by Don McQuinn
Katallon grunted. “You knew that one?” He flicked the dead Lance’s hand with the point of his sword.
“No. He remembered me from Kos. We never met.”
Katallon put his weapon away. “I said before, death is where you are.”
“It was a battle. Many died.”
“The rest of us were strangers to our enemies. Only one man knew someone here. People who know you don’t live long. Strange.” He was gone before Conway could respond.
Standing outside the corral, Conway watched warriors herding away the women and children. Small, helpless cries rose from those who were hurried by the point of a sword. Children bawled. One boy, barely waist high to his tormentors, dodged a blow, but managed to keep protectively positioned between an old woman and the nomads.
Other Windband warriors dragged dead defenders into buildings in the path of the free. That would be their burning. Nomads were carried to a pyre of structure timbers and wall logs. The Windband fire was touched off as Conway passed abreast of it.
He walked on, wondering how many of those men knew his name.
The Lance’s face appeared to him, dissolved. What a fool; sorry for a man who was still alive. Fool.
The funeral pyre roared. Syrupy dark smoke flowed past Conway to settle in ground hollows, eddy and billow its slow way through strands of brush and trees.
It came to Conway that he’d never asked the drowned slave girl her name.
Chapter 8
Moonpriest leaned back into a corner of the new piece of furniture in his tent. It was his own design, a thing he called a ‘sofa.’ It was long enough for him to stretch out horizontally. Two white, cloudlike pillows nicely complimented the off-white sueded pigskin of its rounded, inviting seat and back. A stuffing of goose down conformed to the sitter’s body. Moonpriest even had a name for the padding; he called it upholstery.
The nomads, who considered chairs effete luxury, whispered about the device. Most insisted that a god sat anywhere, any way, he chose. Some, much more covert, took the position that a god who demanded suffering, endurance, and deprivation in the name of conquest might do well to take part in some of those experiences with his followers. Those people said Moonpriest merely used Windband. They suggested he was more man than god, and possibly not very good at either. They smirked, and disparaged pampering the posterior. They hinted it was not warlike.
When Moonpriest heard the latter, he laughed. Briefly. The fact was, he understood the grave danger underlying jokes at his expense, and he was resolved to do something about it.
What?
Moonpriest fondled his turban. Accuse Katallon openly? Too extreme. There was no clear proof Katallon led the malcontents. Known, but not provable. And Katallon inspired a great deal of loyalty. Moonpriest sighed; after all he’d done to whip the nomads of Windband into line, many still exercised lingering allegiance to Katallon. They couldn’t understand the man was a figurehead.
Even so, a prudent man didn’t stand directly under a figurehead while pulling it down.
Moonpriest strode quickly to the hall, and then to the door to peer outside. He inhaled deeply. Dusk in the Dry was his favorite time of day. A promise of cooler air covered the earth, a shroud of relief. There were the smells, as well; the redolence of cooking, the almost tactile pressure of sage and lesser plants, the muscular force of livestock herds. He frowned, making his way back into the depths of his tent in a swirl of shining white robes. A slave, lighting candles, sank to the floor, forehead to the ground. Moonpriest ignored him. He turned into the main room and collapsed back on the sofa.
Darkness would come quickly. With that, his guest. Perhaps Katallon had a weakness. The guest might provide some insight. He permitted himself a small chuckle; insight, indeed.
Heaving himself upright, he walked to the baskets in the darkest corner of the room. The snakes watched. Dark, glistening tongues forked the air until his scent was tasted and recognized. Moonpriest squatted to look through the woven lattice, crooning softly. “Such beautiful, supple lengths of power. Deadly, deadly, deadly. All day, every day, I’m surrounded by braggarts and boasters. They flaunt huge muscles. Or weapons. They grimace, show us well-practiced fearsome faces. None of them approaches you, my expressionless, lethal children. Not one of them strikes so surely, so swiftly. My weapons. Be alert. Be ready. Moonpriest will come for you.”
Together, eerily, both reptiles shifted. Each lazily circled the interior of its basket before coiling near the latched release door.
