Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Don McQuinn

  She was watching when a fat merchantman made port. There was a southwind chop that day, and it took the beamy vessel almost broadside when it headed east, turning her attempts at dignified progress into waddling comedy. Twin masts whipped side to side, clutching at empty air. Crewmen skipped across her deck, quick as weasels, grabbing lines and projections to halt or change directions. Their agility brought her to her moorings without damage. Once the balancebar swiveled to vertical, she came to rest with a squeal of wood on wood. When she continued to push and grunt against the dock, Sylah could only think of an old hog scratching at a fence.

  A gangplank was lowered. A figure appeared from the low deckhouse at the stern. Sylah sat bolt upright, clutching the edges of her bench.

  The woman who strode onto the dock had hair as white as silver, a glaring contrast to her black robe trimmed with blue and green. Once off the ship, she drew up her cowl, momentarily exposing a lining in the same blue and green.

  “The Harvester.” Sylah breathed the words aloud. She’d never seen any Church official senior to her own beloved Iris Abbess. The Harvester selected those who would become Abbess, supervised their initiation into deeper secrets of Church. It was unknown for one to leave Church Home.

  Sylah literally ran to the dock to greet her. The tall figure stopped, raising a commanding hand. The simple movement was a transformation. Her robe, swirling in the hard wind off the sea, took away any physical clue of a human form. The warding hand hid everything but a pair of deep-set eyes that burned down at Sylah from within the dark of the enveloping cowl.

  When the woman bared her head, however, she smiled broadly, a generous mouth in an angular, strong face that carried age with ease. Sylah blushed with pleasure at the Harvester’s words. “You’re Sylah. I’m sure of it. The descriptions all mentioned your beauty. And good work. None said you were so prompt, though. What a grand coincidence to find you here to meet me. Let’s call it our omen, to share. It means we’re to be very close, we two. I hoped we would be. Our wonderful sister, your Abbess, spoke of you constantly in her dealings with Church Home. Always with love.” The Harvester’s voice was a resonant alto. Sylah winced, thinking how the Iris Abbess’ voice had a similar timbre.

  “I am Sylah, Harvester. Forgive our lack of welcome. We had no idea…”

  “Nor I, sister, nor I.” The Harvester chuckled, then went on, “I’ll explain later. I long to soak in hot water. My nose and lungs crave the scent of herbs and essences to smother the stink of unwashed men and bilge. My ears ache from the squeal of tortured wood and the moan of rigging. And the truly amazing inventiveness of sailors’ tongues. My dear sister, I have heard simple pulleys showered with obscenities a normal human being wouldn’t use on a fiend who’d just disemboweled his parents. Save me. I beg you.”

  Sylah stifled an undignified giggle and took the Harvester’s arm. “Right away, Harvester. Come.”

  “My name is Odeel. Hold that arm tightly, and explain why your country rolls and plunges under my feet the same as that miserable boat. Protect us from a land that swoops and wobbles. Whoops! That rock moved deliberately. Tell me of Gan Moondark. I must speak to him when I’m human again.”

  Later, Gan was equally intrigued by her. In the room he used as a meeting place, he sat behind a table with legs carved to represent leaping salmon. The surface was painted with stylized black and white images of the same fish. The chairs in the room were low-slung forms that supported the body on leather webbing and cushions. All were built to seat one person, except for a long, bench-backed piece that could handle four.

  Gan’s wife, Neela, and her princeling, Coldar na Bale Moondark, sat on one end of the long piece, with Sylah on the other. The Harvester was directly across the room. After one look at her, Coldar insisted on closer involvement. Odeel extended her smile and her hands to him. In a moment, he was in her lap, happily playing with the bejeweled gold sickle on its gold chain that was her badge of rank.

  Neela excused herself and returned with delicacies—honey-glazed hazelnuts, sweet cookies with berry jam, square bars of a dried confection made of sunflower seeds, apple pulp, and honey. Coldar discovered the jam and instantly lost interest in gold playthings. Neela had to move quickly to rescue the Harvester’s robe from the suddenly grubby, sticky child. There were also several herb teas. Each was contained in its own ceramic jar. The containers and accompanying cups gleamed in a bright semicircle around the small charcoal brazier and its pot of hot brewing water. The tray was an oval of satin-glowing copper, with tubular jade grips. The steel teaspoons had bone handles, carved into fanciful animal figures.

