Karavans Page 19

  Rhuan shot him a disgruntled look. “She isn’t my mother.”

  Darmuth grinned. “Why, no, she isn’t. But then, I don’t think ‘mothering’ you is what she has ever had in mind.”

  Rhuan, fighting the blinding pain in his head, could dredge up no fitting reply. Instead he waved a dismissive hand in Darmuth’s direction and rode away.

  Chapter 21

  THE DAY WAS still, the skies brilliant. A good day for traveling. But now the karavan was stopped beneath the midday sun, and Audrun knew lack of movement would soon make the day seem the hotter for it.

  Even if a chill did touch her spine when she thought of the Hecari patrol.

  Megritte’s tone verged on whining. “Why are we just standing here? Why can’t we go?”

  Her two youngest had been napping in the wagon when the guide issued instructions, and it would be some time yet before characteristic cheerfulness replaced interrupted-nap disgruntlement. Meanwhile, as ordered, all six of them stood in a line on the verge between road and turf four paces from the wagon: Davyn, Torvic, Audrun, Megritte, Ellica, and Gillan. It was always best to place the youngest near or next to their parents, and especially now.

  “Because this is what we were told to do,” Audrun answered.

  Torvic, pale hair standing on end, was sullen and belligerent. “Who told?”

  Davyn replied, “The guide who is responsible for our safety told us, Torvic—and it’s not your place to question your elders.”

  She heard an undertone of tension in her husband’s voice and strove to keep it from hers. “This won’t take long. Then we’ll be on our way again.”

  “I don’t want to just stand here,” Megritte declared.

  Audrun longed to say she agreed with her. Instead, she placed a hand on her daughter’s head and tried to make order out of nap-tangled fair hair even as she steadied her fidgety daughter in place. “Don’t whine, Meggie.”

  “They’re but three wagons away,” Davyn noted with false lightness.

  Audrun followed his lead. “You see?” But increasingly it took additional effort to keep her voice casually cheerful. “It won’t be much longer. Ellica—remember to keep your eyes down.”

  “I know, Mam.”

  Three wagons away. A hasty sideways glance found six mounted Hecari warriors, faces painted, eyebrows shaved, skulls oiled, warclubs at their saddles, blowpipes and darts adorning leather baldrics worn slantwise across broad chests. What Audrun could see without staring was that the patrol was not inspecting wagons, but people. That, she found unsettling. Hecari searching wagons for coin or goods was upsetting but understandable, in view of what they were; examining the karavaners themselves suggested a different goal. But the warriors were accompanied by both karavan guides, also mounted, from which Audrun took a measure of relief. She hoped Gillan and Ellica, old enough to be more cognizant of the dangers, might as well.

  She inhaled a long, bracing breath, releasing it carefully so as not to permit her tension to show. It was just as well, she decided, that Megritte and Torvic were not currently on their best behavior; it gave her something to deal with as the moments lengthened.

  “They’re coming,” Davyn said. “Torvic, Megritte, hold your places. Do as I say.”

  Audrun swallowed heavily. “Ellica—”

  “I know, Mam.”

  Audrun bowed her head and fixed her eyes on the ground immediately in front of her feet. The posture did not completely obliterate her view as the patrol arrived, but neither could she be accused of looking directly at the Hecari.

  She rested her left hand on Megritte’s shoulder, though she wasn’t certain if she offered support so much as sought it. She kept her voice very soft. “Be still, Meggie. This won’t take long.”

  Six horses were reined in, each precisely opposite an individual, child and adult alike. Audrun wanted to look at the guides, hoping for some kind of sign, any sign, that all was under control, but that would require raising her eyes and perhaps inadvertantly meeting the gaze of a Hecari. Instead, she stared at the two horse hooves now standing within her self-limited field of vision. One hand stroked her youngest daughter’s hair; the other rested atop the still-modest swelling of her belly. This child, at least, need not be frightened by Hecari. This child, in fact, need never even see a Hecari, being born and reared in the free province of Atalanda.

  Audrun smelled paint, oil, horse sweat, and unwashed human bodies. One of the hooves before her stomped as the horse rid itself of flies. Despite the warmth of the day, goose-flesh pimpled her flesh. Her scalp tightened into a maddening, prickling itch, but she raised no hand to seek relief.

