The Wild Road (33 page)

“Beth!” It was Alorn, shouting against the wind. “He saved your life!”

“He sacrificed Churri!”

“It's what any of us would have done,” Timmon declared, shouting as well. “Mother of Moons, Beth—”

Her raised voice cut across his. “Leave it. Leave it be, Timmon.”

Wind surged against them. The day had been clear; none of them had pulled up hoods from the necks of their rain gear. Rain streamed down faces, streamed down hair.

“It was a horse,” Brodhi said, raising his voice over rain and wind. “A horse.”

“Leave it, Brodhi—”

“Your life is worth more than that of a horse.” His tone matched hers: icy and angry. “Would you rather I had let the draka take you both? Would you allow any of us to be taken by a draka if you could prevent it?
You
leave it.”

She swung away, strode three long steps, stopped. Her back was to them, wet rain garb flattened against her in the gusting wind. She placed hands on hips and stood stiffly in the rain, looking at no one. Staring into the sky.

When at last she turned, her face was white to the lips. Perhaps she wept, but Davyn couldn't tell. Not in the rain.

Chapter 30

I
LONA DUG UP
the cracked hand mirror she used now and again. She raised it before his face. “Well?”

Rhuan very carefully considered his reflection. Again he wore temple braids, and again they were weighted with ornamentation. He turned his head from side to side, then nodded. “A beginning.”

Ilona hid a grin. Vanity? She thought not. Tradition. Culture. It represented a part of his inner self. And maybe, maybe just a
little
vanity. “To do the rest will require days.”

“It always does.” Rhuan took the mirror from her hand and set it aside. “But we need not think about that just now. It's my turn to braid your hair.” He smiled. “Just temple braids, like mine. A beginning, as I said.” He rose, bent to keep his head from knocking against a canopy rib, and slid onto the bed platform. He physically turned her so that she faced him, brought her close. With care, he sectioned a thick, wiry lock from the rest of her hair.

“You look terribly serious,” she observed.

He smiled back briefly, flashing dimples, but his eyes remained fixed on her hair. “It's a serious thing, isn't it? This announcement of our new relationship?”

“No one in the settlement will understand what it means. They aren't your people.”

He stretched out the lock of hair, banishing the curl from it. Released, it sprang back into a ringlet. “This will be a task,” he murmured. “And no, the others will not understand what this means, but we do.” He stopped, looked into her eyes. “I've been selfish, haven't I? Would you wish a human rite, to say the same to your people?”

“Oh,” she said thoughtfully. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Would you wish it?” He was even more serious now. “It would be fair, if you did. And I would do as you asked.” He paused. “What do humans do?”

Ilona laughed. “Worried, are you?” She shook her head. “Not so much, Rhuan. We stand up before the people, invoke the Mother, exchange vows, and it's done.”

He considered that. “Too easy.”

“And then we walk away on our own, leaving all behind, and beneath the moon we cut one another's wrists and spill our blood onto the soil.” He looked so startled that she laughed. “No, we do no such thing. That last bit, I mean. We do walk out under the light of the Mother after public vows, when darkness falls, and make private vows to one another.”

He nodded. “But I would do the other, if you wished it. Except my blood would burn the grass.”

“Somewhat destructive,” she observed. “Not precisely what the Mother would expect.”

“Well, no.” His hands returned to braiding. “Probably not. Such a bond should be based on something growing, not dying.”

She wanted to laugh at him. So very serious! But she muted her amusement as he once again concentrated on her hair, which was not terribly cooperative about being transformed from wild ringlets into an orderly braid.

And then she stopped smiling. She looked into his face. She again noted the clean lines and hollows of angled cheekbones, the fit of his nose, the shape of his mouth, the smooth warmth of his skin. He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful to her. But not as a woman was.

It was a straightforward question she asked, not a coy introduction to conversational foreplay. “Do you remember when we met?”

“Of course I do. I died.”

A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. “Well, yes, so you did. But that isn't what I meant.” Amusement faded. “I was mourning Tansit.”

“And you found me quite rude and arrogant, but also charming.”

“You
were
rude and arrogant. I did not find you charming. I found you insufferably proud of yourself—a man accustomed to women falling at his feet.”

“No woman fell at my feet. Ever.” He paused. “Well, except for that once. But she tripped.”

“Looking at you, she tripped. Yes.” But the irony faded. “You believed you could charm me into recommending you to Jorda, as he had lost one of his guides.”

His eyes flicked to hers. “I was perhaps too forward in that. Then.”

“Yes. Then.”

Then: Tansit, Jorda's guide and her lover, had been dead for all of three days. Charm meant nothing when a woman grieved. She was in no way prepared for, nor desirous of, a man with Rhuan's undeniable appeal.

Neither was she prepared to see him rise from the dead.

“Don't stare,” he said.

“I'm not staring.”

“Yes, you are. It's very difficult to concentrate on your hair with you staring at me.”

“I'm not staring. I'm looking. What else am I supposed to do with you right in front of me—roll my eyes back into my head?”

He winced. “Please don't.”

“Then this.” She closed her eyes.

“That will do.”

