Deepwood: Karavans # 2 Page 17

  Bethid, riding behind him on the gelding’s broad rump, said, “Very little is left, thanks to the storm. But the survivors are working together, tent-folk and kara-vaners both, and we’re doing the best we can.”

  He had been lost in his thoughts and anger on the ride, had not even bothered to ask her if the storm had struck the settlement, and how it had fared. The misfortune of his family, the betrayal by the Shoia guide, superseded realization that others suffered, too. Shame knit a knot in his belly.

  “Go on that way.” She indicated the direction with her finger. “Mikal’s tent is there; see the tankard sign? You can get ale and food if you wish—it’s the distribution point—but we can also address your problem.”

  She made it sound entirely too easy, he thought. And who was “we”? “My family is in Alisanos.” His tone was acerbic, though he hadn’t truly meant it that way. “I doubt anyone here can guide me in without repercussion except the Shoia.”

  “Then if Rhuan’s returned without our knowledge—which is possible for who can say what route he took—you can talk to him about recovering your family.” She hesitated a moment. “Stop here. Get down. Go on into the tent while I tend Churri.” She let herself slide over the horse’s rump and tail, dropping to the ground. “Tell Mikal what you’ve told me.”

  As he dismounted, Davyn had the impression the female courier was annoyed with him. But then she had spoken in favor of the Shoia, had questioned his conviction that the guide had purposely sent his family into danger. Had Davyn himself not survived the storm, no one would be the wiser. All of his family could be in Alisanos, forgotten by the world.

  Distribution point, was it? More than an ale tent? Davyn put the courier out of his mind and went into the tent. The tables, he saw, were filled. Other men clustered in front of the plank bar. Davyn had never been in Mikal’s ale tent—in fact, he hadn’t been in any ale tent for years—so he didn’t know if the number was unusual, or if the ale-keep served excellent ale and spirits.

  His entrance was marked. One by one men fell silent, set tankards on the tabletops, waited with curious, avid expressions. As conversation died, an aisle to the bar opened before him. Davyn walked it, aware of tensile scrutiny. Every man in the place waited for him to speak. He was a stranger to them; but in view of the storm and the uprooting of Alisanos, he supposed he didn’t blame them for the nature of their interest.

  The ale-keep—Mikal, the courier had named him—wore a patch over one eye. His bulk was such that he ruled the tent merely by standing in it, especially because his station was behind the bar. Davyn walked the aisle, aware of the smell of redleaf chewed to liquid and spat out, lantern oil, cheese and meat and bread, and an astringency he recognized: men under pressure.

  Men like him.

  He halted before the plank perched atop two large casks. He shook his head to the offer of ale or spirits. When an inquiry came in the ale-keep’s deep voice as to whether he desired food, Davyn surprised himself by saying yes. But then, he was hungry. Thirsty, as well; he had not allowed himself to drink often on the walk from the wagon to where the courier had found him.

  “My thanks,” Davyn said as the ale-keep set meat and cheese before him on a pewter platter. A tankard of ale, though unasked for, arrived as well. He smiled crookedly, drank down a third before turning to the food, then released a breath of relief. He saw a flicker of understanding in the ale-keep’s good eye. “Are you Mikal?”

  “I am.” The voice was a deep rumble. “You’ve not been in here before.”

  Davyn shook his head. “We—my family and I—joined Jorda’s karavan on very short notice. I had no time to do anything but prepare for travel.”

  Mikal examined his clothing, the waterskins arrayed about his person, and the weariness evident in his face. “Eat. Drink.” the ale-keep said. “You’re in need. If you remain, you’ll understand we’re rationing, but we’ll not deny a man who’s lived through a deepwood storm and come out in one piece.” Mikal pushed the platter across the bar. “Eat, stranger. You’re welcome here.”

  Ravenous now that food was in his view, Davyn fell upon it. Cheese, bread, meat. All fresh and flavorful. And the ale, when he downed it, made him lightheaded. “The guide,” he managed, after gulping the whole tankard. “The Shoia. Is he here?”

