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

by Don McQuinn

  Shocked, Tate reached for his arm. “He knows that?”

  “Of course. He needs the answer, though. And I can’t break my oath.”

  “What if you win?”

  “Oh, I’ll win. He won’t use the lightning weapons.”

  “He saved your life. You’re friends. ‘He won’t use the lightning weapons.’ How could you live with that, with killing a friend, just to make a stupid point?”

  “I’m not sure I could. I’ve come to like him very much. When it’s over, I’ll probably shave my head and ride to attack the Moondance nomads.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I understand why you say so. I’ve considered letting him win. I’m not ready to die, but I’ve had to consider it. It makes a man look into his heart, try to precisely define things such as honor and integrity. Conway’s greatest fear isn’t dying, it’s living unsatisfactorily. If you save him from me, he’ll be ashamed. You’ll force him to seek death, and such men always do regrettable things.”

  “You’ve got all the answers, haven’t you?”

  Nalatan’s murmured answer contrasted with her stridency. “Would it help if I told you I’m sorry I ever made the vow?”

  “I’ll stop you. Somehow.”

  “Can you stop Conway? He welcomes the contest. In his heart, he knows he’ll lose. In a moment of mindless vanity and pain, I vowed to kill a stranger. Can’t you, his tribeswoman, make him release me?”

  “Maybe. Maybe.” Hope was a small break in Tate’s despair. “Tee could convince him night’s day.”

  “She’ll have to be very clever. But you’re right. A man in love will do things.”

  A hard, callused hand lifted her chin. Instinctive reaction almost jerked her head back, but something checked the movement.

  The woman who was always in control abandoned Tate.

  It was as if his touch emptied her of everything save awareness of him. He said nothing. The wind herded wisps of mist through the trees, and leaves sighed at the passing. His face was almost in contact with hers; she felt its warmth, inhaled the humid masculinity of him. The other hand loomed at the edge of her vision, pale, descending, drifting closer. It touched her temple. He stroked her brow, then deliberately traced the arch of each eyebrow. The fingertips were rough; their touch was moth soft. They read her cheekbones, lips, the jaw line to her ear.

  It was the memorization of a blind man, knowing each feature as a tactile message.

  She told herself to move, to stop this.

  Noiseless as a cat, he was suddenly gone. Bewitched by the suddenness, the completeness of it, one of her hands flew to her face as if to catch his. The other reached out, vainly.

  He was so far away she could barely make him out in the star-shine.

  “I…” She swallowed, tried again. “I want to go back now.”

  “Yes.” Hard, rough. Like his hands. As gentle, as tender.

  Arm in arm, unspeaking, they walked toward Borbor’s house. His step was unerring, confident despite the darkness. She moved to the pressure of his arm, letting him lead as if they danced.

  Her head ached for coherence, for a return to a past whose simplicity lay shattered, along with her clearest dreams.

  One touch. A shrill, scornful voice taunted her. One touch, and you’re nothing but another empty, yearning vessel. Look at yourself. Weakling. Quitter. Woman.

  She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head. Woman, for sure, she told herself. Problems, dreams, and all. Proud of it. And no quit to it.

  Time to be honest, girl, she went on.

  She cut her eyes his way.

  He meant to kill Conway. She had to stop that.

  Whatever happened, Nalatan had to live.

  The ease of that transition sickened her, freed the nasty, name-calling voice once more. It chattered guilt. She bit the inside of her lip until tears welled, and finally broke free of the nagging.

  The guilt remained, a sticky, foul taint that clung to her every thought.

  It made no difference.

  She wanted Nalatan to live. She wanted him beside her.

  She wanted him.

  Chapter 19

  Lanta stepped ashore on Trader Island wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.

  It was vital that her friends know of developments in Harbor, but she dreaded facing them. The argument with Sylah about which of them should make the trip was unpleasant. Yasmaleeya’s tantrum demanding that “the assistant Healer” go was the deciding factor. One more humiliation.

  Sylah’s a War Healer, Lanta thought, picking her way across squiggling lines of tide-strewn seaweed. I should be the one to attend to a pregnancy.

  A dead fish gaped up at her, the eye sockets pillaged by the rapacious gulls.

