The Wild Road (3 page)

And it was time that she knew it. Time she knew
him
.

ALARIO KNELT BY
the shaded streamlet, leaning down to scoop water with one broad hand into his mouth. But drinking, rinsing his mouth, was not enough to wash away the bitter taste of annoyance—not regret; regret suggested weakness—and the acknowledgment that he had acted hastily, far too hastily; that he had, in a brief but overwhelming moment of fury, undone all his plans.

The edges of the streamlet were choked by ground cover aprickle with hair-thin, hollow thorns, pale-to-invisible barbs that insinuated themselves through one's clothing into flesh. Disturbed, the thorn-guarded heart of the plant fed poison into the barbs, injecting the flesh of anyone—demon, beast, or wayward human—with killing venom.

But Alario was a primary and more powerful than most. Where he knelt, ground cover bent itself away, withdrawing from him in something akin to obeisance.

Quite against expectations, his mind fed him a vision of the woman. The human woman, called hand-reader.

Infuriated, as angry as Alario had ever been in all of his many years, he had hurled her against the steep wooden steps of her wagon. In the instant her body struck, the moment the bones of her fragile human neck snapped, he regretted his actions, regretted his anger.

No. No, not
regret
; primaries had no regrets.

He merely wished it undone.

Alario, kneeling, nodded. Wished it undone. That was acceptable.

Self-control, even in the midst of unalloyed instinct, was paramount among the primaries. But he had allowed the woman to rouse his anger and the unreasoning instinct to destroy. Wished it undone, indeed; she offered everything he needed to defeat Karadath, to destroy Brodhi, his brother's get. And to replace the weakness that was Rhuan.

His first human
diascara
, Rhuan's mother, had never angered him. She was compliant and subservient in the months leading to the birth.

Perhaps
that
was why Rhuan was a failure. The dam had been too meek. Temperament mattered.

He had taken that particular human woman because her scent was correct. Her pheromones appealed. She would give him, he was certain, a sound
dioscuri
.

Rhuan, he knew, could do no such thing, could not choose based on scent. Worse, Rhuan had no
desire
to do such a thing.

Temperament was all.

The woman called hand-reader by superstitous humans, was neither compliant nor subservient. That was why he had, in fury, flung her against her wagon. And thus ruined his plans for a new
dioscuri
worthy of the title.

The war within was ancient, formed of blood, bone, instinct; of the
drive
to sire get who were stronger than oneself. And yet everything in the primary cried out to survive, to destroy every threat. And yet also to sire that which could kill its progenitor or be relegated to the position of neuter, his manhood cut away.

Alario smiled. And then as the demon leaped from the shadows, he effortlessly caught the scaled neck in one broad hand. He closed on the throat. Squeezed. In a frenzy, the demon attempted to twist free, to double up hind legs and rake through clothing at flesh, but Alario swatted away those legs and claws with his free hand. He felt the sudden cessation of movement as the demon's body went lax, and he threw it aside easily. He rose, smiling again. Such a small, inconsequential demon, foolish enough to believe it might attack a primary with impunity. Now the dead demon made but a small pile of meat in the shadows beneath the trees, mostly hidden by spike-leafed brush. Others would come to feast upon its remains, of course. Nothing would be left but a scattering of bones, unless they, too, were consumed.

Alario stood quite still,
very
still, listening to his body, giving understanding over to his senses. The body always knew, when the mind did not. Instinct guided every primary.

That woman, the hand-reader, had appealed far more than Rhuan's mother. He wished it undone, her death.

He
wished it undone
.

Was he not a primary, to wish a thing and thus gain it?

Fierce joy rose up in his body. Alario smiled, baring white teeth in the coppery tint of his face, his indisputably beautiful predator's face.

Chapter 1

B
ETHID AWOKE JUST
before sunrise, clear-headed and alert and instantly aware of a lurking sense of unease. Something, somewhere, was wrong. She heard the snores of fellow couriers Timmon and Alorn; the two had patched storm-torn oilcloth the day before and raised the common tent all couriers shared while at the settlement. It required additional attention, but she was grateful for any cover at all in the aftermath of the terrible storm.

She sat up, assuming a cross-legged posture. With neither full sunlight outside nor lantern light inside, the interior of the tent was markedly dim. She was aware of a sick feeling in her belly, the kind she felt when something had gone wrong or she had to do something she dreaded—and then memory abruptly spilled through her; memory and grief.

The hand-reader.

Oh Mother, the hand-reader was dead.

And another memory: Rhuan, surviving Alisanos only to discover that Ilona was dead. Such grief and shock in a man's eyes Bethid had never witnessed. She had left the wagon then, departed to give him the opportunity to master himself, to provide Ilona's body company through the night.

Morning rites.
Mourning
rites.

