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

by Don McQuinn

  He was hers, then. She made him well.

  And now she had to accept losing him.

  She never really had him. She called him hers, treasured him against her breast and dreamed of bright days of laughter and warm nights that soared to fire and exhilaration.

  The broken man needed her. The healed one wanted Tee.

  At the sound of something hard striking the wooden steps leading into the building, she clutched her shortknife and faced the danger. Karda took one more claw-clacking step on the wooden floor and stopped at the open door, half in, half out. Mikka’s brown head appeared beside him, shoved past Karda. Less reserved the brown female made her way into the room; even so, she stopped just out of Lanta’s reach.

  Conway didn’t see Lanta until he was inside. He stopped as if caught by the end of a tether, even made a grunting exclamation. Lanta laughed, and he joined her, then said, “What’re you doing here? I thought you were a permanent resident over in the Chair’s stone pile.”

  “Supplies.” The lie came easily. “I remembered some things from here that we may need for Yasmaleeya.”

  “Me, too. There shouldn’t be any need for bandages and salves for the escapers, but it won’t hurt to have the stuff aboard.”

  Suddenly, she couldn’t rid herself of the image of him inside that unimaginable flying thing hanging from its shining disk. In that instant, she realized he was fleeing. Death and destruction as far as the eye could see, and he was fleeing. Yet she felt no sense of cowardice. Resignation. Desperation. Yes, he felt those things. Fear, too, but not the mind-rotting cowardice that sends men screaming from danger.

  All of it was impossible. Still, she knew he’d seen horrors too great to be borne. Despite that—because of it?—there was yearning in him, a need for something far different from escape.

  What could he be seeking?

  Why must he come to hate her?

  “…worry too much,” Conway was saying. “You and Sylah talk a lot about freedom, but you’re not willing to fight for it the way Tee does. Not even Tate is. She would have once; she did for Dodoy.” Suspicion sharpened his features. “Did you ever talk to Tate about helping us, helping Tee? You never did get along with her. I saw the way you looked at her in that tavern. She gets along with most of those people, so you think she belongs there, is that it?”

  Lanta was indignant. The heat of it swelled uncontrollably.

  How much insult, how much rejection was she expected to absorb? First her own Violet tasked her to inform on another Priestess; a rejection of her integrity. Then Yasmaleeya choosing a War Healer as her midwife; a rejection of her competency. And all along, him, Matt Conway, hinting at his interest in her, only to reject her. Worse, he was making up reasons to accuse her of creating the rejection. It was insufferable, and he was heartless to hurt so. Without character.

  “You offend. I like Tee very much. She helped me, tried to stop that man in the tavern. We’re friends.”

  He sneered. “You haven’t wasted ten words on her since we got here. She doesn’t need you, anyhow. She fights her own battles.”

  “She was certainly willing to speak up for me. So was Nalatan. He’s the one who faced the crowd, put a stop to what they were doing to me. I’m grateful to both of them. But where were you? You didn’t say a word.”

  “I was outside. If I’d been there, I’d have done something.”

  Lanta saw the apology that swiftly turned to defiance, the fleeting hurt that tightened the corners of his eyes. She was glad. He’d hurt her, struck out at her falsely. Conversely, she was sorry. Her sense of being wronged triumphed. Like a fighter moving against a weakened opponent, she struck again, hating her words as they came. “Nalatan didn’t hesitate. He acted. So did Tate. Tee was grand. How can you find the words to say I’d plot against them, refuse Tee? The only reason I came here today was to talk to her about working with her, bringing Church to the slaves she’s trying to free.”

  Stung by Lanta’s criticism and unexpectedly spirited defense, Conway seized on the latter remark. “See? You lied. You’re not after supplies. What lies did you tell Tee? How Church can save her if she’ll convert slaves instead of freeing them? Or isn’t she pure enough for you, after the protectors used her? Talk about people not being there. Where were you all those years? I’ll tell you something else, too. Forget what happened to her. In spite of it, she’s a woman, not a frozen, frightened little saint. More woman than you’ll ever be.”

