Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (19 page)

He was exhausted, thirsty, hungry, badly in need of rest. And yet something inside prevented him from surrendering to the fatigue, from giving in to the need for food and drink. He felt cold inside, icy, unlike himself. Anger was an emotion he knew, though one he rarely gave in to. But this feeling wasn’t anger. It was a combination of several emotions, foremost among them the acceptance that all this was the fault of the karavan guide Rhuan, who had lost him his family. That awareness fed him, that acceptance strengthened him. He had a task to do, a journey to undertake. Panic and fear would not do any more than unchecked anger would. So he controlled it. Channeled it. Set his heart upon it. A goal, a task, a journey, followed by a rescue.

Davyn untied the waterskin from his belt and filled it at the barrel. Then he sought and found food and supplies in the wagon, and also Audrun’s kettle and a packet of tea. He built himself a small cairn, arranged the tinder and kindling they always carried, fished coals from the firepot and set them within the cairn. With careful attention he encouraged a fire to blossom, then set about making tea. It was a task Audrun always did as the children performed their predinner chores; familiar motions brought him something akin to comfort, small though it was.

At last he sat upon a blanket, poured himself tea, set a dented tin plate atop crossed legs, and scooped cooling beans into his mouth with a crust of hard bread. Tea washed it down. He banked the fire for the night,
climbed up into the wagon, and dug out bedding. Then he lay down upon floorboards beneath the open sky, under the Maiden Moon, and planned in his head what he needed to do come morning, what readiness was required before he set out upon the track that would lead him, eventually, to the settlement.

Davyn pulled the string of charms from beneath his tunic, closed his hand upon them, and fixed his eyes on the Maiden’s crescent.
Keep them safe, Mother. Keep all of them safe. And let them not grieve for me, because I’m coming for them. I’m coming for them all.

P
AIN, RHUAN DECIDED, did not simply hurt. Pain also exhausted a person, sapped his soul, thinned his spirit. Worse, pain was
tedious.

All of his instincts told him to do more than slump against the queen tree, but his body did not respond. He remained where he was, spine against trunk, his legs sprawled loosely in front of him. His right hand, again, shielded his abdomen, where the worst of the gashes were. With his left, he explored his face, feeling for claw grooves. There were none, only the crusting of dried blood. Further exploration told him his scalp beneath his braids was lacerated in several places; no wonder he had bled so badly.

From nearby he heard a faint sound, the brief, fussy bleat of a young animal. He rolled his head to look, winced at the stabbing protest of his skull, and saw that at the base of the tree next to his, Audrun had left the baby. Sarith, swaddled in muslin but stirring, fussing more vigorously, very likely needed her clout
changed. But he understood he was in no shape to do any such thing.

She had gone for water, he knew, the farmsteader’s wife. It was what he himself would have done were their roles reversed. And though he had instructed her to mark her route, he had no certainty that Audrun could find her way back. Marked trail or no, Alisanos rarely cooperated. But it was his only chance, and certainly hers as well.

With nothing to do but think as he waited, trying to ignore the pain, Rhuan considered his circumstances. He was injured, and abdominal wounds were serious. He was in no position to tend his own welfare, let alone Audrun’s and the baby’s. Audrun would no doubt do what she could, but caring for both a wounded man and a newborn would be difficult even if they were
not
in the deepwood; in Alisanos, it was perilous. Her chances of survival and Sarith’s, should he die, were nil. And he knew it was quite possible he might die.

Not a thought that pleased him, but it was the truth. He neither denied nor shirked the acknowledgment under the circumstances. He needed to think about the woman and the baby.

Darmuth would be of tremendous assistance were he present, but Darmuth was—missing. Or, perhaps more accurately, absent. Rhuan had no knowledge of whether the demon was somewhere in Alisanos, or among the humans not taken by the deepwood, had the settlement escaped. He was aware that Brodhi and
Ferize could communicate across distances, but they were bonded in a very different way. Humans called it
marriage
at its most simplistic level; here in Alisanos, when one was
dioscuri,
the bond was more complex.

Brodhi.

Where
was
Brodhi? In Alisanos? Still in the human world? He’d been at the settlement the last Rhuan had seen of him, but it was entirely possible that Alisanos had swallowed the tent village and everyone in it as well as Audrun and her family. If so, then possibly Brodhi might help him, though he doubted his kinsman’s mood would incline him in that manner. And if Brodhi was in the deepwood as well, they shared a very similar and serious situation: journeys aborted, goals dispersed, futures unsecured. It wouldn’t matter to the primaries that he and Brodhi had not voluntarily entered Alisanos. It would matter only that they had not completed the journeys set before them. They were, after all,
dioscuri,
and thus far more was expected of them. For instance, in the human world they could not die. An individual who could not be killed in that world should be able to overcome anything.

Claiming themselves Shoia was merely convenience; legitimate Shoia could indeed die six times, reviving until the seventh death, the true death. Assuming that racial identity afforded
dioscuri
the ability to revive should they “die,” relying upon the legends of the Shoia to explain such things to startled humans. In general,
dioscuri
expected not to be killed even once in a human world far less dangerous than
Alisanos, let alone seven times; in fact, with the sixth death they were to disappear entirely to save themselves from inconvenient questions. They were not, upon their journeys, to confess to humans what they were, or that such beings as
dioscuri
existed. Central to the journey was living, as much as was possible, among the humans
as
humans, save for the necessity of cloaking resurrection in the fiction of Shoia blood, and admitting to the occasional art that humans viewed as magic.

