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

by Don McQuinn

  They met in the covered walkway on the ground floor. Dodoy amused himself terrorizing the fish in the ornamental pond. Lanta said, “Tate begged me to take him off the island. Too much bad influence.”

  “Yes, those sailors and the gangs. And the exiled Kossiar criminals. Dodoy could corrupt all of them.”

  After quiet laughter, Lanta summarized her trip. She detailed Conway’s involvement with Tee, and Tee’s evaluation of Moondance inroads among the slaves. She ended by saying, “Tee feels that a revolt will succeed, if they plan well. The slaves intend to create a nation of their own in the Empty Lands. The Smalls there aren’t friendly, but they’re not hostile, either.”

  Sylah didn’t respond immediately. Lanta knew she was analyzing. It had become automatic with this new Sylah.

  Thinking about the change in her friend, Lanta was surprised to realize how extensive it was. The other Sylah never forgot to pay close attention to what was going on around her. That woman always moved after careful consideration, then with determination. This woman was different. Consideration had been superseded by calculation. The new Sylah planned alternative routes based on possible obstacles and resistance. She led. She sought counsel, but her conclusions were her own. Her orders no longer carried the feminine tone of deferral, or even suggested she was hoping for consensus.

  Sylah said, “A slave revolt, even if they only succeed in fleeing and don’t destroy Kos physically, will undermine the nation. A colony of escaped slaves near her northern border will be a serious threat for at least two generations, perhaps longer. Further, Church can’t tolerate a Moondance outpost on this side of the Enemy Mountains. We must oppose the slavers of Kos and the unbelievers of the slave nation. The ethical considerations are exactly balanced by the practical ones: We need the slave uprising to eliminate slaveholding in Kos while we need the strength of Kos to prevent the spread of Moondance.”

  Lanta had waited patiently to make her suggestion. “Tee slips over to the mainland almost every night. She’ll let me go along with her, I know she will. I can treat the ill, talk to the slaves, make them see the advantages of Church’s truth over Moondance superstition. You don’t need me for Yasmaleeya; she doesn’t even want me.”

  Sylah objected. “We can at least claim no knowledge of Conway’s involvement because he’s on Trader Island. You’re different.”

  “I think we have to help the slaves. Can we ignore an opportunity to free people, to defeat Moondance?”

  Seeing Sylah’s difficulty, Lanta pressed her case. “We didn’t have to come to Kos, Sylah. There was a choice. I think you made the right one. Don’t you think it’s possible we were meant to come here? What if this is a test? What if we’re being asked to compare our beliefs with our personal goals?”

  Sylah wanted to cry for her, and at the same time, she wanted to strike out at her. How could she be so blind? Love was luring Lanta into all the devious passages of self-delusion.

  Deep in her own heart, Sylah cringed at the tiny flame of doubt so easily fueled by Lanta’s argument. Had the power of Church directed her to take the path to Kos? The dream voice that insisted she discover the Door had been strangely quiescent. Was that a sign?

  Could she think of herself as a true representative of Church if she avoided helping the oppressed, especially when non-Church people such as Tee and Conway were willing to take the risk? If she failed to confront the Harvester’s efforts to benefit by Church’s schism, was it to pursue a higher goal, or self-interest?

  “Help if you can,” Sylah said, turning her back to her friend. “Please be careful. If any of you are hurt, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “I knew you’d understand.” Lanta bubbled gratitude and enthusiasm.

  The irony of Lanta’s phrase brought a wry smile. Sylah knew she could do nothing to stop her. Love rejected orders, ignored pleading.

  Another voice penetrated her concern, turned her head. The Chair was a few yards away, watching her with a quizzical smile.

  When she greeted him, the smile broadened. “You didn’t even hear me. You think too deeply, Sylah; you’ll get a bad reputation.”

  “Being accused of thinking doesn’t frighten me,” she said tartly. “I use my head the best I can.”

  He walked to her, took her arm, and linked it through his own. “You use it very well, for thought as well as attractiveness. I’ll hate to see you take it away.”

