Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (37 page)

He shrugged. “That, I don’t know. It’s possible. When the time comes upon a
dioscuri
, he often has no choice. He challenges because he must. It’s a physical
and emotional drive, more powerful than any other. Even the need to procreate, though that’s interrelated.”

“To pull down the strongest so he can make a place for himself … and to sire his future replacement.”

“It’s the central defining conflict of our people. Primaries are driven to sire offspring so
dioscuri
are born—though not many are—and yet from the moment of that birth the sire and the son are locked in competition. The
dioscuri
is a threat, a promise of the primary’s ending.”

“Do
dioscuri
always win?”

“Oh, no. Not in the least.” He gathered his hair into a tail and tied it off. “Quite often the primary kills his own son.” Then, as Audrun stared at him in shock, he rose, caught her hands, and pulled her to her feet. “And now, it’s time we went looking for the Kiba. We can do nothing here except further discuss my sire’s shortcomings, and while that would undoubtedly fill weeks and months, as humans reckon it, it’s not particularly productive.”

B
RODHI AWOKE IN the middle of the night to the awareness, sharp and intense, that someone knelt by his pallet in the sleeping chamber. There was no light whatsoever and there wouldn’t be until dawn broke, but he needed none. He moved swiftly and grasped a wrist. When he heard quiet laughter, he gripped more tightly.

“Why?” he breathed.

Ignoring his grasp on her wrist, Ferize slid down, stretched out full length, and settled her body very close to his. Her scent was subtle, but effective; he felt himself respond. He released her wrist, shifted, placed a hand at the back of her neck, buried beneath her hair. She was, he realized, nude.

“Why?”

Deep in her throat, she purred. He slept only in leggings; her hand found the laced flap.

He stopped her. Most pallets were empty, but several hosted sleeping couriers. He knew very well that Ferize would find this a fillip, but he wasn’t in the
mood to let her dictate terms such as when, and where, and had no desire to entertain fellow couriers. Undoubtedly young Corrid would be astonished.

He rose to his feet, bringing her up with him. Her breasts against his naked chest were intensely warm. The scale-pattern, he knew, was upon her. He walked her backward, spreading his legs so that hers fell in between. At the door he released her, set hands against the wood on either side of her shoulders. Ferize lifted the latch. He pressed the door open, caught her head in his hands, and turned her, guiding her, bringing his lips to hers. Mercifully, she had not yet undone the lacing of his leggings. He walked again, taking her backward, until they reached another door. Once more she lifted the latch; once more, he pressed the door open. It gave. Brodhi closed it quietly behind them, gently setting the latch so no sound was made.

“Ferize—”

She laughed. “Pleasure before business …” She silenced him with her mouth. He bore her down to the floor, down upon the rug. He did not stay her hand as she undid the lacing and peeled the leather back. He had time only to consider that they had best finish before dawn, or the Guildmaster, coming to view his map, would be most annoyed.

BETHID, ALARMED BY the farmsteader’s message, hastened to Ilona’s wagon. There she
found the hand-reader lying on her side in her cot, knees drawn up, one hand pressed against her forehead. Her color was ashen. “Ilona!” She moved in close, shifting Ilona’s hand to press her own against the brow. It was cool and clammy.

“Tea,” Ilona croaked. “A muslin bag tied with blue string, third drawer down on the left.”

Bethid knelt and opened the drawer. “I have it.”

The voice was weak, but the tone was faintly, barely, ironic. “As soon as possible, if you would, or my belly is going to be quit of every meal I’ve had for the last several days.”

Bethid grinned and pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll see to it immediately. Oh, and just in case, here’s the nightcrock.”

Outside, the cookfire was banked. Bethid uncovered the coals and prepared the tea as quickly as possible, filled the mug, and carried it back into Ilona’s wagon. The hand-reader murmured something in relief and raised herself up high enough to accept the mug and drink half the contents down. She paused, made a face of distaste, then drank the remains.

“More?” Bethid asked.

“No, not just now.” Ilona sank back against her cushions. “Bless you.”

Bethid set the mug aside and perched herself atop the trunk across the narrow aisle. “Possibly I shouldn’t ask, but do you want anything to eat?”

“No eating!” Ilona said forcefully. Then, more quietly, “Later.” She pressed the back of her hand against
her forehead. “Is there word of any sickness in the settlement?”

Bethid shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard of.”

Ilona sighed. “Then I suspect this is linked to the resurgence of my gift. One can’t be ungrateful, but one might wish for things to be less … violent.”

“You can read hands again?”

“Yes. Or at least, I read
a
hand.” She blew out a breath. “The farmsteader’s.” She pushed herself up higher against the cushions, turning on a hip to face Bethid. “Thank the Mother—and you!—the tea is beginning to work.”