Moonpriest returned to his sofa. The hallway slave came to light the tapers in their ornate floor-standing holders. When barely half were burning, Moonpriest ordered him out. The slave hesitated, unsure of his orders, and Moonpriest rose, berating. “You think a god needs your miserable little flames? You’ve seen me call brighter fire than all the candles in this camp, just to kill one man. Can’t you hear? Get out!”
Leaving so quickly his churning feet disarranged the carpet, the slave never looked back. Looking at the rumpled floor covering, Moonpriest paled with rage. Then, with no appreciable pause between emotions, he was riotously amused. He fell back on the sofa, flailing the air with his arms as if in flight. Eventually, he subsided. He was relaxed, smiling pleasantly into space, when Altanar peeked past the edge of the tent flap.
Moonpriest straightened. The smile squeezed out long and thin. Flesh pressed hard against bone. The nose appeared longer. Eyes drew to slits. What had been a soft, absent expression became feral eagerness. Under the weight of that look, Altanar chattered, “We’re here, Moonpriest. No one saw us.”
“Bring our guest here to me.” Moonpriest pointed.
The figure Altanar ushered in was covered from head to below the knee in a coarse woolen blanket of wide gray and white stripes. Soft boots extended up under the cloak. Hesitantly, testing the ground at each step, the visitor let Altanar lead the way. Moonpriest’s hand signal stopped the pair. He stepped away from his sofa. Quickly, he reached out and whipped away the blanket. Unprepared, startled, Altanar froze momentarily before ducking out of reach. The stranger stood revealed as a woman. Tall, fair, full figure obvious despite loose-fitting blouse and skirt, she had a firm, handsome beauty. Stripped of cover, she raised graceful white hands in ineffectual seeking motions. The rest of her body remained absolutely still. Not even the loop of the braided hair slung forward over her right shoulder swayed. She stood with her chin slightly raised. Her eyes were firmly closed.
Moonpriest moved around her in a semicrouch. Stopping on her left side, he said, “You’ve worked in the baths a long time, Bayek.” It was a statement.
“Yes.” Her voice was melodious. Peculiarly, the sound of Moonpriest’s voice released some of her tension.
Moving to Bayek’s right side, Moonpriest grew louder. “You were there the afternoon your friend killed herself.”
For a long moment, Bayek didn’t answer. Moonpriest was frowning heavily by the time she did. “Zeecee was my associate, not my friend. I don’t believe she killed herself. Yes, I was there.”
“A blind slave contradicts me?”
“A god kind enough to assume a man’s guise can’t be asked to remember everything, yet every decision a god makes must have a proper end. I have a duty to provide you correct information.”
“Smart. I like that.”
“I am blessed.” She spoke without inflection or intonation. Nevertheless, there was a wasp’s sting in the words. Moonpriest pushed his face almost against hers. “There are worse things than sightlessness. Anger me at your peril.”
“I know many of those things intimately. Am I to be tortured? Why?”
“Tell me what I want to know, and you need fear none of that.”
“I do not fear. How could I deny a god’s questions? Ask. You shall receive.”
Coloring, Moonpriest pulled back to a more normal distance. He squinted suspiciously at this serene woman. He said, “Katallon was your husband.”
Bayek nodded.
; “He tired of you.”
Another nod, neck muscles perhaps a shade tighter.
“You were gambled away to another man.”
“Yes. That one raped me. I killed him as he slept. My punishment was blinding. Katallon claimed me as his slave. I manage the important men’s baths. All Windband knows this.”
“Did you love Katallon so much then? Healer?”
Bayek’s lips moved. A vertical line of pain slashed between her eyebrows for the briefest instant. “I thought I did. It’s much the same thing.”
“No, no, no.” Moonpriest circled behind her, chuckling. “A mistake like yours breeds more than resignation. The other Church Priestesses were enslaved. Murdered. You were spared. Used, then discarded. You hate Katallon.”
Color soft as pale rose bathed Bayek’s temples, the full curve of her cheekbones. A silken shine of perspiration on her upper lip caught the candle light.
