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

by Don McQuinn

  Sweating, Orion struggled for courage. “Not for harming Dodoy. He came to us. He said Sylah had plans.” He shrugged, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. We wanted to believe him. You needn’t take my word for anything. He’s been boasting all over the village how he exposed you. Ask anyone. He’s only bound because he refused to return to you.”

  Tate sneered, “You’re the only Starwatch here. You’d do anything to save your life.”

  “The best of me already lies dead. The son I never had. Send me to join him, if it pleases you. I lied to him. To myself. To Sylah. I’m done with lies. Believe about the boy or not.”

  The Harvester’s voice brought Tate back to her. “The riders Orion sent for me talked of nothing but this boy’s revelations. Tonight the chief and the elders all said the same thing.” The older woman leaned out toward Dodoy, predatory. “You are nothing, boy. Less than dust. But your lies complicate my life. I want an end to it. The Black Lightning will forgive you any sin. I give you one chance. Disappoint me, and I’m your enemy until you die.”

  Tate pushed the wipe forward like a spear. “Stop it. You’re frightening him.”

  The Harvester remained fixed on Dodoy. “Be quiet, woman. You won’t kill me. Certainly not before you know the truth. After that, you won’t because we must talk. So speak, boy. One chance.”

  The wipe sagged in Tate’s grasp. She turned to Dodoy. He refused to look at her. She dropped to her knees, put her hands on his shoulders.

  Dodoy was aware of Tate only as a presence. The Harvester was in his mind, inside his mind. Images snatched him to the past, blurred his vision. The captain’s woman. Her eyes bored the same as the Harvester’s.

  But the captain’s woman mixed up pain and pleasure in her head. Dodoy looked into the implacable depths of the Harvester’s stare and saw utter disinterest. No love of pain lived there. No lust for pleasure.

  He had no words for any of it, couldn’t have articulated what he saw at any cost. He did, however, understand intuitively he was confronted by consummate ruthlessness, and his inner being swarmed to it as to a god.

  Anticipation tingled on the flesh of his arms, his legs, his back. The Harvester understood his need to belong.

  Softly, Tate said, “Why, Dodoy? I love you.”

  “No one loves me, because I’m little and ugly.”

  “So you lied to me. About me. To Orion. Everyone.” Tate’s bewildered forgiveness forced the others to turn away. Except the Harvester; she studied. Dodoy saw that, and began to shake. “Yes. I wanted… someone to want me. You all hate me. I hate you. You don’t love me. You lied, too.”

  “I was lying to myself. I made myself believe you’d lead me to people who look like me. Like me on the outside. You see the mistake? I didn’t look inside, where a person’s truth is. I was looking too hard. Someday I may find what I wanted. I won’t be blinded by it again. I learned. No one loves someone because they want to. Or should. They just do. You understand that?” She tilted his head with a finger under his chin, made him look at her. “I changed. You helped me. I think you changed, too. Just a bit? When we sat close together, and I held you tight—weren’t those good times?”

  “Maybe.” True pain moved the thin, averted face.

  Tate took his chin in her hand, pulled his head around. “Oh, Dodoy. Poor baby. What am I going to do with you?”

  “Leave him to me.” Orion stepped forward.

  Dodoy recoiled, sought the Harvester. She smiled quiet satisfaction, looked deep into his eyes. Revelation swept Dodoy. The Harvester knew. He would have a family, a tribe, a place. And all the while, he would serve the Harvester. She was giving him a reason to belong. He wanted to rush to her. But that would reveal the secret. Their secret.

  Tate brought the wipe to bear on the legender. Orion blanched, held his ground. “As a second chance for both of us. We both have many things to atone for, many things to learn about ourselves. Who knows? Dodoy may be our next legender. He may be home at last.”

  The Harvester smiled at Dodoy.

  Blinking back tears, Tate steeled herself. If Dodoy was willing to trust Orion, how could she deny him? Yet how could she be certain she was finally thinking only of the boy’s best interests? Starwatch and Orion offered no more than a stable life. That was far more than she could provide. But there were dangers. “I don’t know, Dodoy. Some bad things happened here. These people almost killed us.”

  Orion said, “The worst mistakes were mine. Dodoy and I need each other. We can forgive each other, support each other. He’ll become the man Canis Minor—and I—should have been.” He sent an edgy glance at the Harvester, but continued firmly. “A leader who speaks of good, but forgets that goodness concerns the least, not the greatest, of us has much to atone for.”

  The Harvester’s gaze remained unswervingly on Dodoy.

  Quick, antenna-like fingers meshing, unmeshing, racing the buttons of his leather vest, Dodoy turned toward Tate. Shyly, whispering, he said, “Everything’s changed. I think I should stay. Can I? I’ll be good.”

