The Wild Road (4 page)

“What punishment for them?” Darmuth asked. “And what for us?”

The primary smiled. “For them, and for you, in equal measure. It begins again, their journey. Thus, so does yours.”

Darmuth exchanged a quick glance with Ferize; she seemed no more the wiser than he. “And?”

“And,” Ylarra echoed. Amusement laced her tone. “Five additional human years in the human world. You may take that as punishment deferred or punishment levied. That is your choice. You are once again to attend your
dioscuri
, to monitor his behavior, his thinking processes, to hear him as necessary, and to report to us. In the meantime, you escape the unmaking. But if either Brodhi or Rhuan again returns too soon to Alisanos—by any means, and for any reason—punishment indeed shall be levied. They will be neutered, and you both shall be unmade. So, it is in
your
best interests to see that neither returns before time.” Her eyes were cold. “I suggest you hasten. Brodhi and Rhuan are back among the humans.”

Eyes fixed on the floor, Darmuth waited until Ylarra departed. Then he looked at Ferize. Her scale pattern faded before his eyes even as his own came up to the surface of his flesh. “Did you hear what Rhuan's farm wife suggested in the Kiba?”

“Who? Oh.” Ferize scowled at him. “I was not there.”

“She suggested that they may not be gods.”

Ferize's eyes hazed briefly yellow. “They wield the wild magic. If not gods, what are they?”

“
We
wield the wild magic.”

Her scale pattern bloomed. “Not as they do!”

“Perhaps not, but what if she is right? What if the wild magic has poisoned them?”

“Does it matter?” Ferize walked by him, heading toward the door. There, she turned. “Darmuth, they can
unmake
us. If that does not define a being who is a god, I don't know what might.”

Smiling, he let her go without further questions or comments. Ferize had always been more excitable than he, and occasionally, it was enjoyable to provoke her.

Then his smile faded. It was true that only the primaries could unmake those like him, like Ferize. Being killed was one thing, but being
unmade
—? A shudder coursed through his body. He wasted no more time on suppositions but departed the chamber. Time he returned to Rhuan, and to the human world.

Five more years, as the humans gauged time. While it no doubt displeased Brodhi, and thus Ferize, it was not anything Rhuan would consider a punishment, but in fact a reprieve.

Chapter 2

I
LONA.
ALIVE
.

Jorda literally fell back a stride from the steps. Bethid felt her own mouth drop open inelegantly, and a shiver ran down her spine. She heard Mikal murmuring a fervent prayer to the Mother of Moons, fingering the string of charms at his throat.

Ilona still wore the plain linen burial shift Bethid and Naiya had put on her the night before. Her dark hair was loose of the single braid, reverting to the exuberant array of long ringlets usually tamed by being wound against the back of the hand-reader's skull and anchored with ornamented hair sticks. Her olive complexion was smooth and clear, hazel eyes warm and bright and most definitely alive, but encircling her throat was the unmistakable print of a large man's hand.

She had been dead. She
had
been dead.

“I wasn't dead,” Ilona said. “Or . . .” An odd expression passed over her features. “Or I
was
dead, but I'm not now. It's—” She broke off, making a gesture of helplessness. “I'm sorry . . .” She turned her head. “Rhuan—? Can you explain? I'm not sure I
understand everything yet!”

Jorda's voice sounded strangled. “Ilona.”

“Yes, it's me. Rhuan? Please, before they all drop dead of shock!” Then Ilona gestured apology, making a face. “Poor choice of words, wasn't it? Well . . .” Barefoot, she descended the steps and stood on the ground, making room for Rhuan to exit the wagon. Her eyes were worried, Bethid saw; tension crept into Ilona's expression and posture.

Bethid's words came out completely different from what she had intended. “This isn't possible.
You were dead
.”

“Ilona,” Jorda repeated. “By the Mother, girl, your neck was broken! D'ye think I don't know death when I see it? When it's in my arms?” He looked at Rhuan. “I would never tell you she was dead if she were not. Do you think I would? Do you think I could?”