“Your color’s improving,” Bethid noted. “Was there good news in his hand, or am I not to ask?” When Ilona closed her eyes, tension tautening her face, Bethid hastened to make amends. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have asked. It just came right out of my mouth—”

“No, no, it’s all right.” Ilona rolled her head away and stared at the ceiling. “It’s difficult,” she said finally, and her tone was a mixture of so many emotions Bethid couldn’t name them all, “and painful, to arrive at the realization that someone means a great deal more to you than you thought—and that he’s lost to you. Lost to all.” She swallowed heavily. “When someone is
so much
a part of your life, even without intimacy, you expect him always to be in it. And when he isn’t … well, it leaves a very large hole.”

Bethid knew whom she meant immediately, and felt
a pang of sympathy. Quietly, she said, “You’re certain he’s gone?”

“Oh, yes. No one comes out of Alisanos.”

“And he’s definitely in the deepwood?”

“I saw him there, in the farmsteader’s hand. Not long, only a glimpse—but he’s there.”

“Mother,” Bethid murmured. “I’m so sorry, Ilona … but …” She recalled Jorda saying the two were not lovers. “No intimacy, you said?”

“No. We seemed never to fit in that way. I lost a lover to the Hecari just before Rhuan hired on, and for all his laughter and fecklessness, he can be very pointedly private. I never asked why not. But then, I never asked it of myself, either … until recently.” She released a long sigh and closed her eyes again. “Too late. Or not meant.”

Bethid sought for something appropriate to say, something comforting, but reflected that at this moment nothing
would
be comforting, except privacy. She rose. “I’ll let you rest now. I’ll come back later.”

Ilona made no reply, and Bethid quietly went down the steps.

DAVYN WAITED UNTIL he and the karavanmaster were mounted, each man leading one of the draft horses, before he broached the question. It would take several days for them to reach the wagon, time to replace the broken axle and reload the possessions
taken out just prior to the storm, and then several days to return, though Jorda agreed that, in the interests of the needs of the karavaners and tent-folk, he would return more quickly with the two borrowed riding horses while Davyn drove the wagon back. It was as they rode across the river and back onto the northern road that Davyn brought it up.

“This other Shoia, Brodhi. Do you know him?”

Jorda, mounted on a stout gray horse and leading a heavy bay, glanced at him sidelong, mouth twisted. “Mostly I know
of
him. Brodhi isn’t one for friends or companionship, though he will visit Mikal’s from time to time. Why?”

“I know he’s gone to Cardatha to tell the warlord about what’s happened with Alisanos …”

“Yes, and if the Mother is kind, he’ll convince the warlord to leave the settlement alone.”

Davyn wished he could press a hand against the string of charms around his neck, but one hand held the reins and the other tended the halter-rope attached to the other draft horse, also a bay. “When do you expect him back?”

Jorda reined his gray gelding around a vermin hole and clucked at his draft horse to catch up. “We’re not certain. We don’t know if Alisanos has cut off the Cardatha road, nor how long the warlord may keep him. Why?”

Davyn ignored the question. “What might buy his services?”

“As a courier? Coin-rings, of course. But his fee depends
on distance, and what the Guildhall sets for their share.”

“No—as something other than a courier.”

That got Jorda’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“I wish him to do me a very great service. A very dangerous service. I need him …” Davyn inhaled, then exhaled audibly. “I need him to go into Alisanos.”

“Sweet Mother!” Jorda was shocked. “Whatever for?”

Davyn said quietly, “My family.”

Jorda’s reaction was to rephrase the statement as a question. “Why would you even consider asking him to go into Alisanos for your family? It’s more than dangerous, man—it’s deadly!”

“Because he can
find
my family. I’ve been told so.”

The karavan-master barked a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Whoever told you that is a fool!” He paused a moment, as if aware he might have committed offense, and mellowed his tone. “I can’t imagine Brodhi would ever do such a thing. Who told you he would?”

Davyn chose his words with care. “I wasn’t told he would go. I was told he
was
there, with my youngest children.”

“In Alisanos?”

“The hand-reader told me so, that she saw it when she read my hand earlier this morning.”

“Ilona said that…” It trailed off before Jorda’s tone made it a question. He frowned thoughtfully for a long moment, weighing the information, then met Davyn’s eyes. “Ilona reads true.”

“Yes. She said that.” Davyn grimaced. “And it seems I have done your guide an injustice. He did not purposely send my family into the deepwood … in fact, he himself was caught in it even as they were.”

Jorda swore loudly and lengthily, reining in his horse so abruptly the one he led bumped into the gray’s rump. His expression, mostly hidden by the beard, was a mixture of shock, dismay, disappointment, and concern.

Davyn, halting his mount as well and sorting out reins and lead-rope, sought a way to amend the baldness of his statement. “Perhaps Brodhi could find Rhuan as well as my family.”

Jorda stared at him, brows knitted. His tone was hopeful. “Ilona saw
Brodhi
there—she didn’t mistake Rhuan for him? That happens often enough.”

“She seemed certain. She said Brodhi, more than once.”
That he is the key
.