  Tate smiled, swallowing fiery hurt. “Only if you tell me you’ll miss me. I have to be bribed.” Dodoy threw his arms around her neck. Over the boy’s head, she looked at Orion. In that repentant, hopeful face she saw herself. Orion feared, but it was the apprehension of one recognizing responsibility. Tate wanted to tell him she sympathized. They’d both lost. And won.

  When Dodoy stepped back, pretending to look at the ground, he cut his eyes to the Harvester. She looked different. Pleased. Tate was smiling and crying at the same time. She kissed him on the forehead.

  Not until he was walking toward Orion did Dodoy suddenly feel weak, unsure. He didn’t turn to wave good-bye. Orion put a hand on his shoulder. Straining to match the taller man’s stride, Dodoy walked off into his new life.

  Tate stumbled into Nalatan’s embrace. Her sobs rocked them both.

  Feigning a loose stirrup, the Harvester bent away. Silent laughter twitched her shoulders.

  Watching, Lanta muttered under her breath. “One will sacrifice most, confront the unbearable that the Flower may triumph.” The words left a dusty, rotten taste in her mouth.

  Chapter 26

  The long, wavering wolf howl bothered the horses of the Opal brotherhood. They shifted nervously, stamping, whickering to each other in the darkness. The people gathered around a large mound of glowing coals paid no attention.

  Tate stood tall, shunning Nalatan’s offered support. Her cheekbones, tear-stained, gleamed like polished arcs of night itself. Still, her features were proud, stern, the skin hard-looking, as if Sylah’s stitches under the clean new bandage stretched it tight.

  Her mourning of Tanno was that of one warrior for another, a respectful taking of leave, and a sorrow for lost comradeship.

  In the immediate background, the Harvester stood alone, either uncaring or unaware that Conway’s wipe was constantly—if discreetly—trained on her. Momentary concern threw a shadow across her impatience as a drumbeat touched the darkness. Steady, solemn, it came with the insistence of heartbeat. A red glow limned the sky above the ridge between the group and the village.

  Turning, Tate noticed the light. “Starwatch burns their fallen,” she said. There was no sympathy.

  The Harvester said, “They burn men. A holy rite.”

  “Tanno was worth more than both of them. Canis Minor killed her. I killed him. A poor bargain.”

  Sylah saw Conway and Nalatan share quick, conspiratorial smiles that mingled pride and a warrior’s dark amusement. She gave no sign of her awareness, afraid she might offend. It was one of the things she envied Tate. Not the hard edge of her vindictiveness, but her inclusion in the most masculine of societies. Sylah knew in her heart that no woman ever loved a man more than she loved Clas na Bale. Yet Donnacee Tate, who didn’t know him well at all, understood things about him that his wife could never comprehend. When Tate was her normal self, she was entertaining, considerate, helpful. A friend. Like Clas. When she was Black Li
ghtning, she was violent, somber, deadly. Like Clas.

  Sylah blushed, thankful for darkness; the truth was, she didn’t fear for Clas’ strength or his reckless courage. The irrational brute maleness of him thrilled her and she treasured it. The fear that never left her, that touched even their most intimate moments, was that those things must someday tear him from her life.

  Donnacee Tate and Nalatan would share intense depths of understanding, more than she could share with Clas. She envied them both. Pitied them.

  The Harvester said, “Priestess, are you with us? Your friends have retired. I spoke.”

  The remainder of the group was already sitting where Karda and Mikka watched over their equipment. Sylah walked away from Tate with the Harvester, joining the others in a circle that conformed to the nervous light of a nearly expended torch. Tate followed leadenly, took a place between Conway and Nalatan. She appeared unaware of her surroundings.

  “I didn’t hear,” Sylah answered the Harvester.

  “Obviously. I said I need help.”

  Sylah’s barking laugh was bitterly humorless. “From me? You’ve tried to kill me.”

  The Harvester waved dismissal. “We’ve already discussed the why of that. Now we must unite, or sacrifice Church to our ambitions.”

  “I have no ambition. Not as you use the word.”

  “Can’t you understand? I speak of the destruction of Church Home, the death or enslavement of all who reside there. You dither about definitions. Don’t interrupt. Listen. I rule in Church Home. All have agreed.” The silvered head turned away. A hand plucked at the opposite sleeve. “Almost all. Violet refuses me. Because of that, the Tiger brotherhood debates its loyalty. They are sworn to Church Home. I cannot trust them. I have only Opal and my few Kossiars to depend on.”

  Nalatan rose. His words scraped like metal on rock. “My brotherhood is no more. Your agents poisoned them when we said we’d never support your greed. Tiger and Opal should desert you.”

  The Harvester refused to react. She addressed Sylah. “Windband comes. Their patrols press ours closer to Church Home every day. I request a truce between us. Violet will acknowledge me if the Flower asks. More, Violet knows, as we all do, that Lanta should be the Seer of Seers. With the support of Opal, Tiger, and the lightning weapons, Church Home’s impregnability continues.”

