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

by Don McQuinn

  Equally appalled, Conway and Lanta were motionless. Conway broke the silence. “That was pretty rough, Tate.”

  Her defense was lame in her own hearing. “He was supposed to let us know.” When she turned back, her friends were walking inland. Knowing she was only postponing the inevitable meeting, knowing what it would do to Lanta, Tate followed, hoping her friends wouldn’t turn. When she caught up and Lanta sent her a puzzled, sympathetic smile, Tate felt it as a burn.

  The small balancebar skidded up onto the beach while Conway and Lanta were still short of the forest and the waiting horses.

  The larger figure leapt out of the vessel, onto the sand. Offering up a hand, he helped the second passenger. Both were dressed in black leather blouse and trousers. The smaller person had multicolored trim at wrists and ankles, with a wider vertical strip centered on the blouse, where large white shell buttons blinked in the sun.

  Conway and Lanta turned back to the sea, reins in hand.

  Tee looked directly at Conway. She stopped in her tracks, unbelieving.

  Conway’s eyes met hers. To himself, he said, “It’s you. I’ve found you.” His step forward was uncertain.

  Bustling, full of cheer, the heavy man in black advanced at a trot. “Welcome! Welcome! I’m Borbor. It’s a pleasure to greet you.” He grabbed Conway’s unresponsive hand, pumping it. Shouting back to Tee, he said, “What do you think of my surprise? Now you know why I pulled you off that fishing boat. Here’s your friends, Conway and Tate, come all the way from Ola. He needed a couple of days to heal. Good as new, now. Look at you: too surprised to talk. I never thought to see the day.”

  Unnoticed by anyone but Tate, Lanta inched away until she felt far enough removed to turn and make her escape. Leading her horse, she walked with head down, her step a dead, listless shuffle. Tate tried to force herself to catch up to her friend. Cowardly feet refused, rooted in embarrassment. Lanta stopped, looked back at Tate through tears.

  “You knew. You let me hope. Why hurt me so, Donnacee?” A strange, fiery light touched her eyes, and was gone. She seemed to draw in on herself, as if concentrating a fierce energy. “We all take our amusement where we find it, don’t we? I should have thought of that. And we all take our turn laughing. Perhaps you’ll think of that.”

  When Tate opened her mouth, extending a hand, the diminutive figure drew back sharply, making a tight, hissing sound like a tormented cat. Tate checked, her protest intimidated.

  Lanta hung her head once again, resumed her shuffling retreat. Tate thought she looked old, old beyond all joy.

  Chapter 15

  Sitting across the table from Tee, Conway feasted. His eyes danced. He talked loudly, incessantly.

  Tee’s steady smile was a matter of proper muscles performing. She listened with that distraction that marks the person who has something desperately important to say, and no idea how to say it.

  Occasionally her glance slid away to Tate, sitting beside Conway. The look was harried.

  For a while, Tate pretended to be unaware. Burdened with the weight of Lanta’s hurt, torn by her accusation—as unwarranted as she knew it to be—Tate wanted nothing to do with Tee. She knew Tee wasn’t responsible for Conway’s infatuation, nor had she meant to hurt Lanta. Regardless, growing resentment battered at Tate’s rationality.

  Interrupting Conway’s ceaseless chatter, Tee addressed Tate. “I’ve wanted to ask you: what’s your impression of Kos?”

  Tate said, “We never should have come here. Conway told you what happened to Sylah.”

  “You could leave. The Chair would let you.”

  Tate made no effort to hide her offense. “We’re Sylah’s friends. We leave when she does.”

  “I hoped that’s what you’d say.” Tee’s smile was genuinely warm. “But you haven’t told me your impressions.”

  “We met one of your Kossiar house servants,” Tate said pointedly.

  “Then you should know the other two. That’s one, carving the wildcow meat. The third is by the beer keg, where they get their best information. The information we want them to have.”

  Tate nodded. “Everyone else can be trusted?”

  “Completely.”

  “All right, then. Kos stinks. Anyplace that tolerates slavery’s evil. I don’t think people should trade with them.” Warming to her subject, Tate leaned halfway across the table, gesturing with her shortknife. “Something else; Kossiars are all weird. Everyone acts like they’re looking for a hole to hide in.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Conway didn’t want the pleasure of his moment interfered with. He pushed into the conversation. “Tate’s talking about the reaction we saw after an execution. That’s not a fair judgment.”

