“It’s not true,” she told her youngest. “None of it is true, Meggie. I would not eat you. I will not eat you. I promise it with all my heart and soul. I vow it in the name of the Mother. Never, never, never, Meggie. These are dreams. Terrible dreams; I see them, too. I know. Believe me, Meggie. I tell you the truth. These dreams are sent.”
“Who would send them?” Torvic asked. “Why?”
“Someone who wishes to control us,” Audrun aswered flatly, refusing to lie to her children in such perilous circumstances. “Someone who wishes to make me do what he wants. Someone who I will visit as soon as possible.” She looked at Meggie again. “Torvic, you said you can hear Meggie’s thoughts.”
He nodded.
Audrun tamped down desperation. “Does she understand what I’ve said? Does she know those dreams are lies? Can she not talk to me?”
Torvic shook his head. “She won’t talk to you.”
“These are dreams. Sent dreams. They are evil, Torvic. They are purposely sent to us. These are not true dreams!”
Torvic shrugged uncomfortably. “She doesn’t believe you. Not after what Lirra did.”
Audrun frowned. “Who is Lirra, and what did she do?”
He rubbed a grimy hand across his mouth. “The woman in the forest. She wanted to eat Meggie. She almost did. But Brodhi came and killed her.”
It stunned Audrun. She looked at her youngest daughter. “Oh . . . oh Meggie, I’m so sorry. . . . I am so sorry!” But even as she tried to sit up, intending to reach out to her daughter, Torvic shouted at her.
“Don’t touch her! Mam, don’t touch her.” More quietly, he said, “She doesn’t want to be touched.”
She knew what he left out: Meggie didn’t want to be touched by her.
“I can’t hear her,” Ellica said, who sat beside Megritte, “but she doesn’t seem right. There’s something that’s not right.”
How could there be anything right about any of them? Audrun thought. They inhabit Alisanos.
Audrun looked at Ellica. At Gillan. “Do you see them? The dreams?”
Both shook their heads. “I think we are too old,” Gillan said. “Best to hurt you through the youngest.”
She knew he was correct. It was far more effective to use the youngest, the smallest, the most vulnerable.
“Mam,” Torvic said, “are you going to feed that baby again? Shouldn’t we find our baby?”
“Yes. Yes, Torvic, we should.” She lay back down on the cot and stared up at the stone ceiling, thinking.
“Mam—” Torvic began.
She cut him off. “Gillan, Ellica, take the youngest out. Find Omri. See if he will bring you breakfast.” She disliked speaking of Omri as a servant or slave, but nothing here was normal. She had to find the best route through the forest of an unknown culture, its habits and its dangerous inhabitants.
Route. Forest. A road through Alisanos.
For the first time in her life, Audrun swore. For the first time in her life, she wished someone dead.
Karadath.
ILONA OPENED HER eyes. “Oh Mother—there’s a task we must do tomorrow. I meant to tell you earlier. I can’t believe I forgot!”
His brows arched even as he continued braiding. “Well?”
The wagon rocked in a gust of wind. Lantern light danced and swung crazily. “That woman who lost her child to the draka. Do you remember?”
He nodded. “A heartbreaking thing for the mother. For anyone.”
“She came to me for a reading today. She asked me to find where her daughter’s remains lie, so they might be brought back for proper rites. During the reading, I found the place. I could take you there.” Unexpected tears prickled. “It would bring the woman a little peace.”
“Of course. We’ll go at first light.” He threaded a bead onto several strands of hair. His tone was somber. “There are likely to be more deaths.”
She knew it. Helplessness bled into desperation. “Can’t you kill it? The draka? You said you’d killed one before.”
“No.”
“You said you had poisoned a cow, and the draka took it, ate it, and died.”
“No,” he repeated. “In this world, there’s no way a draka may be killed.”
It stunned her. For a moment all she could do was stare, mouth opening in astonishment. “You lied.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “I lied.”