And so it did; very much, it did. She had not expected it. But with her eyes closed she could give herself over to tactile sensation, a quiet exhilaration of the body. The touch of his hands upon her hair, separating narrow locks; the sliding of beads onto it; then the braiding of all, together. Already she could feel the weight of ornamentation, and she found it pleasing. More pleasing yet was the seduction of his fingers, the languid pressure against her scalp as he braided. For a moment she opened her eyes, wondering if he felt the same, but he was intent upon his handiwork. She closed her eyes again and gave herself over to memories.

AS THE TERRIBLE
wind died, as the clouds broke apart, the sun resumed its strength. Bethid, bereft of speech, throat tight, rode next to the farmsteader on the wagon bench. Eyes stretched wide, she stared hard, almost fixated, at the rumps of the wagon team in front of her. By the sun, approximately three hours had passed since the draka's attack.

Three of the courier horses had been found, as expected, judged sound, and mounted by Timmon, Alorn, and Brodhi. Until she reached the Guildhall, she could only ride in a wagon.

Churri had not been hers. She had never owned him. All horses belonged to the Guild. In time couriers settled on one or two horses, and occasionally three, that they found pleasing. Although she had done so, the other mounts she rode had never pleased her as much as Churri. Since she had no intention of ever leaving the Guild, she understood that she would very likely outlast Churri's lifespan. Certainly she rode other horses—distances were too great for only one mount—but Churri was the one who held her heart.

It was strongly advised against, such bonds. Best, as a courier, to attach no importance to one horse over another. But she couldn't help it. The men, who seemed somewhat amused by her affection for Churri—one had even said it was expected of a woman—nonetheless stopped requisitioning him. Eventually, no one else used him. Only Bethid.

Only Bethid, who now was horseless altogether.

She rubbed at cropped hair, which had dried into spikes. Brass ear hoops swung against her neck. She wished, very strongly wished, not to be sitting on a wagon seat. She should be free beneath the sun, riding horseback across miles of grasslands, along wheel-cut roads. And that would come again, of course; she would use one of the other horses on her journeys. But he wouldn't be Churri.

“I'm sorry,” the farmsteader said.

She stared straight ahead, preferring to neither answer nor embark upon any kind of conversation about the loss of her horse. She allowed purposeful rudeness to shape her tone into an aggressive flatness that would cut off further comments. “Why should you be?”

He did not react to the rudeness. “Because it was a terrible thing, what happened.”

After a moment she swallowed back the tightness in her throat and hitched one shoulder in a casual shrug. “You had nothing to do with it. Why should you apologize?”

“Because one may feel badly for another. Because one may wish to express regrets.”

Again she altered the tone of her voice. Now she used Brodhi's inflections. “He was just a horse. There are others at the Guildhall.”

“I have four children,” he said, “and not a one of them hasn't cried over the death of something beloved. My youngest, only weeks ago, cried over an old hen who crossed the river. One might say ‘it was only a chicken,' but that devalues what my daughter felt.”

Bethid looked at him sidelong a moment, trying to read his face. “You're suggesting I cry?”

“Oh, no, I would not make that suggestion. It isn't necessary. I know you will cry, when you're ready. But for now you are a woman among men, a woman who works only with men, and you would want none of them to see you cry, lest they believe you weak. Lest they use it against you in poor jokes.”

Bethid heaved a sigh, surrendering her crumbling emotional wall to actual conversation. “They will anyway. Some of them.”

“Are they men you care for?”

She frowned. “No.”

“Then does it matter what they think of you? What they joke about? Have you not proven your mettle to men you respect?”

She looked at him thoughtfully, chewing her bottom lip. They rode too near one another on the bench for face to face conversation to be comfortable, but she did now wish to see his expression. What she found was calmness, and compassion.

So his daughter had cried over an old, dead hen.

“What did you do?” she asked. “With the hen?”

He smiled briefly. “We held rites for it.”

“And you believe I should do the same for my horse?”

He glanced at her. “You will do whatever it is you wish to do. Again, I make no suggestion.”

“Then why are you telling me these things?”

“My wife cried when the cat died.”

Frustration rose high and hard. “Why are you telling me these things? Are you saying only women cry because an animal has died?”

“When I was small,” he continued, “a squirrel used to take acorns from my hand. Then one day our dog caught him. And I cried.”

For the third time, now, in something akin to desperation, she asked, “Why are you telling me these things?”

“Grief,” he said. “Happiness is from the Mother, and so is grief. There is room for it in the world.” He worked the reins, made a clicking sound in his mouth to urge a bit more speed out of the team. “I have four children, as I said. They learned never to be ashamed of their grief.”

“And you think I would be ashamed of
my
grief?”

He smiled slightly. “As I said, you are a woman among men, a woman who works only with men.”

“I don't think any of them would cry over a squirrel.”

He glanced at her briefly. “Or a hen?”

It nearly made her smile. “Well, no, probably not.”

“But a horse, yes.” He nodded. “Some would.”

She shook her head. “How would you know? You're not a courier.”

The farmsteader shrugged. “I'm a father.”

Bethid stared at him for a long moment. She turned her face toward the muscled rumps of the wagon team. Eyes prickled.

She remained a courier. She would always be a courier. Nothing else in her life had she wanted, nor wanted now. The Guildhall was home.

With Churri, or without, the Guildhall was her home.

She allowed her eyes to fill. She allowed the tears to fall.