The Wild Road by Jennifer Roberson

beside the fire to refill it.
    Then, he paused. Ilona saw the motions of his hands change. He knelt beside the fire, mug clasped, and murmured words she did not know. When at last he looked up at her, she saw the laggard return of his senses, of his awareness of surroundings.
    She ventured a question, if very quietly. “What is it?”
    When he looked up at last, she saw a quick flash of red in his eyes. “I thanked it. I apologized.”
    She was not certain she had heard him correctly. “You—thanked it? And apologized?” She paused. “A mug? ”
    â€œThat once was a tree.”
    â€œA . . . tree. Well, yes. Many things are made of trees, including this wagon.”
    â€œIt lived once. Blood ran in its veins, just as it runs in ours. Humans tend not to think of that.”
    She wondered if the observation included her among those who did not think. But a mug? A simple wooden mug?
    He refreshed the tea, then rose and offered the simple wooden mug.
    Ilona took it but did not immediately drink. She studied the mug, noting scrapes and gouges. With gentle fingers, she explored the exterior as she had never done before. Fingers found smoothness. Fingers found divots. Found ill usage, compared to what it had been before axes, sledges, and saws took it down.
    When the warmth was back in her hands, the familiar aroma rising, she felt tension slowly relinquish her neck and shoulders. “Then we’ll wait,” he said, referring to the bath she had forgotten about.
    Ilona blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry. I thought you were—him.”
    â€œMy sire?”
    She nodded. “I forgot your braids were undone.”
    â€œWell, I believe we can remedy that.” Firelight gleamed on the smooth flesh of his face. “How nimble are your fingers?”
    â€œMy fingers?”
    â€œDevoid of knife, that is.” He lifted one of her hands and guided it to his head, where sheets of hair hung almost to his waist. “I asked you last night if you would braid my hair.”
    â€œThere is a lot of it,” Ilona observed. “It would take half the night, at least.”
    He grinned, and dimples appeared. “I suspect we can find something else to do with the other half.” Then the dimples faded, as did the laughter in his eyes. “I started to explain this last night but got sidetracked.”
    Ilona smiled widely. “So we both did.”
    â€œBut if you do braid it, you must know about the repercussions.”
    She tried to school her tone out of skepticism into mere curiosity but failed. “There are repercussions for braiding hair?”
    â€œAmong my people, yes.” His expression, she noted, was a carefully constructed mask, but the brown eyes, reflecting flame, burned. “It’s a ritual undertaken to seal a man to a woman, a woman to a man.”
    She put her free hand to the disarray of her own hair. “Then I would braid mine?”
    â€œThere are different braiding patterns for a woman. I would braid yours.”
    Now she touched his hair, letting it slide through her fingers. It needed washing, as hers did, but despite the ripples left by braids it hung nearly straight. “How did yours come to be unbraided?”
    Night encroached, but she could see fleeting expressions in the glow of the campfire. Something very akin to guilt. “It was not to be done, but was.”
    Obscurity had always been a part of him, but this night, after all that had happened, she had no patience for it. “What in the Mother’s name does that mean?”
    He touched his scalp, pushing fingers through his hair. “I was injured. Furrows, here, from a demon’s claws. They’re gone now, but she wanted to clean the blood away. I was unconscious, or I would have stopped her.”
    â€œWhy does it matter that she unbraided your hair? Oh. I see. That’s part of the ritual, too. “
    â€œAmong the primaries,