But both of them were
dioscuri,
he and Brodhi, not Shoia. Not human.
Dioscuri
were expected to transcend difficulties that would challenge humans. It was part of the journey. Entering Alisanos before one’s journey was completed was far more than a
difficulty
. Here, any death was permanent. And if called to judgment before time, the primaries would have no choice but to name failed
dioscuri
unworthy of ascension. He and Brodhi would be declared neuters. He and Brodhi would then be
physically
neutered.

Rhuan couldn’t help it; the mere thought made his groin and thigh muscles clench. He shifted against the tree, then wished he hadn’t.

If I could get out of Alisanos, return to the human world without the primaries discovering I’m here …

If he could. But in the meantime, there was a woman to care for, and her infant. Alisanos might well allow
him
to find a way out, should he survive, though it wouldn’t be easy, but Audrun and Sarith were truly trapped. The baby, the first human child born in Alisanos
in centuries, as humans reckoned time, would never be allowed to leave. And Audrun, given the opportunity to escape before the changes overcame her, would never leave her child. She had lost four already.

Shifting against the tree had broken open clotting wounds, kindling renewed, shocking pain. Blood trickled again from his bare abdomen. He pressed his palm against the gashes, trying to forestall additional blood loss, trying to control the pain, then realized, belatedly, that blood was possibly the answer to his present difficulty.

Rhuan lifted his trembling hand. Blood stained his fingers. Smiling grimly, he dabbed it onto closed eyelids, and summoned the blood-bond linking him to the one who was, in human words, his cousin; in the tongue of their people, kin-in-kind.

“You’ll hate this, I know.” Dimples appeared as his smile stretched to a grin. “And I don’t care.”

THE HAND-READER SLEPT. Bethid sat in the wagon’s open doorway with booted feet propped on a lower step, sipping herb tea. She had dug up a pierced-tin lantern from Ilona’s things and lighted it, then hung it from the nail over the arched doorway so that it shed illumination upon the steps and a small area beyond. She’d considered setting out several of the sherpherd’s crooks and other lanterns as well, but decided that she should wait for Ilona’s permission,
especially as no one yet knew how much lamp oil had survived the storm.

Other wagons and people had settled in for the evening nearby. This sprawling grove, on the far side of the former tent village, was not ordinarily used for karavans, but the smaller, younger grove had suffered too much storm damage, and also hosted those injured in the Hecari culling. Upon his return, Jorda had brought his karavan to the older, stronger grove boasting massive trees, most of which had withstood the storm’s fury. Earlier his folk had sorted through their wagons for things that could be given to the settlement residents who’d lost everything. Now the sun was down, twilight had passed into night, and the grove, providing some shelter, hosted multiple small fires. Karavaners had retreated into their wagons; those of the tent village gathered in family groups at the bases of trees, seeking a form of security. Bethid noted that the karavan-master was moving from wagon to wagon, quietly checking on his folk. Eventually, he came to her as well.

“She’s sleeping,” Bethid reported as Jorda walked into the lantern light. “And her fever appears to have broken. She took more tea and ate a portion of Brodhi’s venison.”

He nodded, relief limning his features. Illumination from the lantern glinted off silver threads in his ruddy hair and beard. He sighed, then squatted in the pool of light at the bottom of the steps. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

She nodded, swallowing tea. “Ask.”

He hesitated. “I would go myself, but Mikal feels I should stay to deal with the karavaners. The tentfolk are his responsibility. And I agree.”

Bethid waggled fingers in a gesture to encourage an actual question. “Yes?”

“As a courier, you know the roads. So, I’ve come to see if you would ride out toward the Atalanda shortcut. Rhuan went to aid a family of farmsteaders before the storm broke. They may need help. And I need Rhuan.”

Her brows arched. “What about your other guide? I’m willing to go, of course, but he and Rhuan are partners.”

Jorda’s expression was grim. “Darmuth’s missing.”

That was startling. “Did he go after Rhuan?”

“I have no idea where he is. He’s a trustworthy man; I fear he may have been taken by Alisanos, or lost to the storm.”

She understood the implication immediately. “Which means you need Rhuan more than ever.”

“Brodhi has drawn us a very rough map of where he believes the Alisanos borders lie in the
immediate
area. It will do for the moment—it’s far better than what we have otherwise—but he agrees it would be best if we scout the borders thoroughly before allowing anyone to venture farther. And we need to venture, Beth; there are things to search for, water to haul up from the river—what if part of
it
is in the deepwood, now? There are new fields to be plowed, hunting to be done, and so
forth. It’s imperative we have an accurate map. If we know how and where the borders lie, we can put up warning cairns, make sure everyone knows where they shouldn’t go. Brodhi says his understanding is that most of the deepwood is forested and thus visible, but not all of it, and that the borders may creep one way or the other overnight. And even were it decided everyone should go elsewhere, it’s simply too dangerous to travel without maps. We could all end up in Alisanos.”

She grimaced. “And Brodhi’s going to Cardatha, thanks to me.”

“No, it’s a good plan, Beth. And Rhuan has land-sense, too. It would be far safer for him and Darmuth to scout the borders than to risk folk who may blunder into the deepwood purely by accident.”

“Then I’ll leave in the morning.”