Karavans (28 page)

Audrun stared at him. “You can’t swear such a thing! Death isn’t
temporary
!”

“I’m Shoia,” he said simply. “But do me the kindness of not allowing anyone to burn or bury me.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but he robbed her of the opportunity by toppling to the track.

I
LONA HAD NEARLY reached the crowd of karavaners when the gangly, blond boy made his way through. His eyes were wide and fearful, his movements jerky. But the moment he saw her approaching, he broke into an awkward jog.

He didn’t wait to reach her before speaking. “He said you should come,” he called urgently. “He said you would understand.” His youthful skin was flushed, stretched taut over the still-maturing bones of his face. Ilona saw the worry and confusion in his blue eyes as he halted before her. “But—how can death be temporary?”

That was all she needed to hear. “Dead
again
,” she muttered.

She didn’t wait to see if the boy had more comments or questions, but, by dint of a fierce, impatient tone and no hesitation, opened a path through the crowd. When she reached the other side, she saw five Hecari bodies sprawled near the last wagon.

And one dead Shoia.

Ilona hadn’t seen Rhuan dead for three years. It came as a shock, and a sadness, and the beginnings of grief to see him lying lifeless upon the track—until she recalled with a rush of relief that he would be perfectly fine within a matter of moments. One day he might reach his seventh death, the “true death” of a Shoia, but he hadn’t yet.

The farmsteaders had closed around him as if shielding him from public scrutiny. The smallest girl was held in her father’s arms, crying even as he told her quietly, despite the disbelief in his eyes, that she was not to fret, that the guide wasn’t really dead. The oldest daughter had a death-grip on the tunic of her frustrated younger brother, holding him back from an inspection at close range. It was the woman, the pregnant wife, who knelt at Rhuan’s side.

As Ilona arrived she looked up, features harrowed. “He promised. He said to tell the children not to worry. That he isn’t truly dead.”

“Oh, he’s dead.” Ilona slipped around the husband, whose right arm was bandaged with fabric torn from a tunic hem, and knelt beside Rhuan. “He’s just not going to
stay
dead.” She looked upon the expressive features, slack and stilled in death, lacking the dimples of a smile or laughter. The elaborate, ornamented braids of coppery hair lay spread upon the track. She saw no blood, no wound. “What killed him?”

“Hecari dart,” the woman answered. “Here.” She touched her own right arm to indicate the corresponding place on his. “He said it was poisoned.”

Ilona nodded. “Hecari dip their darts in poison. Well, he’s likely to feel terrible when he rouses, but that’s better than being dead.” She leaned closer. “Rhuan? Can you hear me?”

“He said you understood this,” the woman told her. “So I ask you, then: how can death be
temporary
?”

“For that, I have no answer,” Ilona said dryly, “despite asking him any number of times. But he is Shoia, and they can rouse from death six different times before the true death extinguishes them. Or so Rhuan told me after the first time I saw him die.” She frowned, watched his face closely, then nodded, suppressing a sigh of relief. “Do you see his eyelids tremble? He’ll be very much alive within a few moments.” Ilona glanced around at the Hecari bodies. “What happened here?”

“He put hands on my wife.” The husband gestured with a nod in the direction of a dead warrior whose head and shoulders lay in a muddied pool of blood.

Ilona’s gaze flicked to the woman, whose color rose in a wave to her face. There was a tale to be told, but she didn’t ask it of them yet. “Where’s Darmuth?”

“The sixth warrior escaped,” the farmwife answered. “The other guide went after him.”

“Well, count that warrior dead, then.” Ilona prodded Rhuan’s shoulder with two stiffened fingers. “If you want to nap, Rhuan, borrow my wagon, or Jorda’s. This is a little awkward and public, don’t you think?”

His face was pale, his lips dry, his voice a husky rasp, but he spoke. “You can’t expect a man to leap into the land of the living when he’s already crossed the river.”