But she saw no guilt in him, no regret. As the shock passed, she understood. “To calm the fear rising in everyone. That’s why. To provide hope.”
He nodded, lids lowered.
“Is there nothing we can do?”
“Stay out of its way.” He looked briefly from braid to her eyes. “I don’t mean to be facetious. That is the only way to survive.”
Now that the thought had arrived in her mind, Ilona could not dismiss it. “What about a Hecari dart? One killed you before. Could it work on a draka?”
He shook his head. “A dart could not pierce the scales.”
But certainty, and faith in Rhuan, kindled into flame. “Drakas have eyes, do they not? Eyes don’t have scales. Eyes are vulnerable to darts.”
Rhuan stopped braiding. He wanted to refuse her, to find another answer that would dissuade her. She could see it in his face, in his eyes.
But he did not speak it. Instead, he said, “I can’t swear it’s impossible. There is no proof that it is, because no one has attempted to shoot a draka’s eye with a dart. But I believe it’s impossible.”
She nodded, yet continued, picking her way carefully. “You are an expert with knives. Throwing knives. Those.” She tilted her head in the direction of the baldric he had shed. “I’ve seen you use them.”
“I do miss,” he pointed out. “Not often, but I do. Besides, throwing knives aren’t terribly precise. They’re nothing like blowpipe darts.” As the wagon, buffeted, rocked again, Rhuan peered upward. “I suspect we may lose a rib soon.”
But Ilona’s mind remained fixed elsewhere. “You could learn to use a blowpipe. I suspect it would take you far less time to do so than an ordinary man.”
He tilted his head in thought. “Probably.”
Hope burned now in concert with regained certainty. “And if you missed the eye—what happens? You try another dart. And you keep trying until you succeed.”
“Ilona, I can’t exactly approach this draka. It flies. I don’t.”
She nodded impatient understanding. “But it will return, won’t it? There would be more deaths, you said. When it does come back, couldn’t you try with your throwing knives and a blowpipe?”
“I could try, yes. I could also fail.”
“Any attempt of anything could fail.” She gazed at him steadily. “Or succeed.”
He offered no more argument, merely acknowledged her statements. “Yes.”
“Those Hecari,” she said. “What about the bodies of the four Hecari who came here with Brodhi? They must have had darts and blowpipes.”
He shook his head. “Alisanos took those men, Ilona. Nothing is left of them. Nothing at all.”
She drew a breath. “Then we’ll have to catch one.”
Rhuan stared in astonishment, plaiting forgotten. “Catch a Hecari?”
“Of course.” Ilona smiled at him. “You can’t be killed in our world. You are the perfect person to catch a Hecari, blowpipe or no blowpipe, warclub or no warclub.”
“Ilona, I can only die in front of people a specific number of times, remember? If I’m Shoia, that is, and nearly everyone believes I am.” He paused, then added meaningfully, “As they’re supposed to.”
She nodded, granting him that. “But you said it yourself: you never tell anyone how many lives you, as a Shoia, have left. How would they know?”
Once again he concent
rated on stringing beads into her hair, frowning as he did so. “I’m not so certain I relish the idea of being killed by a Hecari several times.”
“That isn’t the plan, Rhuan. It’s a possible outcome.”
“What is the plan? Do we have one? Do you? It’s my life you’re putting at risk.”
She hastened to explain. “No, no—Rhuan, if you could truly die, I would never suggest such a thing.”
“We can survive being killed by humans. By draka?” He shook his head. “We’re of Alisanos, draka and dioscuri. Here or there, we die if killed by a draka, and remain so.”
All of her certainty drained away. She was indeed putting his life at risk. For a moment, hope had burned within her. But now hopelessness, and helplessness, seeped back. “You’re right,” she said. “I shouldn’t have suggested such a thing. I’m sorry.”
Rhuan shrugged. “It’s not wrong to consider solutions. This one just seems more dangerous than most.”
She nodded. “I understand. There can’t be a solution for everything. And there’s none for this.” Dryly, she ventured, “I don’t suppose we could chase it back into Alisanos?”
