The Wild Road

by Jennifer Roberson

Brodhi shook his head. “You want to be oh-so-careful about protecting the lives of these fragile humans.”

  Rhuan’s tone and expression were aggravated. “It’s natural, Brodhi. I’d just as soon none of them die—or worse—by stepping into Alisanos by mistake. We have quite enough to deal with.”

  “Whereas I don’t care.”

  “Whereas you are a disgrace,” Rhuan declared, “because you don’t care. A disgrace to me, to your dam. Oh, but let’s use the human word for a human woman: your mother. Disgrace? Dishonor? Offensive? You describe yourself.”

  The tent doorflap was jerked aside. Bethid appeared in the opening. “Sweet Mother, will you stop? You sound like squabbling four-year-olds!” She glanced briefly over her shoulder into the dimness of the tent, then stepped out and let the flap fall. She lowered her voice. “Fortunately, I already know what you are. And I don’t really care what you are, but—”

  Brodhi cut her off. “This is a Shoia matter.”

  Bethid opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally she said, “Yes, I suppose that would be the assumption. But I just know we need to make shift to be as careful as possible, this close to the deepwood.” He saw unflagging determination in her eyes. “Brodhi, just give him the map. It will help us all. We humans don’t have this land-sense, remember? Rhuan’s right about protecting what we can. You will ride out of here, bound for Cardatha, but what about everyone left behind? Do you truly want us all to end up swallowed by Alisanos?” She paused. “We humans, that is.”

  Brodhi shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.”

  “But it should,” Bethid told him. “You live among humans. Shouldn’t you attempt to get along with them?”

  Brodhi said “No” at the exact moment Rhuan said “Yes.”

  Bethid glared at Brodhi. “Just give him the map. We’re likely leaving in the morning anyway.”

  “I,” Brodhi said with exquisite clarity, “don’t have the map.” That struck both Rhuan and Bethid into baffled silence. Brodhi smiled. “Mikal has it. Apparently he claims some gift for mapmaking . . . one gives him the rough sketch, and he makes it over into a true map. He would probably do well in the Mapmaker’s Guild in Cardatha, rather than serving ale in this piss-poor gathering of unworthy souls.”

  “Fine,” Rhuan said in a clipped tone. Then he turned on his heel and began striding back through a thin layer of wet earth toward Mikal’s ale-tent.

  Bethid watched him go, then shook her head at Brodhi. “A waste of time, that. You might have told him plainly without baiting him into an argument.”

  Brodhi examined Bethid a long moment. “You know what we are, you said.”

  “I do. Ilona told me.”

  Brodhi gritted his teeth. “Well, why don’t we just ring Jorda’s Summoner and make an announcement? You could explain how it is that Rhuan and I aren’t Shoia—”

  “—but demons from Alisanos. I know.” Bethid nodded. “And if I did so, what do you suppose would come of you and Rhuan? I don’t care how superior you might be, physically, but how do you think others would respond?” Her tone took on an edge. “How would you like it if the Guildmaster were told what you are?”

  Brodhi scowled at her, truly annoyed. “How much do you know, to threaten me like this?”

  “Compared to what there is to know? Oh Brodhi, I have no idea. But you are not Shoia. That, I do know. And I suppose it might make a difference if all the settlement folk were told what you are.” Her pale brows rose. “Alisanos has changed everyone’s lives. The Hecari culling party has changed everyone’s lives. What do you suppose they might think—or even do—if they were told what you are?”

  Anger ran high, crested. “You don’t know everything!”

  “I know just enough to plant the seeds of distrust in the folk.” Bethid smiled grimly. “Shall I do it, so that you understand the import of such actions?”

  Brodhi had never struck a female, human or Alisani. At this particular moment, he wished to. But he was on his journey. Such actions would be reported by Ferize to the primaries. He believed that most primaries might well understand what drove him to violence against a human, but he was on his journey. It was expected he would be circumspect. It was part of the challenge.

  Bethid stood her ground. He had seen her do that twice before, when it was the only defense against physical and mental incursions: when she faced down the Guildmaster at her examination, and when she had waited for four Hecari to charge her in the midst of the settlement.