“I can when he’s already crossed
back.
” She paused. “You’re frightening the children, Rhuan. And probably a fair share of adults, to boot.”

His eyes opened. He squinted into the sky. Then he brought a limp hand up to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Ilona saw the angry red streaks crossing the back of his hand. They would be gone by morning, she knew, if not before. “Have we an audience?” he asked.

“Oh, indeed. Most of the karavan. Jorda was up front talking with Branca and Melior when I came down and was met by the boy.” She nodded at the elder son who had joined his father, looking no more settled by Rhuan’s revival than he had by his death.

Rhuan sighed. “Well … I suppose I’d better get up.” He rolled onto a hip and pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing. Then he saw the smallest girl in her father’s arms. Rhuan paused a moment, then heaved himself to his feet with a quiet grunt of effort. Ilona saw the dimples appear as he stood and spread his arms, displaying himself to the little girl. “There. You see? Not dead.”

The girl’s expression was dubious. “But you
were.
Mam said so, when she tried to find the rabbit in your chest.”

Rhuan’s smile faded into incomprension. “The rabbit?”

“In here.” Audrun laughed and placed a flattened hand on her chest, then thumped it three times.

“Ah!” The dimples were back as he looked to the girl. “Yes, it’s true the rabbit was still for a while, but now he’s
back and kicking away.” Rhuan touched his chest. “Right here. Do you want to feel it to be sure?”

Solemnly the girl studied him, then nodded.

Rhuan stepped closed, took her hand in his, and pressed the flattened palm against his chest. “Feel it?
Thumpathumpa-thumpa.
A very strong rabbit. All right?” The girl nodded, and Rhuan released her hand. He reached down then, offering the same hand to the farmwife, and pulled her to her feet.

Ilona half-expected he might extend the same courtesy to her, but she was left to fend for herself as Rhuan casually informed the family that what they had witnessed was a Shoia gift and not an ability any human claimed, which meant humans were far more vulnerable and fragile and thus must be much more careful not to hurt anyone. It was for the children’s benefit, she knew, but she thought it applied equally to adults.

She stood up, brushing dust from her split skirts and long tunic. There was a stirring in the cluster of onlookers, who parted and let the karavan-master through.

Jorda’s expression was grim. A quick, darting glance took note of the dead bodies, and then he looked at Rhuan. “You’ll explain this later.” He didn’t wait for the guide’s answer but turned to the karavaners. “We’ll stay the night here, where we are. We’ve bodies to bury—I’ll ask for volunteers from the men in a moment—and diviners to consult. After that, I’ll want the head of each family to come to my wagon so I may pay out your fares.”

Ilona looked at him sharply even as gasps of astonishment rose among the karavaners.

Jorda’s ruddy beard glowed brightly in the sun as he raised his voice. “We’ll not be going on. We’ll return to the settlement.” He put up a silencing hand as additional exclamations and startled questions broke out. “I’ll repay each of you in full. But we are turning back.”

Stunned, Ilona stared at him. In all the years she had been in his employ, despite all the dangers and challenges to the safety of the karavans he led, Jorda had never once turned back. Except in her dream….

He waited as the outcry followed his words. When it had died from disbelief and anger to quieter frustration, he continued. “I have word that many more Hecari than the six in this patrol attacked the settlement. They killed men, women, and children, and burned many tents.” His bearded jaw jutted in unspoken challenge. “I’ve just now consulted two of my diviners, and they both said the same: Our task is to go back to the settlement and give these people—” His mouth worked as he tried to control his emotions,“—my friends, many of them!—what aid we can. We’ll wait out the monsoon and get a fresh start early in the fall. Those of you who wish to go on with me then are welcome; if you’d rather go with another karavan, so be it. But those people back there deserve our help. I must do this.” He glanced briefly at his guide. “Rhuan and I will welcome any who care to help us bury the bodies.”

