The Wild Road Page 9

  Outside, rain fell harder, faster. No one would be going anywhere. It was time to break out the weather clothing, the trousers and shirt made of oiled canvas, though of a lighter hand than wagon canopies, and a rope-belted, hooded coat against the worst of the rain. Months, it would be. Months in one place. But for Davyn, alone, good weather would do nothing to urge him on his way. The child was born. Reaching Atalanda now lacked the relentless drive to get his family to safety, as the diviners had all urged before the baby was born.

  The baby was born.

  Blessed Mother, his children, his Audrun, all of whom were his life. Precisely the kind of life he had wanted and had, before now, beneath the Mother’s weeping skies.

  AUDRUN STARED AT the primary, stunned beyond words. He wanted her? To make another dioscuri? To make a child who would, at its birth, cause her death?

  But she found her tongue as well as renewed strength, and schooled her tone into matter-of-factness, refusing to allow the primary to provoke her before her children. She sensed the shock of her eldest, Gillan and Ellica, who knew how children came into the world; Torvic and Megritte, as yet too young, knew nothing of such things in humans, only in livestock.

  “I didn’t realize you were insane. My sympathies for your condition.”

  She saw a brief flicker of surprise in his brown eyes, the faintest spark of red, though nothing showed in his face. “Untrue,” the primary said.

  In the same matter-of-fact tone, she said, “Oh, I think you are. Without question.” Then she realized that possibly the same could be said of her, standing with a tree frond balanced on her head. She lowered it to her side. The double suns were blinding. Hats. They needed hats. “You stand here before me—before my children, no less—and declare we’ll make a baby, you and I.” She stared into his eyes, putting as much conviction into her own as was possible. No wavering. No flicker of concern or fear. Primaries exuded physical and mental strength, a nearly overwhelming power. But she refused to surrender to it. “You are impolite, to suggest such a thing. Before my children, if you please, you will mind your manners.”

  Ah. She saw it: she had provoked him.

  “Human, do you know where you are?”

  “Oh, yes. Rhuan explained about the Kiba.”

  “It is the heart of our people . . . do you mock that? Do you mock me?”

  She drew in a careful breath, trying not to let it shake, and released it as carefully. “I never mock children. It serves no purpose.”

  He was, abruptly, there, standing in front of her, nearly touching her. The children, now, were behind him; a glimpse showed eyes gone huge and mouths open. She felt his power, recognized that she could not truly withstand it. It took great effort to hold her ground. His height, his bearing, his eyes, the sheer power of his presence nearly beat her down. Her legs were weak, trembling. She did not know for how long she might remain standing. She dug the fingers of her right hand into the frond at her side, realizing as she did so, completely inconsequentially, that two fingernails were broken.

  The back of her neck prickled, but she did not give ground. He wanted her for breeding; he would not kill her when a child of his would do it for him.

  The timbre of his voice tightened. “Would you, human woman, mock a god?”

  He would not kill her. That gave her strength. “Probably not. I was taught good manners.”

  “Yet you mock me.”

  “Well, yes. You are deserving of it. How dare you come to me, a guest of the Kiba, and say such things? That is most rude. I was led to believe better of you, but apparently Rhuan was wrong.”

  “Rhuan—? Rhuan is a child. He speaks as a child.”

  “In my world, I rather think he’s an adult.” She wished badly she could see more of her children behind him, but by standing so close, he blocked her. She had to tip her head back to look into his face. She did so, meeting his eyes. “And why, when you already have a dioscuri, do you want to get another? Isn’t Brodhi enough?”

  He smiled. “Alario means to do it.”

  It took her aback. “And does that mean you must?” She shook her head. “Is everything here a competition?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what will you do with two dioscuri?”

  “What we have always done. We let them fight.”

  “You would risk Brodhi?”

  “No risk,” Karadath answered. “If Brodhi should fail, it would be because the other was more fit. And if that one dies, then Brodhi’s worth is assured.”