Bethid closed her eyes and planted elbows on her thighs, leaning down into the heels of her hands to rest her brow, to apply pressure to her eyelids as if to banish the recollection. She wanted nothing more than to blot out this moment, the day before, and the vision of the karavan-master, sitting on wagon steps, cradling Ilona in his arms.

She scratched her scalp with rigid, short-nailed fingers, understanding the poignancy. Rhuan of the many women now wanted only one.

The night before, with Naiya, a Sister of the Road, Bethid had dressed Ilona in a burial shift, combed and braided her hair, settled her atop her narrow cot beneath a multi-hued coverlet. Now it was time to wrap the body and bring it out for the rites and the burial. Ilona had crossed the river; it was time to say goodbye.

Her mouth twisted briefly. Conducting rites was the responsibility of diviners and priests. But neither had survived the terrible storm engendered by Alisanos, and Ilona, too, was dead. Now the duty fell to Jorda, the karavan-master, who had known Ilona best.

Bethid glanced at the two forms hidden beneath bedclothes. “Up,” she said, then cleared her throat and tried again. “Timmon. Alorn. We have rites this morning, remember?” All would attend, tent-folk and karavaners alike.

Snoring eventually broke off. She saw Alorn's brown curls appear at the edge of a blanket as he pulled it down. Timmon, a long lump beneath bedding, mumbled something with typical morning incoherency.

“Up,” she repeated, flipping back bedding to reach boots at the end of her pallet. She had slept in her clothes, too tired, too depressed, to change into her sleeping shift upon her return the night before. “Gather up the folk,” she said, tugging on her boots. “I'll go to Ilona's wagon. . . . Mikal and Jorda are meeting me there.” The bottoms of her trews she tucked into boot-tops, then cross-gartered leather riding gaiters around her calves and tied off the leather thongs.

Both men were awake, she saw, truly awake now, and were not inclined to joke as they usually did, or to complain about too little sleep. They said nothing as she untied and slipped out the door flap.

The sun was a lurid glow along the horizon. With its slow climb came first birdsong from the groves. Most of the trees in the younger grove had been uprooted in the storm, thrown down against the earth with rootballs bared to the day, limbs and branches stripped, offering no shelter to wildlife. But the larger, old-growth grove had mostly been spared. It was there Jorda had brought his karavaners to camp temporarily, until it was sorted out what they would do and what Jorda advised. All had been bound elsewhere, attempting to put distance between themselves and the brutal Hecari warriors who had overrun and conquered Sancorra province. But Alisanos had gone active, destroying everyone's plans, reducing fears of the Hecari to, for the moment, mere inconvenience, despite the fact the warriors were dangerous. The Hecari were
men
. Alisanos was far worse. Alisanos swallowed people whole; those it gave back, if rarely, were no longer human.

And, she remembered uneasily, Alisanos now nearly surrounded them.

The haphazard appearance of tents pitched willy-nilly without regard for order no longer shaped the settlement. In the handful of days since Alisanos had gone active, tent-folk and karavaners alike had heeded the advice of Jorda the karavan-master, and Mikal, the ale-keep who ran the largest and busiest tent. It had fallen to these two men, natural leaders both, to make recommendations for the safety of the survivors. The tent-folk had repaired what they could with belongings rescued from the storm and with aid and contributions from the karavaners. Tents had been raised once more, but this time they stood in ranks of circles around a massive stone-ringed bonfire. Instead of a tangle of footpaths, a clear grid of trails had been laid down.

And so it took less time for Bethid to reach the grove and Ilona's wagon than it might have otherwise. She saw ahead of her two large men walking more slowly than was their wont. Jorda and Mikal were in no more of a hurry than she to converge upon the wagon.

“Wait,” she called, breaking into a jog. “Jorda . . . Mikal . . .”

At the edge of the grove, both men paused and turned back. They were of like height and similar width, though swarthy, one-eyed Mikal carried more bulk in his belly. Ruddy-haired Jorda kept fit by the duties of his position as karavan-master. As she came up, Jorda opened a mouth mostly hidden by bushy beard, then closed it as an expression of realization crossed his features.

Bethid answered the unspoken question. “Yes, Rhuan sat vigil. I wanted to give him privacy . . . I went back to the couriers' tent.”

Gray strands threaded the fading russet of the karavan-master's hair, bound back in a single plait. Most of his face was hidden by the flamboyance of his beard, but in the flesh between beard and lower eyelids, Bethid saw weariness etched, and sorrow. She had been thinking only of Rhuan. But Jorda had known Ilona longer. Friendship, she knew, was as powerful in its own way as love.

Mikal cleared his throat. “We've made preparations. We'll see her buried with as much honor as possible.”

He, too, had known Ilona better than she. Her path and the hand-reader's had not crossed often, save occasionally in Mikal's ale-tent. She had been attracted to Ilona but knew the hand-reader was a woman for men; Bethid simply had never cultivated a friendship. “I'm sorry,” she blurted. “I wish I'd taken the time to know her better.”

