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

by Don McQuinn

  The Harvester permitted herself a small sigh of regret. Arranging was her personal weakness. So much more entertaining. One had the pleasure of watching the players squirm uselessly.

  Sylah. Her turn was coming.

  There was a proper example of planning. The fool was trapped like a mouse in a barrel. True, there were numerous escape holes, but the dirty little beast had no way of knowing there was a trap at each one.

  The slave retreated from the Harvester’s smile. The Harvester said, “It’s dark now. I want you to try the Seeing again.”

  Shaking her head, the slave backed another step. “It was very difficult for me to come back the last time. My head hurt for days.”

  “I wasn’t with you then. You’ll be safe with me. Now, hurry. Get the soulseeker you stole from the Rose Priestess Sylah and your other things. Meet me in the healing house.”

  Cringing, the slave gesticulated frantically. “Not there, Harvester. Death spirits hold that place. Maybe, when I leave for the Seeing, they catch me, keep me. I fear.” She paused. Renewed vigor in her voice said she felt she was delivering her strongest argument. “Healing house is Church. I’m not Church. Seeing is forbidden, except for Church, by Church. All know.”

  “You’ll be working for Church.” Draping an arm across the slave’s shoulder, the Harvester eased her along the battlewalk. “Did you know the Seer of Seers went to the Land Beyond? That was why I traveled all the way to the kingdom of Ola. Lanta is a Seer.” At the slave’s abrupt stop, the Harvester pulled her closer, continuing to push forward and talk at the same time. “Oh, yes. Hers is weakening, though. Perhaps because she’s near one who’s stronger. You, my friend. Could it be? Am I beside the new Seer of Seers, even now? Dare we think of it?”

  “No, no, no.” The declaration dwindled to silence under the force of awe rapidly transforming itself into speculation.

  “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I ask too much of you.” The Harvester laughed easily.

  “The Harvester is too wise for such a mistake. And kind. How much you risk, for one such as I. I feel the power growing already.”

  “Excellent!” The Harvester gave the slave a gentle shove in the direction of the slave quarters. “I’ll await you impatiently.” She watched the woman hurry off into the darkness.

  The Harvester’s lonely wait in the dark healing house was an ordeal. She kept hearing the woman’s words: “Death spirits hold that place,” and it took concentrated will to avoid hearing other voices in the sighs and whispers of the night wind that caressed the walls. She busied herself draping blankets over the shuttered windows. When the hunched-over figure of the slave scuttled into the small room just west of the boat basin, the Harvester couldn’t get the thought of rats out of her mind.

  For several breaths, both women stood utterly still, the slave peering back the way she’d come, the Harvester, squinting past a lifted blanket corner. Satisfied they were unobserved, the Harvester closed the door.

  In the ensuing pitch-darkness, the Harvester heard her companion’s rustling, shuffling movements. The sudden glow of a coal was a relief. The squatting slave blew it to flame, then touched the fire to a candle. With that, the Harvester saw the small leather bag, its surface marked with symbols. The Harvester recognized a stylized bull’s head, a flying bird, and an eye. The latter seemed to glare at her, and she made a quick three-sign behind her back.

  The bag held a small drum. The frame, over which was stretched a single head, was scarcely bigger around than a man’s hat, with a depth of about one finger joint. It was crossbraced for additional strength. That, and the thick lacing binding, suggested a very taut playing surface.

  The slave passed the drumhead over the candle flame, mumbling to herself as she did. Two rows of three silver bells dangled from opposite sides of the form. As the drum moved over the flame, their arrhythmic sibilance was barely audible. Still, the sound plucked at the Harvester. It made her think of the wind’s chilling sighs, and made her feel she’d forgotten something very important, but couldn’t remember what it was. Occasionally the slave drew the drum away from the fire. When she did, she rubbed it up and down her arms, across her thighs, all over her torso. Eyes closed, head thrown back, she tapped the instrument. The erratic, single notes were high, penetrating. The tone rose as the heat affected the hide.

  The slave reached in the bag and drew out the drawstring of Sylah’s hood. That, too, was passed over the candle. Satisfied, the slave took it in her teeth at the center, the ends hanging down, vinelike.

