by Don McQuinn
Conway glared toward Tate and pointed. Tate responded with a head shake, trying to tell him she couldn’t see the man anymore, either.
Suddenly the white flag was in the middle of the trail, dangling from a long stick emerging from behind a tree.
Loudly, Tate said, “We’re travelers, making no trouble. We’ll defend ourselves, though.”
A deep voice answered, “We know who you are.”
At the word “we,” Tate and Conway nervously peered into the flanking trees.
Tate said, “Let us pass.”
“Not with the children.”
“You’re slavers?”
There was a dull silence. Shock tinged the answer. “You’re slavers. Those are Smalls children. Our tribe.”
Tate exposed half her body from behind her tree. “That’s a lie. They were abandoned.”
“Not abandoned. Victims. You’re stealing them.”
There was disbelief and irritation in Tate’s voice. “You prove you’re Smalls, and we’ll turn them over to you.”
“That’s who we are,” a child shouted, unleashing a chorus of agreement.
Sylah decided it was time to take charge of the situation. With the children trailing her under Lanta’s supervision, she walked forward, hands raised over her head to join forefingers and thumbs in the peace signal. “Come speak to us. Our only interest in the children is their welfare.”
The response was silence. Then the stocky man was on the trail. Able to see him for the first time, a boy shouted. “Bizal! It’s Bizal!” In spite of Lanta’s attempts to quiet them, the children buzzed excitement.
Stroking his throat, the man smiled. His eyes remained on Sylah. “The scar does it, Priestess. Not many know my face. It takes some getting used to, having people know you by your throat.”
“I know you, Bizal.” She introduced herself and the group, explaining their circumstances, then, “These children are under Church protection.”
Bizal nodded, then swept his arms wide. “I’ve twenty men around you. I saw what magic your weapons do. No matter. We’ll take the children, if we must.” In his intensity, he took a step forward, raising a clenched fist. He was either completely unaware of the swift tension of the dogs or brave enough to ignore them. “Smalls have ever been victims of all; Kossiars, slavers, raiders from the mountains, River People. Everyone considers us animals. No more. We fight now.”
Coldly, Sylah said, “That had the sound of a threat. I will know your plans for these children.”
Bristling, but calmer, Bizal said, “Protection. One day they’ll fight, too.”
Conway said, “Sounds like Gan.”
Surprisingly, Bizal nodded. “A Peddler told us some stories of the Moondark one. I’m not so ambitious, but not so different. My people will be free.”
Sylah said, “Take the children then. When I reach Church Home, shall I tell them you need Healers?”
“Yes. But only strong ones. We have to move often.” A slash of bitter smile touched his features.
Softly, Tate asked, “Are you sure you don’t want us to take the children to Church Home? They’d be safe there.”
“They’ll be safe nowhere.” Bizal glanced in her direction, seemed almost apologetic. “There are many more raiders than your man killed. They say Church itself wants the Rose Priestess dead. Kos hunts you. I don’t think you will ever see Church Home.”
“Very encouraging. Thank you.” It was Conway, sardonic, stepping away from his hiding place with his dogs.
Bizal faced that way. “I can only speak the truth.”
“You could help.”
“No. We’re too weak. We can’t properly defend ourselves yet. My people’s needs come first.”
Conway stopped beside Sylah. Tate moved to join them.
Bizal went on. “The raiders left, west. They’ll recover, come after you. We’ve seen no Kossiar patrols for several days.”
Conway persisted. “Can’t you scout ahead for us? We’re not asking you to fight.”
Bizal frowned. “Priestess, I wish you luck on your quest.”
Conway scoffed. “You and the twenty invisible men surrounding us.”
For the first time, Bizal truly smiled. The change was radical. In that instant he was younger, more appealing. He said, “Smalls have some skills. We’re learning more. And every man enjoys a brag from time to time. Your dogs know we’re here, but not even they’re sure exactly where, because the wind’s from one direction.”
