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

by Don McQuinn

  The Chair told Sylah, “You must answer.”

  Deliberately, Sylah straightened. The act pulled her back from the Chair, forced the warmen behind her into hasty retreat. With her left hand, she reached to flip the long black hair cascading down her back. Her sleeve fell, revealing a startlingly white arm encircled by the massive gold bracelet given her by the Iris Abbess. Metal and carved amethysts seemed charged with light from the candle. “I would help this woman as I would help anyone because, even if she is a witch, I’m confident the One in All will protect me from harm. If Odeel is so crafty a witch catcher, why is it she ate food served by this woman, as we all did? Tell me, Chair, who recommended me as Healer to Yasmaleeya?” She smiled sweetly at the Harvester.

  The Chair picked up the small drum and its case, examining the symbols. Without raising his eyes, he said, “Your faith is an inspiration, Rose Priestess. Nevertheless, I believe the Harvester’s judgment of witchcraft is correct. She’ll be chained to the criminal’s post in front of the warmen barracks in Harbor for all to see. You men take her there. She’s not to be harmed, you understand? She’ll live to be beached, or you’ll all take her place. Go.”

  The warmen carried the woman away. She gave no sign of being aware of them.

  After a few moments, the Chair followed. He motioned the Harvester along in front of him. At the door, he turned. His eyes sought Sylah’s. Once again, there was pleading in his expression. Sorrow.

  Instinctively, Sylah’s reached to console, to reassure. It was an abortive movement, less than a gesture, and then he was gone.

  Chapter 26

  Torches flared against the night in a precise semicircular line, starting and ending at water’s edge. People gathered along the curve. Several paces from the deepest arc of the torches, across open beach, the sea caught the light on a glistening susurrus of small waves. The darkly patient water mocked the excited mumble of hushed conversation rising from the crowd.

  Beaching was an execution. It took no feat of perception to determine that. Sylah ached with the fear that this one was not only unnecessary, but false.

  Death penalties, as such, held no horror for her, not even when they were carried out in the name of Church. Church held that the struggle against evil could afford leniency, but not lack of resolve.

  Sylah couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that this spectacle had far less to do with witchcraft than with power. The Chair was the one who passed sentence, but the Harvester accused. Sylah knew no reason why the Harvester would want the woman dead. Nevertheless, she was certain the slave had gotten caught up in the Harvester’s treachery.

  No one would tell Sylah the details of this ceremony. Even now, following Bos’ warmen through the crowd and toward the eagerly beckoning torches, she had no idea what was to transpire.

  Beside her, Lanta tripped along with short, brisk steps. Her chin was up, shoulders back. Only one who knew her would spy the too-wide eyes, the pale edging of the lips. Even so, Sylah hoped her own outward appearance was equally official.

  The Harvester, behind them, was simply irritated by this inconvenience. Sylah knew the woman was familiar with this event, as she’d known all about the wallkiller. She’d made no effort to prepare her sisters for whatever awaited them.

  Breaking free of the crowd, forging out onto open beach on the seaward side of the torches, Sylah recoiled as the knot of warmen near the water’s edge parted to reveal their prisoner.

  The slave’s full, flowing costume of blouse and trousers was blood-red.

  Almost exactly as Sylah had envisioned in the healing house.

  Imagined?

  The warmen leading the Church witnesses showed them where to wait, then moved off to the side. The Chair strode past the three women, telling them to follow. No more than three paces from the prisoner, he indicated they should stop. Instead of his official mourning garb, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and trousers of somber gray and white. The white was a cleverly sewn elongated round that started at his knees and rose to his throat.

  Shark. Sylah recognized the pattern.

  The woman’s behavior was unchanged. She acknowledged nothing, still intent on her own unknown vision. She was bound, hands behind her back. Chains bound her ankles.

  The Chair stepped to the side. A warman hastily ignited a separate prepositioned torch as the Chair uncoiled the familiar bull-roarer from its case. Without preamble, he sent it into action, whirling, sending out its call. A moan lifted from the crowd behind Sylah. It took a few beats for her to realize it was a chant, calling on the sea to cleanse the people of evil.