  Brodhi met her eyes and nodded slightly, acknowledging a game well played. “By now, Rhuan will have the map. It no longer involves us.”

  Bethid’s body was still; her eyes were steady on his own. “It must be difficult for you, living among a race you find inferior.”

  He did not take it as a challenge, though he expected it might be. “Indeed. Very difficult.”

  After a moment Bethid shook her head, made a dismissive gesture, and ducked back inside the tent. Brodhi, deserted by her and by Rhuan, expected to feel amusement and a comforting superiority.

  But he felt neither. It puzzled him a moment. He consulted the self-knowledge all dioscuri claimed, the inner confidence and power that so easily rendered humans to faded approximations.

  And he realized, having consulted, that what he felt was alone.

  Chapter 14

  DEMON SAT BESIDE the creek that ran before the hut and combed through its wet hair with its—no, her; when would she restore to herself the proper gender?—her clawed fingers. Thick and black, her hair fell to mid-back. Daily, Demon washed her own hair with a soapy substance pressed from a root. It mattered to her that her hair be clean and glossy.

  She was naked. The creek/stream/river—today it was a creek—provided water for regular bathing. Each morning she slipped from loose leather leggings and black hide jacket, anticipating the sensation of water running over her flesh—so sensuous, so blissful—cleaning impurities from her body. Now she sat upon the creek bank with wings spread, drying in the suns. She had placed the baby in the curl of a root atop the soil, well wrapped against chilling. She had been restless all night, the baby, assuaged by neither sustenance nor clean, dry clouts. By dawn, Demon realized what the matter was. A tooth had erupted from the baby’s upper gum. Now the child slept, after an application of numbing herbs.

  Vague memory told Demon it was too early for teeth.

  She lay back upon the bank, flattening wings beneath her so as not to harm them, to avoid cramps or crimping. The wings were featherless, formed of a flexible leathery brown membrane stretched between black, shining vanes, vanes echoed in the claws of her hands, the claws of her feet. Gently Demon scratched the dark scales climbing from pubis to mid chest, where two human breasts used to be. Nipples were swollen, black and loose. Her body understood that an infant needed sustenance to live. From that first deep cut made by a claw, scaled breasts had grown. Strange, that she had not noticed when the first transformation took human breasts away. But, even scaled, these would do. They served the purpose.

  It crossed her mind to wonder if, when the baby was weaned, she would lose the breasts again. Would become an it again.

  But she could not dwell on that. She preferred to live in the moment. She stretched from fingertips to toes, loosening muscle fibers. Flight was her joy, but being clean nearly matched that elation.

  Demon extended both hands up into the air, spreading long, narrow fingers to examine curving black claws thick as her little finger. Such long but strong fingers, with five joints apiece instead of the human three. Between thumb and fingers on both hands ran webbing of the same leathery membrane as her wings, but considerably thinner, letting a measure of dull light through. From her feet, as well, grew claws. She wore no shoes or boots because neither could tame the toe claws, nor the spurs growing out of both heels. In certain seasons she rubbed claws with r
iver sand, shedding the old coating. It was painful, and the new layer of claw underneath was initially extremely tender, though a carapace-like top layer grew to protect them.

  Demon sat up, studying her feet. It occurred to her that perhaps the baby, as it grew, might come to view her as something terrible. It was a human child, and Demon did not look as the baby did. Wings, scales, claws. Strong, pronounced jaws used to tear out throats, to shred and chew meat. Teeth were pointed where humans’ were flat along the bottoms. Scales adorned flesh in several places. And her eyes. The creek, when still, had provided that truth: pale, pale eyes with vertical slits for pupils.

  At first, transformation had horrified her. Terrified her. Human hands and feet shed nails. Human teeth fell out. Her eyes wept blood. And then the first nubs of wings erupted. Claws replaced nails. Fangs replaced teeth. Her eyes bled out their ordinary blue, losing all color, and the black roundness of pupils altered. Scales grew from her white, white flesh. Dark iridescent scales, most beautiful in the sun. Fear fled. Prayers died. She was what she was. What Alisanos decreed.