  It was the rankest sort of flattery. Still, it did no harm. “I’ve no intention of losing it. Which brings us to Yasmaleeya, I think. She’s doing very well. Lanta and I are quite confident she’ll deliver a healthy baby.”

  Ignoring Sylah’s attempts to direct the conversation, the Chair peered over her head. “I seem to have distressed your small friend.” Sylah turned to see Lanta practically scurrying away. The Chair went on, “She sees me as cruel and rapacious, as does everyone else. Almost everyone. How did a Priestess, a War Healer, learn that the first cost of power is the loss of normal human contact?”

  Sylah bridled at what she first perceived to be even worse fulsome flattery. The rebuke she intended, however, wilted. There was a plea in his manner. She finally said, “I’ve seen those who hold power suffer for it, and make others suffer with it. I know the power of holding a life in my hands and the fear that my power may not be enough to save it. But no woman will ever completely sympathize with you. Try being a woman for one day. One hour. Learn what pain it is to be utterly without power even over yourself.”

  Clutching at his heart, reeling in burlesque agony from her verbal thrust, he forced her to smile at his antics. Once she did, he sobered, saying, “I won’t lie to you. Oh, I would, but you’d see through it. You see, I’ll never relinquish my authority. I fought very hard to be what I am, because I’m the best man for the position. Still, I never realized how hard it is to think of everyone, with no chance to think of any one.” He paused to draw a weary hand across his eyes. “Did that make any sense?”

  Sylah’s mind wanted to slide away, to examine her own conscience on matters of power. The Door. Loneliness. She willed concentration on the Chair’s words. “You probably made more sense to me than yourself. I can feel sorry for you; you dare not feel sorry for yourself.”

  “Exactly.” He drove an enthusiastic fist into a palm. He looked around suspiciously, started to speak, changed his mind. With the single word “Come,” he led the way to the small boat basin inside the south wall. Once there, he sat Sylah just forward of the mast of a small balancebar, then untied the mooring lines and cast off. A small paddle moved them through the tunnel like exit to the sea, the raised balancebar just clearing overhead.

  As soon as he had room, the Chair lowered the bar. Lithe, surefooted, he worked the length of the hull. Despite his size, he moved without rocking the boat. On one occasion he actually anticipated a larger-than-usual wave. His weight leaning outboard damped the swell to almost unnoticeable proportions.

  The day was perfect for a trip, crystal clear, with the chilling edge of a light breeze offset by the warming sun. As soon as he hoisted the sail, it bellied full and content, like a milk-fed cat. They set off across the bay smoothly. From aft at the tiller, the Chair called Sylah closer.

  As soon as she was settled, he pointed toward shore. When she looked, two larger boats were leaving the peninsula near Trader Island. One was a balancebar, the other a single hull. The latter was under sail, but a picket fence of raised oars showed she could make way without wind. The Chair said, “My guardians. Good men. Prepared to die for me. They have no idea how I hate them.”

  “How can you? They love you.”

  “They love the Chair. Not me.” He shook his head, frowned. “I don’t hate them. I hate what they do, hate what I am. The most powerful man in Kos. Probably the most powerful man anywhere. Trapped.”

  Sylah laughed. For a moment something dark and deadly spoiled his features. It passed, and he said, “I understand what you must feel at such a statement. Nevertheless, I’m an image, not
a man. Everything I do, every move I make, is either determined by tradition and protocol, or else requires a decision that affects the life of every person in the nation. There is no me.”

  “Yet you wanted the position. Still do.”

  “I killed for it.” At her shocked recoil, he gave a crackling, bitter laugh. “When the Chair dies, our tradition allows his firstborn son to assume that rank. However, any brother may challenge. Each man is allowed a club and a knife, exact matches. Any son of a Crew member of the same birth year may also challenge. You understand? My brother can challenge me, regardless of our age difference, but only a Crew member of my birth year is allowed that privilege.”

  “Your brother challenged you?”

  “My father had four sons. I was the youngest.”

  Sylah’s hands felt cold, weak. “You challenged them?”

  “Three brothers. And two Crew members.”