  Tee ignored him. Tate went on. “He’s right. It’s a feeling. I think they expect a slave revolt.”

  Conway said, “Come on, this is all too serious. I want some more of that meat. And some beer. Come with me, Tee.” He was around the end of the table, at her side pulling her elbow. Rising without argument, she continued to watch Tate until it was necessary for her to turn away. When she did, it was with renewed concentration on Conway. A casual observer would have smiled at the way the attractive, lithe young woman paid attention to her obviously doting escort. Tate, unfortunately, could only brood over radically changed interest.

  Tate left the table, wandering toward the long serving bench. If she’d ever seen a better case of unrequited love, she thought, she couldn’t remember it. Tate reflected that what little she knew of Tee didn’t square with the image of a woman who entertained herself by tormenting a man. Especially a man in love. After all, she told herself, they all knew Tee’s courage. Tee had been a toy for Altanar’s protectors in Ola, and exacted revenge by helping lead the resistance that brought them down.

  No one could question Tee’s cunning, either.

  Tate wondered if Tee’s toughness had twisted into the egocentricity that had no qualms about manipulating others.

  A great shout rose at one end of the gathering. Pulled from her considerations, Tate realized the yelling was being taken up by everyone.

  Nalatan and Wal rode toward the beach party. Across the crowd, Nalatan saw Tate immediately. He waved. Each of his arms sported a sheathed knife strapped to it at the bicep. Uncovered, his chain mail gleamed. When he swung out of the saddle, he drew a new sword, swinging it in a wild, singing circle of light. In his left hand, he held a peculiar metal rod that was about as thick as a man’s finger, and approximately four feet long. There was a conical metal fitting riveted to it at the center. The cone’s maximum diameter was perhaps twice a hand-span; the point was elongated, sharp. The attachment was obviously designed to protect one’s grip on the metal rod, as well as deflect opposing blades. More, the point provided another thrusting weapon. Each end of the rod was a metal ball the size of a small apple.

  The men roared approval as a grinning Nalatan executed a series of flashing cuts, thrusts, and blocks. He leapt, spun, tumbled, always defended by the rod, always seeking, slashing with the long, curved blade.

  Witless, war-oriented savagery, Tate told herself. Masculine foolishness.

  One of the watchers flourished a large round object over his head. Translucent hide, drawn taut over a deep hoop, glowed in the sun. Holding the drum by its crossbrace, the man ran swift, sure fingers across its surface. Enlivened, the drum sang. Surprisingly deep notes boomed from its center. Tangy bites of sound rapped out from its edges. Cutting across the voices of the watching men, it silenced them, demanded they listen.

  All but Nalatan. As the performer, he commanded. One foot stamped the ground. The sword blade clashed against the iron rod, sending out a cadence. The drummer pushed to the inner edge of the circle surrounding Nalatan, took up the beat. Around that steadiness, the fingers drew rhythmic arcs, angles of embellishment.

  Nalatan responded with increased vigor.

  The men took up a wordless chant. Deep, primeval, it rumbled mystery.

>   Nalatan moved faster. The circle of spectators tightened, forced Tate closer to him. His eyes were blank, features taut in concentration. He breathed in rough gusts.

  A strange, humming sort of tension welled in Tate, drew flesh tight across muscles that ached to move. She refused that urging, battled the woman inside her she couldn’t acknowledge, a woman who filled her with a fear she wanted to embrace. Her blood felt thick. Hot. A sheen of perspiration tingled on her skin. She was part of his dance, an accomplice in his every sensation. And fantasy.

  Again, she told herself that this was all wrong. She rubbed wet palms on her thighs.

  The sword and rod darted and whispered in complex curves. Through that glitter, his eyes sought hers. For the briefest of moments, there was contact. A sensation of unrestrained joy seized the muscles at the small of her back in an icy fist.

  Everyone else saw Nalatan’s war dance; Tate knew he danced for her.

  She saw raw, animal strength channeled into grace and controlled power. She saw a mind capable of restraint freed to concede its passion. The dance was an expression of totality.

