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

by Don McQuinn

  Lanta’s color flamed. She rummaged busily in her medicine bag. “He’s a fine man.”

  “He talks to her all the time, over on the island.”

  Lanta straightened slowly. Dodoy thought she looked more like a mouse than ever. A sick mouse. She looked straight ahead. “They’re together a lot?”

  “Almost all the time.”

  “What do they talk about?”

  “All kinds of things.” Dodoy’s mind raced. A mistake could warn her off. She’d be furious. Worse, the fun would end. He said, “A lot about Ola. I think they want to go back there.”

  “I wish I’d never left.”

  Dodoy said, “I’m sorry,” and she whirled to glare suspicion. He gave her his most innocent stare. “You’re nice. Not always yelling at me, telling me what to do. It’s too bad you didn’t use your Seeing when we were in Ola. You’d have known all this, and you could have stayed there.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “I can never do that, Dodoy. The Seeing belongs to Church. It’s a terrible sin for a Seer to use the gift for anything except Church work.”

  She was very sad now.

  Dodoy remembered the bloody lips of the captain’s woman, remembered how his finger swelled. For a week he cried, slept in snatches because of the pain of that infected mess. He said, “How do you know the other Seers don’t use it? You’re so nice; you believe anything.”

  “They wouldn't. It’s wrong.”

  “Who’d know?” Dodoy gestured grandly. Curls of smoke swirled from the brazier. “If I leave and you close the door, who’ll know what you’re doing? The other Seers can close a door. I think they use the Seeing. Not to help themselves, ‘cause the One in All watches everyone, like you keep telling me. But doesn’t the One in All say we’re supposed to help others, any way we can?”

  Her sidelong smile was far sharper than he expected, and for a sinking moment he was afraid be’d said too much. Her words relaxed him, however. “Dodoy talking about scripture? Am I present at a miracle?”

  He resolved to keep away from that subject. “I don’t know anything about Church. I’m just a child, a freed slave. But if Conway’s going to get in trouble, won’t that make it harder for Sylah to keep looking for the Door? And if she doesn’t find it, won’t the Harvester be the most important one in Church?”

  Lanta made a three-sign. “Go away, Dodoy. Now.” She faced the window. Reaching in his pocket, Dodoy pulled out the remaining wad of leaves Tate called marijuana. All the sailors had assured him it was worth a lot of coin in the castle, because marijuana was forbidden off the island. He crumbled a third of the mass into the teapot, adding an extra dash of herbs.

  As soon as he’d done it, he grew nervous. What if something happened to her? The sailors said it didn’t hurt to smoke the leaves, or eat them in food, but no one said anything about brewing them. What if she died? All he had to do was bump the pot, knock it over. No one would know. He reached for it.

  Lanta turned. His heart pinched shut. He withdrew his hand, took a backward step. She reached for the pot, smiling, held it over her cup. “Did you want some, Dodoy?”

  He shook his head, too frightened to speak. She filled the cup, sipped it. Wrinkling her nose, she held the cup out, examined it. “Strong. The soil must be very different here.” She moved the cup in a circle, sending the liquid swirling up the walls of the container. Steam silvered the air above it. Testing again, she tilted her head and drained it.

  Dodoy groaned without meaning to. Lanta looked at him quizzically. “Are you all right? There’s a little tea left in the pot, if you feel unsteady.”

  “No!” He heard the volume, and repeated himself. “No. I’m fine. I want to sleep. Please?” He backed away, watching her carefully. She seemed healthy.

  In short order, he had the hide partition around his sleeping place, bedroll spread out. Fully clothed, he crawled under the covers, pulled them over his head so his breath would warm the tiny cave. Enclosed in dark comfort, he listened intently for signs of trouble. He reminded himself that if she collapsed, he must empty the contents of the teapot down the hole in the latrine room. He’d shout for help afterward. In a while, he poked his head out. Candle light bathed his cubicle in a soft glow. On the other side of the partition, Lanta hummed. The song was uneven, rising and falling in volume.

  Lanta was intrigued by the way her eyes seemed to be focusing independently, pulling things close, then projecting them out beyond reach. In fact, nothing seemed to be coordinating. Odd.

