Karavans (4 page)

Moreover, had she believed it possible that they would leave their home, she would have taken the herbs to keep herself from conceiving. Four children already, and now another in her womb. No, she would have done better to take the herbs, no matter what the moonmother might have said, though it pained her to consider that she would have missed seeing the tiny face, missed counting the delicate fingers and toes.

And yet it was the unborn child that had caused her husband to decide the time had come to leave, to depart the lands she and Davyn had tilled into bounty, the house he had built into comfort, the room where all of their children had been conceived and born. Tangible things, precious things, but altogether impossible to uproot and pack away for the journey. Only such things as clothing, utensils, tools, the makings of a new life could accompany them.

And memories.

But her memories of
this
place would be forever tainted, colored by the knowledge that
this
place existed only because their province was destroyed. Because
this
place had been, before, nothing but a road winding through the valleys, one particular mile of it very like all the other miles.

That road, this place, this wagon, was now both present and future. And she detested all of it.

THE AGING, DYED oilcloth had faded over time from crimson to a streaky reddish-orange. But the Kantic priest rather liked it; the hue imparted a pale and peaceful roseate glow to the interior of the tent. Dardannus
supposed someday he should have the tentmaker make him another—in trade for a favorable augury, no doubt; the tentmaker did not grasp that true divination was not always auspicious—but for now he was satisfied. And the white of the bones, hung along all the tent poles—chains of curving ribs, a spine strung on gold wire, dangling tibia and femurs, a necklet of phalanges, intermixed with a pleasing array of beads, tiny mirrors, clay eyes, and artifacts—looked so nice against the color.

He smiled briefly, then bent to take up a scattering of costly ivory-colored splinters from the copper bowl on the rug beside his low, cushioned bench. He murmured softly to them, invoking the blessings of the gods in the tongue of the Kantica, and carried the fragments in his cupped hands to the center of the wooden table.

“Hold them,” Dardannus said quietly.

The woman sitting on the other side of the table, heavy legs folded upon a green cushion, jerked her hands back from his offering. “Hold
Shoia
bones?”

“They impart nothing to you,” he soothed, “but they must know you. Let them taste your scent, the texture of your hands, the gentleness of your touch.”

She was unconvinced. Lavetta had been a regular follower of the Kantica for several months, but she was timid, unwilling to surrender herself to his guidance. It had taken some time to turn her away from false diviners, but at last she had agreed to see what omens he might find for her in the Kantica. Surely the auguries
Dardannus
studied would be more positive than those she had experienced with the charlatans. He was the greatest Kantic diviner in the settlement.

Lavetta declared, “You didn’t make me hold all those other bones.”

She was wary. Dardannus quietly set his handful of fragments down upon the crimson cloth, which had not been exposed to the elements and thus was not faded. Against it, the bones were pearlescent.

It was a sad little pile of nothing much recognizable; small bones such as fingers and toes, and fragments of
larger burned more quickly, so small pieces, chips, and splinters were best, unless one worked a Great Augury, in which whole bones and a bonfire were used. In this case it was the ash Dardannus needed, not the actual bones. And the fire was ready; he need only set the splintered pieces into the flame and let it do its work. In time the bone would burn down to grit and ash, and he could read the resulting omens.

“It shall be as you say, Lavetta. Perhaps when you have fully accepted the Kantica….” His voice trailed off.

Her mouth sagged. “You mean you won’t read them for me unless I hold them?”

“There are different rituals associated with different bones,” he explained, “just as there are different gods. The others required less of you. These require more.”

Lines appeared in her brow. “Why are Shoia bones so different?”

“Better to ask why are the Shoia themselves so different.” He kept his tone soothing. “One may see deeper, and farther, with Shoia bones. The Shoia themselves live much longer than ordinary men—indeed, it is often said they can never die—and thus their bones are richer. By using them, I can see farther into your own life, Lavetta. Instead of a mere echo of the gods, I may well hear them shout.”

Her painted-on eyebrows arched up in startlement. “About me? Why would the gods shout about me?”

He reached across and briefly touched the back of her hand. “Lavetta, you must never doubt your own value in this world. It is true you have encountered hardship in your life—”

“Four dead husbands and no wealth to show for it? I should say so!”

“—but even the most afflicted may gain the true peace of the afterlife,” he continued, ignoring the interruption. “One merely needs personal worthiness so that when one’s spirit crosses the river—”

“That’s what I want!” She was suddenly less sharp. She was human again, and small, reduced in body, heart, and soul, and terrified that her afterlife would be worse than
her life. “Oh, yes … I want so much to be worthy! I want—I want to know that I’ll go to a better place when I cross the river, not to …not to
that
place.”

“Alisanos?” He spoke the name intentionally, without fear, though Lavetta paled and made a ward-sign against it, grasping the amulet around her throat. “I think you are in no danger of such a fate, Lavetta. You are but a poor widow attempting to make do with such as the gods have given you.”

“And what
else
do they intend to give me?” Tartness had returned. “Another husband who can die?”

A tedious woman, Lavetta. But she always paid on time; for that, he forgave much. “Perhaps. Or perhaps a husband with whom you may someday, many years from now, grow old.” Lavetta was already in middle age and heavy-bodied with it, but a little harmless flattery soothed many. “But only Shoia bones will allow me to look deeply enough, to see far enough to bring you the answer you seek.”