Ilona looked at Rhuan. No dimples were in evidence; no smile in place. Beyond him stood Audrun, one hand pressed against her mouth as if to lock in the words she longed to speak while the other was knotted into her loose tunic. Her face was drained of color. Briefly she closed her eyes tightly, then opened them and looked at her husband. Her expression was stricken.

And Ilona realized that by the time the monsoon was over and the roads dried enough to be passable, the baby would be born.

In Sancorra. Not Atalanda.

BRODHI WAS ANNOYED to be counted among the number of men Mikal designated for the task of sorting through the burned tents, looking for bodies or anything that might be salvagable. He had not intended to undertake any such duty, but after a moment’s reflection he acquiesced. There were all manner of perils upon his journey, tests and traps he would never recognize and might fail or fall into along the way, as well as truths left unknown. The decision was uncomplicated: he accepted
the task Mikal laid upon him, or refused it. He likely would never know which was the correct decision.

Grimly, Brodhi agreed to accept Mikal’s task.

Bethid rounded up fellow couriers Timmon and Alorn and walked the pathways looking for children separated from their parents, either by the decimation or the confusion. The keening Sancorran wail of grief still threaded through the settlement as woman after woman took it up to mourn the dead. It broke out afresh each time the body of a loved one was found.

The work was filthy. Brodhi and the others of his detail kicked apart charred tent timbers, pulled aside burned oilcloth, cleared drifts of ash and set about making piles of salvage. With one of every ten tents burned, the landmarks Brodhi was accustomed to were missing. He claimed a stronger land sense than the humans helping him, but the lack of familiar corners, twists, and turns was nonetheless a sobering underscore to the devastation.

At a mound of collapsed and half-burned oilcloth, Brodhi uncovered the body of an old woman. She lay on a thin, straw-filled pallet, white hair lying across her shoulders in two neat braids. She was neither burned nor bloodied; Brodhi, kneeling beside her, realized that in all likelihood she had died before the Hecari attack. Someone had washed and braided the fine, white hair. Someone had carefully set a chain of charms into the old woman’s gnarled hands, to see her safely across the river. Someone had, undoubtedly, begun the mourning rituals their faith required for the woman’s passing. But she was alone now, clothing dusted with ash, a partially charred tent pole fallen across bare feet.

In her face was a map of years Brodhi could not count. But he knew that according to the stunted lives of humans, she had lived longer than most. Likely she had come with grown children intending to leave Sancorra, to find safety from the Hecari.

Brodhi knelt on one knee beside her. With exquisite care, he brushed ash from the aged face. Moved the fallen tent pole aside. Stroked away from closed eyes the fragile
strand of white hair. “Old mother,” he murmured, “where are your children? Have they crossed the river with you?”

“Brodhi.
Brodhi
!”

He glanced up and was genuinely surprised to see Darmuth astride a near-black horse, making his way through fallen tents and grieving survivors. Clear, eerily pale eyes examined the ruins, the bodies, the details working to find the dead or living amidst what remained.

Brodhi rose as Darmuth reined in. “Rhuan received the sending, then.”

“Dramatically so, yes. But shortly after that we were engaged in resisting our own complement of Hecari. The scale of damage is far less at the karavan than here, however …five warriors dead, but no humans.”

Brodhi added, “And Rhuan.”

Darmuth blinked in startlement. “Was he killed
again
?”

“You didn’t see? I felt it in the blood-bond. But he’s back among the living now.” Brodhi frowned. “What are you doing here, Darmuth?”

“I chased the sixth Hecari warrior in this direction, which is why I missed yet another of Rhuan’s deaths and revivals. The warrior is dead now, of course—” Darmuth’s sudden feral grin was unsettling, “—but since I am not limited to human speed in travel, I wanted to see for myself what your sending was about.” The sideways jerk of his head encompassed the settlement. “Decimation?”

“Yes.”

Darmuth looked at the old woman lying at Brodhi’s feet. “The Hecari were uncommonly neat with her.”

Brodhi shook his head. “She was dead before they arrived. But no one has returned to her since the Hecari left.”