The Wild Road (26 page)

The bodice of her tunic was soaked with breast milk, but it was not enough to relieve her of the ache. She badly needed an infant to nurse from her. It would help, too, with the laxity of her womb. But there was no infant, no newborn who had issued from her body. Nothing to hold. Nothing to love. Nothing to begin life ignorant of Alisanos. The child had been born in Alisanos; Audrun vaguely remembed Rhuan saying that the baby was also
of
Alisanos. And she feared for her. For Sarith. The third daughter she and Davyn had made.

She lay upon her cot and shivered. Heat coursed throughout the interior of her body, but the exterior was cold. Her hands and feet were numb. Her mind, too, felt cold. She could not think clearly. None of her thoughts stayed put, neither new nor old. Everything drained out of her body, out of her head. She was stupid with exhaustion. There was nothing left of her save a shell of a body over which she had no control.

But she had four children to tend.

Four children who, she realized abruptly, were no longer present.

The other room
—? Audrun, curled on her side against the chills, slowly worked herself upward onto a braced elbow and squinted into the common chamber. Even her eyes ached.

No Gillan, no Ellica. No Torvic or Megritte. No one at all.

She could not permit herself to stay in bed, no matter how ill she was, while her children were missing.

Mother, I beg you
.
Blessed Mother, care for my children
.
Let no harm come to them
.

She did not ask for herself. Only for her children.

Tears came too easily.

Chapter 23

B
ETHID COLLECTED HER
mount, Churri, from the picket-line and made sure her bedroll and supply bags were snugged behind the cantle and tied on, along with her blue courier's cloak. She wore rain gear over her clothing, in anticipation of showers, and would don the cloak for added protection if necessary. Her silver courier's brooch, for the time being, was attached to the top of her weather clothing.

She, Timmon, and Alorn inspected tent pegs, sledging them yet again to drive them deeper. They checked the guy-lines for tension as well as fraying and tied the flaps closed. Storm-snapped poles had been replaced. The custom was to leave the common tent clean and ready for the next couriers to come through.

Bethid wasn't sure the tent would remain standing if the deepwood displayed another temper tantrum. Against Alisanos, all they could do was their best.

She could not deny a fair amount of trepidation about the journey to Cardatha. Couriers knew the roads as well as karavan-masters and often better, as they took other roads in addition to the wagon routes. But this time they were riding without a road to follow and no knowledge of what might await them along the way. Brodhi had found the narrow passageway leading to the settlement on his way back from Cardatha, and she knew his memory was sound; it was one of the traits the Guild required of couriers. Once through, she would know the way as well, but for now they were wholly dependent on Brodhi.

Bethid counted off those who would be on the journey. Herself, Brodhi, Timmon, Alorn, Darmuth, Jorda, and the farmsteader. If the heavens opened and poured, there were enough people to break the wagons free of mud, but only on the journey out; Jorda would lose four of them once they reached Cardatha, leaving only Jorda, the farmsteader, and Darmuth. She did not expect them to linger in Cardatha; Jorda would want them back on the road as soon as possible to evade, if at all possible, bogging down. The rains had only begun yesterday, so perhaps there was, as yet, no danger of the heavy wagons getting stuck in the mud.

She cast a discerning eye at the sky to see if rain appeared imminent. It did not. But the sun had only just risen; plenty of time remained for clouds to build up. For now, all was dry save for a heavy film of dew.

Bethid put foot in stirrup and swung up onto Churri, settling easily into the saddle. The horse bobbed his head as she gathered reins, stamping with front hooves as he blew noisily through his nostrils. He had been picketed for several days, had survived a terrible storm, and was more than ready for a ride.

Bethid leaned forward in the saddle and smoothed a hand down his warm neck. “I know, sweet boy. We're going. I promise you a good ride to soothe the itch. But for now we go to where Jorda told us to meet. Then we'll head out.”

She lifted reins and turned Churri in a tight half-circle, then rode him out of the grove. He had snatched at grass as she mounted and now had a large clump, roots still intact and clogged with wet soil, hanging off one side of his bit. Bethid shook her head. “Whatever dignity you may have had is now lost. You just look silly.”

Churri was aware of the clump as well. He twisted his lips into a grasping sideways motion and yanked the grass out of his bit rings. A violent shake of the head rid the clump of mud, and then he ate it.

“Awww,” Bethid drawled affectionately. “I thought you might save that for a midday meal.” She set him to a long-trot, transferring weight from the saddle through bent, flexing knees and muscled thighs, and cut across the center of the settlement between the bonfire circle and Mikal's tent, where men gathered. Jorda nodded at her as she rode by. She heard something about storing food at Mikal's but was out of range before she could hear any questions or Jorda's answers.

AWAY BY HIMSELF
in the old but still surviving grove, Brodhi stopped. A look at his hands confirmed trembling. He felt ill, wishing to vomit. A chill coursed through his body. Finally, he allowed his legs to bend, to deposit him onto his knees. After a suspended moment, he settled back onto his heels.

Karadath
intended to make another
dioscuri
? Karadath? Alario, yes, because Rhuan was not suitable. But he? He who had killed all other challengers for the favored position? He was more than suitable!

He heard the sound of leaves rustling overhead. Just as he glanced up, a Hecari warrior, painted and armed, came down through the branches. He landed in front of Brodhi, war club at the ready.

Brodhi sighed. “Ferize.”

The warrior asked, in Ferize's light voice, “Will I pass?”

“Not to me.”

