Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (50 page)

“Bethid!”

Furious, Bethid stepped to the door, preparing to tell the man in no uncertain terms that he had no business interrupting the vigil.

But it was Rhuan.

Rhuan.

She registered the pallor of his face, the horrified
shock in his eyes.
O Mother, he does love her!
His hair was unbraided, swinging behind him as he ran. He wore a soiled tunic and leggings missing much of their ornamentation.

Jorda, she thought. Jorda had told him.

He stopped at the foot of the steps and stared up at her almost blindly, as if waiting for her to give him different news.

Bethid couldn’t. She couldn’t say anything at all because of the pain in her throat and chest. She just walked down the steps and away from the wagon, so he might have privacy.

But he had, she knew, seen confirmation in her eyes.

HE FELT HIS knees falter as Bethid walked away. He took a step forward to steady himself and caught hold of the doorjamb, one hand braced on each side. It set the lantern above him to swinging. Beneath his foot the bottom step was still new, the wood raw. Darmuth had replaced it, because he hadn’t.

Rhuan closed his eyes. He believed for a moment he couldn’t mount the steps. But he did. One foot, one step, three times in all, until he ducked beneath the lantern and entered the wagon.

She was very still beneath her colorful coverlet. No mark marred her face. The dark ringlets, usually wound in a coil and anchored against her head with
rune-scribed sticks, had been loosely plaited in a single braid. It lay atop the coverlet.

No words. No words at all. Only a great and terrible pain in his heart and throat.

He lingered there, looking. And then he bent down over her, slid his left arm beneath her shoulders and raised her up, cradling her head. He slid in behind her very carefully, holding her in place until he sat against high-piled cushions with one leg tucked beneath him, one foot on the floor. He settled her against his body, wrapped arms around her torso and held her there, her head against his shoulder. He pressed his cheek into her hair and believed it was possible he could not give her up, when they came to take her.

“I’m not Shoia,” he told her, finally hiding nothing. “I’m Alisani.
Dioscuri.
Born of the deepwood. It was why, when you asked, I dared not let you read my hand. You read true, and always have. You would have seen it. You would have known the truth.” He drew in a breath, let it go. Her weight was no burden. “That first night we met in Mikal’s tent, the night I died … I knew it when I saw you. My heart leaped. It knew. There was no question in my mind. But the journey requires that we tell no human who, and what, we are.
Then
, I cared.” He drew in a breath, let it go. Her weight was no burden. “And so I locked away my feelings. I accepted the rules.”

“You’ve
never
accepted rules.”

He began to smile. Then he went still. Warmth was in his arms. A breathing woman was in his arms.

Ilona said, “Your heart just skipped a beat. No, two.”

He let her go and slid out of her bed far faster than he had gotten into it. He stared at her, lips parted, struck completely speechless.

She hitched herself up on an elbow and demanded, “What in the Mother’s world were you doing in my bed?
With me in it
, no less?”

Eventually he rediscovered the human language. But in his shock, he said the only words he could find. “You were dead.”

“I was no such thing.” She held her arm out, considering the linen sleeve over it. She looked down at her breasts and touched the fabric. “Blessed Mother—am I in a burial shift?”

“You were
dead
, ’Lona.”

“I’m not dead, Rhuan!”

He was very precise with his intonation. “You
were
dead.”

She stared up at him. “How could I have been dead? How could I have been dead if I’m alive now?”

His heart was beating far faster than normal. He worked it out even as he spoke. “Unless, unless Jorda was wrong and you never were dead … which I very much doubt based on what he told me—you can’t truly mistake a badly broken neck—there is only one explanation.” He thought about that another moment. “But—but I suppose, when you consider it, it’s not entirely out of the question that the primaries may have made a completely wrong assumption. As gods, they leave much to be desired.” He sat down upon her
trunk heavily. “Apparently … apparently the Shoia aren’t an extinct race after all.”

That left her perplexed. “Are they supposed to be?”

She had, of course, as had all the humans, been told by him that he was Shoia. It was the common fiction that all
dioscuri
maintained among the humans while on their journey. “Well, the primaries said—” He made a chopping gesture, abruptly silencing himself. “Never mind. They were wrong. Or they lied. It doesn’t matter; it’s not important.” He paused. “Well, there is
one
thing that’s important. Always keep count, Ilona. It’s very, very important.”

“Of my deaths? If I’m Shoia?” She pressed a hand against her forehead. “What am I saying? I can’t be Shoia—”

He overrode her. “Just remember, the seventh is the true death. You have five left.”

She remained perplexed, peering up at him from beneath her hand. “But how can this be? My parents never said anything about being Shoia! Not before they turned me out for …” It was her turn to break off and make a chopping motion. “Never mind. Maybe they lied. It doesn’t matter; it’s not important.” She looked at him. “I would prefer to limit dying to just the one death.”

The last of his shock dissipated. He recalled Audrun telling him it was time he accomplished his goal, even as she had accomplished nearly all of her own.

And so. His goal. Very nearly accomplished.

Rhuan slid off the trunk and knelt down beside her
cot. He raised his hand so that she could see the palm. “Read it,” he said. “No more secrets.”

Ilona never took her eyes from his, to look at his hand. She placed her palm against his. “I don’t have to, Rhuan. I know what I need to know.”

He smiled briefly, but then it faded. The joy of a wholly unexpected reunion on the heels of seeing her dead was set aside. There would be time for endless discussions later. For now, one overriding question begged to be asked. He tried to keep it as light as possible; she always argued with him if she believed he wanted to commit violence.

“Jorda said it was murder, not an accident.” He moved her braid aside. “The marks on your throat are eloquent.” It took all he had not to shout his question, to retain self-control. “Who did this, Ilona? Who killed you?”

Her smile, too, faded. A darkness came into her eyes. She interlaced her fingers with his very tightly, as if she might defend him against pain. He thought she meant not to answer. But then she did, saying quietly, “Your father.”

It was nothing,
nothing
he had expected.

Alario? Alario?

“
My
father? Here?”

“Alario. Yes.”

The shock was so overwhelming all the flesh rose up on his bones. He felt sick to his stomach. His mouth worked stiffly. “Alario.
Alario
killed you …”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Rhuan, I’m so sorry.”

Sorry for
his
pain, not her own.

“Ah,” he said. “Well.” From the coldness of his bones, from deep within his soul, a hot ember of hatred, of utter conviction, kindled in his belly. But he kept it from her, crafting a casual smile. “Well, we shall have words, he and I.”

And the reluctant
dioscuri
would, after all, at the time of his own choosing, challenge his sire.

But in the meantime, he was here, and she was here, and both of them were alive. With fingers locked into hers, he said, “My hair, as you see, is loose. Will you braid it for me?”