  Memories crowded out the sound of wind thudding in the sail, of the balancebar hissing across the surface. Sylah remembered flames and swords and blood. Dimly, she saw a family without faces, without remembered words or laughter.

  Yet here was a man who murdered three of his brothers. For power.

  He avoided looking at her, concentrating on his course. He said, “Now you understand the choice of Yasmaleeya in any case. My son must grow large, as well as wise, in order to rule. Like me, he’ll be shown what ruling means, even know reading, writing. Numbers.”

  “Killing.” Sylah couldn’t stop herself.

  Whiplike, his words slashed at her. “Clas na Bale. Are your husband’s hands so free of blood?”

  Sylah was too shocked to retort. She gaped. The Chair’s ferocity melted. Once again, he looked to his course, eyes fixed on the distance. He seemed to sag. “My father’s dying instructions to me were to become the Chair in his place. ‘Our people need you,’ he told me. ‘The Crew is a nest of inbred schemers and plotters. None of them will be true to you, so you must be forever true to yourself, expect no honesty in return. Or gratitude or kindness or honor. You must save Kos, disregarding all else.’ So I cut down my brothers. So I will have a fine, strapping son from this pregnancy.”

  By then, he was almost whispering, his voice a part of the sibilant press of sea against hull. “I want very much for you to understand. You embody all the things I dare not dream of; you’re warm, thoughtful. You have friends who respect your leadership, yet they love you beyond that. We are both leaders. We both have our mission. I have the power to crush all of you to dust, to scrub all knowledge of you from the world. But you are more than I can ever be. I wish we could be friends.”

  Suddenly, it was all clear to Sylah. He did care about his unborn child. In his own way, he cared about Yasmaleeya. A man schooled to reject his own humanity would naturally refuse to admit concern for anyone else’s. He revealed his flaw, however, by acknowledging his wish for a friend. Beneath the layers of repression, the man inside him struggled for freedom, for expression. For caring.

  How well she understood a life bent to the will and necessity of others. She dealt with it with her wiles and meticulous maneuvers. He responded by ruling with an iron grip, knowing his own strength was his prison.

  Such a man could be persuaded, could be made to lead his people in the right direction. Moral argument might not persuade him to be moral, but simple practicality would. It would free the real man before her, replace this carved image with a person.

  She said, “I’m your friend now.”

  He jerked back as if slapped, eyes wide with alarm. “No. You must never say a thing like that. I’ve already endangered you by bringing you out here like this, alone with me. When we get back, you must tell everyone I did it in order to bargain with you for Church Priestesses to raise my son. You will say that I don’t trust the Harvester, that I want care for the boy, and I suspect she’ll try to acquire him. Nothing else passed between us, Sylah, remember that. My fort is the most dangerous place you’ve ever seen, as my father warned me. You and your friends are helpless here. My spies see and hear everything, and they report to me faithfully. The One in All only knows how unfaithfully they also report to someone else. Trust no one. Believe no one. Protect yourself at every turn. If you would truly be my friend, deny that friendship at every opportunity.”

  He broke off the conversation at that point, simultaneously changing course, sending the balancebar into a heeling, drumming turn that lifted the bar high in the air. Water curled away from the bow in ribbons of silver. The Chair made no comment when Sylah turned around and made her way forward. She settled down facing the bow, back against the mast. The life of the boat, the marriage of wind, water, and wood became part of her. Muscles relaxed. The warmth of sun touched her, filled her with a carefree lethargy.

  The Chair had enumerated their similarities and differences brilliantly. That, too, was a clear sign of human feeling. Of caring. She smiled inwardly as she burrowed into the coziness of her robe. He’d over looked the one thing that, above all, marked them as similar.

  Loneliness.

  Strange: a man who wished for a friend, yet one who rejected friendship out of concern for someone who offered it. So contradictory. So revealing.

  Emotional isolation did that, twisted a person’s conception of everything, everyone. It hurt, as well. There was a quality to that sort of hurt that could even shut out the nearest and dearest of friends. The loneliness she shared with the Chair was bred of making decisions.