  Sylah and Lanta made three-signs.

  As the bull-roarer swept to slower circles and silence, excitement eddied from the crowd. Hundreds of feet shuffled. Bodies rubbed together; cloth scuffed across cloth. The accumulated noise prickled Sylah’s neck, made her think of a snuffling, hungry beast testing the air. Even the Harvester was affected, muttering, “Get on with it.” She was careful to assure the Chair couldn’t hear, nor would she meet the eyes of Sylah or Lanta.

  At the Chair’s signal, two of the warmen grasped the prisoner, one on each side. Their grip took her just above the elbow with one hand, while the other went in her armpit. They strained to lift her vertically. For the first time, Sylah saw the chain that had been hidden behind the woman, attached to the leg bindings. The individual links were enormous, thick as an arm. Six made a length equal to a tall man.

  Thunderous, the single stroke of a drum pulsed in from the night-black sea, its source hidden, its voice shivering through every living thing in its range. It sounded again, then again. Sidestepping in time with the beat, the warmen carried the prisoner toward the water’s edge.

  Four slaves bearing long poles sprinted past the Church witnesses. Lighting torches at the end of each shaft, they placed them in prepared holes that formed a square. The new light revealed a small circle of stone blocks about the diameter of a man’s reach.

  The blocks were ankle high.

  Warmen carried the accused witch to the ring. The four torchbearer slaves ran to lift the chain, pushing it into the circle. It disappeared with a sharp clatter. The slaves raced for the anonymity of the crowd. Lanta exclaimed wordlessly, then, “It’s a hole.”

  Behind her, the Harvester laughed. “How very observant. Now do you understand the significance of the chain?”

  Unsure, Lanta remained silent. The Harvester clearly enjoyed enlightening her. “The chain’s an anchor. The drum marked the turn of the tide. In a little while, the sea will reach the stone circle. Soon after that, it’ll be lapping at our feet.”

  Lanta pointed. “Her head barely clears the top of the circle. They’re drowning her.”

  The Harvester said, “Kos kills no witches. The sea does that work.”

  Far to the flanks, the crowd surged forward, carrying the torches with them. Warmen controlled the movement, allowing them only so far. The Harvester continued explaining. “See how the warmen turn the witch toward the oncoming water? Now, watch how the worthy folk of Kos rush out into it. From there they can watch the prisoner’s face as she sees death creep toward her.”

  Inexorably, the waves advanced. With a cruelty that seemed human, it launched probes at the wall. Trickles seeped between the blocks. Gradually, torturously, it reached the top of the circle. A sheen of water flowed over the edge, began the work of filling the pit.

  Lanta pulled up her hood. Sylah put an arm around her. “Pray for the walls to collapse,” she said. “At least that would end it more quickly for her.”

  The Harvester’s hand flashed out, disappeared inside Lanta’s hood. Twisting, she pulled the small Priestess upright, a clawlike hand entwined in her hair. Her eyes darted from Lanta to Sylah, daring them to object. Voice rasping with repressed fury, she railed at them. “Thinking like that is why I’ll destroy both of you. You can never stand against me. You’re weak, and you’re ignorant. That hole is permanent, constructed of stone so it can’t collapse. You simply can’t c
omprehend the strength needed to confront the real world. That pit, this execution, is normal. You see it’s like every day of your life, and simper and smile and twitter and pretend things will get better. They won’t. And the death of one witch will never even be noted in the final story of the battle for Church.”

  Sylah calmly reached to disengage the Harvester’s hand where she still clutched Lanta. “I’m noting it, Odeel. That woman’s a helpless nobody. You defile everything Church stands for. You’ll answer for her. You’ll answer for all your sins. By this, I swear.”

  Too quickly for the Harvester to do more than squeal and flail ineffectively, Sylah’s flicking hand touched the Harvester’s forehead, her breast, both her shoulders.

  “No!” The Harvester paled, stepped back. “Forbidden! You… You…”

  Sylah’s words turned harsh. Her speech pattern melded with the insistent thunder of the invisible, threatening drum. “I put the mark on you. I mark you evil, and I will destroy you or give my life in the effort. The One in All will decide who is true.”

