The Wild Road

by Jennifer Roberson

  Davyn stared at him, trying to focus on the ale-keep’s single eye. “Why in the Mother’s world would you want to discuss my personal business?”

  “You mentioned a road.”

  Heat climbed into Davyn’s face. He picked up the tankard and drank, hoping it gave him time to rearrange his expression. The pungency of the spirits set his eyes to watering. He put the tankard down. “That was wishful thinking.”

  Mikal shook his head. “There’s more to it than that.”

  Say nothing. Say nothing more of what the guide told you. Accordingly, Davyn shook his head. “No.”

  “Rhuan nearly broke his neck snapping his head around when you mentioned this road.”

  “And he explained that.”

  “That doesn’t mean what he said was entirely the truth.” Mikal shifted on his stool. “As was said, a road through Alisanos would offer safe passage to hundreds of those fleeing the Hecari.”

  “It would,” Davyn said guardedly. “But of course it’s impossible. Who would build it?” Which was a question he should have asked the guide. Well, later. Later he would ask.

  “A road through the deepwood would offer safe passage for your family,” Mikal said thoughtfully. “A way to Atalanda.”

  After pausing for another swallow of spirits, Davyn nodded. “Yes, if it could be done. But we all of us discussed that earlier. There is no way it could be done. Would you be willing to build it?”

  The ale-keep smiled. “You’re not particularly good at dissembling.”

  Davyn wasn’t entirely certain if that were insult or compliment. “I’m not dissembling.”

  “You’re an honest man, farmsteader. I doubt you have ever lied in your life.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “But you’re hiding something.”

  Davyn glared at the man. “Why would I be hiding something? What is there to hide?”

  “Knowledge. The kind of knowledge that would prompt you to say something about a road, when it would never occur to anyone else. And Rhuan was displeased.”

  More spirits slid down Davyn’s throat as he swallowed. Ale he enjoyed now and then, but spirits, no. He had determined that years before, when three swallows had made him drunk. And sick the next morning

  Davyn squinted into the tankard. Am I drunk now?

  Possibly so. He didn’t feel like himself. He found himself hoping that he would not be sick this time.

  “Rhuan told you something, did he not? Something to do with building a road through Alisanos. Specifically.”

  Davyn surrendered pretense. “I will one day walk the road to my family. Or they will come to me.”

  Mikal grunted. Then, in seeming idleness, he observed, “Rhuan has never spoken much about himself. But I suspect he has said more of himself to you than to others.”

  Davyn shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “It matters if there is threat to the folk here.”

  Davyn stared at Mikal a long moment. “He wouldn’t harm anyone here. He’s a guide . . . his sworn oath is to safeguard the karavan.” And memory became vision: Rhuan facing down a Hecari party at the karavan and killing each. “At which he is most efficient.”

  “He’s efficient at most things,” Mikal said in an agreeable tone. “But he was in the deepwood and came out again. Looking precisely the same as when he went in. Is there another man alive who can say so?”

  Davyn shrugged again, realizing that his words had turned slow. Spirits, he knew. “The courier did the same. Brodhi.”

  “Yes,” Mikal said quietly. “Two men went in, two men came out. It’s not often that anyone comes out of Alisanos, certainly no one sane. Yet both Rhuan and Brodhi did. It may be no coincidence.”

  “Does it matter?” Davyn repeated, and drank down more spirits.

  “I have never heard of Shoia going into Alisanos. Before Rhuan and Brodhi arrived, I didn’t know there were any Shoia left in the world to go into Alisanos. Yet we took them at their word.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Davyn asked. “You took me at my word that I’m a farmsteader.”

  Mikal smiled. “That is very evident. But for those two?” He shook his head. “The only thing evident about them is a very close resemblence—”

  Davyn cut him off. “They’re kin. Anyone who saw my children would know they were related. Why would it not be the same for Rhuan and the courier?”

  “Perhaps it would be,” Mikal agreed, “did I not smell something of subterfuge.”