  She hated gulls. Snowy white, gracefully carving lovely patterns against a background of sea or sky, they screamed and fought and fouled constantly. Like life: a swift-winged facade of beauty, hiding cruelty and filth.

  Behind her, the crew leapt over the side of the boat, heaving it up onto the beach.

  At the house, Borbor himself welcomed her. Apologizing, he explained that her friends had all gone into Rathole with Tee and Wal. He added that Wal wanted to hire extra crewmen, and it was the only place to do it.

  Borbor asked Lanta to wait at the house with him, but she refused, telling him how little time the Chair allowed her. Accepting the situation, Borbor sent for a horse and escort.

  Lanta’s hand stole to the True Stone at her breast. She thanked Borbor for his concern.

  After an uneventful ride, the man in charge of Lanta’s four-man group halted at the edge of the collection of huts that constituted Rathole. “We can’t take you any farther, Priestess,” he said. “Trader’s rules. A gang’s only allowed a certain number of men in town at one time, and our quota’s met. We’ll watch from here. If anyone makes trouble before you reach the tavern, we’ll ride them down. The Traders can argue the legal points after. Go ahead on in. Just act like you own the place.”

  The sound of him drawing a sword as she left wasn’t reassuring. She felt eyes from every window, every doorway. There were so many horses tied to the hitching rail outside the tavern, she had to secure hers several yards from the sagging, leather-hinged door. That done, she moved as fast as dignity allowed, almost bursting into the noisy room.

  It was dark. After the light of day, she found herself unable to recognize anyone. A coarse, heavy hand fell on her shoulder. An arm draped across her neck. She was drawn tight against the side of a stinking torso. Her head barely reached midpoint on the dimly perceived chest beside her. “Save me, Priestess.” The breath carrying the voice stank worse than the body. The smell oozed through her hair, the sensation raising bumps on her flesh. She tried to slip away. The grip pinned her effortlessly. The voice went on. “I’m a bad man. I need someone to be nice to me, so I can learn how to be good again. Come upstairs; help me.”

  Leaning into him, she gained a lessening of the pressure on her shoulder. It gave her room to twist and spin away. The man was quick. Both hands reached for her. Lanta was even quicker. She had the shortknife out and pointed as he closed on her. Without either of them realizing exactly what was happening, he impaled his hand on the blade.

  Pulling up short, he jerked the hand back. Disbelief made his face comical for the length of time it took him to study the wound and comprehend how all the bleeding had come to pass. Anger followed like a slow, inexorable tide. He roared and lunged. She dodged him easily, going under his reach. By then, however, the byplay was the center of attention for everyone. Hands grabbed her as she tried to escape, spun her around. They shook her, like a rag before a bull, mocking him. The man licked his lips and came forward grinning.

  Nalatan and Tee broke through the wall of shouting faces. Nalatan’s sword was bared, aimed at the man.

  Tee said, “Sober up, Malor. The woman’s Church and a friend of mine.”

  Malor put his hand on his sword hilt. “The bitch cut m
e. Get out of my way. No one cuts me.” He hauled at the weapon.

  Lanta would have sworn the words were still in her ears when the tip of Nalatan’s sword disappeared between the teeth of Malor’s open mouth. The shaggy head snapped back, lanky hair splaying out like wet mop strands. The sword froze. Nalatan said, “You act like a man who wants to die. You have three heartbeats left. Yes or no.”

  Gagging noises boiled out around the steel between Malor’s teeth. His eyes rolled. Nalatan stepped back. Wiping saliva off the end of the weapon on Malor’s trousers, he examined the blade distastefully before sheathing it. With exaggerated seriousness, he said, “You had me fooled, Malor. I thought you were ready for the next world. I almost made an unfortunate mistake.”

  Nalatan turned to where Tee was holding Lanta. “Are you all right?”

  Conway repeat the question, hurrying up, full of concern. Lanta looked past him as she nodded. Tate stood halfway up the stairs leading to the second floor, back against the wall. She held her wipe leveled at the crowd. Dodoy cowered behind her.

  Lanta smiled a greeting, thinking how cleverly Tate had chosen her position. She dominated the entire room from where she stood. As much as Lanta admired Tate’s skill, she wondered about the culture that could produce her.