He raised a whistle on a lanyard to his mouth. It trilled twice, then one longer blast. Answers came singly, quick single bursts, first from one direction, then another. Piling on top of each other in such rapid sequence from all points of the compass, they had a sinister, disorienting quality. Sylah tried to count them; by the fourth—or fifth—she was too confused to continue.
Conway faced Bizal. “My compliments.”
Tate grinned and winked. “Me, too. But I’ll bet there’s only nineteen.”
Bizal laughed, flushed with pride.
Sylah led the good-byes. Tate knelt to hug Nandameer. They ended by wiping tears from each other’s face. Tarabel, groggy, afraid, watched Sylah anxiously until she bent over him and kissed his forehead. “You’re going to be well. Keep the wound clean. Grow strong. Bizal’s going to need you.”
At his grin, Sylah’s eyes turned suspiciously bright. She left quickly.
Moving down the trail, she reflected that the boy’s look was what she treasured above anything in her work. She created hope. Joy. Suddenly, she heard the voice of the Iris Abbess, remembered something from one of their late night conversations. The older woman had said, “One of the things about the Door that we rarely hear is the happiness it’s supposed to hide. Almost everything the Teachers promised concerned power. There was that other side, however. Imagine, a force to make people happy. I wonder what they meant by that.”
Much later that afternoon, Sylah rode ahead to be with Tate. The other woman studied her so long Sylah grew a bit uncomfortable. Finally, Tate spoke in a tight, self-conscious voice. “You made Tarabel happy. That’s what I want for Dodoy. You all think all I want is to have him lead me to other black people. I do. But I want to see him smile like Tarabel. I want to see him when someone he trusts tells him everything’s going to be all right.”
Ahead, Conway was hurrying back to them.
Tate tensed bent forward in the saddle. Very softly she said, “I want that for Dodoy. And me. Just once. Even if it’s a lie.”
Chapter 41
“There’s a horseman up there,” Conway said, jerking a thumb southward. “Armored. Military. Under a white flag. There’re other troops, but they’re staying clear, keeping undercover. They’re all mounted, all armored. I counted twelve before I left.”
Sylah nodded, looking where Conway indicated. It was Lanta who asked, “Did they see you? Can we get around them?”
“They’ve got the whole valley outposted, so I doubt we can avoid them. He knows we’re coming, or he wouldn’t be sitting there with his white flag. I might as well go see what he wants.”
The quest was at its most dangerous point yet.
Sylah couldn’t say exactly how she knew that—and she smiled inwardly at her assumption of Lanta’s talents—but there was no question in her mind that what she did before this day’s sunset would determine if her mission continued or ended. Looking up at Conway, she said, “Please, will you take the others and leave me alone for a while? I need privacy.”
Conway frowned. “This isn’t going to take long, is it? I don’t want to ride up on this man in the dark, and I don’t want his men coming for us in the night either.”
Reaching, she touched his fingertips with hers. “A little while is all I need.”
He shrugged and left.
Confusion crowded her thoughts, bullied her attempts to concentrate. The words of the chant came slowly, caught on hooks and thorns of tension. She immersed herself in the soothing, mind-claiming sounds. Slowly
, reluctantly, stresses fell away. Controlled body rhythms dispelled the irregular beat born of worry.
Her place of calm came into her inner vision, a place of giant trees, where a liquid-gold shaft of sunlight shimmered down to the earth. She stood in the center of that glory.
There was a voice. All your life, you followed.
That was so. The Sylah who acted, but dared not speak. She of deference, of carefully phrased advice.
You are the seeker. Who will lead?
She was woman, her role predestined.
Support. Refuge. Companion.
Follower.
Woman.
The word howled confusion through her mind, nearly shocked her out of the trance. The chant was sanctuary. The words hummed anxiously, then softly. They calmed her once again.
Behind that renewed silence there was a sound like the breath of trees, or the sibilance of stream waters. Another voice. The Iris Abbess’. No clear words, but enfolding serenity. Guidance.
Memories. Long, hushed conversations in the confidence of the Abbess’ rooms, when dawn so often came as a shock, with the entire night gone like an hour.
So many lessons. Inspiration.
War Healer. What men broke, she repaired. What men tore, she mended.