  The tent continued to revolve. Oh, he would be sick. To take his mind off the urge to rid himself of spirits in a most uncomfortable way, he turned to a question. “Why subterfuge?”

  “You asked Brodhi to go into Alisanos and find your family.”

  “I did.”

  “What man would go into Alisanos for any reason?”

  “I offered to pay him.”

  Mikal waved a big hand. “That’s not significant. I doubt any man would willingly go into Alisanos at any price.”

  “The hand-reader saw it. That he would go. And she reads true.”

  “Ilona is discreet,” the ale-keep commented, “but she would never keep to herself a thing that might be linked to trouble.”

  “Exactly. She saw it in my hand.”

  “Did your hand also tell her Brodhi would come back out?”

  “Considering I asked him to go into Alisanos looking for my family, and that the hand-reader saw him in the deepwood, I would assume so.”

  “But he came back without your family.”

  Grief rose. His voice was uneven. “Yes.”

  “Davyn—I don’t mean to be cruel,” Mikal said. “I’m sorry, but I need to know. I care for the people here.”

  Davyn took up the tankard and drank the last swallow. “Rhuan didn’t go into the deepwood voluntarily. Alisanos took him. He was with my wife, trying to get her to safety.”

  Mikal shook his head. “Then why didn’t he bring her out? He came out. Why did he leave her there?”

  He thumped the tankard down sharply. “He said he had no choice. Why would he tell me this road could lead me to my family if it can’t?”

  “Perhaps a kindness, in his own way.”

  “Kindness!”

  “To keep you in hope.”

  Davyn stared at him. Now he was blearily curious. “Then you think he lied.”

  “He may have,” Mikal said judiciously.

  It was not quite accusation. Davyn squinted at him, trying to still the tent from its slow revolutions. “I thought you were friends.”

  “Rhuan and I?” Mikal shook his head. “He comes here to drink. I am not friends with every man who does so.”

  “But you give credence to what he says. You did earlier today.”

  “Because I believe Rhuan is very experienced in many things. But that is part of the problem. He knows too much.”

  Davyn shook his head. “I believe he meant what he said.”

  “About the road?”

  “About the road. About me safely meeting my family on that road.”

  “You are so certain.”

  “I have to be. For the sake of my family.”

  Mikal ran a thumb back and forth across his upper lip. “I don’t like it. Why would Rhuan tell you about a road through Alisanos, but not any of us?”

  Davyn rubbed one side of his face, elbow planted on the table. His skin felt tight. “I don’t know. Ask him.” Earlier he had let information about the road slip, despite promising he would keep it in confidence. Rhuan, now, was the only connection he had to his family. He could not betray him.

  But disbelief tugged at him. He said he is a god. A god! Once again Davyn took up the tankard. This time he drained it. Oh, indeed, he was drunk. Was that why
Mikal had given him spirits? To make him speak of things he shouldn’t?

  Davyn said with meticulous enunciation, “I have no reason to disbelieve Rhuan.”

  “Well. Perhaps not.” Mikal leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You would do well to understand that, for all his affability, for all his charm, Rhuan is a dangerous man.”

  Memory found its way through the fog of strong spirits. The same vision in his head: Rhuan, killing Hecari with deadly accuracy; throwing long-bladed knives that cut into Hecari throats.

  “To save us,” he said as the tent continued to spin.

  “Save you from what?”

  “Hecari. You should have seen it. Him . . . matter of moments. And then all of them were dead.” Oh, Sweet Mother. He was going to pass out. Or be sick. Perhaps even both. “—did this on purpose.”

  The one-eyed man smiled. “I did.”

  “You think I’ll give up secrets.”

  “I do.”

  Davyn attempted to hang onto concentration. His eyes wished to close. “Why does it matter?”

  Mikal smiled. “Rhuan exaggerates. He can tell a twisty tale when he chooses. But he was deadly serious when you spoke about the road.”