  For a long breath, the Harvester was rigid with disbelief. Finally, clumsily, she managed one step backward. Her eyes remained fixed on Sylah’s. Another step failed, and she staggered. The attempt to avoid falling seemed to break a spell. She whirled away, stumbling toward the crowd, then dropped to her knees, violently ill.

  The crowd howled laughter.

  At the Chair’s angry gesture, Bos and two warmen rushed to raise her. She was still retching as they disappeared into the mob.

  “I think I’m going to be sick, too.” Lanta moaned, sagging against Sylah. She rearranged her hood to hide from the sight of the prisoner, now standing in water to her chin.

  Sylah put an arm around Lanta, kept her uptight. She twitched her head in the direction of the crowd. “Don’t let them see you weaken.”

  Lanta moaned again. “I can’t stand it. First the island, now the—” She stopped abruptly, appalled by the enormity of her slip.

  “Do what you must,” Sylah ordered, too distraught to fully comprehend Lanta’s speech. “Stare at the Chair. Make him feel your disgust.”

  Impossibly, the woman in the water moved. With unimaginable determination, she forced her body around. She was suddenly returned to awareness, distorted with wrath. “You! Mighty Chair!” Straining to keep her mouth above the reaching water, she continued to shout. “Enjoy my death, as I have enjoyed watching yours. I am innocent. I have been betrayed, as I have seen you betrayed.” A wave slapped her face. She choked, sank up to her eyebrows. Her hair fanned and flowed outward. Bubbles jeweled the delicate netting. Screaming, she forced her face up, spitting and coughing. “I am destroyed. Hear this: You are destroyed. Destroyed!”

  Shrieking laughter ravaged the thick pause between drumbeats. At the sound of the next stroke, the sea claimed its due. The woman’s triumphant derision strangled.

  Chapter 27

  The day following the execution, Lanta collapsed.

  Thoroughly frightened, she planted her hands flat on the table, not trusting her grip. At Yasmaleeya’s yip of concern, she had the presence of mind to push herself back, so she wouldn’t sprawl on top of the mounded abdomen that suddenly seemed to loom like a snowdrift in front of her eyes.

  That was when she realized her knees were giving way. The fear was already gone, and she accepted her steady descent with equanimity.

  Time distorted in her mind. She felt capable of dwelling at length on anything as she slid toward unconsciousness. She thought how sleep had refused her after the beaching of the slave. Memories of Conway’s attack, of the drowning woman, of Sylah’s unimaginable, unmentionable marking of the Harvester, were companions in her torment.

  Sylah had dared the world.

  For a woman to even hint at a knowledge of the religious significance of the cross could call down the wrath of all males. All knew the legend of one who had been murdered on a cross by other men, one who had been mourned since. Women who referred, however obliquely to that mistake could die for it. Many had.

  For a Church woman to put that mark on another was a blood declaration. Lanta had never seen it done. In fact, she’d heard of the act only a few times in secret, whispered girl talk among her Chosen abbey mates.

  Girl talk. Lanta winced. The innocence of that time was shame and mockery now. Since that afternoon on the island, her most difficult task had been keeping the secret from Sylah. Lanta was proud of how she’d deluded her friend.

  Then came Yasmaleeya’s daily examination.

  The girl was as big as a cow. She had been lush, voluptuous. The woman on the examining table was encased in fat.

  That morning Sylah looked across Yasmaleeya at Lanta. There was a sly cast to her expression that sent a vibration of apprehension swarming across Lanta’s skin. Sylah said, “This baby will come some time between twenty-four and thirty-six inches.”

  That simple statement was the blow that claimed Lanta’s consciousness.

  Where the pink-white nudity of Yasmaleeya’s body met the cotton sheet, there was a hollow, just behind her buttocks. Lanta was sweltering, and all that whiteness suggested snow, soft and inviting. A person could sleep in a place like that.