Moonpriest pressed close again, lips almost touching the back of Bayek’s neck just behind her ear. He inhaled. The scent of her and her occupation already filled the small room. Up close, the aroma was insistent, compelling. Traces of oils and creams. Juniper and pine and eucalyptus blended with florals of rose and lilac and honeysuckle. And more. A feminine touch on the air, an individual signature. Her alone.
The heavy, soft rope of her hair flowed like honey. Moonpriest reached up to it, traced the air beside it. Delicately. Suggestively. The long, sensing fingers trembled away from contact.
Perhaps, Moonpriest thought.
He was, after all, in a man’s body.
Now she must know only the god. Only his voice. In darkness. Total, abject dependence. Fearful mystery.
Whispering, exhaling slowly, he said, “The other bath girl, Zeecee, was blinded because she refused to reject Church and convert to Moondance. Long before her, you rejected Church, but refused Moondance, too. Tell me why.” Stepping away, he studied her arm and grinned broadly at the gooseflesh his breath on her neck had created. Then he continued on to the snake baskets.
Bayek said, “I believed I’d found a better reason for my life. I thought I left Church. She never left me. Church was—is—my heart.” For the first time, there was a hesitation on in her voice, and she corrected herself. “My true heart.”
Moonpriest squatted, reached into the baskets. Picking up a snake in each hand, he withdrew them slowly, allowing them plenty of time to find a good purchase on his arms. When he straightened they faced forward. They watched the woman, tongues busy, as he approached her in silence. Directly in front of her, he said, “Have you heard of the Flower?”
An infinitesimal pause. Then, perversely, the same aura of relief about her. “Yes. Sylah, Rose Priestess. She seeks the Door. Her Church companion is Lanta, Violet Priestess and a Seer. There is a stranger named Tate, a black woman who travels with a boy. And a warrior monk named Nalatan.”
“Exactly. Who else knows of this?”
“What Kossiars or slaves have said is quickly repeated to all.”
“Is that how you learned?”
“Yes. And in other ways. Slaves have other sources.”
“Church sources?”
Bayek smiled. A beatific expression, absurdly out of place. The snakes, an arm’s length away, lifted their heads and swayed gently. “There are those who hear things. Slaves bring the information to other slaves. Messages of hope.”
Moonpriest was too puzzled to pretend otherwise. “You’re very free to admit something that brings unpleasant death. The names could be tortured out of you.”
“Unpleasant death? Me?” Bayek’s quiet laughter was merry. Nevertheless, it shivered Moonpriest’s spine. The snake’s heads rose higher, the swaying more pronounced. “No pain will twist names from me. I speak knowing you are Moonpriest. You kill Church. I am still Church. I tried to throw her away, I scorned her. I cursed her. And she forgave me. I yearn for death.”
Moonpriest watched the snakes subside. They looked practically torpid, despite the warmth of the room. It wasn’t like them at all. He extended his arms, thrust the reptiles directly into the blind, chin-up face. Startled by the abrupt move, the animals reacted by tightening coils, poising to strike. The tongues whipped in and out, so close to the down-white skin they seemed to lick it. Yet neither rattled once. Moonpriest was fascinated. He said, “Then I must disappoint you. My wish is to save Church, to contend with Church honestly for dominion over souls. I don’t want to destroy her. We must both exist, for the sake of all.”
Twisting her head, Bayek lifted her chin higher. “What cruelty is this? You bait me. Even Katallon had the kindness to curse me when he daggered my eyes. Do what you mean to do. I forgive you.”
“Then help me. Katallon means to find the Flower and kill her. I say Church and Moondance must contend for souls in peace. Let people choose, let them see how my mother can provide for them. War between us would be the ultimate evil.”
“You’ve killed those who resisted you. They say you forgive nothing, no one.”
“Until I can command complete obedience, how can I direct the people? Until all Windband knows the pain of excess, as children learn they cannot eat too much without suffering, they can never understand the path of love and moderation. Of forgiveness, complete and inclusive. Look into your own heart. You thought you loved Church, you thought you loved Katallon. Until Katallon taught you hatred, you couldn’t appreciate love, give love. Think how you feel about Church now. That’s love. That’s what I bring Windband. Unquestioning, impervious love. Help me snare the souls of Windband, and I promise your name will live in Church forever.”