  Stress, she decided, and told herself there was no reason for it. Why should she worry about Conway? The Door? Sylah? Silly Sylah.

  That was funny. Silly Sylah. Nothing was ever that funny. Ever. Laughter bubbled up from her stomach. She clamped her lips closed; it squirted out her nose. Silly Sylah. The words splashed in her head. They blurred, became even more liquid, turned to water-music nonsense.

  Like sobs. And tears. Wet on her cheeks. Where had they come from? Why was she curled up in a corner? Life was so confused, so sad; the world should cry with her.

  Stress. The Abbess said mental stress could kill.

  Lanta pulled herself upright. She didn’t want to die.

  The trance.

  There was something wrong. The trance would reestablish control.

  The proper words wouldn’t come. Eyes closed, willing herself to calm repose, she felt her body rebel. Her mind scorned her, raged along at its own erratic pace. She strained to envision her place of repose, the small Church sanctuary with its cool, unassailable walls of stone. Horribly, massively, the chiseled boulders rolled inward, hung insanely over her, suspended in impossible positions.

  A voice—her own?—calling for Matt.

  And then, riding a lightning bolt of fear, the gift.

  The curse.

  Dodoy, spying through the hole in the hide partition, choked back a shout. He’d seen many fall the way she did, tumbling like wet cloth, then beating the ground with their heels. All stopped breathing. Died.

  Lanta lived. Eyes wide. Stone-bright. They looked at him, in him, prying. Opening him up.

  Backing, he reached the door. He squeezed the handle, hard. Told himself to think. If he went for help, they’d ask questions. They’d find out he was spying. They’d find the marijuana.

  He flung open the door and ran. She’d live or die. An accident. He meant no harm. Really. Wanted to help.

  If he didn’t tell, no one could know.

  In the darkness, he burrowed under the overhang of the rhododendrons. For a long moment, he was sure he’d been seen. There was a sense of eyes on him. Watching. Waiting. He risked inching to the edge of the shrouding leaves, peered out. There was no one.

  The feeling went on. He felt thoughts.

  Pity.

  It pitied him.

  Dodoy bit the scarred finger until pain flushed everything else from his mind.

  * * *

  This seeing was unlike anything Lanta had ever known.

  Scenes. So real she felt them.

  Buildings like cliffs, like shining mountains. They burned, fell. A sun gone mad, come to earth in fury, dissolved them with light.

  Another scene.

  Different buildings, similar, not as tall. Lanta knows they’re dwelling places for the slaves who served the giants. She knows she’s seeing a godkill, without knowing how she knows. Slaves, strangely costumed, come out of the buildings. They look to the sky, afraid. One doubles over, gagging, falls down. Screams in convulsions. Another starts to run and falls exactly like the first. More people—unimaginable numbers of them, as if each building housed an entire tribe—rush from the dwellings. They claw at themselves, collapse. They litter the ground, but in this place, the ground is one unbelievable gray rock, utterly flat, like a stone river with stone banks.

  Another scene.

  An indescribable object hanging in the air above a landscape torn and burned. Smoke rises everywhere. Soot-raddled skies absorb the sun, turn midday dusky. The noisy, chuffin
g thing moves, suspended from a shimmering disk. Lanta sees faces peering from inside it.

  Conway.

  Then, blankness. Next, the words come, written in fire across darkness. For the first time in her life, Lanta welcomes them, because they blot out the mind-breaking images.

  What the Door shields will not remain possessed, nor will its power be controlled.

  Lanta cried out in her mind, the words echoing plaintively. “Me! What of me?”

  Lanta prostitutes her gift. That one will be punished. See more, then. The Conway one comes to hate the Lanta one, and Church. Yet will the Lanta one give him his future, and in the giving, lose the one meant for her.

  She struggled to hold the trance, begged forgiveness. Black silence answered. Waking, pulling herself upright, she stumbled to the window in a daze, assuring herself that the walls were real, that the stars weren’t blotted by the evil smut of the world she saw in her visions.

  Stiff-fingered, she unrolled her bedding, pulled the quilted blankets tight around her.

  The Seeing. It was exactly as the Apocalypse Testament described. Giants, with unimaginable powers, crushing the arrogant slaves.

  She shivered, despite all her coverings.

