Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (26 page)

She was seated next to Rhuan, hammering his knife into the hard rind, when he stirred and made a sound.

Audrun stopped bashing the knife with a rock. She let the melon and the crude hammer fall, but held onto the knife. She moved closer to him, kneeling at his side. “Rhuan?”

Lids fluttered. He inhaled a hissing breath. One hand moved to touch the bandages at his abdomen. After a moment he opened his eyes, frowning faintly.

Audrun smiled, relieved. “I have melon,” she announced. “Will you take some? I’ve been giving you a mush made with water, but if you intend to stay conscious now, you can feed yourself.”

His expression was perplexed as he peered up at her. Red flickered in his eyes, then retracted.

Audrun, who had witnessed the confusion in a wounded man when he first came to, decided to assist his memory. “I don’t know how many days we’ve been here,” she said, “not in Alisanos time, but I’ve seen three passes of the suns below the horizon. Three nightfalls. You’ve slept since then, or something akin to it.” She smiled crookedly. “I did manage to get the mush down you and a little water, but you weren’t particularly helpful. So if you’re hungry, blame yourself.” She paused. “Do you remember the fire? The demon?”

His voice was weak. “The dreya are dead.”

“Yes, and their ring.” She saw his gaze slip by her, saw it light upon charred trees. Saw the horror and grief enter his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There was nothing to be done. You were badly injured, and the fire moved so fast—”

“Dreya trees are hollow,” he rasped. “They conduct heat and flames as a chimney does. Once afire, no dreya tree, or dreya ring, can be doused.” He shifted a little, winced, investigated with care the sore areas in his abdomen. Then looked into her face, acknowledged what she had not mentioned. “He took the baby from me.”

She nodded. She could not speak of it. Not so soon.

Rhuan indicated his bandaged abdomen. “Is this all?”

“Some gashes in your thighs, and slices in your scalp. I cleaned all as best I could with water. I’m sure there are medicinal herbs and plants, even here, but I know none of them and dared not risk it. Perhaps you can tell me what to look for, now that you’re awake.”

Rhuan’s right hand drifted from his abdomen to his scalp. Fingers searched a moment, finding damage, and then stopped. His eyes opened wide in shock. He could not even speak. He stared up at her fixedly, but his thoughts appeared to be somewhere else.

“I took out your braids,” she told him. “It was necessary so I could get to the wounds. To wash them.” She smiled. “I believe your hair will be longer than mine, once the crimping is out.”

“No,” he said. “Oh, no … no.”

“It was necessary,” Audrun repeated. “You can braid it again. And I kept all the ornamentation safe.”

Rhuan shakily combed his fingers through a wavy section of hair, lifted it for viewing, then let it fall. “Audrun.” He swallowed heavily, expression somewhat peculiar—almost as if he suppressed a laugh, which she found quite odd. His voice sounded rather strangled. “Oh, Audrun, this was a mistake. A significant mistake.”

She frowned at him. “Unbraiding your hair? Come now, Rhuan, how can something so innocuous be a mistake? Particularly a
significant
mistake?”

He placed his palm over the upper half of his face, blocking his vision. Yes, he was laughing, if very quietly, which baffled and annoyed her even more. “Audrun …” He sighed, then removed his hand. She saw a rueful amusement in his expression, his flickering dimples. “Oh Audrun, I’m so sorry, but by unbraiding my hair, well… it means you’ve married me.”

D
AVYN—RIDING a horse with the smoothest gait he’d ever felt, even carrying two—was astonished to discover the karavan grove beside the settlement was mostly upended. And a high percentage of the tents, he saw, were missing entirely, with only a handful standing in the wide, flat, foot-beaten area that had once hosted as many as a hundred families, uncounted diviners, and various makeshift businesses. He saw charcoal raked into piles, a collection of broken tent poles, yards of ruined oilcloth. He smelled dirt, burned paint, damp ash, and death.

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.”