The Wild Road

by Jennifer Roberson

  He looked at her children one by one, studying each closely, then raised his eyes to hers. The timbre of his voice was beautiful; she had forgotten that. “You are a very stubborn little human.”

  Audrun did not permit herself to flinch from either tone or observation. “So I have been told. Well, not that I am a stubborn human, nor particularly little—to us, that is—but yes. Stubborn. Particularly in defense of my children.”

  “Are all of them yours?”

  Feeling somewhat at a disadvantage because of her generally unkempt appearance, damp bodice, and the incongruity of a tree frond balanced on her head, she attempted to summon dignity and stood up straighter. “Of course they are.”

  “By different sires.”

  Audrun was shocked. “No, not different si—fathers! One. Only one. My husband.”

  “If they are of the same litter, why such disparity in their sizes?”

  A gust of incredulous laughter escaped her. “Humans don’t have litters! We have . . .” she paused, rethinking, “but no, that’s not entirely true. There are such things as twins, and I’ve even heard of a triplet birth many years ago, though none lived, nor did the mother. But we don’t refer to them as ‘litters.’ They are children. Child is singular; children means more than one.” And then she wondered what in the Mother’s name she was doing parsing words with him. “So long as you are here, imitating a wall, would you be so good as to explain what is expected of us? Where we may stay?” She gestured. “My children are exhausted, as you can see, and I gave birth some while back. It takes its toll, such things, especially here. We would like—”

  He cut her off. “You are fecund.”

  “I . . . well, yes. Five children does suggest fertility.”

  “We do not have litters. We have singleton births. And only one for each dam.”

  Audrun’s eyebrows rose. As the mother of multiples, she asked, “Why only one for each mother?”

  “They die.”

  His matter-of-factness shocked Audrun. “The mothers die? Each time?”

  “But you are fecund. You haven’t died yet. I think we should make a dioscuri, you and I.”

  THE TEARS WERE gone, the wagon neat, tea was ready for drinking as the sun went down. Ilona knelt beside the modest fire and took up the kettle with a rag wrapped around the handle, then filled a wooden mug playing proxy to pewter. She dropped two precious mint leaves into it—as drawers slid out in the quaking, much of her hoard of herbs and spices had spilled and were now mixed with dust—then retired to a fat cushion placed up against the massive wagon wheel, where a second cushion warded her spine against the hub. She sat down with a sigh, thumped her head lightly against the yellow-painted wheel spokes, and reflected that she needed nothing so much as a bath in the river, where she could cleanse her body as well as wash tangled, grit-encrusted ringlets. But she was too weary. Changing out of the burial shift into clothing of the living, for all it was a simple thing, stripped her of her last remaining reserves of strength, physical and emotional. More discouraging, tears always gave her a headache that lingered, sometimes beyond a night’s sleep.

  It was just after sunset. Nightsingers one by one joined in a ratchety, ringing chorus. She heard the flutter of birds looking for purchase in the old grove, the flap of wing against leaf. Dogs throughout the grove barked, answering dogs in the tents, and Ilona heard the squealing comment of a horse at Janqeril’s picket lines. Across the grove cookfires sprang up, and soon a veil of smoke drifted through, followed closely after by the odor of meat, wild onions, and spices. The shouts of children playing echoed amidst the great old trees, as did the voices of mothers as they called respective children in to dinner. Her belly, too, was empty, but she was disinclined to eat. She sat upon her cushion, leaned against another, and sipped tea as twilight fell and the moon and her acolytes rose.

  A twig snapped. Without even thinking, Ilona scrambled to her feet, and as the mug tumbled down it emptied the remains of warm tea all over her skirt. In the deepening dimness of twilight, she saw Alario and yanked the knife from her waistband, holding it low and underhanded, as she had been taught. She had killed no man, ever, but had meted out a slice here and there for those who grew too insistant.

  And then she realized that the intricate braids were missing, as was prime maturity. “Blessed Mother, it’s you!”

  Rhuan, who had stopped moving altogether upon sight of the knife, observed, “You cut the drawstring of your skirt.”