  The men who organized the destruction of the Teachers claimed the Teachers brought the same arrogance, and endangered all mankind.

  The Door. “What it shields will not remain possessed.”

  Conway. “…comes to hate the Lanta one.”

  Chapter 22

  Lanta leapt ashore from the bow of the small singlehull. She skipped lightly through the frothing tumble of a retreating wave, and barely turned around before the Kossiar sailor was rapidly rowing himself back out to sea. When the water was deep enough, he dropped his centerboard. That done, he spat over the side and made for the point offshore where he’d anchor, fishing, and wait her call.

  When Lanta faced landward again, Tee was approaching. “What brings you back, Lanta? Conway?”

  “I’ve come to work with all of you, to carry the word of Church to the slaves.”

  Tee took Lanta’s arm and set out toward Borbor’s house. “Conway and Tate are collecting supplies. Nalatan’s with some of Wal’s men over on the mainland, preparing the last waiting place for the escapers. There’s a godkill up the coast; slaves mined it until an earthquake caused it to flood. Some shafts are still accessible. We hide the escapers in there. No Kossiar’ll step foot in a godkill tunnel.”

  “You’ve never moved so many before.”

  Tee stopped abruptly. “Have you heard anything over at the castle?”

  Lanta wished she could tell her of the previous night’s trance, of the message about Matt Conway. She wished she could tell anyone. “Everyone exchanges rumors: increased patrol actions, repressions. They don’t include us, but Yasmaleeya hears everything, and repeats it.”

  “The escapers have started moving. Twelve out of the twenty are already hidden at the godkill. The others are being smuggled from one safe place to the next. Patrols are tearing up the countryside looking for them. Why isn’t the Chair going wild?”

  “No one speaks of anything they think may disturb him. I think the Crew just doesn’t care that much. Twenty slaves, even twenty trained slaves, is no crippling blow to Kos.”

  Tee was still dubious, but the answer mollified her a bit. She said, “Perhaps it’s all happening too fast for the Kossiars to react properly. I hope so. The slaves leave the godkill the first night there’s no moon. We’re hiding them in hidden compartments on Wal’s boat. As soon as the Kossiar border guards pass it, they’re away.” Suddenly animated, Tee smiled broadly. “Two of the slaves are from way over near the mountains. They’ve heard stories of some new Moondance siah in the east. They also say Katallon’s nomads get bolder every day, raiding farms and villages. They even tried to storm a town. The only thing that saved the Kossiars was a mirror signal that brought a Kossiar military garrison. On a rainy night, the nomads might have succeeded.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Between Harbor and the Enemy Mountains, the Kossiars have a system of mirrors, mounted on towers. The towers are very tall, made of stone or timber, windowless, easily defended and manned constantly. Usually, each one can be seen by two others. The mirrors catch the sunlight, send it on. The warmen signal with lanterns or fires at night. They say a signal from the Enemy Mountains can be seen in Harbor in less than two inches. The flaw is bad weather; it blinds them.”

  They were nearly to the door of the house when Lanta said, “If there were signals to the Chair about the slaves, can anyone working with you read the messages? Has anyone noticed if the patrols have been more active than usual since your slaves began moving toward Harbor?”

  “We’d know if the Chair suspected anything. We have people watching his boats and warmen. We’re in control.”

  Lanta bristled inwardly at Tee’s condescending manner, but decided not to confront it. More disturbing than the condescension was Tee’s abrupt change from nervousness to complacency. That was a stress reaction. Lanta shuddered; she knew the effect of stress. She wondered if the center of Tee’s concern was the same as her own.

  Tee showed Lanta to a different part of Borbor’s house. The trader had built an open-air extension high on the south side. The view was spectacular. To the west rose the infamous Gate with the tumbled headland directly across the channel. Directly south of the house was the huge godkill. The oak-studded hills and lush meadows disguised most of the ancient destruction there, but an occasional glint of concrete bore silent testimony to the wrath of the giants who destroyed that world. Gazing at it, Lanta’s mind twisted with the image of Conway looking out at unimaginable havoc. A sense of connection, of linkage, plucked at her thoughts, but trailed away in confusion.