  A person would be secure. Safe from love that could be stolen and trampled. Safe from any more nights rank with the stink of death-sweat from packed, panting watchers. Safe from friends declaring blood feud. And childbirth medicines that threatened not only the life of mother and child, but whoever administered it.

  Oblivion called, and Lanta welcomed it.

  Sylah was in motion before Lanta sagged out of sight behind Yasmaleeya. Pawing hurriedly in her medicine bag, she found a small, blue ceramic bottle. She pulled the plug as she raced around the table. Yasmaleeya floundered and squealed. Sylah ignored her.

  Ammonia fumes jolted Lanta back to a consciousness she clearly didn’t want. Before she was fully out of her faint, she was demanding to be left alone. Sylah soothed her as quickly as she could, then turned her attention back to Yasmaleeya, who stood beside the examining table, pulling on clothes and complaining of lack of respect. Harried almost beyond endurance, Sylah leaned against the comforting solidity of the stone wall and closed her eyes. She felt her courage wavering, heard herself whispering, It’s too much, my Clas. I’m so alone. Why did I ever leave you?

  Sibilant, the secret voice that lurked in her mind whispered reply. Sylah seeks the Door. Too much has been risked. Too much has been suffered. Sylah must continue.

  Bitterly, Sylah retorted, All have goals I can only suspect, yet I dare not think about it, lest I fall prey to unending doubt. Let the quest go to one stronger. I need rest. Peace.

  Sylah. Persevere but a while longer. The Flower must bloom fully. What must be borne, grasp.

  The fingernail-on-slate of Yasmaleeya’s self-pity scraped across the silence. “I don’t believe my baby’s coming so soon. It’s too early. You’re just trying to frighten me. I want to go home. I want my mother. You treat me worse than a slave, you have no sympathy.”

  “Then go.” Sylah pointed at the door. “Your mother should be aware of how her daughter behaves.”

  Sylah expected instant retreat. Instead, she got higher-pitched indignation. “You see? You don’t even listen to me. I told you earlier, I can’t leave the fort. I can’t even leave the castle.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Why should I tell you again? You won’t listen.”

  Embarrassment at having ignored something of potential significance stifled Sylah’s urge to shout. Pouting, Yasmaleeya primped in a polished silver mirror. Sylah said, “My attention is entirely yours. Why are you restricted?”

  “Well, why do you think? Because he’s worried about me. I told him his son kicked as hard as a horse and tossed and turned all the time, and the Chair was very upset. He asked all kinds of questions about my treatment.” Here she sent an arch glance at both Healers, then went on. “I told him I was keeping up my strength, in spite of all your foolish exe
rcises that just make me tired and sticky-sweaty, and I told him I’m old enough to eat what I want. He laughed. He said Healers don’t know everything, and I was behaving exactly the way he wanted. He likes me.” Fluffing her hair, studying the effect in the mirror, she went on, “That’s a secret. I’m not supposed to tell you everything he says. If you tell, I’ll say Lanta used the Seeing to find out, and you’ll be punished. So there. No more silly walks. And if I want honey cakes or sweet wine, I’ll have all I want.”

  Sylah hung her head. “I can only defer to the wishes and wisdom of the Chair. You are the bearer. It would be wrong for me to interfere.”

  Still seated on the floor, back to the wall, Lanta goggled openly. Yasmaleeya fired a suspicious glare at Sylah, but when she detected no sign of ridicule, she tossed her head and flounced out the door.

  Half choking, Lanta clambered upright. “How could you do that?”

  “We must hurry.” Sylah’s manner stopped Lanta in midspeech. “The other night, when that poor slave was caught, the Chair repeated words the Harvester claimed the woman had said. Remember—‘shall be made free’? He stressed ‘made.’ Last night the same woman predicted his destruction. Now we have Yasmaleeya confined within these walls, and for reasons only our Yasmaleeya could believe. Something’s going to happen, Lanta. I think the Chair means to bring in the leadership of the slave population, in order to control them.”

  Lanta cocked her head to the side, birdlike. Still pale from her faint, her eyes seemed extraordinarily bright. “You speak of controlling slaves. I would have said repression, myself. You would, too, once.”