  Then she began to play. Sound burst out as fingers fluttered like wings. Then stopped. A single beat followed. From there, the slave built her pattern. The heel of the hand struck a solid, throbbing note; the blurring fingers surrounded it with a thicket of smaller, higher tones.

  It took a while for the Harvester to discover that her heart was perfectly blended with the single beat. Taken aback, she resisted, altered her rhythm, controlled herself.

  The seductive tingling of the bells, the pattering insistence of the embellishing music, coaxed the Harvester. Like a superior, amused adult talking to a child, the slave’s drum beguiled her away from solid reality and into altered perception.

  The slave chanted. Her deepened voice remained hushed, heavy with urgency.

  There was fear, as well. Hackles rose on the Harvester’s neck. Her forearms tingled.

  The little drum quickened.

  Again, the Harvester noted her heart adjusting to that pace. The drum demanded—took—her full involvement.

  The chanting stopped in midsyllable, replaced by grunts and coughing, barking noises. The drawstring, soaked with saliva, fell from the slave’s gasping mouth like foul drool. Her eyes flew open, staring, fixed on a point only she could comprehend. The drum dropped from limp hands, rolled to a stop a few feet away. The silver ringing of the bells sounded like a distant, failing warning.

  A hoarse, rasping voice the Harvester had never heard said, “Love brought to dread will earn the True Stone for the Harvester. Church shall sing of Odeel through eternity.” The slave’s lips pulled tight and thin, forming a macabre upside-down smile.

  The Harvester said, “Thank you. Thank you. But what of Sylah? She dies here? I’m rid of her?”

  Gibberish spouted from the slave’s mouth. In her own voice. After choking on several false starts, the slave managed to say, “Help me. Give me steps, to come back. My drum. Steps. Please.”

  The Harvester scrambled to the drum, pounded it. The high tone came out as a whining vibrato. “Tell me of Sylah,” she demanded.

  “Help me.” The slave swayed.

  “Tell me. Tell me Sylah dies here in Kos.”

  The slave gagged, coughed violently. She shook her head. “When back, tell. Help.”

  Furious, the Harvester drove the heel of her hand against the hide, pecked with her fingers. The delicate tracery of the earlier music was replaced by awkward clattering. The slave jerked and thrashed. Her arms suddenly flew out, first clutching at the air, then spearing forward as if to catch herself. “Falling.” Long, drawn out, the word echoed somberly. The slave jerked, rapidly, grimacing with pain. “They see me. Please, quick. Steps. Good steps, for home. They come.”

  “Sylah! Tell me!” In her anxiety and frustration, the Harvester let the drum fall silent. There was only the laughter of the bells.

  The slave tried to scream, her face a frozen mask of horror. The only sound she made was a reptilian hiss.

  Suddenly frightened, the Harvester beat the drum as hard and as fast as she could. For a moment, the slave seemed to recover. Her hands went to her throat. She struggled to escape an invisible assailant.

  The Harvester ran with sweat. She bent forward to examine the slave. Stilled, the other woman’s eyes were vacant, lifted in a perpetual stare that penetrated ceiling, clouds, the sky itself. A trail of saliva trickled down her jaw, dripped unnoticed on to the yellow robe. Her fingers writhed together, meshing and disengaging, forming an endlessly remade
braid.

  “Stay, then, wherever you are.” Sneering, the Harvester dropped the drum into the slave’s lap. “Nothing but lies and bragging. I ask about Sylah and you tell me of my own glory. As if I didn’t already know. Impertinent bitch.” She rose slowly, waving a last, precautionary hand before the other’s fixed eyes. Stepping out onto the walk, she drew up the hood of her robe. Inhaling, the Harvester poised, then screamed. The echoes were still tumbling over themselves within the stone confines when she shouted, “Guards! Guards! I’ve caught a witch. Hurry!”

  Chapter 25

  The pounding of running feet approaching froze Sylah and Lanta in the midst of their preparations for dinner. Sylah, clad only in the short-sleeved linen bodice and half skirt of her inner garments, grabbed her robe from the bed and shrugged her way into it as a fist struck the door. A male voice shouted, “Open. The Chair commands.”

  Sylah glanced to the corner where Lanta huddled in the wooden tub the Chair had ordered built to Sylah’s instructions. Normally quite modest, Lanta seemed excessively shy this evening, Sylah thought. Not only had she insisted on moving the tub to the darkest corner of the room, she’d arranged two chairs and hung clothing to provide as much of a screen as possible.