  Gan was quick to explain that all of it was left over from the deposed Altanar. He apologized for what he called the extravagance of the utensils. Sylah was disappointed by the covert look of amused disbelief sent her by the Harvester. The tall woman compounded that cynical response by answering, “Display is good. It makes the ruled understand that rulers are, indeed, different. Display spurs obedience.”

  She paused to stir her tea. “I’ll be direct, Gan Moondark, out of respect for your youth. Old ones such as I sometimes prefer the game to the goal. Youth is impatient, has no time for useless maneuver. Directly, then: We’re concerned about our sister, Sylah.”

  Gan’s features tightened. Neela reached to take Sylah’s hand. Gan said, “She risked casting out for Church.”

  “Unquestioned truth. But far removed from the problem.”

  “Yes?” The tone betrayed nothing. Nevertheless, Sylah wanted to warn her sister. The Harvester didn’t know how this man watched and waited, as patient and invisible as any wolf.

  Odeel said, “The foulness called Moondance rises, worse than a war, worse than a plague. There have been attacks on Church. The holy ban against taking our lives is trampled.”

  Outside, the sun was setting, and a growing darkness weighted the unlit room. Neela got to her feet and lit candles. Odeel rose and paced. The unsteady illumination contributed to the sense of difference, of stranger, surrounding the Harvester.

  Odeel went on. “There’s more. As a friend of Church, I ask you to swear none of what is said in here will be repeated.”

  “No.” Gan leaned forward, fists on the table. “I keep my options open, Harvester. I won’t be bound to any blind oath.”

  There was a slight pause, and Sylah wondered if Gan realized exactly how telling a blow he’d struck. The Harvester wouldn’t be accustomed to anyone rejecting her opening, especially a man she regarded as a simple warrior king. Sylah could almost hear the older woman’s brain working to realign her argument.

  Total surrender was a shock. Odeel bowed her head, saying, “I was rude. If we’re to help each other, there must be complete truth and openness. Very well. Since the beginning, the kingdom of Kos has kept the Empty Lands essentially unpopulated, a gap between itself and all other people. They’re secretive. They know much of you. You are feared, Gan Moondark. You’ve created a strong force with the Wolves of your Three Territories, and Kos is wary.”

  “Pity Kos,” Gan interrupted dryly. “They worry for nothing. Kos is more than two moons’ fast travel from here. I have no interest in them, unless we can arrange trade.”

  “Kos is very rich. Such people never rest easy. Sylah’s goal of finding the Door of Church legend creates a unique problem. Kos wars constantly with the Hents, to the south. Now Kos fears the nomads pressing against the Enemy Mountains from the east. The nomads are Moondance’s greatest champions, and, as such, worry that the secret of the Door may give Church advantage in the conflict between the two religions. Their leader is named Katallon. He promises to respect Kos’ borders if the search for the Door is prohibited.”

  Sylah fought to keep her voice calm. “I’ll avoid the Kossiars and the nomads. I will find the Door.”

  Odeel ignored Sylah, spoke to Gan. “I am instructed to return with Sylah, that she be trained, then returned to you with a retinue of Healers, War Healers, and administrators. She will be Iris Abbess of the
Three Territories.”

  “Iris Abbess?” Gan smiled at Sylah. “A great honor. And I’ve been against this quest of yours all along. I’ve made no secret of that.”

  Odeel smiled.

  Gan continued, “Nor have I made any secret of my intention to support you in whatever you choose to do.”

  Odeel’s expression took on a hard glaze. Imperiously, she raised her chin before pulling her cowl over her head, walling herself off. “You reject Church?”

  Gan said, “I reject pressure, Harvester. My friend’s quest is hers. She stood by me and Clas na Bale and Neela and Tate when any misstep by one meant death for all. I will do all I can for Church. Church will not tell me what I must do to Sylah.”