  Tee said, “I’m going to tell Conway you shouldn’t be allowed to go over to the mainland.” She kept her gaze locked on the far shore.

  Shocked, Lanta faced her. “You mustn’t. You can’t.”

  Taking a seat in a chair of smoothly bent bamboo, Tee gestured for Lanta to do the same. The Priestess refused with an angry shake of her head. Tee went on. “When I suggested Church send someone to counteract Moondance, I was thinking of someone practiced in clandestine missionary work. I admire you, but you want to trust everyone.”

  “You trust, or you’d deal with no one.”

  “We’re very careful. None are approached until we’re certain they prefer death to slavery. They’ll never inform.”

  Lanta sat down, perched on the edge of the chair. “You’re not as sure of your people as you pretend, or you wouldn’t be asking me if I’ve heard anything at the fort. My duty, my life, is to bring the word of Church to all. Anyhow, you know the law: the Chair is required to destroy anyone who harms me.”

  Harshly, Tee cut her off. “Church is split. Three things keep the Chair from throwing all of you in his dungeons and naming the next Sister Mother himself. First, the mindless Yasmaleeya and her child. Second, the possibility that Sylah and the Door are fated to come together and change Church. Last, something called the True Stone. Your sect, Violet, is key to the Harvester’s plan to command Church. I’m told that this True Stone is some sort of talisman; no one controls Violet without it, and no one can find it. Foolishness. How powerful can Church be, how honest, if a little rock determines who rules?” Tee broke off, suddenly leaning forward. Her hand reached out for Lanta, fell short. “I didn’t mean to be so hard. You’ve gone white as clouds. My mouth gets away sometimes.”

  Lanta shook her head, using the time to compose her thoughts. “What you said is true. I don’t trust the Chair. We can only hope he’ll let us go after we bring him a healthy child and wife. He must. Sylah can’t find the Door, otherwise.”

  Tee grew thoughtful. “He’s playing his own game. He must think the Harvester can get the True Stone. But why hold you? As you say, Sylah can’t find the Door here. And why burden you with that idiot, Yasmaleeya? It puts you at risk, and supp
osedly no one’s in more danger than he, if the child and mother aren’t perfect. If he thought Yasmaleeya and the baby were a real danger to him, he’d have them both killed.”

  “No.” Lanta’s stomach threatened.

  Tee laughed. “You still believe there’s some good in everyone. The Chair means to rule Kos and share control of Church and whatever power the Door hides from the world. Your life is less to him than a drop of water. My life’s of smaller importance yet. I don’t want you risking it with preaching. After the slaves rebel, you can talk to any of them. For now, no.”

  “You have no right to stop me. If all your arguments are true, my life is nearly over. I have the obligation to spend that time in Church’s work.”

  “I don’t need rights. You can’t go if Conway and Wal won’t take you, and I mean to see they won’t.”

  Lanta flung herself out of the chair, stalking to the rail at the edge of the view deck. Turning her back on the bay, she pointed at Tee. “It’s Conway. You don’t want me alone with him.”

  Tee’s hands clenched over the ends of the chair arms. A fiery red stain worked along her cheekbones, flared to cover her whole face. Far below the deck, a bird called incessantly, the measured notes marking the thick silence between the two women.

  Lanta’s mind flew to her surrender to temptation… the Conway one comes to hate… Her resolve buckled. She forced herself erect. “I don’t know how to fight you, Tee. I don’t even want to.”

  When Tee didn’t answer, Lanta accepted the silence as the end of the conversation. She whirled and ran down the stairs, clutching the rail, blinded by tears. There was no way for her to know that Tee had been coming to her, hands outstretched, beseeching.

  Chapter 23

  Lanta was in no condition to hail her boat and return to Harbor right away.

  She found her way to the healing house where she’d nursed Conway. It was a good place, shaded, quiet, and isolated. Brushing off the room’s single chair, she sat down. Idly, she drew small triangles in the dust on the leather straps of the bed. When she leaned on one of the bands, it tightened against its retaining slot in the wooden frame and squealed discreet complaint. The sound brought a wan smile. The noise was much lustier when the injured Conway used to turn over and pressure the whole network into simultaneous clamor. Still, it reminded her of the way he’d been, sick and wounded. Needing.