Dimples flashed. “Unlikely.” He was silent a moment. “I suppose it is possible, though.”
“What is?”
“Putting a dart into a draka’s eye.”
She stared at him. “But—you said you believed it was impossible.”
“I do. I still do.”
After a moment, she asked, “Are you changing your mind?”
“Possibly it’s more accurate to say I’m bowing to necessity. The woman you mentioned, the one who lost her child to the draka—we’ll collect the remains for her tomorrow. Perhaps I should put that first, rather than the possibility of my own death. How many mothers will lose children? How many husbands will lose wives? How many families will be killed?” He shook his head. “I think I must do something. The attempt may fail, as I said. But it may also succeed, as you said.”
But now, paradoxically, she feared for him. “Rhuan—”
“Have you a plan to obtain a Hecari blowpipe and darts without actually engaging a Hecari?” he asked.
“Well . . .” No, she didn’t. But she thought rapidly; he’d said nothing remained of the three dead warriors given to Alisanos. “Brodhi brought four warriors back with him from Cardatha, and they’re all dead, devoured by Alisanos?”
Rhuan nodded.
“Will the warlord let that go?”
“Doubtful.”
“But Brodhi will have to tell him, and he might send more warriors here. He probably will send more warriors here.”
Seeing what she meant, Rhuan shook his head decisively. “We can’t allow any of them to come here. Much too dangerous.”
“Then . . . there’s another way.”
Yet again deft fingers stopped moving in her hair. Warily, he asked, “And?”
“You can contact Brodhi, yes? Do a Sending?”
“If necessary.”
She drew in a deep breath, let it go. “Send to him. Send to him that we must have blowpipes and darts. Cardatha is teeming with Hecari.”
SHE WISHED HIM dead.
It did not shock. It did not stun. It was not chased away by horror that she could possibly think such a terrible thing. Instead, Audrun carefully allowed herself to explore that thought.
Karadath. Dead. No more nightmares. No more Meggie terrified of her own mother.
“Oh Mother, oh blessed Mother, forgive me . . .” Her muffled voice died away as she pressed a palm against her mouth. She cut off the plea. No. She neither wanted nor needed forgiveness. The Mother was a Mother. The Mother would understand.
All was clear. It unfolded before her.
Karadath. Dead.
Audrun knew her capabilities. She accepted limitations. She understood that it was a task she could not accomplish alone.
Omri. The failed, faded dioscuri. The man who was no longer a man, but a castrate, a slave. He had spoken of tradition, of understanding, of acceptance. It was the way things were done among his people. The risks that were taken by dioscuri.
But if she could think of killing a man—if a woman from a culture, from a family, where murder was abhorrent, could think of killing, couldn’t he?
The voices of her children drifted in from the open door. A shadow appeared, fled, was banished by the man himself, bringing her a meal.
Audrun elbowed herself upward, set her back once more against the cushion. She accepted the bowl of broth. The aroma stirred hunger—a normal, healthy hunger, the first in days.
She smiled at Omri and gave him her thanks.
He would never, Audrun knew, kill for her.
But possibly, potentially, he might kill with her.
Chapter 34
IN CARDATHA, SANCORRA’S largest city, the warlord’s huge palace squatted in the center of Market Square, dwarfing it. Called a gher, it was round and tall with a flat-topped, conical roof. Walls were formed of crisscrossed, lashed-together lattices of stripped saplings covered by hides of many shapes and colors, stitched together by red leather thongs. A large but low square plank platform extended beyond the circular gher. It always struck Brodhi as a permanent structure, but the Hecari were nomadic; every part of the gher was easily broken down into sections and bundles for transport.
Two years before, on the day before the warlord’s arrival (which Brodhi had witnessed) men taken as slaves during the conquest and now watched by warriors, came into the city on blue-painted wagons. In the very center of Market Square, they climbed down and swarmed over the wagons, taking the materials they needed. They lay down the platform planks on risers, set up the lattices, stretched bundled sections, stitched and fastened hide into place. By the time they were done, the gher took up much of Market Square. The slaves promptly climbed back into their wagons and drove away, disappearing into crowded streets.