  “And I repeat: Ask him. Not me.”

  “I intend to. “

  Davyn squinted. “Why ask me at all?”

  “Because you are far more likely to tell me the truth.”

  He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. But he was afraid he might be sick first. Well, better than being sick in bed.

  His eyes wished to close again. “I told you. He said a road would be built. And I could go to my family.”

  “Did he say anything about why he came out of the deepwood with impunity?”

  “He’s a god.”

  Mikal froze, single eye widening. “A what?”

  Davyn’s eyes won the battle. Lids closed. “He said . . . he said he’s a god.” With great effort he managed to open his eyes, albeit the merest slit. “Half a god.”

  The ale-keep said nothing. He just stared from his single eye.

  “Maybe he is,” Davyn said thickly. A yawn overtook him. “Or not.”

  “Or not,” Mikal echoed.

  “I am quite drunk,” Davyn said.

  “Yes.”

  He pushed the tankard toward Mikal. “More.”

  “I think not.”

  Briefly it annoyed him, that the ale-keep would deny him. Was he not someone who sold spirits and ale to anyone who asked? But only one more question made it through the fog of spirits and profound sleepiness. “How will I get to my wagon?”

  Mikal laughed softly. He rose, pushing the stool out of the way. “I’ll take you there. It’s a task I know very well. You are not the first to lose his wits to spirits.”

  Davyn sighed his relief. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Mikal hoisted him up, steadied him.

  “He said he was a god. Half.”

  “Well,” Mikal said. “Either he’s telling the truth, or it’s one of his twisty tales.” He set a shoulder under Davyn’s, hooked a limp arm around his neck. “I’m not entirely sure which I’d prefer.”

  Davyn let the ale-keep take much of his weight. “I want him to be a god.”

  “Blessed Mother, why?”

  “Because then I can go to my family. When the road is built.”

  Chapter 17

  DESPITE HER INTENTION to go to the ale-tent, Bethid decided against it. She was tired in mind and body. It felt like she had been battered one way and another for days. She pulled off boots, stretched out on her pallet, dragged blankets over her body. Still clothed, she lay flat on her back, eyes fixed on the ridge pole, the Mother Rib, high overhead. And on the dangling string of charms that all couriers respected as a thing to ward them against dangers of the road.

  She sighed heavily and draped an arm over her face, elbow jutting upward. Little by little she relaxed knotted muscles, one limb at a time. As always, it was her spine that took the brunt of stress; that and her neck. She felt dirty, gritty, itchy. A bath was called for, but she would not go to the river in the dark, even if she carried a lantern. She respected what Rhuan said about the dangers of the night, camping so close to Alisanos. So she would rise with the dawn, dunk herself in the river, put on clean clothes (though they would soon stick to her flesh) and join Jorda and the others heading for Cardatha.

  Bethid badly wanted to sleep, but her mind would not permit it. And for the first time, she felt a faint flutter in her belly. What if she were wrong? What if none of the Cardatha Guild couriers wished to involve themselves in her plan? What if they declined to pass the word directing people to the settlement? She was, after all, inciting war.

  Blessed Mother . . . am I wrong? Should I just let things go on as they have before?

  Certainly that was the easiest course, but even as she asked herself that question, she felt again the surge of determination to strike a blow at the Hecari. She well understood the pervasive fear among Sancorrans trying merely to survive in a province now ruled by the Hecari. She herself had been frightened and still was. But now she had a task to do. Now she knew of a way to help her people.

  If only she could convince other couriers about the need—well, no; they understood the need. And the danger. The Guild had a truce of sorts with the Hecari. If word of this were carried to the warlord, that truce would end, and the Guild would be destroyed.

  Couriers would die.

  Timmon and Alorn, her closest friends among the couriers: dead. Halleck and Gathlyn, both of whom she esteemed highly: dead. And even the youngest, the one whom she teased, Corrid: dead.