  Entranced into the fabric Nalatan wove before her, Tate soared. Tightness gripped her throat. She realized with a sudden, frightening vulnerability that were it not for that constriction, she would long since have shouted at him.

  To encourage him to greater effort, out of admiration and involvement? To make him stop, out of fear of what his dance said of risk and mortality?

  Silence held the crowd still for a good three heartbeats when Nalatan finished. Then, like one of the bay’s waves crashing on rock, they cheered. Several men ran to him, half dragging, half pushing him to the table. Dripping sweat, flushed with effort and excitement, he rose on tiptoe to see past them, searching for Tate once again. Finding her, he lifted the sword high, waved at her. His eyes held hers fractionally longer than before, and she believed she read them, told herself there was hope and question and fire there.

  Reaching the table and its food, he said something to the group, then stepped away. Stripping off the chain mail and the padded, quilted jacket under it, he put it on the ground, then added his arms. He trotted to the water and plunged in. When he finished bathing, a man met him with a large bunch of greenery. Nalatan brushed the moisture off with it, then headed back toward the table.

  He grinned at Tate. She nodded, waved back, reminding herself to control her smile. It had to be friendly. Not a bit more.

  Conway touched her shoulder and Tate squealed surprise. She rounded on him. He grinned down at her. She said, “You startled me,” and wanted to bite her tongue.

  “I noticed. He’s something, isn’t he?”

  “Exhibitionist. Is that the gear Helstar made?”

  Conway shrugged. “Ask him. He’s coming over here.”

  As Tate turned, she noticed Tee beside Conway. Her expression was contemplative. Once more, Tate had the feeling the other woman was weighing things, factoring everything about both Conway and Nalatan. Tate wondered if she’d been so examined herself.

  Nalatan was wolfing a slab of bread piled with meat. His color was still high, and his skin gleamed. Tate braced herself for when he came close, and was pleasantly relieved to discover he had a clean, athletic scent. Overlaying maleness was the sea, and a mix of mint and thyme, obviously the leaves he’d used to rub down.

  “I should apologize for behaving like that,” he said. “It just feels good to be carrying my own kind of weapons again. That Kossiar sword’s as clumsy as it is ugly.”

  Tate said, “Helstar made all that stuff this soon?”

  Nalatan smiled. “He already had the knives; it was just a matter of having someone fit the scabbards to the leather bands. A couple of apprentices made the rod and hand shield. He had a blade similar to our style, so he didn’t need much time to finish it.”

  Tee stepped forward. “Exactly where do you live? What’s your tribe like?”

  Nalatan swallowed a bite before answering. “No tribe. I was born to one, of course, but I took the monk’s staff in my sixth summer. The brotherhoods live in the mountains, not far from the villages that supply most of the monks. We serve no master. We live only to protect Church.”

  “Why help Sylah, then? Your brotherhood’s taken sides in Church’s split?”

  Nalatan explained his present situation. Conway added, “For us, the important thing is to get Sylah out of here in good condition. The Door’s become our mission as much as hers.”

  Tee looked from one to the other of them with a pent-up energy in her manner that warned of challenge. “I, too, do Church’s work here.” She smiled crookedly. “Church isn’t exactly aware of it.”

  Conway struck his forehead with his palm. “I knew there was more to this Borbor and his tight little compound. It’s the slaves, isn’t it? Just like Ola. You’re working with the slaves.”

  Unsmiling, Tee said, “That’s very observant, but if something warned you, it’s probably warned the Chair’s agents, too. I’d best tell Wal and Borbor.”

  Conway grabbed her arm before she could leave. “I didn’t see anything. I know you. I guessed. What’ve you done?”

  “We’ve rescued six slaves. Wal took them to the Whale Coast. And he brought back a hundred swords.” She waved an arm, encompassing east and south. “The swords are out there now, ready to cut down slavers and slave owners. Wal has room for twenty escapees this time, inside false bulkheads in his boat.”

  Tate said, “I’m proud of you. What you’re doing is wonderful.”

  Tee’s smile was tight. “It’s good you think so. I’m asking you to help us.”