  Rhuan’s voice was pitched to soft and subtle warning. “Do nothing.”

  She heard the sliding of leather against woven wool, the light landing in grass as the warrior before her dismounted. It was nearly impossible not to look up.

  Feet clad in sinew-laced buskins stepped into her line of vision, replacing horse hooves. Something was said to the other warriors, then to her; the rising inflection was suggestive of a question. Steadfastly, she neither looked up nor spoke. But her hand on Megritte’s shoulder trembled, and she thought her knees might collapse.

  The Hecari stepped closer yet. Audrun tensed, telling herself to say nothing, to do nothing, merely to wait the moment out. She took her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down.

  Then the Hecari warrior put one hand on her belly. The other closed over and squeezed her tender left breast.

  Audrun snapped her head up, blurting a shocked outcry, and met cold black eyes beneath the browless shelf of bone. She was unable to stop that immediate, reflexive reaction, nor could she halt the hands that struck out at the warrior’s. Even as she knocked his away, she realized, aghast, that what she did might be all the provocation the Hecari needed for violence, precisely what Rhuan had warned against, but she could not keep herself from responding to the power of sheer physical instinct to protect her children, born or unborn.

  The warrior snarled something. Davyn closed his arms around Audrun and yanked, spinning her away from the track.

  Megritte was shrieking. “The children—” Audrun blurted.

  Davyn’s hard grip around her waist and abrupt motion triggered dizziness and nausea. Even as she fought to keep the contents of her belly in place, Audrun was aware of silver flashing in the sunlight, of shouts and outcries, a confused impression of commotion among the warriors and the guides. Megritte’s shrill screaming sliced through her head.

  “Run!” Davyn shouted at the children. “Gillan, Ellica— take the youngest and run!” Arms clamping even more tightly around her, he pulled Audrun aside and turned her, grunting as he stumbled, off-balance, and shoved her toward the wagon. “Go!”

  Pregnancy always affected her balance. Under Davyn’s rough impetus, Audrun staggered forward. At the corner of an eye she caught a glimpse of Gillan and Ellica scooping up the youngest and running, as ordered. Then she fell against the wagon, jamming an arm, and set to clanking the pots hanging underneath the floorboards.

  Clinging to the wagon for support, Audrun turned. She was aware that the children were gone and thanked the Mother for it, but her attention now was on Davyn, seated on the ground cradling his right arm. Beyond him, in a tangle of horses and men, she saw another wave of silver flashes streaking through the sunlight and realized that they were knives.

  Bodies sprouting two or three knives each lay sprawled. Two unmounted Hecari horses wheeled away as another trotted off. A fourth warrior, still mounted, dragged his horse’s head around and kicked it into a gallop. Rhuan’s fellow guide went in pursuit.

  That left four men dead from, Audrun saw in shock, knives in eyes and throats. The last warrior, the one who had put hands upon her, lay on his back, throat slashed open. Trembling Hecari hands attempted to slow the gush of blood.

  Davyn, too, was bleeding.

  Davyn.

  Audrun hastened to him and knelt. A knife hilt stood up from his left shoulder.
He shook his head. “It’s not deep, Audrun. Throwing knives, not gutting knives. It’s all right.”

  “It’s not ‘all right.’” But her attention was claimed by movement nearby. Inititally she tensed, expecting more violence, but saw that Rhuan was going from body to body, bending down with a bloodied, long-bladed knife in hand, methodically making certain all the Hecari were truly dead and retrieving short-bladed knives from flesh. As he took time to clean each weapon, Audrun’s mind told her inconsequentially that in times such as these, with enemies on the roads, a man must be careful to keep and care for each of his weapons.

  The Hecari with the slashed throat, the one who had touched her, was dead now as well. She smelled the sharp scent of spilled blood, the odor of oil and paint now commingled with the stink of fresh urine. She watched Rhuan pause briefly over him, expression grim. Then the guide tucked throwing knives into the loops of his baldric, cleaned and sheathed his long-knife, and came to Davyn.

