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

by Don McQuinn

  Sylah’s hand flew to her cheek, as if to hide the sudden color there. She stammered. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m asking you to look at this Chair. He’s as cruel as Altanar, a tyrant, a torturer and a murderer.”

  “He has to be harsh. He doesn’t enjoy what he has to do. He wishes he could be more merciful.”

  “Really? Who told you? Him? Have we seen one mote of this sweet mercy? Perhaps he’ll repress this possible slave unrest by overwhelming them with gifts.”

  “‘Sarcasm cloaks bad argument.’ Please remember that I acknowledged his possible heavy handedness with the slaves. If my choice of words offends, I withdraw them. May we return to the matter of Yasmaleeya please?”

  A muscle quivered in Lanta’s jaw. She answered quietly. “Of course. I gather you mean to bring the child.”

  “It’s unavoidable. You felt it, saw Yasmaleeya’s weight gain.”

  “Yes, and I heard her say the Chair contradicts our instructions by saying he approves of her stuffing herself. Why won’t he support us?”

  “You heard her; he cares for her. I believe it. He’s like all men. The only way he can express himself is through excess.”

  Wryly, Lanta said, “Perhaps I misjudged him. Perhaps he thinks mercy’s a weakness. Like indulging a spoiled brat.”

  Relief sparkled in Sylah’s laughter. “There, you see? We imagine men to be complicated, but they’re really very simple. If you can imagine a thirsty bull smelling sweet water, you understand all there is to know about a man and his capacity for deep thought.”

  Chagrined, startled, Sylah watched an inexplicable fury storm across her friend’s features at the harmless remark. Lanta appeared on the verge of some explosive outburst. The two of them stood frozen, Sylah knowing that Lanta was fighting a terrible energy inside her. Sylah dared not move for fear of causing that force to break free. Finally, stiff-legged, back arched like an angry cat, Lanta walked toward the door. Passing Sylah, she said, “They’re not complicated. But their thoughts go beyond thirst. Or kindness. You’ll excuse me now. I feel weak again. I’ll be back in an inch.”

  Exiting, Lanta clutched the doorway, gathering balance, mental and physical. Now was the time to confront Sylah directly; she must see the Chair in his true image, even if it took the destruction of friendship.

  How could Sylah not see him for what he was? Sylah, so perceptive, so intuitive—and totally blind to everything but what she wanted to see.

  But was the Seer any better? The question was a knife in Lanta’s heart. She’d tried to make Sylah understand, to see. For what? It was wasted breath and earned her nothing but dismissal. Who was she, a victim, too ashamed to confess her victimization, to warn anyone about misjudging a man? Instead of speaking to Sylah, she covered her face with her hands and fled, overwhelmed, determined to outdistance memory as well as conscience.

  Sylah watched Lanta go. Clues had swirled from her in a welter as confusing as the fall of autumn leaves. One needed no skill to see her anger, nor was it a feat to perceive that the real subject of her commentary was Conway. The more Sylah thought about it, the more annoyed she became. Lanta must have confronted him on her last trip to the island. Perhaps she saw Conway and Tee together.

  Lanta needed some straight talk. She had to learn that Conway was entitled to his own life. Petty jealousy could turn into a searing obsession, Sylah knew, and that could cripple the quest as surely as the Chair.

  Sylah took a doehide bag from her medical kit. Inside it was a mirror of polished copper. Arranging her collar and brushing stray hair into place, she told herself Lanta was reacting without logic. That was to be expected in a matter of romance, but it was unforgivable in matters of survival. Because she’d been hurt by Conway’s reunion with Tee, she assumed all men were thoughtless. Even cruel.

  Sometimes the world demanded brute strength, and a man had no choice.

  Clas na Bale was a strong man. Forceful.

  For a second, she remembered that he was also a ferocious warrior, a man who took trophies.

  Even Clas did wrong things. Yet she loved him. Longed for him, yearned to see him, hear him, feel the amazing gentleness of his strength.

  Shaking her head, she rid herself of the burgeoning fantasies, forced her thoughts back to Lanta’s problems.

  A thinking person learned to reach the root of truth. Control eliminated delusions about such frailties as physic attraction. It enabled a person to rise above things like loneliness. One who was Church-trained had no need to worry about even those unidentifiable fears that loitered in the farthest reaches of the mind, back where instinct and sensation share chaos.