  Pressure surged in Lanta’s skull. Constraint, respect, consideration—all those things disappeared from her thinking. She was so eager to hurt she almost salivated as the bitter, scorched, delicious words slipped off her tongue.

  “I came here hoping to bring the word of Church to the slaves, but that’s impossible. I see that now. You all preach freedom, but you’re too important to be concerned with faith and moral matters. The Apocalypse Testament tells us, ‘No soul can be saved by the Healer’s knife. Any body can be forced. The mind must be persuaded.’ You save bodies. You ignore souls.”

  “That’s a backhanded swipe at Tee. I want to know exactly what you and Sylah are planning, you and that stud that calls himself the Chair.” He gestured the increasingly nervous dogs outside, snapped a command at them to guard. He closed the door behind them, faced Lanta once more. “You pretend to be so kind, so loving. You led me on. You know you did. And I believed… almost believed you. What an unscrupulous liar you are.”

  Lanta rose. It was exactly the word she wanted to hear. “I lied to you about why I came here. I confess it. When will you confess your lies, Matt Conway? You forget; I am a Seer. I know things of you, and I know you have not spoken the truth to me. I know of the strange deaths in your land, of the destruction. You fled. Just as you found it inconvenient to help me. You fled.”

  He grabbed her shoulders, the fingers like teeth. “You used that—that thing you have on me? What did you see?” Fear chased after contempt in his voice.

  “Let go of me!” She twisted in his grip, pushed against his chest with her hands. When she saw how little effect her strength had on him, she looked up from her hands to the wildness in his eyes. What should have frightened her had the reverse effect. He’d broken her heart. Now he threatened to break her bones. Fury screamed through her whole body. She kicked, struck, struggled. Uselessly.

  His voice husked in his chest. “Tell me what you saw. Our weapons; you learned about our weapons, how to make them work, how much ammunition we have. That’s what you saw, isn’t it?”

  “No! I saw you, the real you, the one who came late when real danger threatened me in that stinking tavern you like so much. I saw you escaping. While others died.”

  His eyes rolled back until there was only glowing, empty white. Frothy spittle appeared on his lip. Still, his hold never weakened. As awareness flowed back into him, Lanta knew she was looking into madness.

  Grasping, tearing hands reached for her, twisted the collar of her robe, tore it. Her mind balked, refused to accept what was happening. Even as terror melted her strength, part of her watched, stupefied, as tendons in his neck bowed outward, whip-like muscles in his wrists strained and bulged. His breath stank of acid.

  She drove a knee into his groin. Shock pulled his features in on themselves. His grip relaxed enough for her to pull free. She staggered back against a wall, holding her robe together, shielding herself where his rough hands abraded her skin. Worse than physical hurt was the agony of feeling her life and dreams collapse within her.

  Conway overcame his pain, straightened to full height. Iron gray, dispassionate, he advanced with a cold determination that froze Lanta’s spirit.

  She surrendered.

  “Do what you will.” She released the robe, uncaring that its diagonal rip exposed the top half of her breasts. He hesitated. Animallike, he cocked his head at her voice. Lanta felt a strange, contradictory sense of triumph as she continued to speak. “I can’t match your strength. Nor can you control your weakness. I accused you of
cowardice. You’re no coward, Matt Conway. There’s a demon in you, a thing of confusion. It twists everything you see and do. You mean to rape me. You’ll blame me for it, tell yourself you do it because you hate me. Liar. Liar. You love me. As I loved you. Once. The man I see here isn’t the man I could have loved. You take by force what I would share with that man. Tell your demon it wins nothing. I spit on it. I reject its victory. You’re too weak to acknowledge your true soul. I’m too strong to acknowledge the evil that infects you. I pity you.”

  Conway blinked. Red rage paled. Eyes seemed to sink deep into his skull. “You pity…? You dare say that to me? One who knows you for what you are, who despises you?” Slowly, clumsily, as though responding to ill-heard commands, rather than the will of a functioning mind, Conway raised his hands and advanced the last steps separating them.