  He knelt, inspecting without touching the knife in Davyn’s shoulder. “You need not fear for your safety. Darmuth will see to the last warrior.” The tautness of his expression altered to something akin to rueful embarrassment. “My apologies. A poor throw, I fear.”

  Audrun stared at him. “This is your knife?”

  But the guide ignored her, speaking to Davyn. “Hold a moment …” He pulled the knife free, then displayed the bloody weapon to Audrun. “You see? The blade of a throwing knife is too short to do true damage, unless—” he gestured toward the bodies, “—it goes into an eye or the throat.”

  Audrun was outraged. “And if it had gone into my husband’s eye or throat?”

  By now word of the killings was spreading along the karavan. People gathered at a distance, staring and speaking in low tones. Even in her anger, it struck Audrun as odd that no one came forward to help.

  Rhuan cleaned the knife, nodded at Davyn’s thanks, then tucked it into a baldric loop. “Oh, no—I knew when I threw the knife it wouldn’t be a killing throw. I was jostled by a horse.” He wadded up loose folds of Davyn’s tunic, pressed it against the wound, and glanced at her. “Here. Hold this in place.”

  “In a moment.” Audrun rose. “I need to find my children.”

  He reached up and caught her wrist. “Let them find you. For now, I need you to apply pressure to the wound.”

  She attempted and failed to twist her wrist free. “I need to make sure my children are well!”

  “They are. They ran, as told.” A sheen of sweat filmed the guide’s face as he released her wrist. “Please …come and tend your husband.”

  Audrun wanted very much to refuse him outright, if only because of his peremptory tone, but Davyn did need tending and the children had run to safety.

  Suppressing the anger, she knelt again beside her husband, replacing the guide’s hand on the wadded cloth with her own. As Rhuan withdrew his hand, Audrun saw in shock why he had been so insistent that she take over the tending: a feathered Hecari dart stood out from his right forearm. “Mother of Moons,” she murmured.

  He plucked the dart out of arm and sleeve, mouth twisted, then held up the feathered weapon. Audrun saw that he had begun to shake. “Do exactly as I say: take this and burn it in a cookfire, then bury it. Be careful not to touch the tip, and on no account allow the children to touch it. I suspect all of the poison is in me, but do consider the dart dangerous regardless.” He cast a glance at the others gathered to watch from a distance. “Ai, but too many humans refuse to involve themselves lest there be a risk to their own safety.” He shook his head and extended the dart to Davyn. “I’d give this to Darmuth, if he were here, but he isn’t … can you take it? We want no children playing with it.” Abruptly graceless, he fell out of a kneeling position and sat down hard on the track. He muttered something that sounded like a curse, then pulled each throwing knife from his waistband and dropped them one by one to the earth in a chiming of steel.

  Audrun felt a chill sheathe her bones as Davyn carefully wrapped and tied the dart into the hem of his shirt. The guide’s color was very bad. “You’re ill …it’s the poison, isn’t it?”

  “Worse than ill, actually.” He scrubbed the back of his trembling hand across his brow. “When the children come back, tell them not to be afraid.” His glance went to the gathered spectators. “I wish this need not be so public, but there’s no help for it.” Rhuan caught and held her look. “I’m going to die now. But tell the children not to worry.”

  “What?”

  Earnestly, he said, “It’s not a true death. It’s only temporary.”

  That, she found astonishing and wholly unbelievable. It robbed her of speech.

  “It won’t last,” Rhuan continued. “As I said, it’s not a true death.” A grimace warped his mouth. “Which doesn’t mean it is painless, unfortunately.” His breath caught, and he flinched. Hollows darkened beneath his eyes. “Send someone for Jorda and Ilona. They’ve seen this. And Darmuth should be back soon.”

  Her words were made slow by the incomprehension of sheer disbelief. She felt stupid and sluggish. “I don’t understand.”

  The guide swore beneath his breath, then spoke through gritted teeth. “And here come the children. All in one piece, you may be sure.” Again he wiped perspiration from his face. “Well, it is what it is. Just tell them not to be afraid, and that it’s temporary. I swear it.”

  Audrun stared at him. “You can’t swear such a thing! Death isn’t temporary!”