  She felt the heat of a blush. Indeed she was standing ready to stab, cut, or slice with the big knife, completely committed to action, but she thought the fierce tableau was much undermined by the pile of fabric puddled around her ankles. Still gripping the knife, she peered down. “So I did.”

  “Might I recommend a scabbard if you mean to keep such a vast knife on your person?”

  “Perhaps a scabbard would be best.” And as she met his eyes, laughter bubbled up. She was so tired she surrendered wholeheartedly to laughter, and after a moment he grinned and stepped close. She felt him take the knife from her loosened hand, heard the clunk after he tossed the weapon aside, and then the warmth of his arms encircled her. But she protested. “I need a bath. I badly need a bath.”

  “Well, I daresay I do, as well. Everyone is eating, including the livestock, and not likely to stir any time soon. We could retreat to the river unburdened by watching eyes.”

  His last sentence sent a wholly unexpected chill streaking down her back. She felt the prickle of it in her flesh. “Not at night!”

  It startled him into arched brows and questioning eyes.” Why not at night? No one will be there.”

  She bent, grabbed the fallen skirt, pulled it up where it belonged. Indeed, the drawstring was cut. Ilona hung onto the waistband to preserve a little modesty. She was a diviner; tentfolk and karavaners might very well be planning to visit her, even those who did not follow her faith. “Not now. Please. I’d rather wait until daylight.”

  Another man might have questioned her further. Another man might have mocked. But after a moment Rhuan bent, retrieved the dropped mug, scraped the interior with his fingers, and knelt beside the fire to refill it.

  Then, he paused. Ilona saw the motions of his hands change. He knelt beside the fire, mug clasped, and murmured words she did not know. When at last he looked up at her, she saw the laggard return of his senses, of his awareness of surroundings.

  She ventured a question, if very quietly. “What is it?”

  When he looked up at last, she saw a quick flash of red in his eyes. “I thanked it. I apologized.”

  She was not certain she had heard him correctly. “You—thanked it? And apologized?” She paused. “A mug?”

  “That once was a tree.”

  “A . . . tree. Well, yes. Many things are made of trees, including this wagon.”

  “It lived once. Blood ran in its veins, just as it runs in ours. Humans tend not to think of that.”

  She wondered if the observation included her among those who did not think. But a mug? A simple wooden mug?

  He refreshed the tea, then rose and offered the simple wooden mug.

  Ilona took it but did not immediately drink. She studied the mug, noting scrapes and gouges. With gentle fingers, she explored the exterior as she had never done before. Fingers found smoothness. Fingers found divots. Found ill usage, compared to what it had been before axes, sledges, and saws took it down.

  When the warmth was back in her hands, the familiar aroma rising, she felt tension slowly relinquish her neck and shoulders. “Then we’ll wait,” he said, referring to the bath she had forgotten about.

  Ilona blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry. I thought you were—him.”

  “My sire?”

  She nodded. “I forgot your braids were undone.”

  “Well, I believe we can
remedy that.” Firelight gleamed on the smooth flesh of his face. “How nimble are your fingers?”

  “My fingers?”

  “Devoid of knife, that is.” He lifted one of her hands and guided it to his head, where sheets of hair hung almost to his waist. “I asked you last night if you would braid my hair.”

  “There is a lot of it,” Ilona observed. “It would take half the night, at least.”

  He grinned, and dimples appeared. “I suspect we can find something else to do with the other half.” Then the dimples faded, as did the laughter in his eyes. “I started to explain this last night but got sidetracked.”

  Ilona smiled widely. “So we both did.”

  “But if you do braid it, you must know about the repercussions.”

  She tried to school her tone out of skepticism into mere curiosity but failed. “There are repercussions for braiding hair?”

  “Among my people, yes.” His expression, she noted, was a carefully constructed mask, but the brown eyes, reflecting flame, burned. “It’s a ritual undertaken to seal a man to a woman, a woman to a man.”

  She put her free hand to the disarray of her own hair. “Then I would braid mine?”