  Lanta looked into the dead, vacant face. Her hands instinctively went to her throat, encountered something small. Smooth and rough, at the same time.

  The True Stone.

  The True Stone would save her. She clutched it, willed her mind deep, deep inside that purple brilliance. The rhythm of the chant whispered through her body, rose to a thunder that swept away the feeling, thinking person that was Lanta. In her place was a woman the real Lanta could weep for, a fool who hoped for love.

  Consciousness abandoned her.

  Conway was completely unprepared for the full pressure of her slight weight. Convulsively, his hands closed on her throat, exactly as he intended, but with the totally conflicting purpose of saving her from falling. Shaking violently, he held her, blunt thumbs pressed heavily into the soft hollow of flesh at the base of her throat. Curved fingers were an anvil of muscle, braced against the back of her neck. A moment’s pressure…

  An indigo vein pulsed at her temple. The slow, almost imperceptible movement took so long between beats he unconsciously held his breath, fearing her death. When the vein moved again, his eyes narrowed. His shaking returned.

  “More deceit. There’s no end to it. I can’t believe it.” He shook her. The closed eyes fluttered open, sightless, uninvolved. For an instant they were wide, staring into his.

  Conway remembered battle dead, men with eyes that looked past this world.

  “You’re doing this on purpose.” He spoke aloud again, unaware of his own voice, sharp-edged, grating like broken glass. “You’re trying to frighten me. You’re hiding, the way you always do. I won’t put up with it. I won’t. You lie. You make me believe… think… Then you change. Hide from me.” He moved toward the bed. Dragging boots whispered slyly across the rough floor. Lanta was light in his hands. Her body, between his straddling legs, flowed easily with his every move. He lifted her, put her on the bed. Leather straps squealed, a sound of distant laughter, maliciously scandalized. Conway reached for the gaping tear in Lanta’s robe, took a section in each hand.

  “It’s all your fault. Used me. All of us. Deserve whatever happens.” Knuckles cracked as he clenched his hands on the material. He swayed drunkenly. Words slurred, clung together. “How I hate you. Your fault, all of it. Destroyed me. Destroyed. I should… kill you. Should. Hate you.”

  He sagged, dropped the ripped material. Tenderly, he folded it back together, covered Lanta’s bared flesh. One hand drifted up to brush aside disheveled hair.

  Stumbling to the door, he yanked it partially open, then paused.

  Outside, Karda frantically threw himself at the barrier. A dark, snuffling nose thrust through the narrow gap.

  Ignoring the dog, Conway looked back at the silent, limp form on the bed. His lined, strained face contorted into bunched fury. “You cheated me again, didn’t you? You knew exactly what would happen. You’re so clever, so bright. You thought I wouldn’t see through it all, didn’t you? Well, I did. I know. I’m not fooled. You hate us. Trick us all. And I hate you. You’ll see. I hate you.”

  The slam of the door was a hammer blow. Lanta didn’t stir.

  * * *

  The soft, sorrowing notes of the dove known as the mourner sought her out. Gently, kindly, the call insisted she rouse herself.

  She was lying on her side. White sheeting, bundled and wrinkled, took her thoughts back to Snowfather Mountain, the winter-white crests of the Enemy Mountains.

  The Chosen Lanta loved to look at those mountains. In her imaginings a tall, handsome warrior came riding for her from there one day. He would see Priestess Lanta, and fall completely in love. They would cherish each other.

  The Chosen was gone. A grown woman was in her place. A Priestess, who had loved a man who hated her. Who raped her.

  She was fully clothed.

  In the few seconds that she’d been regaining consciousness, her only thought was that she’d been raped. With expanding awareness, she suddenly realized that hadn’t happened. Her throat hurt. She was stiff and sore. Taking off the torn robe, she examined her underclothes, her body.

  He’d reached for her. Meant to choke her. She’d seen the insensate lust in his face. The rage. Then he left her. Without… the other.

  A flame of joy burst in her, forced hot tears of happiness to well in her eyes. As quickly as that emotion came, however, it dashed to pieces on the realization that he’d simply changed his goals. Rather than shame her by rape, he humiliated her by discarding her.