  Sylah had heard such a silence as now filled the room only once. When she and her companions were fleeing the Mountain People, there had been a time when a snow cornice threatened them. It was a thing of deadly quiet, but with the force of mountains in it. Gan and the Harvester made her think of that elemental conflict, gravity tirelessly straining against unremitting cold.

  On that occasion, it was Gan’s fate that drew everyone into jeopardy. Now it was her own.

  What right had she to risk others?

  Neela took the opportunity to try to ease the tension. “Please try to understand, Harvester; Sylah’s quest is for all of us. Our women here have more freedom, more sense of accomplish—”

  Odeel’s interruption cracked like a whip. “Church knows you corrupt Chosens. You have strangers—aliens, non-Church women—making those innocent children learn. The forbidden word teach has been whispered. The Apocalypse Testament says, ‘Wisdom is the control of man’s knowledge. Man’s learning is the most destructive force known, even unto destroying man.’ Church is the guardian of wisdom and knowledge. Not you, Gan Moondark.”

  The Harvester put down her cup, sweeping her robe around in an angry billow, flinging off the cowl. The material stirred breezes, staggering the candle flames. The white hair, so immaculately groomed before, now burst wildly from her head. Her voice vibrated with emotion as she strode to the door.

  “I leave for now. Rose Priestess Sylah: If you persist in this idiot’s quest without Church blessing, you will be no more a priestess.”

  Sylah’s throat locked. She clutched at it, forced it to open. “I search in Church’s name, in the name of all women. How…?” The question trailed to nothing.

  “What Church sees is false hope, at best. Crude ambition, at worst. The former Iris Abbess missed no opportunity to tell us at Church Home of your so-called ‘destiny.’ If your search fails, the enemies of Church will say you found nothing because we preach only tales and legends. An attempt to find the Door brings the fury of the nomads on us. If your search succeeds, if there is such a thing and you actually find it, you unleash unknown powers. The Seer of Seers said so; she declared that Church will be destroyed, can never again be what it was or is.”

  A slight movement of Odeel’s hand might have been a bid for personal contact. She failed to complete it. “You cause us all great grief with your selfishness. I am ordered to warn you, nevertheless. You will not be allowed to destroy Church. In the name of love, if it must be so, Church will hate. In the name of life, if it must be so, Church will kill. You must not destroy Church.”

  The rumbling close of the door behind the Harvester echoed the devastation of Sylah’s heart.

  Chapter 10

  Alone in her room the next morning, Sylah idly drew invisible pictures with her fingertip on the polished surface of her table. Occasionally she sipped from a mug of steaming tea. On the last occasion, her nose wrinkled in disappointment, and she busied herself pouring some hot water in the mug to rinse it, then brewing a fresh batch.

  A small charcoal brazier on the table was her heat source. It was a rectangular ceramic box, with blocky ceramic legs. Glazed dark-earth brown, it was decorated with random flecks of deep blue. There was enough room between the bottom of the brazier and the table to prevent scorching. Additionally, the legs ended in wooden feet, carved to resemble cat faces; they were obviously designed to prevent heat transference. The sides of the brazier featured U-shaped tubes that provided air for combustion while acting as a baffle to discourage escaping sparks.

  A metal top plate was equipped with handles for lifting. When Sylah raised it to add charcoal, the scriptlike wriggles of black and red across the glowing chunks were like tantalizing, indecipherable messages. She replaced the lid, poured a fresh drink, and put the pot back on. Her vision fixed on the twisting, disappearing wisps of steam.

  Reason demanded she ignore the Harvester. The quest was good. It was for women, and Church was the only refuge women had; how could anyone believe she’d harm Church? Even if the secret of the door placed power in her hands, was that necessarily evil?

  Men would say so. Men said anything that weakened their total dominance was evil.

  Why, then, when she finally found her way clear of the images of the Harvester’s fury, did her mind fly to Clas, to a man?

  Everything changed when he came into her life. She knew the tenderness behind his iron will. She saw character where others saw only the black tattoo. Sylah, his wife; she saw the shyness and bold desire. She knew things about herself she’d never suspected. Emotional things. Physical. Exciting.

  She clenched her fists, squeezed until her fingers were like embers in her palms.

  Why did being right have to hurt?

  Tendrils of steam slipped across her cheek like small, warm sighs.