  “There are different braiding patterns for a woman. I would braid yours.”

  Now she touched his hair, letting it slide through her fingers. It needed washing, as hers did, but despite the ripples left by braids it hung nearly straight. “How did yours come to be unbraided?”

  Night encroached, but she could see fleeting expressions in the glow of the campfire. Something very akin to guilt. “It was not to be done, but was.”

  Obscurity had always been a part of him, but this night, after all that had happened, she had no patience for it. “What in the Mother’s name does that mean?”

  He touched his scalp, pushing fingers through his hair. “I was injured. Furrows, here, from a demon’s claws. They’re gone now, but she wanted to clean the blood away. I was unconscious, or I would have stopped her.”

  “Why does it matter that she unbraided your hair? Oh. I see. That’s part of the ritual, too. “

  “Among the primaries, if a woman wishes to marry a man, she unbraids her hair. If he accepts her suit, she then unbraids his.”

  “And then you braid it back again?”

  “Yes.”

  “So whoever unbraided your hair was asking you to marry her?”

  “I was unconscious.”

  That sounded suspiciously like an excuse. “So you have said.”

  “She didn’t know what it meant.”

  “Sweet Mother, Rhuan, just say it, would you?”

  “Audrun.”

  “Audrun?” She stared at him. “The farmsteader’s wife?”

  “The storm took us together. I led her to safety. Well, eventually—first I had to wrestle with a demon who wanted the infant.”

  “What infant? What demon? Rhuan—”

  He placed two fingers against her lips. “If we are to have this conversation, may we have it in your wagon? For privacy’s sake?”

  She removed his fingers from her mouth. “Yes, we shall, but first one thing.”

  “Augh, Ilona, not another thing—”

  He was so anxious, so worried, that Ilona had to stifle laughter. “If I have it right, then according to your people, you’re married, aren’t you? You and Audrun?”

  Hastily he said, “It doesn’t mean anything. Not here. It’s not a human ritual. It’s what the primaries do, but it means nothing here. Nothing at all.”

  She raised her brows and spoke with an overly dramatic tone. “But you’ve asked me to braid your hair. Here. So obviously there is some significance to the ritual, even by human terms. Yes?”

  The conflict in his face was clear. “But we’re not married. Not here. Audrun’s already married, here. So I am free, here.”

  “Here, here, and here. But the primaries think otherwise.”

  “I’m not there, Ilona. I’m here.” He stretched out his arms. “Here.”

  She laughed, tugged gently on the lock of his hair still grasped in her hand, then tugged harder. He followed the pressure on his scalp until their faces were level. She rested her forehead against his. “Yes, you are. Here.” She pointed to the wagon. “But let’s go there.”

  Chapter 7

  BETHID WAS SOUND asleep until the earth shuddered and the tent fell down. It startled her so much that she sat up, thrashing, and got herself entangled in billows of heavy canvas. What she uttered was in no way polite. And then, “Sweet Mother, the lantern!” Timmon and Alorn were absent, staying late at Mikel’s ale-tent, and it was routine to leave a lantern burning until all couriers returned to the tent. She smelled oil and smoke. “Where—?” It was difficult to make her way through the yardage of canvas. “Oh Mother . . . Brodhi? Are you here?” She had glimpsed him as she’d rolled up in her bedding. “The lantern’s fallen. Brodhi?”

  From somewhere came his voice, clear and concise, unmuffled by fallen tent. “I have it.”

  Relief. Now she could afford to be frustrated instead of worried. On hands and knees she made her way through folds and billows until at last she reached an edge of fabric and stuck her head out, yanking canvas aside. The settlement animals, yet again, were in an uproar. Across the grove, throughout the ranks of tents, she saw banked fires glowing. Above, the moon shed enough luminance to see shadowy bulks of nearby tents. She wondered if any others had fallen or just the one she slept in.

  The earth stilled. Bethid crawled out from under the edge of fallen canvas and rose. Not far from her stood Brodhi, who had already made his escape. The extinguished lantern hung from his hand. She tried to restrain her tone, but failed. “How many more times is this going to happen?”

