Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (2 page)

Mother of Moons. The beings, the bodies, the demons and the devils, wanted her child.

“Be still,” Rhuan said, in the midst of other words in a language she did not know.

This time she obeyed.

FERIZE WAS GONE. In Brodhi’s last view of her, she had been in demon form, with wings, fangs, claws, tail, catlike eyes, and opalescent scales. She had flown into the sky, into the depths of the storm, riding tumbling currents. Now she was absent, no doubt overcome by the sheer elation of demon form, of her natural, wilding state. Brodhi wished he might share in that, but he was ground-bound, his form like men, human men. He was no demon to shift his shape, to taste the air with a sinuous forked tongue. And not for the first time he wished himself otherwise, capable of sprouting wings to ride the skies beneath the sun. Even if it were the puny single sun of the world belonging to humans, and not the double suns of Alisanos. No, he was no demon, but
dioscuri
. In time he would be a god.

In time. Too much time! Deserted by Ferize, whom the human tongue named wife, Brodhi was left behind. Forgotten. Trapped among the humans by vows he had taken before the primaries of Alisanos, most of whom would as soon see him fail his tests, to abjure his journey. If he did so, all was lost. He would no longer be the halfling son of a god with a future of immeasurable length, immeasurable power, but something else. Something less.

A neuter.

Even the thought made him flush with anger, with shame, with something very akin to desperation. His third eyelid dropped, a scrim of semi-opaque membrane that painted the world ruddy. To those who knew him, those of Alisanos, it was warning, as was the subtle darkening of his skin. But here in the human world, such things were not understood.

Brodhi fought for self-control. But it was a difficult battle, in the aftermath of a conversation with Darmuth, who was, as Ferize, a demon. Rhuan’s demon. Darmuth had given him the news that Rhuan was back in Alisanos, having been overtaken when the deepwood, awakened, engulfed miles of new territory. Rhuan was in fact precisely where Brodhi wished to be. But that, Darmuth made clear, was denied him. If Brodhi voluntarily crossed from the human world to Alisanos, he would lose any chance of gaining the godhood he craved. Rhuan, who had been swallowed up entirely against his will, caught as humans had been, would not face the same reception.

The memory of Darmuth’s words renewed bitterness and anger. If either were to be overcome, he needed release in physical activity. Brodhi turned on his heel and left a grove that had survived the storm, save for the youngest of trees, and strode toward what remained of the tent village. With every step he named the Names of the Thousand Gods, one of whom was his sire.

I
LONA STOOD BENEATH a clear blue sky empty of the deadly storm. Her belted tunic and long split skirts were soaked and mud-soiled, sticking uncomfortably to her body. Curly hair, loosed from a twisted coil habitually anchored to her head with ornamented hair sticks, hung to her waist in wet disarray, dripping brown-tinged water. Though the sun was out again, no longer obscured by banks of roiling black clouds, she did not feel warm. She was too wet, too worn.

She and Jorda, the karavan-master who was her employer, had escaped the worst of the destruction wreaked by Alisanos because they obeyed Rhuan’s insistent command that they go east. Both knew the karavan guide, both trusted his instincts. They asked no questions; such things wasted time, and Rhuan said there was little left for them. But before fleeing, she and Jorda had done their best to send the karavaners eastward as well, echoing Rhuan’s instructions. She did not know who survived and who did not. Only
that she had, and Jorda. She gave fervent thanks to the Mother of Moons for that survival.

Now there was something she needed to do, something to discover before she tended aches and exhaustion, the pain of a broken arm.

She was a diviner. Her gift, her art, was to read in others’ hands glimpses of their futures, to interpret what she could of what was visible. In Jorda’s hand she sought answers to many questions, to see, in the aftermath of the storm, what lay before him. She could not read her own hand, but knowing what lay in his, as her employer, might provide a peripheral knowledge.

Jorda, as soaked as she, stood before her, left hand extended. His riotous ruddy beard was drying in the newborn sunlight, though unless he undid the single gray-threaded braid at the back of his head, his hair would require more time. A lifetime of guiding karavans in all kinds of weather had carved deep seams into the flesh at the corners of his eyes, though much of his face was hidden by the beard. He was a broad, big, plainspoken man who had seen more than forty years, not given much to laughter because of his responsibilities as karavan-master, but was the most honorable man Ilona had ever met. The decision to apply for a position as karavan diviner, after years of working in various villages and hamlets as an itinerant hand-reader, was the best decision she had ever made. The travel could be wearing, but the security and companionship were not.

Now Ilona stared into Jorda’s wide, calloused palm. She was aware of faint disorientation, of pain. Her left forearm, held lightly against her chest, had been broken in the fall from Jorda’s stumbling draft horse, but she did her best to ignore it. Her right hand, from beneath, steadied his.

She saw the calluses, the scars, the thin lines common to all as creases in the palm. But nothing else. Nothing
more
. The hand was merely a hand, not a harbinger.

How can I see nothing?
Stunned, Ilona looked into Jorda’s face. Between the top of his exuberant ruddy beard and the lower lids of his eyes there was not much flesh. But he was pale; that much she could see. And in his green eyes, concern.

“Is it bad?” he asked in a deep voice made raspy by the shouting he had done to warn his karavaners of Alisanos’ arrival. Something in her expression stirred him to repeat the question more urgently.

Ilona felt numb. “I see nothing.” She stared again into Jorda’s palm, mentally shoving away a burgeoning apprehension. “I see a hand. Just—a hand.”
O Mother, tell me this isn’t happening!