  Bethid lifted her arm from her face and rubbed at eyes that felt hot and dry. Blessed Mother, let me do this thing. She pondered that a moment. And let all of us survive it.

  EVENING SETTLED OVER the encampment like a shroud. Birds stilled, tucking heads under wings. Cook fires, banked for the night, glowed as if to light his way, but Darmuth did not need such aids. He walked as a man, as the man so many recognized when they saw him, not knowing what he was. Rhuan and Brodhi had established that they were Shoia; he was merely a man. He let no human know—or suspect—otherwise. And so he walked among the humans as if he were kin-in-kind. They saw what they saw, what they expected to see, marking him as eccentric, perhaps, with his taut-fitting, colorful clothing, winter-ice eyes, a green gemstone set in one front tooth; but one of them all the same and tasked with getting the karavan from the settlement to distant portions of Sancorra, where there might be fewer Hecari.

  Walking as a man, he slipped through the elder grove, noting that lanterns glowing in the wagons’ interiors were being snuffed out one by one. A dog barked; another answered, but the tone was not of alarm or aggression. Perhaps they, too, were saying goodnight.

  Darmuth smiled crookedly. Maybe what he should do, at some point, was to take on the guise of a dog and learn what they knew of life, why they did what they did. There were no pets in Alisanos.

  Except perhaps for the lesser demons. They might be viewed as pets by the primaries. In fact, they probably were viewed as pets by the primaries. Lesser demons, such as himself. Such as Ferize.

  He did not wish to be a pet. He wished to be greater than he was. To gain respect. To ascend even as the dioscuri who killed their sires ascended, save that a demon had no hope of rising so high, or in the same manner. Demons were made. They were not born as infants, did not experience childhood, knew nothing of how a baby in the creche grew to young adulthood. They were made creatures, he and Ferize and hundreds of others.

  Providing Rhuan and Brodhi were guided along their journeys in a way the primaries approved; providing they gained the insight and drive required to properly challenge their sires, neither he nor Ferize would be unmade.

  Already,
pathways were being formed in the elder grove. Grass was pressed to earth, showing where humans walked. Soon it would be torn, killed beneath boot soles, and the soil underneath the destruction would rise up through broken stems.

  His own boots packed down the grass, tore it, killed it, as they pressed into soil. Odors permeated the grove. His sense of smell was far superior to that of humans. Odors of meat, bread, fire, smoke, spices, the barest trace of tea, warm horseflesh, herbs, grain, and grass, dampness, stone, earth, wounds in trees whose limbs were freshly broken; all, he smelled. And the scent of humans. To him, to a demon, lesser or no, the scent of living human flesh, human blood, was the most significant scent of all.

  At night, he hunted. Rhuan periodically reminded him he should not take for a feeding the horses, mules, oxen, dogs, milk cows of the karavaners. And Darmuth was willing to leave them be, if he found other meat to eat, the meat of wild animals, of birds, of ground vermin, of snakes, of insects, and others. He was an omniverous demon; anything would do. But meat was what he craved. If a hunt brought little, he occasionally appropriated a chicken from karavanfolk, or a goat, taking care not to do so often. It did not please Rhuan when he did so, but the dioscuri did grudgingly understand that a demon, like any living creature, had to feed to survive.

  Perhaps he and Ferize could dine on the two Hecari whose forms they took.

  Trees grew sparse at the edge of the grove. Now he smelled the river.

  And blood.

  Rhuan’s blood.

  Darmuth broke into a run, following a scent that spoke of anger and injury, and of power.

  Primary. Where none should be.

  SHE CAME TO him on the cusp of night, that portion of time between dusk and dark. Brodhi waited for her at the edge of the elder grove in an area free of wagons. Maiden Moon illuminated that verge between grove and plains, and so it was easy to watch Ferize come down from the air, to see the blurry shift between demon form and human. This night she was red-haired, green-eyed, clad in a rich amber-dyed gown. A glint of gold flashed at her throat, where a pendant lay against pale skin.