“I know not to you.” She scowled as the warrior guise simultaneously melted away and was replaced by a human form. Today her fine-loomed belted tunic and skirts were a deep purplish red, the color of mulberries. Hair was black, eyes as well. Brodhi had yet to see a guise that did not attract him. Or perhaps it was what lay beneath the clothing. Or maybe nothing more than the tease of sweet musk in her scent. “The question is, will I pass in the warlord's dwelling?” Then she waved the question away. She knelt facing him, knees to knees. She took his hands into hers. She was in human form, but in the back of her eyes he could see the demon, see the depths of a fierce, dangerous loyalty. See the ferocity usually kept restrained.

Ferize locked eyes with his. “You will kill him.”

Brodhi shook his head slightly. “You know I can't. I'm not ready. I know it.”

“Not your sire,” she said with careful clarity. “The one who would supplant you. Kill him in the creche.”

It painted a picture before his eyes. But he shook his head again. “He must be old enough for a true challenge. And for all that, he may be a she.” Brodhi brightened as relief sparked in his belly. “A daughter.
Diascara
she might be, but she could not withstand me.”

“Think,” Ferize commanded. “Think, Brodhi. Only rarely does a female challenge a male. One another, yes . . . but almost never males. She would be no impediment to you. You will be back in Alisanos well before she is old enough to challenge anyone.”

“But I would have to challenge Karadath.”

“Of course! And if you win, the world is yours.” Ferize shrugged. “If the offspring should be male and named Karadath's
dioscuri
, well, nothing changes. He would challenge you when he was old enough.”

Brodhi's mouth hooked sideways. “And if he won?”

Ferize pronounced a vulgarity. Her hands pressed more tightly on his. “Impossible. It is, and would be. Impossible.”

The concerns were serious, but he could not hide a smile. “You are dangerous in your dedication.”

She squeezed his hands one last time, released them. “You are the best of all. I chose you.”

That stopped the breath in his chest. “You . . .
chose
—?” It was unthinkable.

“Of course.” She leaned forward and set a palm on either side of his face. Her eyes sparked. “Did you think we had no say in the matter?”

“Yes,” he admitted flatly. “No say in the matter at all. I believed you were
assigned
.”

“If I chose badly,” she said, “and the primaries could not countenance it, then yes, I would be denied the
dioscuri
I preferred. But I chose well. And it was done.” Her smile displayed fangs. “You allowed me to unbraid your hair and then to rebraid it. Even the primaries know when a bond should be left as it is.”

Brodhi had never asked of Ferize how she had been made. One day, she just
was
. And she was beautiful in a way no human could understand. She wore the form at need, but never did he see a human in her place. Only a
seeming
. Behind the eyes, behind the smiles, behind the desire, much more lived in her. He had always simply accepted what she was. She was, in a way, a part of him.

“Now,” she said, “Darmuth and I shall meet in Cardatha, and we will see what we will see of the Hecari, he and I.” She leaned forward, planted a kiss on his brow. “Go to bed, Brodhi.”

He smiled. “With you?”

“I think not. I think it best that you sleep with no one in your bed, even if that bed is under a tree.” She smiled at him with a world in her eyes. “Good night, Brodhi.”

“Ferize!”

But she was gone. He could not even sense her.

Karadath intended to sire another
dioscuri
. Tamped fury replaced desire for Ferize's company.

Male or female, he would kill it.

THE MEN AT
Mikal's tent had dispersed, intent on relaying instructions to women and children regarding the Summoner tattoos, food disposition, and other things. Jorda and Davyn, too, were gone, joining those who would accompany them on the journey. It left Mikal alone in front of his tent with metal bars in his hands. He turned and ducked back in, put Jorda's Summoner in a convenient place, and strode to his bar. His morning tasks were always to wipe down the bar planks and the tables, check inventory—Jorda would return with sloshing kegs from Cardatha as well as supplies—wash cups and tankards, check the oil level and wicks in each candle cup or lantern, and make up new platters of bread and cheese.

He was working on the bar planks when a person entered the tent, and before he could say he was not yet serving, the woman walked quietly to him and paused on the other side of his bar. She met his eyes. There was no diffidence in her manner, no hesitation.

He knew her, if not by name. She was one of the Sisters, the one he had seen in his tent before. Tawny hair was drawn back, displaying the hollows and contours of a lovely face. She wore a dull green tunic and skirt he had seen before, and also the wide belt fastened by curved horn and loop. The length of fabric she wore as a shawl was a quiet amber, decorously shielding decolletage. There was nothing about her that bespoke her profession. And, equally, nothing about her that suggested she was a wife.

“I was not invited to your meeting,” she said calmly, “undoubtedly because of who, and what, I am.” She smiled faintly. “So be it, though you should realize that I can bring you additional custom. Men like to drink with a woman before sleeping with her.”

The blunt speech, the dry tone, was not what he expected. Mikal, leaning against the bar on braced arms, drew in a deep breath to speak.

“But that's not why I'm here,” she said before he could reply. “I did ‘attend' your meeting, in a matter of speaking. I simply stayed behind a corner of the tent and listened. And now I have come to you with a proposition.”

This time he spoke before she could continue. “I don't hire Sisters of the Road. You may conduct your business, of course, as you will—you have a wagon—but I won't hire you.”

“I think perhaps you will,” she demurred, “when you actually
listen
to my proposition instead of wondering what is under my wrap.” Her smile took the sting away but left him with a burning face. “A food line has its place, and I think you explained it well enough, but there is something else you should consider. With all lined up here at the same time, three times a day, you will fall dreadfully behind in serving it. And also cooking and baking. Or do you intend to do it all? Yourself?” She pushed a stray tendril of hair out of her eyes. “We can bake, we can cook, we can serve, my Sisters and I. That is what I propose you pay us for.”