She peered at the pile of bone splinters from beneath frowsy graying brown hair. “Just—hold them? That’s all?”

“Briefly,” he told her. “Then I shall burn them, and we shall know your future—”

But Lavetta’s potential future ended abruptly as someone flailed at the oilcloth, attempting to find a way in through the canvas. A man’s voice, raw from shouting,
still
shouting; scrabbling hands finding the slight gap between flaps to rip the fabric aside. He stood hanging on the cusp between light and dark, with the yellow glare of the sun behind him and the rose-tinted pallor of the tent before.

“Send me back.” His voice was a harsh, crowlike caw, as if words came hard to him. His mouth opened in a rictus of effort. “I thought I was a man … I thought—” He drew in a trembling breath, released the words on a lurching rush. “Tell me how to go home!”

LERIN HELD OUT a sienna-colored clay cup. “It’s a bitter brew, and for that I beg your pardon,
but most effective this way. I have made it somewhat stronger for you than for the usual client, as you will naturally have shields in place.” Lerin smiled; she was a handsome woman in late middle age, hair gone to gray, but the smile lighted her face into youthfulness. “You’ve done this before, if not with me; you know what is to come.”

Ilona, accepting the clay cup with its pungent herbal tea, shook her head as she lifted the cup to her mouth. “I’ve never sought a dream-reader.”

Lerin’s dark brows arched over blue eyes. “Never? And you a diviner yourself?”

Ilona swallowed some of the bitter drink. “My dreams have never been the sort that needed reading.” Disbelief still shadowed the older diviner’s eyes, so Ilona clarified. “For me, dreams have simply been something that occurs when I sleep. I’ve never attempted to sort them out for meanings.”

“Then you have closed off a part of your soul.”

They knelt upon the rug-strewn floor of Lerin’s tent. It was a small tent, but cozy and comfortable. The usual collection of beads and charms dedicated to various gods festooned the main pole. Lerin’s cookfire was out of doors; inside, she relied upon a small oil-filled brazier to heat her teas and potions.

Ilona accepted the reproof with chagrin; she would have said the same herself, had Lerin come to her.

“Nightmares?” Lerin asked.

“Occasionally.” Ilona sipped more tea. “Not often enough to concern me.”

“Then what brings you to me?”

Ilona drew in a deep breath. “What I saw last night … the images seemed to be of a
future
time and place, not a jumble of memories or suppositions. I felt that clearly. They were vivid, disturbing, and they awakened me from a sound sleep.”

Lerin nodded. “A presentiment.”

“This is Jorda’s last trip of the season,” Ilona explained, “and he’s late departing. You would think I’d dream of all the tasks that need to be done hastily, instead of what I
saw.” With effort, she drank down the dregs of the bitter tea. “The dream felt—different.”

The dream-reader reached out and took the cup from Ilona’s hands, smiling slightly. “Well, we shall discover what you saw, and what it means. I see the tea is working; do you feel relaxed?”

Ilona was aware of a lassitude sweeping through her body. “I feel as if I might sleep for months!”

“Oh, no. Sleep comes after.” Lerin made a gesture. “Lie down there, if you please, on your back.”

Ilona followed instructions and settled upon the pallet made comfortable by cushions and blankets. She stretched, hearing subtle cracks of tense muscles. “If nothing else, my back will be improved before we rattle it to pieces again upon the karavan roads!”

Lerin set the cup aside and knelt at the head of the pallet, settling long, dark skirts. “I will place my hands on your brow, like so.” Ilona felt the cool fingers resting against her skin. “I will draw the dreams out from hiding, but you will have to guide me, Ilona. Find the images you saw, those that disturbed your sleep. Place them at the forefront of your awareness. If they are mixed with other dreams of no consequence, I won’t be able to give you an accurate reading.”

Ilona wasn’t certain she could unwind the pertinent dreams from the others, particularly since she had been told to do just that. Her subconscious was recalcitrant that way. But as the tea worked through her body, she let it also invade her mind.

“Good,” Lerin said softly. “Call up the dreams, Ilona. Remember them as clearly as you can.”

“They’re just fragments,” she murmured, eyes drifting closed.

“Fragments are merely pieces needing someone to put them together into a whole. As you read hands, so I read dreams. Trust me, Ilona. Let go, and bring those fragments forward.”

Crimson lightning. Steaming rain. Howling wind. Hecari. A karavan, turning back. A woman in profile.

Fragments. Moments. Nothing more.

“Let go, Ilona.” Lerin’s voice was soft. “Let them become
my
memories.”

Ilona exhaled. She let the memories of the dream, the tangled skein of images, leave her mind and enter Lerin’s.

“
I
WANT TO GO HOME,” Torvic announced, leaning out of the high-sided wagon so far his elder sister snatched his tunic and yanked him back down.

By rote, Audrun answered, “We must go on, Torvic.”

“I want to go home,” Megritte echoed; as she would, as expected, because she followed Torvic’s lead in all things. She was four. He, at five, had the sagacity of age.

Torvic also had the stubbornness of their father. “I want to go
home.
”

And it was Ellica, fifteen, the eldest girl, who said what her mother longed to: “There
isn’t
any ‘home’ anymore, Torvic! The Hecari stole it all!”

“Hush,” said Audrun. “Not here.” The enemy’s ears were everywhere.