  Mikal shook his head. “Rhuan’s been missing since just before the storm.”

  Davyn wiped a forearm across his brow. His head itched. He needed a bath very badly. “Is the karavan-master here? Jorda?”

  “Likely at the grove,” the ale-keep replied. “Not the small grove where the wagons used to gather; the old one. Yonder.” He gestured. Then, “Do you understand what’s happened?”

  Davyn grimaced. “Too well. But I’m aware that we might not all see it in the same way.” He cast a quick glance around the tent. Men had mostly returned to their drinks, their conversations. This news might regain their attention. “I have reason to believe the Shoia guide intentionally sent my family into Alisanos.”

  “Do you?” Mikal did not obviously react, which was reaction in itself. “Are you aware that Rhuan came here and bade us all go east, so we might escape the storm? And that many of us did?”

  “So the courier said.”

  Mikal’s brows shot up. “Bethid’s back?”

  “She found me on the Atalanda shortcut.” Davyn edited further explanation. “When I told her the guide had disappeared, just as my family did, and I hadn’t seen him since, she was willing to turn around.”

  “You’re certain Rhuan’s missing?”

  The question annoyed Davyn. “He came. He left. He took my children and my wife with him. I’ve seen none of them since.” He met Mikal’s single eye. “I’ve come to speak to him. To ask him to guide me into the deepwood, so I may find my family.”

  The ale-keep’s face was a mask. “You would do best to speak to Jorda. I believe he may be able to answer your questions and concerns—those about Rhuan, that is—better than I may. But let me say this to you: best take care what you say to others about what you think happened. Because you don’t know that it did.”

  Davyn felt a sinking in his belly. Why was it so many people trusted the guide? Why could they not see what he saw? The Shoia had sent his family into Alisanos.

  He pushed himself upright, leaving a crust of bread, a few bits of meat, crumbled cheese. The tankard was drained. “Then I’ll speak to the karavan-master. I thank you for your courtesy.”

  Indeed, he felt the ale. It carried him, as if he floated, out of the tent.

  RHUAN SAW THE utter amazement and disbelief spring into Audrun’s eyes and expression. “I’ve what?” she demanded.

  “Married me. According to the traditions of my people, after puberty only one person who is not close kin may unbraid or braid a male dioscuri’s hair other than himself. That woman, in doing so, announces her acceptance of his suit.”

  For a moment she only stared at him, white-faced, eyes huge, mouth partially open. Then she recovered her voice, and with it a crisp tone. “This is ridiculous, Rhuan. I didn’t bind myself to you. I didn’t announce any acceptance of-of a suit that never existed. I only unbraided your hair to clean your wounds.”

  The topic was becoming more difficult by the moment. He seriously considered pretending to pass out so he could avoid the discussion altogether, but that would only postpone it, not settle it. In a tone carefully modulated so as to prove his neutrality, he explained, “If the man himself has not indicated his interest in the woman, but allows her to unbraid his hair, he accepts her suit. If he stops the ritual, no marriage is made.”

  Audrun scowled. “You were unconscious.”

  “But all that matters was that I didn’t stop the ritual.”

  “You were unconscious.”

  Rhuan sighed, and winced in response to a fleeting pain in his midsection. “It’s been done before.”

  “What—a woman unbraiding a man’s hair while he was asleep or unconscious?”

  “
Well, yes.”

  That diverted her. “Doesn’t he have any say about it if he doesn’t want the woman?”

  “Actually, no. At least not initially. To object, he must bring the matter before the Kiba.”

  Audrun was momentarily speechless, staring at him fixedly. Then she grabbed a hank of his braid-crimped, coppery hair. “Here, then. I’ll braid it up again and no one will know the difference.”

  He closed his hand on hers, halting her fingers. “You can’t do that.”

  “Certainly I can!”