  Conway blocked Lanta’s view, moving to lead her outside. It broke her train of thought, pulled her attention back to him. She looked into his eyes. Such a beautiful, dark blue, so alive.

  Why couldn’t he have come to help her, instead of Nalatan?

  Tee put an arm around her, saying, “Come outside, Lanta. Wal can finish our business by himself. This is no place for you.”

  Now that her eyes were adjusted to the dim light, Lanta was shocked to discover other women present. Ragged, dirty, they stood apart from the surround of men, still intent on herself and her friends. Glancing up, she saw there were others on the upstairs balcony. As she watched, a naked man opened a narrow door behind one of the women. Growling something unintelligible, he grabbed her and pulled her back in with him. The woman’s eyes never left Lanta’s.

  Lanta remembered watching a wolf spider’s funnel web one lazy afternoon. A cricket bumbled past the dark, silent entry. Lightning quick, the spider was on it. The cricket died almost resignedly, as if fate was so natural it was unremarkable. The hopeless acceptance of the woman on the balcony was no different.

  Out on the dusty street, Tate joined them. Dodoy still clung to her leg. When Lanta looked up at her, Tate grinned. “Lovely crowd, but a bit informal.”

  Lanta had to laugh. When she did, she felt knotted muscles unwind. As soon as Tate had dispatched Dodoy out of earshot, it took little time for Lanta to give a very abbreviated summary of events at Harbor. She made no mention of the sweet sickness or the proposed induced birth. Tate promised to relay the information to Conway and Nalatan. Her only question was to ask if Lanta believed the Chair truly intended to release them if Sylah saved Yasmaleeya and the child.

  Lanta hedged. “Sylah believes him. She says the Harvester is our major danger.”

  Tee said, “Sylah’s mistaken. The Chair’s as bad as Altanar. Only the slaves are willing to resist any longer. Most of them still remember freedom. The people of Kos never tasted it; they fear it. Now they fear the slaves, as well.”

  “Moondance,” Lanta said. “As much as I agree with the slaves struggling to be free, I can’t approve of Moondance. It’s evil.”

  Calmly, Tee agreed, then, “We don’t care, though. If Church is concerned, then you better get some people involved who’ll provide leadership and support. Moondance is, and the slaves are flocking to their recruiters.”

  Lanta, flustered and embarrassed, stammered. “Could I work with you now? With the slaves, I mean? I’m a Healer. I’d be very valuable, if there’s any trouble.”

  Tee’s smile barely missed being patronizing. “If there’s trouble, we’ll need a War Healer. It’s too early for rebellion. For now, we’re moving out healthy, skilled men whose loss hurts Kos most.”

  Tate interjected. “No women?”

  Tee glowered. “Not because I don’t want to. Female slaves aren’t allowed to learn complex tasks here. They even call the work they do ‘slavehand.’ Can you imagine how tiresome it can be to warp a loom to weave that fine material they call moonlight? It can pull your eyes out of your head. Well, that’s slavehand. A male slave supervises her, a male slave does the weaving. The loss of a woman slave in Kos is an inconvenience.” She nodded at the tavern. “And even the slaves pity the women who work in there.”

  “At least they made a choice. A rotten one, but their own,” Tate said.

  Tee looked at her pityingly. “They were sent here. They’re Kossiars. Barren. Every year or so, the Chair sends out warmen to round them up. They’re shipped out here, where they can earn coin and inform on their customers. Everyone knows they’re spies, just like the servants who work for the Traders. Drunken sailors and gang members either forget that, or never care.”

  Quietly, Lanta asked, “Can’t a man love a woman without having children?”

  “Not in Kos.” Tee’s smile was vicious. “No babies, no husband. The best thing that can happen to a woman slave here is to be owned by the husband of a barren woman. If the owner loves his wife. Say a slave gets impregnated by her owner. The owner’s wife wants to claim the child as her own. See how wondrously that increases the slave’s status? The truly lucky ones even live out their lives with the family and watch the child grow up. She has to be wise enough to never show any affection that might be seen as parental, of course.”

  Tate said, “There’s no end, is there?”