“I was forgiven. I am forgiven.” The woman’s posture sent her words upward, past Moonpriest. Angrily, he realized he was bent aside in front of her like some superstitious suppliant, afraid his body might impede her statement.
He straightened to full height. She’d missed the whole point; her head was as vacant as her vision. He pressed the snakes close again. They shifted nervously, scales sighing silkily.
Dubious, fearful, Bayek asked, “If I helped reconcile Church and Moondance, I could go back to Church Home? Repent at Sister Mother’s feet? You would speak for me?”
“Yes, yes. Haven’t I promised you eternity?” He wondered if the woman was stalling. Behind that marble cool face she could be mocking.
The snakes hardened, compressed.
Bayek took a deep breath. “The people of Windband believe in you. They can’t choose between faith in this world and faith in the next. By becoming both man and god, you provide too many alternatives. You or Katallon must be destroyed, and you can only truly triumph in their eyes by defeating his strength.”
Moonpriest suppressed a wince. He darted a sharp glance at Altanar, made a hand gesture that sent him tiptoeing from the room.
The woman was brilliant. Her conclusions exactly duplicated his own. He resumed circling, ever more intrigued and attracted. He wondered how such a rare creature had ever been allowed to waste away in such a place. Then he returned to the important matter. “I would rather Katallon be my ally. I see into his heart, and I know there is some tiny point of goodness there. His lust for power smothers it. I wish to nurture that goodness. If I cannot, then he must go to my mother, await me in the moon.”
“Katallon will worship you. He will order his people to worship you. He will never obey you.”
Moonpriest dropped his voice to a threatening whisper. “He would dare disobey? He would challenge a god?”
“Katallon lives for challenge. What better end for such a one than to die fighting a god?”
It was the crux of the matter, and Moonpriest was chagrined to realize he’d never thought of it.
A dilemma. Katallon had his own plans for conquest, and intended to use Windband to execute them. If allowed to usurp the allegiance that rightfully belonged to Moondance, his popularity might overwhelm the true leader.
Plans. They could go wrong. They could be thwarted.
But Katallon was formidab
le. Intelligent. The woman, Bayek, said it: “Lives for challenge.” Disgusting.
The whole thing was unendurable.
A challenge by a god made a martyr of Katallon if it succeeded and destroyed the god if it failed.
A challenge by the man-body that Moonpriest presently inhabited wasn’t to be considered.
Katallon would never trust the altar.
Trickery was impossible; Windband would never accept a Moonpriest who tricked a Katallon.
Moonpriest twisted his turban, paced, thought.
Strength. Challenge. Uncaring, savage conflict, for its own sake.
Moonpriest smiled. Giggled. The solution was so plain.
Chapter 9
Windband waited. Conway couldn’t remember the camp so still, so thick with expectancy. Hundreds of people were around him, yet a few feet away, where the utter blackness of night ruled, it was as if that mass didn’t exist. They made no definable sound, had no recognizable form.
Somewhere to the front was an open circle of six woodpiles. The junior priests of Moondance had placed the fuel, then roamed all the camps to announce the ceremony.
Katallon’s appearance would coincide with the rise of the full moon. Rumor insisted he meant to announce the attack on Church Home.
Conway thrilled at the thought.
He knew it was wrong to harbor such rancor. If Church resisted, many innocents would suffer. That was the ultimate horror of a clash of beliefs. People could believe in almost anything without harming anyone. When zealots insisted people must or must not believe one particular way, some inevitably resisted. After that came murder. Some called it war, some called it conflict. Others even twisted things to the point of calling it “resolving differences.”
In the expectant darkness, Conway’s thoughts arced across centuries. Dimly, as through fog, he saw a woman. Children. They smiled, recognizing him.
Weak, unsure images. He loved them, and didn’t think he knew them any more.