  Audrun did not understand. She couldn’t. But because Alario meant to sire a new dioscuri to replace Rhuan, now she was made part of the plan. Karadath, too, would make a new dioscuri, and would get it upon her.

  “Human women can be difficult, overly emotional,” he said, “and so we have learned to teach them much of us before we lie with them. You won’t be harmed. Physically you must be well, as the pregnancy lasts twice nine.”

  She added it up instantly. “Eighteen months!”

  “Twice nine. Eighteen months.” He shrugged. “The words mean the same.”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “Yes.”

  His words threatened her fragile courage, but she took shelter in disbelief. “No wonder they die in childbirth! I cannot even imagine how a woman could carry a child that long. Nine months—nine human months—is difficult enough.” Audrun shook her head. “Short of forcing me, there is no way I would agree to such a thing.”

  Again, the primary shrugged. “Your agreement is not necessary. Just your womb.”

  Chapter 8

  RHUAN AWOKE WITH the dawn, always. But this time his thoughts were not for his task as karavan guide nor for the responsibilities of the settlement, which had never, really, been his. Of a sudden, as he opened his eyes to the day, his mind ran backward. Memory rose up within him, memory of Brodhi, of Karadath. Ylarra. All of them in the chamber, as Karadath and Ylarra told him and Brodhi what their punishment was to be for returning to Alisanos much too early.

  Brodhi’s voice, telling him. Telling him with pleasure in it, in the customary mocking tone.

  With eyes unfocused by thought and memory, Rhuan stared at the mother rib of Ilona’s wagon, absently noting the string of charms and beads, the fetish animals.

  His sire intended to make another dioscuri.

  And Brodhi’s words: “That leaves you with a choice: to kill the child, or to challenge the sire.”

  Ilona shifted, drawing his mind away from Brodhi, away from anything else but her. Joy superseded unsettling memory.

  Despite the closeness of the wagon—he was accustomed to sleeping under the stars—Rhuan was supremely comfortable upon the floorboards with Ilona in his arms. A doubled mattress lay beneath them, and a tangle of bedding provided some padding against unforgiving wood. They had neither of them shed all of their clothing, but it had not been required. They made shift as they could in haste and would again, he knew.

  Ilona lay on her side even as he did, body snugged against his. She rested her head on his bent arm.

  Ilona’s tone was delicately wry. “We should have done this sooner.”

  He smiled. “Much sooner.” They had in fact wasted years apart, albeit in friendship; other years stretched ahead. For now they could take joy, take comfort, find the truths of bodies and souls. “You know why we didn’t,” he said. “I was afraid of you.”

  She lifted her head. “Afraid! Of me?”

  “Of course. You’re a hand-reader. A true hand-reader. From what I know, all diviners can sense things in a person even if they don’t go through the ritual, and some more than others.”

  Ilona’s tone was thoughtful as she lowered her head once more. “True.”

  “Though things are much clearer in a ritual, of course,” he continued. “The Mother knows, my o
wn people are bound up in hundreds of rituals.”

  Ilona rolled her head on his arm so that she looked upward to the canopy. “‘The Mother’? Have you become a convert?”

  “Well, I believe the humans’ Mother of Moons to be kinder than the primaries. But no, I’m not a convert. It’s impossible for us to convert.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Primaries. Dioscuri.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we are gods.” He paused. “Well, I’m not a god yet. Only one in training. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t do to worship a human god when we have our own. Such as my sire.”

  “Your sire is hardly my idea of a god!”

  “Primaries are unkind, as I’ve said. But that truth does not strip them of godhood.”

  “But what do they do, as gods?”

  Rhuan reflected that the conversation was moving toward the line of inquiry Audrun had raised. In fact, he could see Ilona also facing down the primaries in the Kiba. The image made his grin renew itself. “It’s complicated. But—”

  “Rhuan!” Someone banged loudly on the wagon’s latched door. “Rhuan, Jorda wants you. Now.”