  “Alisanos does as it does. It will take time for the land to ease.”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I mean: how many more times is the tent going to collapse? Someone did a piss-poor job of pitching it. Re-pitching it, that is. What does it take to keep it upright if only for one night? That’s all I ask.” She raised a pointing finger in the air to emphasize the number. “One night. One undisturbed night. If Alisanos wants to shake the world again, why doesn’t it do so in the daylight?” Aggrieved, she shoved fingers through her short-cropped hair, scrubbing violently, and glared at Brodhi. “Do something.”

  “Do something? I?”

  “Yes. You. You’re from there. Do something.”

  For a moment he ignored her, inspecting the lantern’s oil reservoir. Then he bent, took something from the ground, tossed it at her. Bethid caught it, saw it was a slim stick. “You do something,” he told her. “Flint and steel are buried beneath the tent. Go lift a light from another fire.”

  Bethid scowled at him. “My boots are in the tent. Under the tent.”

  “You have feet.”

  “Sweet Mother, Brodhi—you can’t expect me to go traipsing barefoot through the dark!” She peered at his own feet. “You have boots on!”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I have land-sense. I knew it was coming, this shrugging of its shoulders. And your first thought, as well, should have been to pull your boots on.”

  “If you knew this was coming, why didn’t you tell me? A warning would have been good. I’d have appreciated a ‘Bethid get up and put your boots on before the tent falls down on your head,’ before it fell on my head.”

  “By then I was out of the tent. With my boots on.”

  “Don’t sound so smug.” She inspected the stick again, then tilted back her head to look up at the moon. Some light, but not enough. Barefoot, she went off to find the closest fire, swearing each and every time her feet struck rocks.

  JUST BEFORE DAWN, the rain began. Davyn was wrapped in blankets on the floor of the wagon beneath a canopy given him by a karavaner with one to spa
re. He was perfectly dry, except for his tears. He had repeatedly dreamed of Audrun and the children throughout the night, getting little true rest. The karavan guide’s words about a road, and safety when one was upon it even in the depths of Alisanos, left Davyn with a mix of relief and worry. When would the road be done? When might he take it into the deepwood and find his family? When could he once again hold Audrun in his arms, embrace his children? When might he meet the smallest one, the infant named Sarith?

  Unanswerable questions, he knew. Rhuan could not predict when the road would be completed. The only action Davyn himself might take was inaction, as he waited. And waited.

  He rolled over onto his back, peering up at the oiled canvas of the wagon canopy. Outside the dawn grew stronger. He could see rain striking the canvas, as well as hear it, see the fragile light of a new day. Another day without his family.

  Davyn pressed his hands over his face and rubbed. He had not shaved in three days, and his jaw itched. Fingertips found stubble and scratched.

  The rain was, as far as Davyn could tell from inside the wagon, perfectly ordinary rain. Not the searing, steaming rain that had, in that unnatural storm birthed by Alisanos, struck the ground like spears and left divots of earth overturned. And it was not, as yet, a drenching rain.

  It had been the promise of heavy storms that had set all folk in the karavan to better speed in order to reach their destinations before the rainy season, the monsoon, set in. When his family joined the karavan, Jorda the karavan-master had been plain with regard to their oxen, known to move more slowly and ponderously than horses or mules. He’d explained that, in another year, all the karavans would have already gone, but Jorda’s was late, as was one other, which meant that he and Audrun and the children found a place. Jorda put them at the very end, where oxen would not slow the others; where he and his own ate dust.

  But now it was rain, welcome for its cooling properties, the abatement of dust, the filling of barrels put out for such purpose; but it would be unwelcome after a handful of days and the roads transformed to mire, a sucking mud that could trap heavy wagons. Even if his family were here, they could go nowhere now. Best to stay with others beset by the same delay than set out alone. He and Gillan together still would not have been strong enough on their own to lever a wagon mired down, even with the oxen pulling. Better to stay here, he knew—as much to wait for the road through Alisanos to be completed as to sit out the monsoon.