Read Online Deepwood: Karavans # 2 by Jennifer Roberson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jennifer Roberson
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was not entirely certain how those years were counted, other than being some conglomeration of hours, days, weeks, but he would know, he was told, when the time was up. When the journey was ended. Either because he had completed it, or because the primaries despaired that he ever would and ended it for him. He would be declared a neuter, unfit for godhood of any ilk; unfit, too, for the human world.
Unfair, he felt, that he, so patently prepared, so deserving to take his place among the primaries, to ascend to godhood, was nonetheless forced to undertake the journey. Such things belonged to Rhuan, his cousin, his kin-in-kind, who expressed a desire to become human himself. To
not
become a god. To
not
take a place among the primaries.
Brodhi could not blame Rhuan’s human mother for that. His own mother had been human as well. Discussions among the primaries were ongoing as to whether it was the human element, the human blood, that had caused the seeds of Alario and Karadath to kindle into
dioscuri
in the wombs of two unrelated women when none had been born to either brother for hundreds of years by human reckoning, but as far as Brodhi knew no decision had been reached. And so the weakness he despised in Rhuan was present in himself: the blood, the bone, of humans. He was not just the legacy of primaries, who were wholly divine.
Sighing, Brodhi worked his hands beneath Alorn’s shoulders and pulled him from the confining folds of oilcloth. He settled him a small distance away, beneath the brilliant sun, then retrieved Timmon as well. Side by side, they lay in silence, senseless.
“Are they alive?” Bethid’s voice, much perturbed, as she arrived. She swooped down to kneel beside the two men. “Oh, Mother, tell me they’re alive!”
“The Mother can’t, or won’t,” Brodhi said dryly, “but I can. Yes, they’re alive. Both of them. And not likely to die, from what I can tell.”
She put her hand against Alorn’s throat, waited, then nodded once. She moved then to Timmon’s body and did the same.
“I don’t lie,” Brodhi observed. “Not even in the interest of tact.”
Bethid, still kneeling beside Timmon, scowled up at Brodhi. “Pardon me for caring enough to want to find out for myself.” Then her expression altered. “Did you pull them away?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Her mouth twisted. “And made sure they were alive.”
“Yes.”
“So perhaps you do care, and I do you a disservice.” Bethid stood, knocking mud from the knees of her woven trews. “I’m going to find them water. Could you could fetch something to eat?”
“You do me no disservice.” Brodhi glanced across the settlement. “I suspect fetching food means I musthunt.” He gestured. “Little is left here of food storage and meals.”
“Mikal found some spirits,” Bethid pointed out. “You might go to the remains of his ale tent. Something edible may be left.”
Brodhi shrugged. “But we will all need fresh meat soon enough. One might as well hunt.”
She nodded, eyes narrowed, studying him thoughtfully. “One might. Or one may merely want nothing to do with tending injured humans.”
He gifted her with a slight, dry smile. “One might not.”
But she knew he was correct—fresh meat was a necessity—and waved him away. Brodhi found that dismissal more than a little irritating, but his choice was either to depart or to aid her with Alorn and Timmon, work that was, he felt, best left to her. Hunting would take him away from the remains of the settlement, putting distance between himself and human grief, human anger, human despair. Such things sat ill with him.
And then he remembered, startled by realization. “Our horses.”
Bethid, walking away, stopped. Her eyes widened as she turned back. “Oh, Mother—how could we forget? How could
I
forget?”
This time he waved dismissal at her. “Fetch them water, Beth. I’ll look
Unfair, he felt, that he, so patently prepared, so deserving to take his place among the primaries, to ascend to godhood, was nonetheless forced to undertake the journey. Such things belonged to Rhuan, his cousin, his kin-in-kind, who expressed a desire to become human himself. To
not
become a god. To
not
take a place among the primaries.
Brodhi could not blame Rhuan’s human mother for that. His own mother had been human as well. Discussions among the primaries were ongoing as to whether it was the human element, the human blood, that had caused the seeds of Alario and Karadath to kindle into
dioscuri
in the wombs of two unrelated women when none had been born to either brother for hundreds of years by human reckoning, but as far as Brodhi knew no decision had been reached. And so the weakness he despised in Rhuan was present in himself: the blood, the bone, of humans. He was not just the legacy of primaries, who were wholly divine.
Sighing, Brodhi worked his hands beneath Alorn’s shoulders and pulled him from the confining folds of oilcloth. He settled him a small distance away, beneath the brilliant sun, then retrieved Timmon as well. Side by side, they lay in silence, senseless.
“Are they alive?” Bethid’s voice, much perturbed, as she arrived. She swooped down to kneel beside the two men. “Oh, Mother, tell me they’re alive!”
“The Mother can’t, or won’t,” Brodhi said dryly, “but I can. Yes, they’re alive. Both of them. And not likely to die, from what I can tell.”
She put her hand against Alorn’s throat, waited, then nodded once. She moved then to Timmon’s body and did the same.
“I don’t lie,” Brodhi observed. “Not even in the interest of tact.”
Bethid, still kneeling beside Timmon, scowled up at Brodhi. “Pardon me for caring enough to want to find out for myself.” Then her expression altered. “Did you pull them away?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Her mouth twisted. “And made sure they were alive.”
“Yes.”
“So perhaps you do care, and I do you a disservice.” Bethid stood, knocking mud from the knees of her woven trews. “I’m going to find them water. Could you could fetch something to eat?”
“You do me no disservice.” Brodhi glanced across the settlement. “I suspect fetching food means I musthunt.” He gestured. “Little is left here of food storage and meals.”
“Mikal found some spirits,” Bethid pointed out. “You might go to the remains of his ale tent. Something edible may be left.”
Brodhi shrugged. “But we will all need fresh meat soon enough. One might as well hunt.”
She nodded, eyes narrowed, studying him thoughtfully. “One might. Or one may merely want nothing to do with tending injured humans.”
He gifted her with a slight, dry smile. “One might not.”
But she knew he was correct—fresh meat was a necessity—and waved him away. Brodhi found that dismissal more than a little irritating, but his choice was either to depart or to aid her with Alorn and Timmon, work that was, he felt, best left to her. Hunting would take him away from the remains of the settlement, putting distance between himself and human grief, human anger, human despair. Such things sat ill with him.
And then he remembered, startled by realization. “Our horses.”
Bethid, walking away, stopped. Her eyes widened as she turned back. “Oh, Mother—how could we forget? How could
I
forget?”
This time he waved dismissal at her. “Fetch them water, Beth. I’ll look
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