  Who understood such loneliness better than the survivor, the Chosen, the one who’d been forced to become Rose Priestess Sylah, the Flower of Church?

  Chapter 21

  Dodoy cocked his head to the side, wondering what had Lanta so excited. Mousy little Lanta he thought, watching her scamper across the courtyard to the quarters, tiny and timid. With Conway gone, she was even gloomier than usual.

  That made no sense whatever. The two of them seemed to always find a way to get close to each other, but then they ended up stomping off in opposite directions. Adults were stupid.

  He thought of the woman the Skan captain lived with. A witch, certainly. The Skan only beat him to make him obey. The woman enjoyed hurting him. Flinching unconsciously, Dodoy remembered biting his fist to keep silent while she laid a belt across his legs. She liked to hear him cry. When she saw him smothering his own weeping, she nearly bit his finger off. He could still hear her, see his own blood spraying from her fat, wet lips. “You like biting better than being whipped? Answer me!” The belt had cracked again, and this time he screamed. He never knew if it was the screaming or simple weariness that stopped her.

  What he did know was that women had a deeper, meaner nature than men. They hid it well, but he’d seen. He knew.

  Which made it all the more confusing to see men chasing women as though their lives would end if they didn’t catch one. Dodoy had long since made up his mind he’d have nothing to do with them.

  Except to return the many favors granted him by the Skan captain’s belt-wielding woman.

  He shivered. Afternoon’s lengthening shadows cloaked the courtyard. A sudden chill pierced to the bone.

  He followed Lanta to the quarters. Bending and twisting, he was able to peer through the slit of the not-quite-closed door. Lanta was busy at something.

  Wisping smoke from the brazier that warmed the room convinced him he should go in.

  Lanta fluttered like a quail. It took her a moment to find her voice. “You startled me. You’ve been told to knock.”

  “I forgot.” A teapot on a grill stuttered softly above the coals in the brazier. An empty cup waited on the table beside it. Lanta’s medical bag lay open beside her bedroll. Dodoy pointed at it. “Going back to the island?”

  Her eyes widened. “Who told you?”

  “No one. Yasmaleeya doesn’t like you, so you’re not going there. Where else would you go? The other boy says they’ll kill us if we try to meet anyone outside the castle.”

  “What other boy?”


  “The one I play with. He lives here with his mother and father. We’re the only two children here. He does what I tell him, or I won’t play with him. He’s a fool.”

  “The only other child?”

  “See, you never noticed. You don’t care. It’s all your fault, too. Sylah’s, anyway.”

  Lanta stopped packing to look at him. “Explain that, please.”

  “The Chair made them send the slave children away, ‘cause Sylah said she didn’t want them around. No Crew children live here, except the boy; he says his family’s not safe outside the fort. Some Crew people and some inlanders wanted to kill the Chair, and the boy’s father informed on them.”

  “Poor child. He must be very lonely. He needs a friend.”

  “I’m nice to him because he tells me things. The adults talk where he can hear. He’s little, so they think he’s worthless.” Dodoy glanced obliquely at Lanta from under lowered eyelids, trying to appraise the effect of his words.

  She said, “A friend is the most precious thing there is.”

  Dodoy was certain he saw a change in her color. It gave him an idea. “Are you going back to the island to be with your friend Conway?”

  That startled her. And something else. Dodoy couldn’t be sure what it was before she spoke again. “Yes. And my other friends. Tate and Nalatan. And Wal and Tee.”

  “Tee? She’s no friend of yours.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  Delighted, Dodoy saw real anger. He pretended sympathy. “All she wants to do is free slaves.”

  Lanta calmed immediately, actually smiled. “Oh. Well, that’s a good thing. You know that.”

  Of course he knew that. She must think he was stupid. He thought hard; when he said Tee wasn’t Lanta’s friend, Lanta got angry. Then, when he said why he thought she wasn’t a friend, Lanta didn’t care any more. So what upset her?

  Conway. Dodoy cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. Conway chased Tee the way men chase women and Tee didn’t care. Lanta wanted to be near Conway and Conway didn’t care. There was opportunity in that. “I think Tee likes Conway a lot.”