  When the fist thundered a second time, Sylah moved swiftly to yank the door open. Because the door moved away from him, the warman missed hitting it with the edge of his hand; instead, he caught it a glancing blow with his knuckles. His expression of irritable officiousness disappeared under a wave of surprised pain. Before he could recover, Sylah had pushed him backward into the midst of the other warmen clustered behind him. She stepped outside to confront him, and slammed the door behind her. Stiffly erect, fists clenched at her sides, she raged. “You beat our door like some beast threatening trembling girls? You offend. State your business. Then go, while I’m still prepared to overlook your uncultured rudeness.”

  Gulping audibly, the warman regained a measure of composure. “The Chair orders—”

  “Orders?”

  “Ah-h-h, no. Not exactly.” Someone in the squad tried to smother a choking fit. The warman in front of Sylah twitched like an angry cat. When he spoke again, his voice had a new edge. Still, he was carefully deferential. “The Chair requests you come to examine a witch.”

  Sylah’s fury evaporated. “What? Where?”

  “In the healing house. The Harvester caught her.”

  “We’ll be right there.” When Sylah turned, Lanta was already opening the door, both medical bags in hand. “Is it Yasmaleeya? Has she started?”

  Sylah grabbed her bag, pulled Lanta into a hurried walk beside her, explaining as they went. The warmen had no further details.

  The first thing Sylah saw as she was ushered past the guard at the door of the healing house was the gaze of the yellow-clad slave squatting by the guttering candle. The blank look, fixed on the entryway, stopped her with the force of a blow. Unliving. It was the only word Sylah could think of to describe the eyes. They were fixed, yet Sylah felt them watching. Not in this world. Elsewhere. The woman lived, but somewhere her body couldn’t reach. What did she watch there?

  Church taught that an eyeball was no more revealing than an exposed kidney, and to assume otherwise was not only blasphemous, but poor observation technique. Nevertheless, it was to those eyes Sylah was drawn. Ignoring the Chair and the Harvester, who hovered at the edge of the solitary candle’s light, she forced herself forward. Raising the candle, she passed it across the slave’s face. The pupils dilated and contracted properly, but held to their upward search.

  Sylah bent forward to replace the candle. Straightening, her face mere inches from the slave’s face, she was shocked into a muffled cry of alarm. The pupils continued to react as if exposed to light changes. When the Chair and the Harvester leaned closer, Sylah gestured them back with a preoccupied imperiousness. Signaling Lanta to her, Sylah wordlessly pointed at the phenomenon. Exchanging glances, both shrugged helplessly.

  Inexplicably dizzy, Sylah dropped to her knees. Her mind swam, formed a picture of the accused witch hurrying, bent forward, elbows pressed to her sides. No longer dressed in her required yellow, the woman wore a loose, flowing costume of crimson blouse and trousers. She walked a featureless landscape that reached to an unbroken horizon in all directions. Overhead, thick clouds raced on a wind that provided no breeze on the ground. Shadows dappled the scene, so the woman was in shade one moment, sun the next. There were small marks on her clothing, tiny symbols unknown to Sylah, red on crimson, almost invisible. The woman frequently brushed at them, as if to rid herself of them.

  The Chair’s hand on her shoulder pulled Sylah back to her own world. He was beside her on one knee, worried features almost touching hers. She managed a weak smile for him. He returned it, clearly relieved as Sylah resumed studying the slave.

  Sylah and Lanta labored a full inch to elicit response from the woman. When herbs and shouts failed to cause so much as a blink, Sylah tried pinches and slaps. She stopped quickly, sickened. It was like abusing an infant. Worse, she was dogged by an image of the woman in her red raiment, endlessly trapped on that barren plain, suddenly afflicted by hurts that gave no warning and had no cause.

  The Harvester was of sterner stuff than the two Healers. Pulling a slim, bejeweled shortknife from her sleeve, she stabbed the tip into the slave’s thigh. Blood welled thickly, staining the yellow robe. Sylah and Lanta recoiled in stunned disbelief. Even the warmen muttered. The Harvester yanked the blade free with a curt, “Bandage that,” to Sylah. To the frowning Chair, the Harvester said, “She’s not faking. Too bad. We’ll never know why she was practicing her dark craft. What do you know of her?”