  “No …” He was too tired to explain properly, but he tried. “You can’t rebraid it here, Audrun. It has to be done before witnesses at the Kiba.”

  The first edges of panic showed in her voice. “That doesn’t matter to me! It makes no difference. Rhuan, in the Mother’s name … rebraid it, leave it loose; I don’t care. I’m not married to you. I have a husband already. What do the traditions of your people say about that?”

  To delay his answer, he scratched at an eyebrow. But she was waiting, obviously tense, and he continued. “First, you don’t know where your husband actually is. He might be here in Alisanos, he might be in the human world, but—”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not my husband.”

  “—but—” he continued, “—since you’ve unbraided my hair, it indicates that your husband is dead, or you believe he’s dead, or that you’re setting him aside. If it’s the latter, you’re taking me in his place.”

  She was seriously annoyed. “I didn’t set him aside. Can’t you just explain to-to whomever these things matter that this wasn’t intended? I made a mistake. A significant mistake, as you said. But it wasn’t meant to be any kind of declaration about you, me, or my husband—who is still my husband no matter where he is, or where I am. It was an accident, nothing more. Surely they’ll understand.”

  Rhuan sighed. “I’m dioscuri, Audrun. There are forms to be followed.”

  Annoyance was dissipated by increasing anger. “I don’t care if you are the son of a god. I don’t care what your father the god thinks. This—”

  “He’s a primary, Audrun.”

  “—was not intended,” she continued firmly. “And I also don’t care if he’s a primary—whatever that is—or anything else. Whatever needs to be done to unmarry you, I’ll do it. What is it? You shave your head? I shave mine?” She grabbed handfuls of her own tangled, tawny locks. It’s hair, Rhuan. Just hair.”

  “Audrun, Audrun, Audrun.” He offered a rueful, crooked smile. “You’re in Alisanos. Our customs and traditions override those you know in the human world.”

  “I’m already married no matter what world I may be in. I haven’t set my husband aside, and I don’t believe he’s dead. And I am human. I don’t have to pay attention to the customs of your people.”

  “Well,” he said, “you do. They’ll make certain of it.”

  “Who will?”

  “The primaries.”

  “They’re all gods, these primaries?”

  “One thousand of them. Yes.”

  That sidetracked her a moment. “Your people have one thousand gods?”

  “We do. But there are many more of us who are not gods, let alone primaries.”

  Audrun visibly wrenched herself back to the original line of discussion. “Well, since I’m merely human without a speck of divinity, it shouldn’t matter in the least what I think.”

  “But it does.”

  He watched her struggle to not be rude. She achieved it, just, controlling her tone with extreme effort. “Rhuan—I don’t want to be married to you.”

  “Here, you already are married. Or will be, when you rebraid my hair at the Kiba before witnesses.”

  She pounced on that. “Then we’re not married yet.”

  “Well, technically, no. Halfway, you might say. But the vow has been made, just as in your world you plight your troth. It binds us both.”

  “The vow I made to my husband overrides that.”

  “This vow was made later. It takes precedence.”

  He watched the myriad emotions flow across her face. He didn’t doubt that she wanted to grab up handfuls of dirt, perhaps even his knife, possibly his heart, and hurl them all across the clearing in a fit of fury. Instead she wound her hands in her homespun skirts, cleared her throat, and began again, speaking with extreme precision so that he could not possibly misinterpret what she said. “When we reach the Kiba, I will discuss this matter with your father. I will explain what happened, that I already have a husband, and that I can’t—that I won’t—marry you.”

  It triggered a shout of laughter, which hurt. After a moment the worst of the pain faded, and he said, with false cheer, “This will be most interesting to witness.”

  Chapter 19

  ILONA, cradling her splinted arm, followed the riverbank as she approached a forest but recently arrived. The distance was, she believed, approximately half a mile and not taxing, unless one was recovering from a broken arm and fever. But turning back wasn’t an option; now piqued, her curiosity coupled with the desire to learn what she could, if possible, of Rhuan, were he in the deepwood drove her onward. In all the moments he had sensed the imminence of Alisanos’ movement, in his eerie ability to predict where it might go, she had trusted him. Now she was frightened for him, yet also baffled. How could a man with land-sense strong enough to send folk away from the awakening of Alisanos become trapped in the deepwood himself?

