Deepwood by Jennifer Roberson

Author:Jennifer Roberson [Roberson, Jennifer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101642498
Publisher: DAW
Published: 2008-08-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

DAVYN—RIDING a horse with the smoothest gait he’d ever felt, even carrying two—was astonished to discover the karavan grove beside the settlement was mostly upended. And a high percentage of the tents, he saw, were missing entirely, with only a handful standing in the wide, flat, foot-beaten area that had once hosted as many as a hundred families, uncounted diviners, and various makeshift businesses. He saw charcoal raked into piles, a collection of broken tent poles, yards of ruined oilcloth. He smelled dirt, burned paint, damp ash, and death.

Bethid, riding behind him on the gelding’s broad rump, said, “Very little is left, thanks to the storm. But the survivors are working together, tent-folk and kara-vaners both, and we’re doing the best we can.”

He had been lost in his thoughts and anger on the ride, had not even bothered to ask her if the storm had struck the settlement, and how it had fared. The misfortune of his family, the betrayal by the Shoia guide, superseded realization that others suffered, too. Shame knit a knot in his belly.

“Go on that way.” She indicated the direction with her finger. “Mikal’s tent is there; see the tankard sign? You can get ale and food if you wish—it’s the distribution point—but we can also address your problem.”

She made it sound entirely too easy, he thought. And who was “we”? “My family is in Alisanos.” His tone was acerbic, though he hadn’t truly meant it that way. “I doubt anyone here can guide me in without repercussion except the Shoia.”

“Then if Rhuan’s returned without our knowledge—which is possible for who can say what route he took—you can talk to him about recovering your family.” She hesitated a moment. “Stop here. Get down. Go on into the tent while I tend Churri.” She let herself slide over the horse’s rump and tail, dropping to the ground. “Tell Mikal what you’ve told me.”

As he dismounted, Davyn had the impression the female courier was annoyed with him. But then she had spoken in favor of the Shoia, had questioned his conviction that the guide had purposely sent his family into danger. Had Davyn himself not survived the storm, no one would be the wiser. All of his family could be in Alisanos, forgotten by the world.

Distribution point, was it? More than an ale tent? Davyn put the courier out of his mind and went into the tent. The tables, he saw, were filled. Other men clustered in front of the plank bar. Davyn had never been in Mikal’s ale tent—in fact, he hadn’t been in any ale tent for years—so he didn’t know if the number was unusual, or if the ale-keep served excellent ale and spirits.

His entrance was marked. One by one men fell silent, set tankards on the tabletops, waited with curious, avid expressions. As conversation died, an aisle to the bar opened before him. Davyn walked it, aware of tensile scrutiny. Every man in the place waited for him to speak. He was a

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