Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (27 page)

“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
un
marry 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.”

I
LONA, 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.”

BETHID CONSIDERED LEADING Churri over to where the common tent had stood in case Timmon and Alorn had scavenged enough poles and oilcloth to pitch it again, but a sudden desire for ale diverted her intent. Instead, she untacked the gelding, set blankets and saddle upside down against Mikal’s tent, changed out the bridle and bit for a rope halter, then led Churri a short distance away to where grass grew in abundance. There she picketed him, patted him, and returned to the ale tent. But before she could enter, the farmsteader exited. By his expression, by the tautness of his shoulders, it seemed likely Mikal had offered no definitive response to any questions about Rhuan. The man, caught up in his own emotions, barely glanced at her as he walked out of the tent and turned toward the grove hosting karavan wagons.

Perhaps he’ll fare better with Jorda
… Bethid slipped into the ale tent. At once she was assailed by the sights, the sounds, the odors she always associated with an ale tent. In the midst of upheaval within the settlement, this she recognized. It grounded her immediately. And the sight of Mikal, leaning forward on arms braced against the surface of his bar, kindled a rush of relief. As a courier—and as herself, different from her family in so many ways—she had no true home, but this settlement, this tent, with this man present, offered a sense of comfort and familiarity.

He saw her making her way through the tables and
men who stood closely among one another, and set up a pewter tankard of ale. She thanked him with a smile as she arrived and drank a few deep swallows, heedless of the foam.

Mikal waited until she quenched her immediate thirst and wiped her lip. His voice was quiet. “I understand from the farmsteader that Rhuan isn’t to be found.”

Contentment dissipated. Her smile faded. “Not yet. He seemed certain that he would have seen Rhuan if he were anywhere nearby, but I’m not sure that’s so. Things out there are—different. The main road north is now blocked by Alisanos, so I had to cut across a different way to join up with the Atalanda shortcut. Rhuan may have done the same.” She shrugged. “Who’s to know the route he took? I think many of us will be making new tracks and roads now that the world has changed.”