  But he had gone to assist the farmsteader family. He had placed himself at risk to save them. It was entirely possible he had been swallowed by Alisanos because he refused to remove himself while others were in danger. Ilona was aware of his feckless, charming ways, his skewed sense of humor, his occasional lapses in judgment. Some might name him irresponsible, but she did not. She knew him better than that. As a guide, he let no one in his charge die or be harmed if he could prevent it. He had killed five Hecari warriors in a matter of moments to protect the farmsteader family. He would do it again, even if he died from it. And he may have, with no resurrections remaining.

  A world empty of Rhuan.

  Ilona desired no part of that.

  She halted abruptly. Something welled up in her body, in her heart and mind. She felt fear, anxiety, and denial tied together into a knot. The back of her neck tingled. Her body rang with the impulse to run, to flee, to escape the imminent threat.

  What imminent threat?

  The forest lay before her. She was only a few steps away from its verge. But she could not find it in herself to take those steps.

  Until she saw a familiar man walk out of the trees and shadows.

  “Rhuan!” She stepped forward on a surge of relief. “Are you all right…?”

  But again, she stopped in her tracks. She was close enough, now, to see that the man was not Rhuan after all; to touch him, if they each stretched out an arm. He wore the braids, the ornamentation, shared coloring and a similar stature, but he was not Rhuan.

  Mother of Moons … it’s the man I dreamed about!

  He took two long steps and placed himself immediately in front of her, perhaps a pace separating them. Ilona’s initial impulse was to back away at once, to put distance between them, but something in her prevented it. An altogether unexpected stubbornness told her to hold her ground, to not act as prey, to not show submissiveness to this man. Were she to do so, she knew—without knowing how she knew—she would place herself in very real danger.

  Free of the dream, so close she could smell a faint masculine musk, she saw he was very like Rhuan in many regards, but not in all. As in her dream he wore snug, scaled, thin russet hide, supple upon his body. His smile brought forth no dimples. And it was clear he had an amused awareness of how his physical presence affected others, and a willingness to use it. He was beautiful. Not as a woman was; he was entirely male. But he burned so brightly she could think of no other word. This was a man who could rule others merely by letting them look upon him, by being in his presence. They would
answer without understanding the power within him.

  Ilona felt that power as he stood so close. She recognized it. She had seen men and women before who exhibited this type of self-confidence, this acute inner awareness of superiority. His was an arrogance that set him apart in ways other than physical. And she felt a tendril of the power questing out of his body, approaching her own.

  Still she did not move. But he did, circling her the way one dog circles another on first acquaintance. He examined her. She was keenly conscious of what he saw: hastily-donned gray-green tunic and skirt; wide, brass-bossed belt; damp hair hanging to her waist. The top layer had dried just enough that loose ringlets had begun to form.

  He circled her twice, as if weighing her against an inner image. Ilona disliked it intensely. She decided to divert his attention—and perhaps blunt that annoying power—by asking a question. “Have you taken Rhuan?”

  The sense of examination abated. He halted in front of her, so close she could see the delicacy of overlapping scales in the hide tunic and leggings, gleaming as if wet whenever he moved; whenever he breathed. This close, he was overwhelming.

  Coppery brows rose over cider-brown eyes. In faultless Sancorran he said, “Have I taken Rhuan?”

  She amended her question. “Has Alisanos taken him?”

  The stranger smiled. “I haven’t been paying attention. Alisanos may indeed have taken him. Perhaps I should see if that’s so, since there will be serious consequences if true.”

  “Can you find him, if he’s in the deepwood?”

  The smile broadened, displayed good white teeth in genuine amusement. “I can always find my son … if I bother to try.”