  “I’m Shoia,” he said simply. “But do me the kindness of not allowing anyone to burn or bury me.”

  She opened her mouth to retort, but he robbed her of the opportunity by toppling to the track.

  Chapter 22

  ILONA HAD NEARLY reached the crowd of karavaners when the gangly, blond boy made his way through. His eyes were wide and fearful, his movements jerky. But the moment he saw her approaching, he broke into an awkward jog.

  He didn’t wait to reach her before speaking. “He said you should come,” he called urgently. “He said you would understand.” His youthful skin was flushed, stretched taut over the still-maturing bones of his face. Ilona saw the worry and confusion in his blue eyes as he halted before her. “But—how can death be temporary?”

  That was all she needed to hear. “Dead again,” she muttered.

  She didn’t wait to see if the boy had more comments or questions, but, by dint of a fierce, impatient tone and no hesitation, opened a path through the crowd. When she reached the other side, she saw five Hecari bodies sprawled near the last wagon.

  And one dead Shoia.

  Ilona hadn’t seen Rhuan dead for three years. It came as a shock, and a sadness, and the beginnings of grief to see him lying lifeless upon the track—until she recalled with a rush of relief that he would be perfectly fine within a matter of moments. One day he might reach his seventh death, the “true death” of a Shoia, but he hadn’t yet.

  The farmsteaders had closed around him as if shielding him from public scrutiny. The smallest girl was held in her father’s arms, crying even as he told her quietly, despite the disbelief in his eyes, that she was not to fret, that the guide wasn’t really dead. The oldest daughter had a death-grip on the tunic of her frustrated younger brother, holding him back from an inspection at close range. It was the woman, the pregnant wife, who knelt at Rhuan’s side.

  As Ilona arrived she looked up, features harrowed. “He promised. He said to tell the children not to worry. That he isn’t truly dead.”

  “Oh, he’s dead.” Ilona slipped around the husband, whose right arm was bandaged with fabric torn from a tunic hem, and knelt beside Rhuan. “He’s just not going to stay dead.” She looked upon the expressive features, slack and stilled in death, lacking the dimples of a smile or laughter. The elaborate, ornamented braids of coppery hair lay spread upon the track. She saw no blood, no wound. “What killed him?”

  “Hecari dart,” the woman answered. “Here.” She touched her own right arm to indicate the corres
ponding place on his. “He said it was poisoned.”

  Ilona nodded. “Hecari dip their darts in poison. Well, he’s likely to feel terrible when he rouses, but that’s better than being dead.” She leaned closer. “Rhuan? Can you hear me?”

  “He said you understood this,” the woman told her. “So I ask you, then: how can death be temporary?”

  “For that, I have no answer,” Ilona said dryly, “despite asking him any number of times. But he is Shoia, and they can rouse from death six different times before the true death extinguishes them. Or so Rhuan told me after the first time I saw him die.” She frowned, watched his face closely, then nodded, suppressing a sigh of relief. “Do you see his eyelids tremble? He’ll be very much alive within a few moments.” Ilona glanced around at the Hecari bodies. “What happened here?”

  “He put hands on my wife.” The husband gestured with a nod in the direction of a dead warrior whose head and shoulders lay in a muddied pool of blood.

  Ilona’s gaze flicked to the woman, whose color rose in a wave to her face. There was a tale to be told, but she didn’t ask it of them yet. “Where’s Darmuth?”

  “The sixth warrior escaped,” the farmwife answered. “The other guide went after him.”

  “Well, count that warrior dead, then.” Ilona prodded Rhuan’s shoulder with two stiffened fingers. “If you want to nap, Rhuan, borrow my wagon, or Jorda’s. This is a little awkward and public, don’t you think?”

  His face was pale, his lips dry, his voice a husky rasp, but he spoke. “You can’t expect a man to leap into the land of the living when he’s already crossed the river.”

  “I can when he’s already crossed back.” She paused. “You’re frightening the children, Rhuan. And probably a fair share of adults, to boot.”

  His eyes opened. He squinted into the sky. Then he brought a limp hand up to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Ilona saw the angry red streaks crossing the back of his hand. They would be gone by morning, she knew, if not before. “Have we an audience?” he asked.