  Demon, feeling liquid heat within her loins, tipped back her head, damp hair hanging between the roots of her wings, sliding down against the small of her back.

  Oh, she was beautiful. And knew it. Surely the baby would see her beauty as well.

  The call of her body was intense. She yearned for a male.

  It had been so long, too long . . . so very long she could not recall what mating was about. Such things were—confusing. She knew something was wanted. Her body rang with it.

  But she did not desire a human.

  Once, Demon herself had been human. She remembered that now. But in Alisanos, humans died. Initially she had escaped death any number of times, keeping fragile flesh safe from beasts and demons. And then transformation began. No one, now, would call her human. And it was well; in Alisanos, humans died. Her new self was far better prepared to fight for her life. Her new self was easily able to kill.

  But the child. The child. What would the child think? Would she cower from Demon in fear? Would she, when she could, run away?

  Demon’s eyes stung. Breath caught in her throat. Without rising she crawled to the infant, lifted the infant, cradled it in her arms. She sat cross-legged upon the earth, naked body drying, head bent over the child she pressed against her breast, urging the child to feed. Wings were brought forward, forming a tent-like construction around the infant. It was best, Demon knew, if the child was transformed also. Because then she would not be frightened of a winged creature, a creature with claws. She was Alisanos-born, this child; she might herself become anything. Was the tooth not early?

  It would be well, Demon decided, if the infant grew to be like her benefactor, able to rise into the air above the treetops with strong wings spread, warmed by double suns.

  “Feed,” she said in her rusty voice, cradling the child more closely. “Feed on my substance. Then you will be strong and no one will hurt you.”

  Nor would any human want her, when they saw what she became.

  Demon smiled. She began to sing. It was a private song, meant only for the infant.

  And it was beautiful.

  THE FADED MAN led Audrun and her children to the cliff dwellings, showing them up a twisting stone pathway against the cliff wall. Steps of stone climbed up to dwelling terraces. Stacked and mortared bricks formed chamber walls. Audrun was grateful that all had been built with the primaries in mind; the pathways and steps were wide for humans, allowing them some security as they climbed higher.

  Up and up. Around and around. She learned to follow the faded man’s habit of stepping aside when a primary wanted to pass, always to the outside of the pathway. She kept track of the four children, urging them out of the way when necessary but directing how to be most careful at the outer edge of the pathway. Her guide never looked up as primaries approached, never met their eyes. Head bowed, he halted and stood in a posture of submission, eyes fixed on the ground, hands folded over his abdomen. Audrun, however, made no such obeisance herself. Nor did her children; they merely stared. Stared hard at every primary.

  And at last they were led to a doorway flanked by tall, narrow windows on either side of the hide-curtained opening. Again, all was on primary scale. The man slid the hide aside on its rod, then stepped back, inclined his head, and gestured Audrun to enter. She did so after gathering her children close. And very nearly gaped as she entered.

  She came from the timber and sod of a farmstead, of chinking between logs, of wooden floor assembled with pegs to hold planks in place. She came to a house of stone, one large chamber, one small. Richly colored rugs covered every inch of stone floor. Carved wooden chairs with dark hide forming seats and backs were set against walls. A long table bore a hand-worked container, several cups. In the center of the large chamber was a fire ring built of dressed bricks mortared into place, and meticulous mosaics around the top edge. Intricate iron stands stood in each corner, supporting on their plates fat, carved candles. Light spilled in the doorway, in the windows, illuminating the main room. Three of the walls were constructed of stacked stone; the back wall was part of a cliff and bore carved reliefs, lines and angles intermarried with flowing curves and circles. Overhead, above the fire pit, light from two suns came down in a glowing column. She tipped her head back and stared up at the hole in the ceiling, seeing blue sky and sunlight beyond.

  She could not help the most practical of questions. “What about when it rains?”

  The man gestured. “The iron plate, do you see?”

  She did. It was round, like the window in the ceiling, but set aside from the opening.

