Free The Wild Road by Jennifer Roberson

empathy that he could not comprehend. “Bethid, you know nothing about Alisanos. I do.”
    â€œBecause you’re from there.”
    It was statement, not inquiry. Ah, yes. She knew he wasn’t Shoia. The hand-reader had told her so; the hand-reader who had, unaccountably, drawn the attention of Alario, his sire’s brother. Possibly the hand-reader knew more than any human alive about Alisanos.
    But not enough.
    Bedthid’s hands went to her hips. “Alisanos is a place, not a being . How can it have a will?”
    He stared into her eyes and saw an implacability equal to his own. It was far more than curiosity—this was a demand. And yet he could not explain Alisanos to her, because he lacked the human words. Alisanos, to those born of it, simply was . Every child of his people was taught from the creche that Alisanos was omniscient and sentient, and terrible in both. Alisanos was greater than even the highest of the primaries.
    Who was, at this particular time, Karadath, his sire.
    Five years. Five human years. Until that time was up, he could not challenge his sire. He could not prove himself. He could not ascend. He could do nothing, now, save repeat his journey to complete his journey.
    â€œI’m not in the habit of betraying confidences,” Bethid said, “as you well know. And I can’t see that my knowing additional details would harm this settlement more than it already has been harmed.” She made an expansive gesture with her right arm, as if presenting the entire settlement to his attention. “See what Alisanos has already done? Tell me why, Brodhi. And if it’s a who , not a what, tell me that, too. I deserve it, don’t you think?” She tapped her chest. “I am here at the edge of the deepwood, within striking range. If I am to be taken by Alisanos, to be transformed by it, I want to know why and how.” And then the demand dropped away from her voice and posture. Bethid looked tired as she raised a hand, palm out. “But—not now . . . later. I suspect it will take all of my attention, and I haven’t it to spare just now.” She was tired; it was most unlike Bethid to let go of either argument or passionate discussion before its natural conclusion. She looked past him and sighed. “I see our tent is down again . . . Timmon and Alorn are mired in canvas.” Her gaze returned to his. “Repairs are more easily made by four in place of two.” She slapped him on the arm with the back of her hand. “Now, Brodhi. Before the sun sets.”
    He turned to watch her as she moved past him, striding toward the collapsed tent. She was a small person, small even for a human woman, and yet her personality and determination were greater than any human he knew. Brodhi considered for a moment, eyebrows arched, then hitched a shoulder in a brief shrug and followed her. It served him as well to put up a tent he intended to sleep in come nighttime.
    And at least Bethid’s attention had been appropriated.

Chapter 5
    T HERE HAD BEEN no time, no time at all, nor room in Ilona’s mind to truly comprehend what had happened to her. First, death. Then, life and a night in Rhuan’s arms; and then harried, blundering explanations to friends and strangers about her resurrection. Now she stood alone in a soiled burial shift, hair a mass of tangled ringlets, feet bare and dirty, with nothing but time to sort out the turmoil in her mind.
    They had left her, all of them, their minds on other things: Rhuan departing with the farmsteader whose family was lost to Alisanos, Mikal and Jorda marshaling men to again raise the ale-tent, Bethid following Brodhi, and the tent-folk and karavaners once again turning their attention to their damaged belongings.
    She was alone, yet surrounded.
    Ilona put out her hands. They trembled, even as a shiver ran through her body. Now, now there was time, and her body knew it. It overtook