Concern faded from Jorda’s tone. In it now was a peculiar, conversational lightness, as if he spoke to a child. “Well, perhaps that is to be expected. Your arm is broken, Ilona. Who could concentrate enough to read a hand when pain is all they know?”

The sensible words held no meaning for her, and did not assuage her fears. Blankly, she said, “Not since I
was twelve has a hand been closed to me.” Not even Rhuan’s, the time she caught a glimpse, despite him being of the Shoia, a race very different from her own.

And then she recalled that the last time she had attempted to read Audrun’s hand, it had been closed to her. They had discussed whether the unborn child was blocking her art.

“You are wet, cold, exhausted, and in pain.” Jorda disengaged his hand from hers. “Let it be for now. You may try again later, when you have rested and I have tended that arm.”

“Jorda—”

“Let be, Ilona.” That tone was a command. “We’ll return to the grove, to your wagon—whatever may be left of it—to set and splint that arm, and to let you rest. I think it should come as no surprise that your art is in abeyance, considering what has happened.” Jorda laid his big hands upon her shoulders, surprisingly gentle even in insistence, turned her around, and then touched her back lightly to urge her into motion.

Ilona permitted it, cradling her injured arm. Her mind was too full of thoughts and memories to protest, brimming with images seen in the midst of the terrible storm. Full, too, with a sick fear that tied her stomach into knots.

And then from ahead, from near the settlement, came the unexpected call of a woman. Ilona heard Jorda’s brief grunt of discovery and relief; she lifted her head to look and saw a slight, wiry young woman clad in the boots and leather gaiters of a courier jogging
toward them. Fair hair, cropped short, was drying in the sun, standing up in tufts. Brass ear-hoops glinted.

Behind the woman, moving ponderously, came a heavy, thick, dark-haired man with a leather patch tied over one eye. Ilona murmured thanks to the Mother of Moons: Bethid and Mikal. Alive.

Bethid’s thin face was alight with joy. Laughing now in joyful relief she dropped to a walk and came up to them, reached out to embrace them. Ilona thrust her right hand up in a defensive gesture before Bethid wrapped arms around her.

“She’s injured,” Jorda said, then bent to embrace the young courier. “Thank the Mother!” He closed his eyes as he bear-hugged Bethid, grinning inanely. Ilona, murmuring her own gratitude, shared a measure of his joy, but was now so shaky she wasn’t certain she could walk any farther.

Mikal joined them, clasping Jorda’s arm firmly. Small Bethid, wrapped now in one big arm, was laughing. But the reunion was short-lived; Jorda untangled his arms and bent his attention to his diviner.

“Come,” he said. “Ilona’s hurt—that arm wants setting. We’re going to her wagon.”

Awareness attenuated. She heard Mikal and Bethid talking, expressing concern for her, sharing comments about surviving the storm. She felt distant, disoriented. The throbbing ache in her arm spread to engulf her body.

“Here,” Jorda said, and swept her into his arms. “This will be faster.”

Ilona wanted to protest, but held her tongue. She felt
odd. She could make no sense of the day, of her surroundings. Held against Jorda’s broad chest, she gave over control of her body to him. She began to shiver uncontrollably.

“She needs to get out of those wet clothes,” Bethid said as they walked. “I can tend to that, if you can find some dry ones.”

“If we find anything at all, I will sing praises to the Mother,” Jorda replied, “though I may deafen you all. What have you seen of the settlement?”

“Nothing yet,” Mikal said. “But we were some distance out, and we headed in this direction when Bethid recognized you.”

“Surely something survived,” Bethid said. “
Everything
can’t be gone.”

Ilona, held against Jorda’s big chest, wanted to disagree. But shock had set in, taking control of her body. Despite the distraction of her arm, she remained aware of her surroundings, of the sun upon her face. Aware, too, of the pain. Perhaps Jorda had the right of it; perhaps she was unable to read his hand because of that pain. She had never been injured before, save for bumps and bruises, or a few innocuous cuts.

“Later,” she murmured, as her eyes drifted closed.
I’ll try again later
.

Within moments as they walked, she heard Bethid’s breathy gasp of shock. “Look! Oh, Mother, this is a graveyard, not a settlement!”

Ilona opened her eyes as Jorda carried her into what remained of the settlement. Indeed, little was left. The
remnants, burned in part by Hecari warriors on a decimation mission—killing one person in ten, regardless of age and gender, where too many Sancorrans gathered—had succumbed to the storm. Killing winds, crimson lightning, skull-shattering thunder. And rain, hot rain, striking hard, merciless, heedless of petitions or prayers. The remaining tents had been blown down, blown apart, carried away. The loose dust of foot-stirred pathways was banished, leaving only hard-packed earth that still ran with cooling rain. Every blade of prairie grass was flattened into the mud made by standing water. And most of the grove, the wide-crowned, comforting trees that had served to shelter karavans, had been upended, shattered; raw, twisted roots torn free of the earth now reached skyward as if in supplication; broken limbs and branches were stripped naked.

There were bodies. Humans who had not heeded the warning of Alisanos’ imminence, of the destruction and danger that threatened all in the deepwood’s path. For forty years the boundaries of Alisanos had been known and avoided. Danger was rarely considered in a generation unfamiliar with the peril. Though most of the tent village’s inhabitants tried to flee the storm as it swept down upon them, some were too late. Some were caught. Some, like the trees, had been battered to death.

“Bethid,” said Mikal in a tone harsh with shock and grief, “you tend Ilona once Jorda has her settled. He and I will look for survivors.”

Ilona, cradled in Jorda’s arms, felt a rumble in his deep chest. “Pray there are some.”