  “It swings over the skylight. With this, see?” He took up a long iron pole, slotted it into the plate, swung it over the opening. “Like so.”

  “This is—beautiful.” Audrun turned in place, taking in the rugs, the wall carving, the gleaming hide curtains hanging beside windows and door. And it was, though alien to her eyes.

  “Through there is the sleeping chamber,” he directed. “There are beds enough for you all. Water is there, on the table. I will bring you meals except for when you are summoned to attend a primary.”

  “Is that likely?”

  The man met her eyes. “Oh, I would expect it.”

  For some reason, that made her nervous. She did not in the least feel submissive, but to sit down to dinner with one?

  Ah, but she should not be intimidated. She had eaten with Rhuan. And that provoked another question. “Do you know Rhuan?”

  “He is Alario’s get.”

  “And Brodhi?”

  “Karadath’s.”

  She named the only other primary whose identity she knew. “And Ylarra?”

  Color rose in his face. She saw the copper tinge of his flesh deepen. But no red flicker appeared in his eyes that she could see, because he stared hard at the ground. “Ylarra wielded the knife.”

  Audrun stared at him. Knife? What knife?

  He seemed aware of her confusion. “I’m a failed dioscuri. In the ritual, it was done by Ylarra’s hand.”

  Audrun shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  He touched his hair, cut short at the back of his neck. “This first. Then my manhood.”

  “What?” The shock of it doused her with a chill. “She . . . blessed Mother, what did she do?”

  “Cut me,” he replied. “Made me into a neuter. That’s what all of us face who fail but survive.”

  IT WAS TRUE, Rhuan found, that Mikal had great skill at mapmaking. The ale-keep spread out what Brodhi had given him, a rough sketch, and set it next to his own work. The inking was superb. Rhuan, leaning across the table, lightly tapped Brodhi’s ill-made map with a forefinger. “This mostly deals with the approach to the opening and the passage into the settlement. There’s nothing here about the i
mmediate surroundings, which is my job. . . . This isn’t as helpful as I’d hoped.” He straightened, meeting Mikal’s eye. “Have you a backer board, tacks, and lead?”

  Mikal’s lips twisted briefly in a wry amusement Rhuan didn’t understand. “Wait here.”

  Rhuan studied Brodhi’s rough map again. The opening onto grasslands was indeed narrow, as was the twisting passageway leading to the settlement. He supposed one could ride three abreast, but that might put someone too close to Alisanos. Two abreast would be better. But he could definitely see the possibilities of an ambush. The abiding problem, however, was proximity to the deepwood. Where were men to hide without risking themselves? When Brodhi brought four Hecari, the settlement was warned by those who had stationed themselves in the middle of the passageway to avoid the deepwood on either side. It had proved successful because the Hecari expected nothing. Were they to repeat the actions, it could end in death, or disappearance, depending on the deepwood’s whimsy.

  Rhuan sighed, chewing the side of his mouth. He traced out areas on Brodhi’s rough map. “Here,” he muttered. “Boulders? No, too difficult. Trees. Trees set out to look like deadfall.” And thus shields for those who would watch for Hecari, passing word along through whistles approximating bird calls, the cries of vermin, or even a runner, if necessary. Rhuan’s mouth flattened with tension. It was critical that he get the cairns up as soon as possible. He foresaw a long night. Since his vision was better than that of humans, he could work longer.

  Mikal appeared from the private portion of the big tent behind the bar, behind the barrels, hidden by canvas. He carried the backer board to the table, slid Brodhi’s map onto it, then tacked it into place. He handed Rhuan a rough-cut length of lead. Rhuan, who had never paid attention before, noted the breadth of Mikal’s palms, the thickness of his fingers. He also saw that Mikal’s hands were exceptionally clean. No smudges marred the surface of the inked parchment. Brodhi’s map was soiled, as might be expected for rough sketching on the road, in weather, but not Mikal’s. It was pristine, despite threats from ale, spirits, cheese, smoke, oil, candle wax. In an ale-tent one would expect a map to be soiled. Mikal’s wasn’t.