  That was why Sylah could deal with a man like the Chair and Lanta couldn’t. Poor Lanta. A little more experience would show her the way to contend with a minor problem like Conway’s misplaced affections.

  The Chair must be approached again. There were questions that had to be answered, unknown schemes that had to be discovered and unlocked. More than anything, he was needed. If the Harvester was to be denied control of Church, he could be pivotal.

  Lanta was right about him, however; he was cruel.

  No. Harsh.

  Sylah wished Lanta understood the difference, understood that he was a man. In any guise other than the Chair, he’d be respected, admired, sought as a friend. His harshness was the behavior of the Chair, not the man. Anyone denied normal human contact and companionship would be as he was.

  Giving her robe one last adjustment, Sylah corrected her posture and strode into the hall and on her way to the throne room. Under her breath, she said, “What must be borne, grasp.”

  The phrase buoyed her. She felt good. Capable of anything.

  Chapter 28

  All day the fort hummed with activity. Mounted warmen patrolled the landward end of the fort’s peninsula, allowing no unauthorized entrance or exit. The mirror signal overlooking the fort wall blinked continuously. Normally manned by a team of two Messengers, today there were four.

  There were the other Messengers, as well. Sylah remembered Gan Moondark’s dislike for Messengers, how he described them as carrion birds, uncannily aware of potential trouble. She wrinkled her nose. Messengers certainly didn’t come in somber colors. Indolent, gaudy, they lounged about. For amusement, they rode their fine horses back and forth past the guards, flaunting their exemption from ordinary restrictions. It occurred to Sylah there were considerably more Messengers than just a few days ago. The memory of Gan’s attitude returned. It sat uncomfortably. She looked away.

  The bay, normally speckled with fishing boats and other traffic, was practically vacant. Harbor huddled against the hills at its back, the streets nearly deserted, the docks unpopulated even by the children who usually handlined for small fish. Wisping smokes from cookfires seemed anxious to dissipate before they were noticed.

  Sylah worried about her friends on Trader Island.

  Night fell before the Chair was free to see her. As the sun dipped behind the mountains between the fort and the Great Ocean, a pair of warmen knocked on the door to Sylah’s quarters. One was clearly agitated. The second was smug. It was the latter who spoke. “The Chair requests you join him, Rose Priestess.”

  Bearing down on “requests,” he allowed himself a smirk before turning to march away. The twitching of the nervous one increased dramatically when Sylah remained in place. He cut his eyes at his retreating partner, than gestured for Sylah to hurry. His beseeching look fled a bare moment before the first one looked back. Sylah was surprised that he remained amused, then was further angered when she recognized his affected tolerance as a bully’s condescension.

  Skin tightened at the back of Sylah’s neck. “I’m not accustomed to mockery, Kossiar.”

  Kos’ melodic speech added an undercurrent of taunt to the man’s smiling answer. “Right, Priestess. Me and Doro here aren’t ‘customed to slavehand errands, but ‘cause you’re too tender to talk to ‘em, we get their duty. For now.”

  The o
ne called Doro appeared ready to come undone. “That’s enough, Heldring.” It was more plea than command.

  Heldring’s features twisted, all the false humor blown away. “You make me sick, Doro. This unperson is a witch-lover; you understand that? What the Chair wants with her is his business. I say we kill all witches.”

  “You’ll get us both flogged.”

  Heldring grinned at Doro, then at Sylah. “I’ve heard their Church babble. She has to forgive. It’s not nice to get people hurt. Anyhow, unpeople got no feelings, no rights. This is Kos, and we don’t want no Church and no witch-lovers. If the Chair wants me whipped for saying so, every warman alive, except maybe you, will back me up.”

  Helplessly, Doro looked to Sylah. He swallowed audibly. “We better hurry, Priestess. The Chair don’t like to wait.”

  They passed down the hall with its yawning shark maws, past the throne room. There was a door at the end of the passageway; Sylah knew the stairs behind it led to the castle roof. Bos was waiting at the door with a pair of warmen. He said, “I oppose your private meeting with the Chair. I’m forbidden to disturb you. I’ll be here, though. Any indication of unusual activity, and I’m coming in, orders or no.”