  Clas’ breath felt like that. The steam was scented with raspberry, though. His breath was heavier. Compelling. There were times, just before sleep, when that rhythmic touch and smell filled her, and she had no need of other senses.

  No need.

  She lifted the mug, drank deeply.

  Need. There were many kinds of need.

  Her breasts seemed to swell, strain against a robe suddenly binding, confining. Her loins warmed, and a familiar languor flowed in her blood, touched her with soft fire wherever it roamed.

  She jerked to her feet. Gracelessly, she cocked her arm and flung the inoffensive mug. Streaming dregs, it crashed into the stone wall at the back of the fireplace, fell in wet pieces that sizzled and spat on the near-dead coals.

  Scooping kindling out of a basket, she determinedly started a proper fire. In time, as the flames moved across the small sticks and onto the larger billets of wood, the sharp pain of her loneliness subsided to its routine dull ache. As a result, she was composed, if a bit surprised, when the knock came on her door.

  The Harvester stood there when she opened it.

  Unwilling to trust her voice, Sylah stepped back, gesturing invitation. The tall woman swept past her, then turned. With a wry smile, she said, “I overspoke myself earlier today. They train us to read the faces and bodies of those around us, yet our own feelings escape to expose us. I’m sorry I threatened.” When Sylah opened her mouth to reply, Odeel was too quick for her. “Nevertheless, what I said was true. Your quest could be the final tap on the wedge that splits Church forever. Or worse. You have no idea of the power of Moondance. I again urge you to abandon this search.”

  Sylah looked at the floor. “Harvester, I cannot. I’d go mad. Something drives me.” Her enthusiasm strengthened her, and she raised her head, confronted Odeel. “I’ve told no one this, not even Clas. I have been selected. Fate tests and shapes us all, so I know that what I accomplish will test and shape Church. I will gift my sisters, not just those in Church, but everywhere. I am meant to seek.”

  “Would you speak of giving fire to a child as a gift? Would you speak of shattering hundreds of years of tradition as accomplishment? Would you speak of self-importance as selection? Can’t you see you’re possessed by ambition? You reject us all.”

  “Never that.” It was a cry for help. “No. What I do is for all; I need you all.” Emboldened by desire to make the other woman understand, Sylah took a step forward, put her hand on Odeel’s arm
.

  The Harvester’s stare at the presumptuous touch was almost palpable. Sylah’s hand dropped to dangle awkwardly. Only then did the Harvester continue. “Every move, every word, that affects Church must be controlled.”

  “I must go.”

  In the long silence that followed, the Harvester grew rigid with anger. Then, blessedly, there was a gradual softening. Disapproval remained heavy on her, but resignation eased it. She sighed, and reached to take Sylah’s chin in her hand. “I admire your tenacity, dear Sylah. I sorrow that I can’t agree with it. I leave you as soon as the ship can get underway. I’ll see to it that Church offers you no help. I assure you that you will never rise higher in Church than Rose Priestess. Still, I shall pray always for your personal safety. Now, I ask the third time, as you know I must: Do you continue to deny me?”

  Numbing cold swept Sylah. The ritual of the three denials was old, some said ancient beyond even the beginning. It was usually a preliminary to casting out. The dispassionate demand that they both acknowledge such formality shook her resolve as no argument could have. Still, she found voice. “I deny, Harvester. I thank you for your prayers. I know that you, too, do what you must.”

  Odeel gestured at the brazier. “I have a long walk back to the dock, and this wet wind cuts me like a whip. May I trouble you for some tea to warm my way?”

  Sylah bustled, getting fresh water, adding charcoal to the brazier. The Harvester insisted on helping, emptying and rinsing Sylah’s mug, fetching one for herself. Relieved by the rekindled warmth of her guest, Sylah never saw the swift movement that brought a leather pouch out of the Harvester’s deep pocket. Nor did she see the yellowish powder that poured from the sack into one of the cups.

  All the while, Odeel chattered, the smooth, distracting patter of the devious. While Sylah laughed merrily, she calmly assumed the task of pouring.

  They drank slowly, carefully neutral. Sylah felt the Harvester was anxious to avoid any more argument. Time sped past. They had yet another cup of tea.