Deprived of their usual spaces, merchants set up wooden stalls in streets and alleyways. The plethora of livestock, often escaping flimsy pens, turned narrow stone-paved streets into treacherous and pungent footing. Wagons could only pass where stalls were not too large. Above the noise of animals and stall-holders’ sing-song pitches, one heard cursing and shouting from wagon drivers.
At the mouth of Market Square, as Alorn and Timmon left the party and rode through to the square, Brodhi glanced back briefly. Jorda had pulled aside to let a wagon coming from the opposite direction pass, and another driver had abused that by squeezing in behind. Jorda was effectively blocked. Behind him, on the second supply wagon, the farmsteader looked nearly as grim. Bethid, beside him on the tall seat, clearly was not looking forward to climbing down into the muck.
Horseback, Brodhi held a distinct advantage. He turned back, guided the horse through steadily, and reined in beside the farmsteader’s wagon. Bethid transferred her gaze from the fouled street to him, eyebrows rising in inquiry.
Brodhi moved his horse sideways, close against the wagon, with a few taps of his left boot heel. Not one to question good fortune no matter how unexpected, Bethid rose on the seat, swung a leg across the horse’s rump, and slid into place behind the saddle, murmuring a word of thanks.
“Not far,” Brodhi said, referring to the courier’s guildhall, “but you’ll see the Guildmaster with your boots relatively clean.” And he guided his horse toward the square.
IT WAS NEARLY impossible for Jorda to make any headway through the crowded market stalls. Davyn followed as best he could, since he had no idea where they should go for the supplies Jorda needed. Eventually the karavan-master found a narrow offshoot of a twisting alley, stopped the team, and turned around on his high seat to catch Davyn’s eye.
He raised his voice. “We’ll leave the wagons and teams here. There’s no chance we can put them outside the shops and load
directly into them.” Jorda climbed down and removed from under the seat two pairs of wooden wheel chocks roped together. “You’ve a set, too.”
And so Davyn mimicked the karavan-master, making certain the wagon would roll neither forward nor backward. He straightened and looked around. The buildings stood very close on either side of the alley, throwing shadows into canyons of dressed stone. He could not help but feel uneasy. They were not so far from a busy lane, but it would nonetheless be a simple matter for someone to slip into the narrow walkway and appropriate the wagons.
And he damned the fact that he thought in such terms now. Once, it would never have crossed his mind that some might be bent on stealing horses and wagons.
Jorda saw the concern. He smiled grimly. “I expect—” He broke off briefly. “Ah, here comes help now.”
“Help” consisted of boys somewhere between youth and manhood. They wore soiled clothing nearly outgrown, and were they his children, Davyn would have sent them off to wash faces and hands. But they were not his children. His children were in Alisanos.
Blessed Mother, but he ached with pain and grief every time he thought of his family trapped in the deepwood.
“Four of you,” Jorda noted, not privy to Davyn’s emotions. “Two for each wagon.” He removed coin rings from a pocket and tossed one to each boy. “Watch them well, and if everything is as I left it, there will be more coin in it for you.”
The boys nodded. Two slipped by to join Jorda, while two remained near Davyn.
Jorda glanced at Davyn. “There will be boys at the markets more than happy to carry things back to the wagon for us.”
Nodding, Davyn fell in beside Jorda as he walked out of the narrow alley to the wider lane. The karavan-master wound his way through the crowds, and eventually the lane opened into the square.
Davyn danced aside to avoid a goat bent on escape, trailing a broken rope, and as as he crossed from lane into Market Square, he stopped short. “Mother of Moons!”
Jorda heard him. In the lead, he glanced back over his shoulder. Then he nodded realization, halting. “The gher,” he said with a weary note in his voice. “That’s what they call it, the Hecari. The warlord’s palace.”
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