  Haughtily, Sylah asked, “With only four warmen? Are you safe behind such a tiny army?”

  Heldring stepped forward belligerently. “Careful, woman. Church don’t mean that much here.”

  Bos’ slap cracked on Heldring’s jaw like a whip. Heldring spun disjointedly, clattered off the door and to the floor in a jumble. Sylah automatically moved to help the downed man. Seeing her come toward him, Heldring snarled and pushed himself away. Roughly, Bos shouldered Sylah aside. He was standing over Heldring, poised to strike again when the door flew open. The Chair took in the scene with a flat, dangerous expression. “Explain.” He bit off the word.

  “My fault,” Heldring said, picking himself up. “I was moving to knock for the Priestess and tripped over Bos’ foot. I’m sorry. Clumsy.”

  Indignantly, Sylah pointed at Bos. While she spluttered angrily, Bos spoke. His hot, angry stare never left Sylah’s eyes. “The warmen are tense, Chair. Heldring was distracted. They don’t like you being alone with one who protects witches.”

  Turning away, the Chair extended a hand to Sylah. “Come in. Dinner will be served as soon as we’re ready. Are you hungry?”

  Sylah tried to tell him the truth about the episode at his door. He shook his head wearily. “Let it go,” he said, almost whispering. Holding her hand, he pushed the door shut behind them and led her up the stairs. Sylah felt the hostility of the men outside suddenly cease, as if he’d shut out a cold, wet wind.

  With her hand still in his, the Chair showed her onto the roof. At the corner of the flat expanse, the crenellated wall shielded twin candles illuminating a small oval table. When they reached it, Sylah noted porcelain plates on delicately embroidered linen. Both were the finest she’d ever seen.

  Sylah turned to find a slave approaching from a kitchen tent erected in another corner. The man carried an ornate ceramic container of white with a design of pale blue flying cranes. Sylah watched him pour, fascinated. She only noticed the thin-walled delicacy of the tubular winecups when hers was already full. Catching the glow of the candles, the still, golden wine was a perfectly set gemstone.

  Another slave brought a tray of shrimp artfully circled around a dish of red sauce. The Chair picked up a tail. It had been carefully severed from the head, peeled, then replaced so the creature appeared whole. Dipping the tail in the sauce, the Chair urged Sylah to do the same. “Hot,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  The cold shrimp was perfectly done, tender and sweet. The sauce was wonderfully fierce. Sylah loved it, and said so. The Chair managed a faint grin. It warmed her to see his tension fade.

  More slaves hurried in with food. The Chair relaxed further as they ate and drank. He spoke of his youth, of his love of the forests and meadows of his country. Constant training denied him frequent access. “Trainers,” he said, making the word a curse. “Each convinced he was the one who’d go down in history as the man who perfected the boy who grew up to be the Chair. Escape from that place was a step into a world that tormented me because I knew I could never enjoy it. I had everything but life. While he lived, my father saw I was well supplied with girls. Soft, perfumed packages of delight, raised to believe I did them honor. The staff and Crew treated them like queens for the time they spent with me. They received lavish gifts, too. I had the Crew continue the practice for a while after I ascended to the Chair. I was young, filled with self-importance and simple lust. And great stamina, fortunately. I reveled, I tell you. Then one morning I woke up with a girl beside me, and I had no recollection of her. I couldn’t remember anything specific, you understand? My recollection wasn’t of her, but a dimly visualized accumulation of facial features, breasts, thighs, scents, textures; it all ran together in a catalog of mindless, heartless pleasures. It frightened me. I shook like a coward. I bent over her, desperate for a memory I could identify as human contact. She was snoring. A line of drool ran from the corner of her mouth, across her shoulder and onto the sheet.”

  He grimaced self-annoyance, then raised his cup, emptied it. Immediately, a slave removed both cups and replaced them with smaller ones of translucent porcelain. They were no bigger around than a large man’s thumb, and about the same depth. The Chair took the new bottle from the slave to pour himself. A bright yellow stream gurgled free. The glossy black jug was a flat-bottomed cone. The Chair said, “We like to finish a dinner with what we call sunwine. The name isn’t just for the color, but for the way it captures the sense of a lazy, warm afternoon. I think you’ll like it. It’s very sweet.”