Suddenly the answer was there, so simple, so clear.
So dangerous.
What must be borne, grasp. Reeds bend to any wind, yet it is the reed that confronts land, confronts water. And creates its own place.
Woman creates.
Deep within her, something stirred. Not entirely pleasant, not entirely disquieting. There seemed to be a presence. In the midst of an increasingly dizzying confusion, she remembered Tate’s admonition: “You don’t know how to quit.”
That was true. Too true.
Sylah can no longer follow. Sylah leads.
The voice again, each word a whiplash.
Leaving the trance always touched her with a thrill of alarm. There was the fear that full consciousness might elude her, leave her suspended in the half state of inwardness. Light and sound beckoned her as the surface beckons the submerged swimmer. This time there was instant awakening. She was suddenly, triumphantly, looking at her friends, resting under the trees. She rose, walked to them.
“We go forward,” she said.
The squeal of leather drew the attention of all to the wounded warrior, where he was propping himself on one elbow on the dragger. While they goggled, he said, “Kossiars. Don’t trust them.” Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his eyes were clear. “I’ll be able to fight in a few days. Avoid the Kossiars, and we can handle the ones who attacked me.”
Tate said, “You weren’t doing all that well when Conway found you.”
The man watched Conway. “No one trusts Kossiars. They’ll make prisoners of you.”
“And not you?” Sylah inquired mildly.
“Only until I heal. Not long.”
“You’re my patient, and I am Church. No one will harm you.”
He colored. “Nalatan Sohna fears no harm.” To Conway, he said, “Give me a sword. Leave me now.”
Sylah held out a languid hand, a good three body lengths from the man’s reach. “Come here for it.”
Nalatan strained at the lashing. Conway half rose, clearly intending to help. Sylah’s sharp hiss sat him down again. The struggle went on for what seemed an interminable time. Blood began to seep from under some of Nalatan’s bandages. Tate turned beseeching eyes on Sylah, and was ignored.
Nalatan fell back against the dragger straps. “Water.” Defeat ached in the word. Conway hurried to him. Nalatan glared at Sylah while he drank from the canteen, handing it back with abrupt thanks.
Sylah met his cold anger firmly. “You’ve studied the secrets of self-healing, Nalatan. But I know if you can travel, fight, survive alone.” He opened his mouth, and she was on her feet, an imperious gesture demanding silence. “No! I have more to do than contend with your pride.”
To the others, she said, “Conway and I ride in front, side by side. Lanta follows with Nalatan. Donnacee, take rear guard with Dodoy. Keep your dogs far back, in case we’re being followed.”
When Sylah moved away, Tate looked to Conway and rolled her eyes. He smiled, shaking his right hand as if the fingers burned. He said, “Is this Rose Priestess Sylah, or Our Lady of the Iron Fist?”
Laughing, Tate said, “Lady’s got her back up. From here on it’s going to be, ‘Heels together, feet at a forty-five degree angle, and when I say Eyes right, I want to hear eyeballs click.’”
“Right at home, aren’t you?”
Tate smirked. “Semper fi, chump. Try to keep up.”
The sinking sun broke under the covering clouds just as the group left the forest. The trail cut directly across a brush-pocked meadow. In the middle of it stood a riderless horse, hipshot, relaxed. It raised its head, whickering a greeting. Sylah’s horse responded. Stormracer flattened his ears and stuck his neck out. Conway twitched the reins and whistled in his dogs.
A man stepped out from behind a clump of brush. The soft light of the late sun turned hard where it struck his metal torso armor and helmet. He raised a white flag, waved, then settled back against the horse to wait for them.
Sylah almost smiled at his carefully posed arrogance. He wore his horsetail-decorated helmet tilted back on his head. His leather shirt was open to expose glinting chain mail. Worn bands on leather trousers indicated where some sort of shin and thigh guards could be attached. She halted a horse-length away from him. Conway was just off her left side, a bit behind. From the corner of her eye, she saw him signal the dogs to cover in the brush.