  Ilona said a word most impolite.

  The banging went on. “Rhuan!”

  He released an aggravated but quiet growl, tempted to strongly suggest that whoever it was should go away. But then realization arrived. He freed his arm from Ilona’s head and pushed himself upright into a seated position. “Darmuth? You’re back!”

  “A meeting has been called. Jorda wants us at Mikal’s tent.” Darmuth’s voice paused, then continued with an underlying note of dry amusement in his tone. “I see you and Ilona have at long last allowed baser instincts to overcome your ridiculous reluctance to copulate.”

  “Baser instincts!” Ilona divested herself of bedding, then yanked a blanket around naked legs and hips. Before Rhuan could do it, she made her ungainly way to the door and unlatched it. One shove threw it swinging open on its hinges; it thudded against wood smartly, then swung back. Ilona stopped it with a hand and hung onto the latch. “Since you apparently believe we waited much too long to begin with, may I suggest you go away so we may make up for lost time?” She paused, then continued in a surprised voice. “It’s raining!”

  Rhuan looked past her and saw that it was, as yet, a thin rain, and the tree canopy offered decent shelter. Nonetheless, Darmuth’s tunic was slowly darkening across the shoulders as droplets ran down his shaven skull.

  “Rain is one of the subjects Jorda would like to discuss.” Darmuth’s pale, icy eyes reflected amusement. “Perhaps you should attend as well, hand-reader. You do hold a position of some importance in this motley assemblage.”

  “So I do, and so I shall.” Whereupon Ilona yanked the door closed. The latch clicked into place. “I think first I will put on some clothes.”

  Rhuan grinned. Still abed, he shinnied back into hide leggings, knotting them low on hips even as he considered suggesting she do no such thing. Then his amusement faded. “I suspect I know what this meeting is about.”

  “The rain.”

  “The rain.”

  And in unison, “Monsoon.”

  Ilona found fresh smallclothes and a clean, if somewhat wrinkled, skirt. Everything in her wagon was askew; she would, Rhuan realized, have to spend a goodly amount of time reassembling it. There were advantages to sleeping in a blanket or two upon the ground. Nothing needed sorting or rescue.

  “I suspect we’re all staying put for awhile. No one is going anywhere,” Ilona said, fiddling with a drawstring, “if that was in anyone’s mind.” Drawstring tied, she found a length of ocher-and-amber woven fabric and wrapped it around her shoulders over a beltless, wrinkled tunic.

  Rhuan found a length of twine and tied his hair back. Regardless of such meanings as an intent to marry and its associated, intricate rituals, he wanted it braided and out of his way, but this would do in the meantime.

  Ilona, muttering, started searching through bedding. “There must be a hair rod somewhere in this mess.”

  “Let it be as it is.”

  “My hair? Blessed Mother, no! It always wants taming. I think—ah! Here.” Swiftly she twisted riotous ringlets into a thick rope of hair, coiled it deftly against her head, anchored it with an intricately carved rod. Then she studied him. “Perhaps your suggestion—offer? invitation?—of braiding it is a good idea.” She checked for loose strands, found none. “Or I could cut it off. I’ve considered that before.”

  “You will do no such desecration!” Rhuan found his belt under a blanket as Ilona laughed, slung leather around his tunic, shoved the curved length of horn through a loop of sinew and snugged it into place. Boots, no hindrance to love-making, remained on his feet. Ilona, however, had at some point tugged hers off and now sought them. Rhuan rose onto his knees, pulled one boot from beneath his insulted buttocks, offered it gravely. Ilona worked her right foot into it, tugged it into place, and finally unearthed its mate.

  Rhuan unlatched and pushed the door open. Ducking his head against a canopy rib and canvas, he descended the wooden steps. The morning was young, rain-grayed, cool. He smelled dampness and woodsmoke, the subtle tang of wet stone and crushed grasses, the familiar breakfast aromas of oatmeal, sausage, eggs, fresh bread, frying bacon, and other equally savory foods. It made him hungry.