  Despise. He said he despised her.

  One didn’t trouble with something despicable, didn’t even use it. One didn’t soil one’s self.

  Unsteadily, she got to her feet. The sun was low. She’d been unconscious most of the afternoon.

  The world didn’t know what happened to her. Didn’t care. She must continue to live. Pretend she didn’t care, either.

  Hurriedly, she gathered up the torn robe, forced herself to be calm. The damage wasn’t as bad as she feared. There were needles and thread in the hospital supplies. The shining needle, the mending stitches, had a healing effect.

  She was able to think of tomorrow.

  No tomorrow would ever be the same.

  Revenge. The word slithered across her thoughts, skittered in and out of dark corners of her mind.

  She dismissed it. Revenge was what had happened to her.

  She replaced the True Stone around her neck, then slipped the protection of the robe over it and herself. The heavy cloth hid everything, the stone and her bruises.

  Her smile was raw with self-contempt. Not everything could be hidden by cloth.

  If she waited until dusk, no one would notice the stitching in the heavy material.

  Another secret. Lucky Lanta! So many things only she knew.

  Chapter 24

  Night closed on the fort as Lanta’s boat approached its rock-shielded shore. In the crepuscular light, the small waves broke there with an almost luminous froth. The mass of the walls loomed darkly. Directly overhead, straggling gulls flew swiftly to their rest. The sleek forms sped into view from nothingness, only to fade again. Sometimes a faint cry drifted down to the boat. Unlike the usual gull stridency, these were anxious, plaintive notes.

  The Harvester stood at one of the fort’s crenellations overlooking the sea, watching Lanta’s approach. Beside her, the slave woman who directed the Chair’s dining room crew hung back, carefully out of sight. The Harvester chided her lightly. “You needn’t be so cautious. No one could see you. Anyhow, in that frightful yellow robe, you’re just another slave.”

  Protesting, the woman said, “Not a slave. Your holy oath. ‘Learn when and how the slaves are to leave,’ you said. I did that. Church Home, you said; I’m to go with you to Church Home. You promised.” A hand, shapeless in the darkness, clutched at the Harvester’s voluminous sleeve.

  The Harvester pulled her arm away, pretending it was to hug herself. “How cold it gets when the sun’s hidden.” Then, soothing, “I remember my promise, never fear. You’ve served me faithfully. Your rewards will be rich.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Just as soon as the Chair allows.” The yellow-robed woman recoile
d, and the Harvester continued hurriedly. “What you’ve learned gives me bargaining power. The Chair will agree to anything I ask in exchange for your information. He’ll reward us. I’m forbidden to accept, of course, so everything will fall to you. You deserve it, too. You’ve worked hard.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Harvester.” The woman bobbed in repeated bows.

  The Harvester resisted the urge to grab her by the throat. Peering over the wall’s edge at Lanta’s boat, just disappearing into the tunnel like entry below her, she spoke almost casually. “This cousin of yours; he can learn exactly when the slaves are to go aboard the ship?”

  “I never said that!” The voice rose in alarm. “He said there were to be twenty of them, that they were to gather at the old godkill digging. He’ll get a day’s warning before the last ones arrive, so he can meet and guide them. I never said he knew when the boat would come for them.”

  Turning away from the sea, the Harvester was solicitous. “Now, now; there’s no need for concern. I’m so anxious to gain your freedom for you that I overspoke myself.”

  “You must be more careful, Harvester. One wrong word in this place, and the sharks under the Gate fatten on me.”

  The thought of advice from the slave nearly pushed the Harvester out of control. She mentally tallied the things that could reveal her mind to an observer—heartbeat, breath, facial expression, posture—and assured herself all was correct. Yet she knew the Chair would have seen. Dilating pupils. A hand tremor. Something.

  Grudgingly, she conceded that the slave had a point. Trying to rush could be disastrous. Arranging things to suit one’s purposes was only the minor part of success. The major accomplishment lay in the ability to seize the unexpected, the unarranged, and twist it to advantage.