  The Chair shook his head. “She’s been with the staff for ten, twelve years. Quiet. Devoted to Church. Or so I thought.” He cut his eyes at Bos, who flinched appropriately. The Chair spoke to the Harvester again. “How did you come to find her?”

  “I told the guards. I heard the drumming. I thought it was just someone practicing until I detected its sinister nature. I rushed in and confronted her. She cried out, ‘I’m free. All slaves shall be freed.’ And then she was like this.”

  “She said that, did she?” The Chair was grim, thoughtful. “‘Shall be freed.’ Interesting. You’re sure there was nothing else?”

  “Certain. She just seemed to leave her body. Look at her. Like corn husks, dried out and empty.”

  The Chair straightened. “There’s one punishment for witches. Beaching.”

  The Harvester said, “Church thanks you for your cooperation. As senior Church woman, I declare Rose Priestess Sylah and Violet Priestess Lanta official witnesses.”

  Bos answered, “You shall watch, Harvester. The law requires.”

  “What law?” The Harvester bristled. “I answer to no law but Church.”

  The Chair said, “He quotes Church law. As agreed to by my ancestors and your predecessors who lived among us. Witch death is witnessed and confirmed by all Church in the fort.” He paused, then, “If I must…” Sylah saw the way his gaze swung her way, almost reached her. He checked, visibly controlled himself. After another minute hesitation, he snapped orders at Bos. “Announce the ceremony throughout Harbor. Send mirror signals to all towers within a six-inch ride of the city. There will be maximum attendance. Maximum. Establish a proper time. It must be after sundown, two nights from now. Questions?”

  “None.”

  “Execute.”

  Bos spun on his heel. Sylah recognized members of Crew as they filed out after him.

  On the Chair’s order, warmen seized the unresisting slave, raising her to her feet. She continued to stare into space. Sylah reached to put a hand on the Chair’s arm, ignoring the warning clash of warman swords being drawn. The Chair put an end to that action with a look.

  Sylah said, “Give her to us, Lanta and me. She may recover. We have no proof she’s a witch. Even if she is, you can see her mind is gone. What more punishment can you inflict?”

  The Har
vester stormed at her from behind. “How can you say there’s no proof? You see the evil drum. Witch sign scribbled all over her bag. Could this be more of your defiance of Church? You defend one of your own, is that it?”

  A low murmur rose from the warmen and those spectators who had gathered at the doorway. A frown touched the Chair’s brow. Sylah said, “Odeel, you risk your soul. You know I’m no witch. Your accusation is profane. You endanger yourself, not me.”

  Coolly, the Harvester answered, “I’m the one who caught the creature in her unholy rites. I frightened her into the condition you see before you.”

  The Chair said, “Rose Priestess, I entrusted Yasmaleeya to you because I understood your magic was Church, and therefore good. What’s been said here is very disturbing.” He reached to rub his temples with both hands. It appeared a gesture of weariness, but Sylah caught the almost-imperceptible change in his expression, saw the plea that touched his features.

  She understood instantly, naturally. He was asking her to provide an argument he could support.

  Why, when he was so clearly revealing his deeper feelings, was she so coldly afraid? Why should the clandestine revelation of his desire to be a compassionate conspirator frighten her more than the public figure of a tyrant?

  She broke free of the quandary, addressed the Harvester. “I practice no magic, no witch work.”

  The Harvester spoke to the Chair. “I’ve been told otherwise. Her companion is a Seer. Church acknowledges Seeing is magic.”

  The warmen holding the slave unobtrusively relaxed their grips and eased away from the woman.

  The Chair’s look at the Harvester was unpleasant. He went on questioning Sylah. “Why do you want this woman, if not to protect her?”

  Earnestly, Sylah said, “What if we can wake her, and she can explain?”

  “Of course she’ll explain,” the Harvester scoffed. “She’ll have some story about being surprised while she was amusing herself. Simple lies. Witches know questions before they can be asked, so they have the proper answers. They blind ordinary people, so they can conduct their foul business unseen. Only Church officials have the training to apprehend them. Anyone who associates with a witch does so only to learn their evil ways. I suspect Sylah has designs on the child within the bearer.”