  Sylah touched the cup to her lips. The aroma was sprightly with berries, flowers, grass. The taste was even more complex. Honey, primarily. She thought she savored thyme. Fruit, certainly; oranges, blackberries. She raised her cup in salute. “It’s all you said. And more. We have nothing like it in my country, but if I ever come back to Kos, I’ll bring some of our best in appreciation.”

  He winced. Sylah lowered her cup. “I said something wrong?”

  Massaging his temples with his free hand, he gestured with the other, sending swirls of wine slopping onto his fingers. The viscous liquid clung to him, gleaming in the flicker of the low-burning candles. In a moment, he sighed and straightened in his chair, carelessly wiping the wet hand with the hanging edge of the delicate tablecloth. “No one may offer food or drink to the Chair. It could be seen as a bribe, and the Chair must be seen as above all temptation. Why do you think the Crew was willing to keep me so abundantly supplied with women? A sated man doesn’t lust after what belongs to someone else. That’s the theory, anyhow. One my grandfather never understood, I gather. Another story. For another time.”

  He drained his cup. Turning it upside down on the table, he rose, walking to the wall. Arms folded across his chest, he stared into the night. The breeze from the bay had strengthened; it ruffled his hair.

  Sylah felt he looked incredibly sad. Not vulnerable. He wouldn’t look vulnerable as long as his heart beat. Instead he seemed a perfect image of loneliness. She ached to make him aware that someone understood.

  She corrected herself. She didn’t understand, nor could she possibly condone. What she wanted to say was she knew it wasn’t his fault. “They make us,” she heard herself say. It startled her.

  “How do you mean?”

  She walked to stand beside him at the wall. The stars were very bright. The breeze felt wonderful. The white roses were dots of softness far below, the rhododendron a stationary puff of cloud. In the distance, a black sea caught the gleam of the last quarter of the moon in a silver bar. So high, when her hair moved to the breath of the wind, it was like flying. Her words came from thoughts she normally dared not express to herself, much less to this man who held such terrible, terrifying power. She felt she was exposing herself, making herself far too susceptible to that power, yet he must
learn that someone could be trusted, was willing to trust him. “They mold us like clay, make us what they need. They say it’s our duty. For me, it was Church, Healing, and now my quest. For you, it was ruling Kos, keeping the alliance with the Board defending your lands. Maybe we’d have done those things if they’d left us alone, but they didn’t. They make us, and say it’s for the good of all.”

  “Do I hear a touch of rebellion?”

  “Never.” At his crooked questioning smile, she went on. “I love Church. Still, I know what she’s done to me. With one breath, I glory in the search for the Door. The next, I curse it. But under everything, my love for Church is forever.”

  “Forever, dark-haired Priestess, Healer of warriors? Forever is longer than I care to think about.” He faced her. It was a disturbing proximity, and Sylah leaned away against the wall. He made no move to close the distance. Contemplative, he went on. “If we’re made by others, do I go to the Land Under for cruelly ordering that witch beached? What of my trainers? They made me. They’re already in the Land Above. Does someone up there tap them on the shoulder and say, ‘Look what your boy’s done down there. Naughty on you. Off to the downside?’”

  Acting out his joke, he leapt up into one of the crenels in the wall. Hanging on with one hand, he leaned out into space, pretending to jump.

  Afraid, amused, Sylah grabbed his arm. “You’ll kill yourself, you great fool.” She dragged him back. At the last moment, he caught his heel, almost sprawling. She caught him. Staggering in a clumsy dance, they held onto each other, laughing, her hands on his forearms while his rested on her shoulders.

  Suddenly, he wasn’t laughing anymore. He looked into her eyes, forcing her to meet a steady, insistent gaze. His hands tightened, so slow the increased pressure was almost imperceptible, yet, by the time he spoke, it was almost painful. “I could believe you’re a witch. Many warned me of you, even before the incident with that slave. Odeel was only the latest.” Ignoring her shaken protests, he let go of her shoulders, took both her hands in his. “You dominate my thoughts. You confront me, even argue with me in front of my subjects, and I find I like you all the more for it. You break the generations-old customs of my people and I approve. Worst of all, you make me happy. Everyone must please the Chair. No one must make him happy. No one. You do it without effort. Tell me I’m not witched.”