Rhuan descended and sat down upon the middle step, resting elbows on thighs. Hands dangled loosely. “No,” he said. “No, Jorda, you would not. You told me the truth last night.” His eyes swept them all. “She was truly dead when I came here last night . . . as Shoia are before they—before
we
—resurrect.”

“Shoia!” Mikal blurted.

Bethid began blankly, “But Ilona's not Sh—” She paused. “Is she?” She looked at the hand-reader. “Are you?”

Rhuan smiled wryly. “Have you another explanation?”

“I didn't know,” Ilona said, drifting close to Rhuan. “What do any of us know about the Shoia?”

“Rhuan might know something,” Jorda said mildly, “being as how he is, after all, Shoia himself.”

Rhuan and Ilona exchanged a brief, sidelong glance that was quickly banished. Bethid abruptly had a very clear memory of Ilona telling her that Brodhi wasn't Shoia at all, but Alisanos-born; it was a short step from that to the realization that Rhuan was as well. And yet obviously, here and now, he supported the fiction that he was Shoia. But—Ilona?
She
was Shoia?

The hand-reader shrugged. “Then Rhuan must be correct. He would know, of course, as you say.” She met Jorda's gaze. “I remember nothing. Not after Alario threw me down. That moment, yes, I recall it clearly; and then I awoke in my cot with Rhuan muttering at me.” Her smile was faint and fleeting. Then delicate color suffused her face, and then Bethid knew precisely how Rhuan and Ilona had affirmed her resurrection.

Mikal frowned. “Who is Alario?”

“Oh, Mother,” Ilona groaned, pressing hands against her head. “There is
so
much to explain . . .”

Jorda stared at Rhuan. “How did you make it out of Alisanos?” He paused. “You were there, were you not? I was given to understand the storm took you.” Ruddy eyebrows shot up. “Or were you off elsewhere shirking your duty, as is occasionally your habit?”

Rhuan sighed. He glanced sidelong at Ilona. “There is indeed so much to explain.”

Ilona looked at each of them; lastly at Jorda, where her gaze dwelled in a silent but poignant appeal. “It would be somewhat encouraging were you
pleased
that I'm not dead.”

Jorda stared back in shock, then blinked. He took a step, then another, and pulled her into a bearish embrace. “Oh girl, I
am
pleased! Indescribably pleased! But you
were
dead!”

When he eventually released her, Ilona remarked, “You've seen Rhuan resurrect before.”

“I knew he was Shoia! But even then, the first time came as a shock. As this does.” Laughter rumbled. “Shoia or no Shoia, it's the Mother's doing.” He tipped his head back and stared up at the sky. “Sweet Mother, I thank you!”

Bethid reached out and poked Mikal. “We should go. We need to tell everyone, to cancel the rites.” Instinct told her it was time to let Ilona, Rhuan, and their employer discuss matters best left to them. Her own curiosity could be satisfied later. “Let's go, Mikal.”

The ale-keep started. “Yes. Of course. We can—”

But a high, shrill scream cut through the grove, cut off Mikal's words. Another followed, and another.

Each of them, as one, stilled abruptly, then turned and ran toward the sound.

DAVYN AWOKE WITH
a start. He lay wrapped in blankets atop a thin mattress spread over wooden floorboards, shielded from the elements by the wagon and canopy. With the broken axle replaced and the backup oilcloth stretched over the roof ribs, it was home again to him, albeit a temporary one. But it lacked others. It lacked his children and his wife.

Trapped in Alisanos, all of them. All save himself.

Once again he was swamped by fear, anxiety, and guilt: he was not with his family. Better that they be together, even in Alisanos, than separated. But the Mother had inexplicably kept him free of the deepwood, while Audrun and the children were swallowed.

The hand-reader had seen it clearly: his youngest, Torvic and Megritte, together with the courier, Brodhi. She had seen nothing of Audrun or their two eldest, Gillan and Ellica, but she had told him that the child was born. Before time, well before time, victim of the power of Alisanos. So, in truth,
five
children were lost in the deepwood.