The soldier saw it, too. He said, “No one’s going to trouble you. I’m here to offer help.” His speech pattern was slow, with a lilting rise and fall. A soft accent contributed to the melodic effect.
Sylah’s training unmasked the deceptiveness of his language. The wary blue eyes were too wide, the square young jaw too set. And, although the right hand so casually hooked over his belt was well clear of his sword, his posture clearly indicated a tense readiness to make a sideways move. To the right, she reckoned.
Conway ignored the proceedings, scanning the area.
Sylah said, “Kos welcomes no strangers.”
His poise wavered when he was addressed by the woman, rather than the sole healthy adult male in the group. Shifting his attention back and forth between them, he didn’t notice Tate until she was almost directly behind Sylah. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. He was considerably less self-assured when he spoke again, even though the words were clearly rote. “The Chair has known of your coming for many moons, Rose Priestess Sylah. My patrol is one of many sent to watch for you, to invite you to Kos. The Chair expects you.”
Sylah felt no surprise. The Harvester had passed through Kos. The only surprise would fall out of whatever mischief that one had left behind. Sylah drew herself erect. “I have my own plans. This Chair means nothing to me. Nevertheless, we would camp with you this night.” She introduced the rest of the group. On finishing, she asked pointedly, “Are you given a name?”
Coloring, he said, “My apologies. My name is Gatro. My rank is Lance. I command a troop of fifteen mounted warmen. Again, I invite you to accompany me to the safety of Harbor, where the Chair would speak with you.”
“And again, I must refuse.”
“Perhaps I can convince you.” He raised a hand over his head and dropped it back to his side. Three men rode out of the brush. Two were Kossiars. The one in the middle was bound, hands behind his back. On closer view, he was much the worse for wear.
The trio stopped a few yards from Sylah. The Kossiars saluted by touching a fist to their lips. The battered man glared hatred. And fear.
Gatro gestured far too casually. “We caught two like this. They say their band numbered over fifty. We can’t believe them entirely, however; not only are these people murderers, rapists, and thieves, they’re liars. They say you killed one of their lead
ers and some others with thunder and lightning. Scum. Can’t even admit being beaten in a fair fight.”
Sylah looked to Conway, and he responded for her. “I killed them. With thunder and lightning.”
Gatro sighed. “As you say. I warn you, though, everyone knows the Chair doesn’t approve of magic tricks. But we have serious business to settle. You won’t come with me to the friendship of the Chair?”
Tiny signals beckoned Sylah. Dilated pupils. The aggressive rise of his chin. More revealing than either of those, however, was the quick, almost imperceptible forward tilt of his body. Expectation.
Gatro had set a trap. She was sure of it. But where was it? How did it work?
Peripheral vision provided a possible answer. The captured raider was also trying to hide increased tension. And the warmen watched him. Not their leader, not herself.
Physical clues were telling her the raiders were free to attack them if she refused his offer. The Chair could say it offered help, even protection, to the one seeking the Door. It could deny complicity or responsibility if that seeker should die.
What must be borne, grasp.
“I’ve changed my mind. I accept your offer.”
Gatro was pleased. For a single, thudding heartbeat Sylah feared she’d misread him, then it dawned on her that he’d set two traps. She’d fallen into the minor one. Braced for his next statement, she eased closer to Conway.
“As our guests, we’ll accept it as an act of friendliness when you entrust your weapons to us,” Gatro said. Before either Sylah or Conway could respond, Tate did. “We’re not that friendly, Lance, and never will be. We’ll keep our weapons. You keep your distance.”
Sylah was ready for any reaction but the one she got. Gatro stared, awed. His mouth worked spasmodically before he managed to speak. “Are you painted? Is it your custom?”
“It’s my skin, boot, and that’s the last I want to hear from you about it. Did your Chair tell you to keep us sitting here forever? We’ve got a wounded man. Take us to camp.”
Gatro’s salute was halfway to his chin before he caught himself. Lamely, he turned the movement into a sort of wave. He put on a stern face and spoke to Sylah. “I’m permitted to use force to take your weapons if I suspect any—unpleasantness.”