunned. “The hand-reader’s dead.”
Bethid was aware that she moved, that she thrust herself to her feet and kicked aside the stool. She ran through the aisles, ran past the Sister, ran out of the ale tent. She heard footsteps behind her, male: Timmon. Alorn. Mikal.
Not Ilona. Not Ilona. Not Ilona—dead.
The settlement was now in an orderly circle. Easier to navigate. Bethid ran through it to the karavan grove, to Ilona’s wagon.
People were gathered there. Karavaners. They had left their wagons to go to hers. Bethid pushed through even as they gave way.
Jorda sat on the steps. Ilona was in his arms. She was a doll cradled there, a child cradled there, while Jorda wept.
“O Mother …” Bethid’s knees faltered, gave. She knelt in the dirt beneath the huge old tree. “No, no, no. Mother, not Ilona.”
“Sweet Mother,” Mikal whispered. “No, not Ilona.”
The lantern over the steps shone down on Jorda’s head, burnishing ruddy hair. His beard was soaked with tears. “She’s gone.”
“Are you … is there …” Bethid tri
ed again. “Could you be—”
“Mistaken?” Jorda shook his head. “Her neck is broken.”
One couldn’t tell by looking at her. Jorda held her too closely. Her head rested against his shoulder.
Bethid sat down. Her own eyes filled. She had no words, no words to speak, now that Jorda had said those that destroyed all hope.
Mikal’s voice was thick. “How? What happened?”
Naiya had come up. “I heard nothing,” she said. “No outcry, no scream. My wagon’s closest. I heard nothing.”
“Murder,” Jorda said. “There is a handprint on her throat. But I found her on the steps. She’s all broken.”
One of Ilona’s hair sticks lay in the dirt at the foot of her wagon. The other remained in place, but much of her hair had fallen loose. The wild ringlets cascaded over her shoulders and into her lap. Her face was hidden.
“Who would do this?” Bethid asked. “Who would do this?”
A tear rolled down the right side of Mikal’s face. Below the eyepatch, the flesh was dry. “Jorda.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Jorda, perhaps it’s best to put her in her bed. Let the women prepare her. She’d be wanting dawn rites.”
“Who’s to officiate?” Jorda asked. “All the diviners are dead.”
Bethid closed her eyes.
All the diviners are dead.
WHEN RHUAN CAME to Audrun and her children, the crying was ended. Audrun sat on a stone bench beneath a massive, spreading tree with Megritte in her arms, poor mute Meggie, who had, Torvic explained, said not a word since Brodhi pulled them out of Lirra’s cabin. He sat next to her on the bench, a warmth against her side. Ellica crouched upon the ground, tending her sapling. And Gillan, aided there by Darmuth—who was, Audrun learned, far more than merely a karavan guide—sat perched upon a large shelf of stone. She saw the shadows beneath his eyes, the tautness of his features, the pain in his posture whenever he shifted position. Damaged, Darmuth had said before he left them, but recovering.
Rhuan’s wrists were freed of their binding. She saw a pensiveness in his features as he approached, and an odd consideration as he looked at the cliff wall just behind them with its multitude of staircases hewn out of the stone, the stacked and mortared walls. But when he joined them, she saw again his smile, and the dimples.
“Is your business concluded?” she asked.
“It is.”
She recognized the look of a chastened young man who wished to hide it. “You’re to be punished, aren’t you? I don’t know what it is you’ve done aside from saving my life, but that is, apparently, worthy of punishment among your primaries.”
He gazed at Meggie, whose face was turned away, then looked briefly at the others. A muscle leaped in his jaw. “My punishment is nothing compared to what Alisanos has done to your children.” He looked again at Audrun. “Have they explained?”
“Oh, thoroughly.” A part of Audrun wished to cry again; another portion wished to be angry. But she would show neither to this man, who had done so much for them. “We can never leave Alisanos. My children have been made flesh of its flesh.” Bitterness rose against her wishes. “We are to be guests of your people.”
“That, only temporarily,” he replied. “Only until trees are cut, and materials are brought, and men who can build are found, and a karavansary is constructed at a place of your choosing along the road. A proper karavansary, where travelers may stop on the way to Atalanda. Then you will have a home again, and a husband.” He gestured briefly, indicating the children. “When you found yourself in Alisanos, you said nothing about your own welfare. You wished only to find your family. And so you have. You have your chicks back. You have accomplished, against all odds, what you wished to do.”
Audrun nodded, acknowledging that. “And this road will be safe? Davyn may travel it without fear of being changed?”
“All will be safe, and infinitely human, so long as they stay on the road.”
“Will you bring him to me?”
Rhuan smiled. “It would be my honor.”
He had done much for them, but she had to ask it. “Could you not bring him here? Now?”
The smile faded. “I may not. I’m sorry, Audrun. Not until the road is underway. If I brought him, he would be at the mercy of Alisanos. I think you would not wish that on him.”
It hurt not to cry. “No,” she agreed. “I would not.”