“She was worthy,” Jorda declared. “Worthier than most. She'll cross the river easily enough and be at rest in the afterlife.”

Bethid cleared her throat. “Timmon and Alorn are rousing folk to attend the rites.”

“Mother of Moons,” Jorda murmured raggedly. “I'm not prepared for this. I'm
never
prepared for this. There were always priests and diviners . . .” He dashed sudden tears from his cheeks. “I'm not worthy of this.”

Mikal briefly placed a hand on the karavan-master's shoulder. “You better than any.” Pressure urged Jorda into motion.

As they reached the hand-reader's wagon, Bethid felt an abrupt tightening in her belly. She realized how very much she dreaded seeing the door open, seeing Rhuan's expression. It was a private thing, such grief, and yet custom now required that Ilona's body be taken from him.

The grove was lightening from shadow into daylight. As karavaners awoke within their wagons, one or two dogs barked. A nearby horse, picketed by the Sisters' wagon, snorted heavily. Elsewhere, a baby cried.

Bethid and Mikal stopped simultaneously near the wagon steps. Jorda took one more step, placed a booted foot on the bottom step, wiped a hand across his bearded face. Then he made a fist of that hand and knocked quietly upon the closed door.

“Rhuan?” Jorda's voice cracked. Bethid wished she could offer some kind of relief, but it was Jorda who knew Ilona and Rhuan best. She did not wish to intrude upon that, and Mikal's expression confirmed his deference to the karavan-master. “Rhuan. It's time.”

For a long moment there was no response. Then the wagon creaked as someone inside moved. The latch rattled. The door was pushed open.

Sunlight fell fully on Rhuan's face, limning his features, the scratches on his face, and the brightness of his eyes. Bethid had forgotten that his hair was unbraided. As he broke into a grin, deep dimples appeared.

It was wholly incongruous, Bethid thought, shocked that he should look so
happy
.

Until he moved aside, and Ilona took his place.

DARMUTH STOPPED SHORT
in the doorway of the stone chamber. “You as well?”

Ferize, in human form but with the scale pattern upon her, briefly bared her teeth in a response more animal than human. The pupils of pale blue eyes were slitted. He felt his body respond, the faint itching of his skin that accompanied the emergence of his own scale pattern. In the human world their transformation was under their control; here in Alisanos, their original forms exerted far more influence. Wild magic ran in their bones, was carried with them into the human world, wielded as they wished. But here the magic was far more potent. It wished to wield them.

She wore human clothing, a gown of dark, rich indigo, with chains of braided gold wrapped around her waist. Black hair was loose and long. Her skin was pale, shining with the pearlescent hue of the scale pattern, delicate, almost fragile. The gown was cut low, so that as she breathed he saw the glistening of scale edges rising and falling from breasts to throat.

Darmuth crossed his bare arms, planted a shoulder against the doorjamb, and leaned, affecting a nonchalance he didn't truly feel. The itching of his skin subsided; he was fully human again, exerting more self-control than Ferize. “You're afraid, aren't you?”

Something flashed briefly in her pale blue eyes. He supposed humans would find her beautiful in her human guise; to him, it was alien. He preferred her demon form.

“So should you be,” Ferize declared.

“Primaries will do what primaries will do,” he said lightly. “What profits us to worry?”

“And if
we
are blamed?”

Darmuth lifted his left shoulder in a half shrug. “The risk is no greater now than it was before.”

Her slight human body was stiff, tense. “You don't know that, Darmuth—”

But Ferize broke off, looking past him. Darmuth felt the familiar presence, the pressure of a primary in full command of the magic. He straightened and moved away from the door, taking his place at Ferize's side as he turned to look at the doorway.

Ylarra stepped lightly into the chamber. Her smile was cold. “Perhaps you should be blamed,” she said. “Now, tell me why.”

Ferize's voice was low. “Brodhi returned before time.”

“And could you not prevent that?”

“I could not.”

Darmuth felt his breath catch briefly as Ylarra looked at him. “And you?”

“Alisanos took Rhuan,” he answered. “Would you have had me defy the deepwood?” He grinned briefly. “I was but a victim, Ylarra. As much as Rhuan was. It was Brodhi who willingly returned to Alisanos.”

As he expected, Ferize erupted. “And so you shift the blame? Attempt to distract? Brodhi had his sire's welfare at heart! The welfare of a primary.” She looked again at Ylarra. “That is why he came. To warn Karadath of Alario's intentions.”

“To get a child, another
dioscuri
on the human woman; yes, we know.” Ylarra's slight gesture was dismissive. “It was not necessary for Brodhi to come here; Karadath is prepared for any action Alario may undertake, any threat he intends. They have been battling for two hundred human years. But we have taken into account that Brodhi did indeed act in his sire's best interests, not through any desire of his own to give up his journey. And Rhuan indeed had no control over Alisanos; that, too, we have taken into account.”