  Darmuth was gone. Rhuan turned back, offered a hand to Ilona as she climbed down, gave in to sudden impulse, and leaned to kiss her. “Later,” he promised against her mouth. “Darmuth is right; we’ve wasted too much time.”

  “Yes, I think so.” Ilona pulled the wrap up over her hair and swung the long ends around her torso. “We shall have to make up for all that lost time.”

  And it was perfectly natural, supremely comfortable, as they fell in beside one another, hands interlocked, and made their way out of the sheltering grove and into the steady rain.

  AS THE OCCLUDED sun broke the horizon behind a thick scrim of darkening clouds—rain was imminent—Brodhi surveyed the collapsed courier tent: billows and folds of canvas intermixed with poles, rope guy-lines, and personal belongings. He shared Bethid’s opinion, her earthy complaint that a “piss-poor” job had been done raising the tent following the killing storm. Of course, it had been done without his supervision. His mind ticked over requirements for recovery: more rope for additional guy-lines, poles needed buttrussing, anchor irons should be pounded more deeply into the ground. Or, he knew, all of this would have to be done over again. Alisanos wasn’t finished with them.

  Bethid was picking through the collapsed canvas, attempting to find whatever she could of personal belongings and various paraphernalia vital to a temporary tent home. She peeled back what she could of heavy canvas, attempted to roll it aside. But for all her wiry strength, the weight and mass of the downed tent defeated her. She had, however, freed a loose pair of trews—which she tugged on over her sleeping tunic—two of the iron hooks that ordinarily hung from the central roof rib, and a boot. One boot.

  “Mine,” she muttered, and set it aside with the hooks. “Now, where’s the other one . . . ?”

  Brodhi was moved to comment. “This would be better done with more hands. More strength.”

  “Male strength?” she asked acerbically.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” she echoed, mimicking his tone. “But the only male in sight is doing nothing more than criticizing.” She glowered at the downed tent. “It needs Timmon and Alorn, too.”

  “Of course,” he repeated. “More hands. More strength.”

  Dark clouds gave birth. Bethid swore, tipping her head back to look up into the sky. “Augh, here comes the rain.” She wiped moisture from her brow. “Well, it’s the season for it . . . but, sweet Mother, enough is enough.” The thin fabric of her night tunic, freckled by droplets, began to wilt and adhere to
her skin. She rose, brass ear-hoops swinging, but dulled by the gray of the day. “We’ve got to get this tent erected before it becomes a downpour.”

  She stood before him, small, slim, wiry, exceedingly competent. And underestimated by those who did not know her. He clearly recalled speaking on her behalf before the Guildmaster, convincing the man to allow Bethid to participate in the demanding trials that divided the wishful thinkers from promising candidates. Then, Brodhi had done it because it amused him to challenge the Guildmaster and the precepts of the courier guild. It mattered less than nothing to him that the girl might truly be good enough.

  Horses don’t care if the rider is man, or woman, Brodhi had said. If anything, a lighter person in the saddle is less wearing, allowing the horse greater efficiency. She can go farther in a day than the heavier men.

  And she had been good enough, and now stood before him because of it. No more a wishful thinker, no longer merely a candidate, but a courier worthy of the Guild. And while there were more men than less who still felt a woman should not be allowed, no one could charge that she was incapable. She won her place fairly.

  And the horses she rode did go farther in a day.

  Her attention was drawn to an approaching man. “Timmon! About time you came back. As you see, we need you. And Alorn. Has he drunk himself senseless?”

  The courier shook his head. “We’re wanted. Mikal and the karavan-master have called a meeting.”

  “Why should we be wanted?” Brodhi asked, annoyed. “Whatever it is Jorda wishes to do makes no difference to us, as couriers. It isn’t necessary to go.”

  Timmon shrugged. “I’m only telling you what was said. You can argue it with both of them, for all I care. But I was asked to fetch you.”