  Lanta rounded on her. “There must be. We must see to it.” To Tee, she said, “I have to help.”

  Tee looked to Tate, an eyebrow raised, her head cocked. It was a silent challenge, understood by all three women. The pause stretched into a contest. Tate spoke. “My allegiance is to Sylah. For now. When this Door thing is cleared up, things’ll be different.”

  Softly, chiding, Tee said, “Conway feels he can do both.”

  Tate lost her temper. “If you gave a solitary rip what Conway feels, you wouldn’t use him like a tool. Don’t you dare tell me what Conway feels. You’re not a well-respected authority on his feelings.”

  Tee colored. Still mild, her voice was edged. “I’d use the One in All, if I knew how, and never a thought for His feelings. Nor any apologies.” Turning to Lanta, she asked, “Would you walk with me? We should have a talk.”

  Torn, Lanta didn’t know what to do. Tate continued to fume. Tee, icily controlled, waited patiently. Lanta merely wanted harmony. She struggled for the words to soothe this wound.

  Tate decided the issue. “I’m taking Dodoy back to Borbor’s house. Whatever you decide, Lanta, I’ll support you any way I can. Understand; I’m Sylah’s trooper.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Tee led Lanta down the rutted street past the last house, where she turned off to sit on a downed log. She patted a space beside her. Lanta settled there. Tee said, “We may be the two most different women in Kos. Maybe in the world.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “Because we love the same man.”

  Lanta rose swiftly, too startled to hide her reaction. Tee laughed quietly. “Why should we dance, Lanta? You’ve heard all about me. Men; when they’re happy, they bawl their secrets like bull calves. When they despair, they cry to everyone who’ll listen. And all the time they brag about their iron-willed silence. Faw!”

  She stood to face Lanta, putting her hands on the smaller woman’s shoulders. She forced her to look up and meet her gaze. “I want Matt Conway more than breath. But I fear, Lanta. Am I too broken to heal? I may destroy him. So I dare you. Fight me for him, force me to be the best I can. Maybe I can find the woman I wanted to be once.” For a moment she was lost to a time and place only she could see. Then she was back at Lanta, fiercer than ever. “If you win his heart, I quit him. I give him to you. Love him for both o
f us. Give him the joy we both wish him.”

  Lanta gripped Tee’s blouse at the collar, twisted it in her fist. “Who are you—what is he—that you make him a possession? I take my happiness in what you lose? How dare you?”

  “Pride? I confess my heart to you, and you spout shallow, witless pride? Stop it! He’s no present. He thinks he loves me. Poor fool, he can’t see that he loves you, too, or that you love him. I’m offering you a fight.”

  It was so candid Lanta released her, turned away from the righteous anger. Tee spoke again, cajoling. “Join with me, Lanta. Help me. Conway needs to know he’s more than the man who controls the lightning weapons. His future is grander than that; his wife must be grand. Between us we’ll help him find himself. And one of us.”

  “You want him to help you smuggle slaves out of Kos. If he’s caught, all of us die. The quest for the Door is defeated.”

  Tee pushed on Lanta’s shoulders, gently increasing the pressure until Lanta was seated on the log again. Tee knelt in front of her. “The Door is Sylah’s dream, Lanta. Maybe it’s there, maybe it’s not. Matt Conway’s very real. So are you. So am I. Three people, each able to help complete the other. If Sylah’s Door exists, can its discovery do that for any of us? If it doesn’t exist, will you be able to live with that failure, knowing you sacrificed the full life that Conway—or you, or I—might enjoy because you were afraid to let him grow? If the Chair catches us freeing Kossiar slaves, of course we’ll die. If I must die, then I’ll die now, young, beside a man I love, rather than old and alone, cold and unfulfilled.”

  By the time Tee finished, Lanta was nodding rapt agreement.

  Chapter 20

  Sylah watched in dismay as Lanta approached across the courtyard with Dodoy in tow. The boy appeared quite pleased, smiling, inspecting everything around him with an air of happy return. Lanta, spying Sylah at the second-floor window, made a face and cocked her head almost imperceptibly toward Dodoy. Sylah’s nod was equally circumspect. She left her vantage and walked downstairs.