  Chapter 16

  It was a week after Lanta’s return from Trader Island when Sylah faced the Chair defiantly. “You task me with your wife, your unborn child, but won’t let me go beyond the walls of this fort? What contradiction is this?”

  The Chair looked uncomfortable. “One of my primary responsibilities is to protect the people of Kos from… from…”

  “Contamination. That’s what you’re trying to say.” Sylah spat the words. Her arm-flinging gesture almost struck Lanta, beside her. “Are we so dirty? Ill? Does the sight of us cause pain?”

  “The opposite.” The gray day behind the Chair muted the multicolored window. His yellow blouse and green trousers had the look of a spring morning suffering a chill rain. The heavy cedar smell of the paneling, normally soothing, seemed rank.

  “Yasmaleeya needs to see her mother, her sisters, her home. I can protect her body. You’re responsible for her mind. If you fail her, she’s lost already. We’ll suffer for it, but you’ll know the fault is yours.”

  “I am the Chair!” He was on his feet, hand on the jeweled hilt of the dagger at his waist. For several deep, heavy breaths, he leaned forward. Lanta touched a shoulder against Sylah’s arm. Sylah told herself to be firm; if she was to save Yasmaleeya and so save the search for the Door she had to have information. Yasmaleeya’s family had to supply it.

  The Chair said, “I could have you tortured.”

  “I am Church.”

  He laughed unpleasantly. “At least half of Church would sing thanks. How do I know Priestess Lanta hasn’t already Seen that Yasmaleeya dies? You could be looking for a way to escape.”

  “You insult. Abandon my friends? Say it, and spare me any further need to deal with you.”

  Lanta said, “Your accusation of me is wrong. Your accusation of Sylah is unforgivable. Yasmaleeya deserves Sylah. You don’t.” The shoulder touching Sylah vibrated.

  Befuddled rather than angry, the Chair watched Lanta declaim. His look slowly changed to wry acceptance. He sat down, slumping, shaking his head. Addressing Sylah, he waved weakly in Lanta’s direction. “Do you know what I would give to have someone feel such loyalty for me? Or to experience the loyalty and affection you hold for your friends?” His expression shifted. The faint smile broadened, but it turned bitter. “I did well; using your sense of loyalty to assure Yasmaleeya of your attention is effective.�
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  “It’s our duty. We won’t fail her.”

  He elbowed himself upright. “I won’t fail her either. Bos will make arrangements for an escort.” He addressed Lanta. “You said ‘your Yasmaleeya’ when speaking of her. She belongs to me, of course. She’s only the bearer, however. There’s no romantic attachment. There are rumors enough within these walls; let’s have none on that subject.”

  “I understand.” Lanta backed away with Sylah.

  Outside, the two dark robes rustled and whispered past the gaping shark jaws. Sylah was unaware of their silent menace. Her thoughts were on Yasmaleeya.

  The girl was as healthy as a mule. Not much brighter, unfortunately. And every bit as stubborn. Still and all, her naive sweetness could be touching. Since recovering from her cold, Yasmaleeya’s childlike homesickness daily improved on an already magnificent capacity for inactivity, food, and liquids.

  Sylah found her patient lounging in a hammock in the courtyard. Looking up at Sylah, she extended a porcelain cup, the movement painfully slow. Red-rimmed eyes blinked rapidly. “Strawberry rhubarb?” Yasmaleeya sighed the invitation. Sylah shook her head. The cup sagged, spilled. Yasmaleeya said, “I’m so tired. You’re sure you won’t have some? Very good for the blood. See how red?”

  Sylah shuddered. Church continually fought against such assumptions. Of course strawberry and rhubarb were good for the blood. So were onions and apples. They were all good for health in general. Color had nothing to do with it. Sylah’s thoughts flew back to the Chair and the Harvester participating—sharing—in pagan ritual. Small wonder Yasmaleeya and those around her believed in “like benefits like.”

  It was time for Yasmaleeya’s walk. Another battle, Sylah thought. She closed her eyes, preparing herself. When she opened them, they were drawn to the far side of the courtyard. Cloud shadow raced across the inner wall. Idly, she watched it. Light bathed one of the high balconies. Her eye caught the silver glimmer of the Harvester’s hair as she turned to go inside.