His body ached. Over the past several days too much had occurred, too much had affected his life, his plans; plans he and Audrun had made.

Huddled in blankets, he heard a rooster crowing in the day, then scattered barking. Nearby, a baby wailed with hunger, or the need for a fresh clout. The morning was perfectly normal in all ways, except that he was alone. Brodhi, the courier who had gone into the deepwood, was to bring him word. Brodhi was to restore at least the two youngest to their father, according to what the hand-reader saw.

A call rang through the grove, summoning everyone to dawn rites. And then he remembered. The hand-reader was dead.

Davyn groaned aloud. His right hand found the string of charms around his neck. Clenching them within a fist, he pictured the hand-reader in his mind, recalled her care and compassion. It was her vision of the courier, Brodhi, with two of the children, that convinced Davyn his only course was to ask Brodhi to go into Alisanos after his family. The courier had rebuffed him with distinct rudeness, but he had, in the end, entered the deepwood.

“Let them be found,” Davyn murmured fervently. “Mother, let them be found, all of them, and let them be kept safe and unharmed. Bring them back to me.”

Again he felt a twinge of guilt as he made the petition. The karavan guide had made it clear how much danger they courted if they took the shortcut so close to Alisanos. But fifteen—
fifteen!
—diviners made the decision for him. It was the only way to reach Atalanda in time for the baby's birth.

His fault, then. Wasn't it? That Audrun and the children were taken by the deepwood?

His chest ached with grief, his throat felt tight. Tears stung his eyes. Still he clutched the charms, concentrating on what he begged, not on what he had done. “Mother of Moons, let them be found. Let them come back to me.”

A dull headache nagged as Davyn threw back tangled covers from his pallet. Tension returned to his neck and shoulders, knotting muscles. He felt used up, emptied. Depression was palpable. What in the Mother's name was he to do now? Atalanda province no longer beckoned, the need to reach it lost with the loss of his family. He might as well remain in Sancorra, remain here in the settlement even if it was nearly surrounded by Alisanos. Worth the risk, for his family. And if the deepwood move again and take him, perhaps he could find his family there.

Or perhaps one day, one year, his wife and children would find a way out of the deepwood. He dared not depart in case they should do so. And there was work for him here, he realized, tasks to be done. The boundaries between safety and Alisanos were to be mapped and marked, crops planted, livestock raised, river fished, people fed. The wagon carried the makings for a new life. It would not be impossible to begin again; that was precisely what he and Audrun intended when they elected to move to Atalanda.

Not impossible but difficult, oh yes, and exceedingly painful, because he would be alone.

Davyn climbed down from the wagon. Throughout the grove other folk were stirring. He heard again the echoing call for rites for the hand-reader and reflected that tea could wait. Afterwards, he would approach the ale-keep and the karavan-master to offer aid.

Then he heard the shouting, the screaming, and broke into a run, heading for the bonfire.

ALARIO STOOD IN
the borderlands in the verge between the human world and Alisanos. Here, the shadows were pale, the trees less shielding. Much had happened since last he visited. The woman he killed, then resurrected, had entwined her heart with his worthless get, a
dioscuri
not worth the name. His get took great joy in the world among the humans, turning his back on his heritage, even on his blood. Alario could not fathom how
his
get could so easily reject the traditions of Alisanos. He found it both infuriating and perplexing.

There was no sound, but he knew Ylarra's scent, her step. He did not bother to turn. “And now you must wait five more years,” she said in her husky voice.

Alario spun around. “What?”

“Five more years,” Ylarra answered, allowing a delicate disbelief to color her tone. “Ah, but I was forgetting. You were not present when we discussed what to do with Brodhi and Rhuan.” Her smile was faint, but he saw the amusement in her eyes, heard it in her voice. “For differing reasons, they broke their vows and came back into Alisanos,” she said. “But circumstances were judged to matter, so it was decided that they should begin again. Five more years before they may return to the Kiba.”

Alario let the red scrim in his eyes drop down. His flesh warmed on his bones; he knew very well that his skin had darkened. “I should kill him now.
Now.
”