She knew she should rejoice that Davyn would be able to come at all. Yet when would that be? How long must she wait?
But still, she had more now than when she had first awakened in the deepwood. Her children, safe; herself, safe.
Except one child remained missing. A child she had had no opportunity to know.
To distract herself from that, she asked a question. “Why are you being punished?”
“I came home too soon. Or perhaps I should say I came back too soon; this is not my home.”
“I don’t understand.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It means that my final disposition, as the primaries call it, must be put off. Some argued against it, saying that the decision should be made now, but others said there were extenuating circumstances. And so I am to begin all over again.”
“Begin what all over again?”
“That journey Alario mentioned. Brodhi is quite furious … I think he would happily kill Ylarra for suggesting it, but Karadath agreed. So he and I are to return to the human world for another five years. Five human years.”
Audrun blinked. “Is that all? That is considered punishment?”
“Brodhi considers it so.” Rhuan grinned, and dimples appeared. “It means we’re still children, as the primaries view it.”
Audrun rather thought there was more to it than that, considerably more to it, but as Meggie moved in her arms she let the subject drop so she could resettle her daughter. “What will you do now?”
“I have a job as a karavan guide. I intend to return to it.” His eyes softened. “And there is someone I need to see. Someone whom I have had to treat as a friend when I desired otherwise … very much otherwise.” He grimaced, lips twisting. “It’s more than a little taxing, keeping secrets from one you esteem—”
Audrun’s brows rose. “Esteem? Is that what you call it?”
It showed in the lowering of his lids. “No.”
“Keep no secrets from a woman you love.”
His head came up, and she saw the desperate appeal for her understanding. “I had to, Audrun! It’s part of the journey.”
“But how can you start over again without continuing to keep those secrets?”
“From her? No. Not again. Not this time. Because I know, I know that I can trust her to keep them as well.” His mouth jerked briefly in a self-deprecating hook. “As you say: ‘keep no secrets from a woman you love.’ I won’t do it again. I will offer my hand, so that she may read it and know all that I am. But others? Well, still I shall tell them nothing beyond what is always said: I am Shoia. I can survive six deaths, but the seventh is the true death.” He chewed briefly at his bottom lip, considering something. “One day … perhaps one day such secrets will not be necessary. Perhaps one day all humans may be told who and what we are.”
Audrun studied him a moment in speculation, seeing within her mind the olive-skinned woman with dark, wild ringlets, hazel eyes, a slim, tall body, and secrets of her own. “Will you ask her to braid your hair?”
He shook it back from his face. “I think possibly so—if she’ll allow me to braid hers.”
She could hold him to her no longer. It wasn’t fair.
“Then go,” Audrun told him. “Waste no more time here. You have done much for me and mine. I bless you for it, and I thank the Mother of Moons. But it’s time now for you to accomplish a goal—one, I suspect, you’ve set aside for too long.” She managed a smile. “Go to her, Rhuan.”
He nodded. Then he stepped forward and bent down over her, placing a gentle kiss atop Meggie’s tangled hair. “May the Mother
of Moons bless you, little one. May you find your way home.”
As he turned and walked away, Audrun fought back tears.
It was Torvic who asked what she wished to ask, and did not. “What about the baby? Who’s going to find her if Rhuan isn’t here?”
Audrun drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs. Then expelled it sharply and declared, “We will.” She steadied her voice, and felt her spirit respond. “We will, Torvic. We’re her kin.”
Epilogue
BETHID HEARD HER name echoing through the grove. She could not imagine who would shout so, when all knew what had happened, when all knew she was sitting with Ilona through the night. It was customary. That anyone would disturb the vigil was astounding.
She rose from the trunk across the narrow aisle from the cot. Earlier she and Naiya had washed Ilona’s body and replaced her clothing with the traditional linen burial shift. Night had fallen; illumination was dim. The only lighted lantern was the one at the door hanging over the steps.
“Bethid!”
Furious, Bethid stepped to the door, preparing to tell the man in no uncertain terms that he had no business interrupting the vigil.
But it was Rhuan.
Rhuan.
She registered the pallor of his face, the horrified shock in his eyes. O Mother, he does love her! His hair was unbraided, swinging behind him as he ran. He wore a soiled tunic and leggings missing much of their ornamentation.
Jorda, she thought. Jorda had told him.
He stopped at the foot of the steps and stared up at her almost blindly, as if waiting for her to give him different news.
Bethid couldn’t. She couldn’t say anything at all because of the pain in her throat and chest. She just walked down the steps and away from the wagon, so he might have privacy.
But he had, she knew, seen confirmation in her eyes.
HE FELT HIS knees falter as Bethid walked away. He took a step forward to steady himself and caught hold of the doorjamb, one hand braced on each side. It set the lantern above him to swinging. Beneath his foot the bottom step was still new, the wood raw. Darmuth had replaced it, because he hadn’t.
Deepwood: Karavans # 2 Page 31