  Sylah said, “My fate is the Door. You split Church. If others had rejected you, as I do, Windband would be a source of converts, not a knife in our hearts.”

  Instead of the anger Sylah fully expected, the Harvester looked at her with speculation that slowly melted to musing regard. Sylah was sure she saw a glimmer of something else; sadness, the look of someone momentarily caught in a moment of reminiscence and regret. The entire manner was totally unlike the Harvester, and seeing it made Sylah very uncomfortable. She said, “You have nothing to say?”

  Musing, the Harvester said, “Oh, I have much left to say, young Chosen. Oh, yes.” She stirred, shaking free of whatever odd mental lapse had seized her, and continued with her normal sharp precision. “You speak of your fate. You know nothing of fate. Yours was decided the night slaves tumbled you out of a basket in front of my sister. Filthy. Mute.” Suddenly vicious, the older woman pitched forward threateningly. Sylah’s companions shifted, alarmed, but the Harvester went on, insulated from everything except her own thoughts and Sylah’s presence. “Yes, Sylah. They dumped you on the floor like so much foul garbage. And my sister chose you.”

  “My Abbess? The Iris Abbess? She chose me?”

  “No one else would.” The Harvester sniffed, leaned back. A sticky, mocking smile bent her lips. She simpered. “You still hear her, don’t you, sweet Sylah? The insistent voice that drives you to search for the Door, that braces you when all seems lost, that scolds when will falters? You think that’s fate? It’s the Abbess, you fool. Her voice, her determination, her will, all carefully planted in your mind through techniques she developed herself. Un-Church techniques. She had her confidential meetings with our dear, dead Sister Mother and that crack-brained hag who called herself the Seer of Seers. Whatever secrets they shared died with them. What should matter to you is that you never had a fate. You’re a Chosen, a property. Worse. Your mind is the product of another’s thoughts. You’re a thing.”

  “No.” The word drained all of Sylah’s strength. She drew back, slumped into herself.

  Lanta leaped to embrace Sylah, shielding her with her body. To address the Harvester she had to turn awkwardly, talk over her own shoulder. Like a small, spitting cat, she said, “You’re the fool, old woman. Blinded by greed. Sylah was delivered to the Iris Abbess. The Abbess understood. She was loving enough, holy enough, to prepare her. She wanted the Flower. For Church. You want only power. Sylah is more complete than any of us. She has her own life, as well as the wisdom of others, lovingly poured into her.”

  Looking past Lanta’s scowl into Sylah’s wide, shocked eyes, the Harvester said, “Yes, Sylah, what of your life? Are you so pure? The secret—is there no idea in your mind of how it may benefit yourself? ‘I will not be owned.’ Oh, yes, Sylah; I know about your precious motto. And much, much more. Try not to look so innocently scandalized. Are you willing to swear to your friends, to the One In All, that you’ll share the secret fully, no reservations? Dare you swear, Sylah? Dare you?” She thrust her face closer, and Lanta hugged Sylah all the tighter.

  Carefully, as if her bones were brittle, her muscles flaccid, Sylah disengaged herself from Lanta. Shattered by the Harvester’s claims, terrified by the challenge of confessing the devouring self-doubt about her own incorruptibility, she rose. She took a step backward. Lanta was speaking to her, soothing, coaxing, yet the only words she heard came from her memory. Lanta had said, “Your will is not your destiny,” and now the Harvester was saying that even that destiny wasn’t of her own making.

  She felt cold, damp. She thought she must be sick.

  Lanta shook her. Startled, Sylah looked down. The elfin face turned up to hers pleaded. “Sylah, listen to me. The Harvester left out the most important fact. The prophecy of the Flower has existed for generations. Priestesses in hundreds have been born, lived passed. None was the Flower. You were born to be named so. Try to find the Door. Search with all your heart and strength. Lead us. If you do that, and fail, your memory will still be honored and lovingly mourned for all time. Listen to this treachery, surrender to sly argument and weakness, and Sylah will be a name to curse, a title to put to the unspeakable.” The pleading expression disappeared. Firmly, Lanta said, “I say no more. Decide. You are the Flower, or you are not.”

  Noise flooded Sylah’s head. Low, heavy, it was the drum of distant storm waves hammering unyielding cliffs. Yet there was no fear. The horror of the Harvester’s revelations was gone. Sylah wondered if that reaction was something else the Iris Abbess put in her mind, then decided she didn’t care. In fact, she didn’t care about any of it. Lanta was right. The Iris Abbess hadn’t manipulated her, she’d perfected her. What difference did it make, in either case?

  The Flower was chosen.

  The Flower is Sylah.

  Focusing her gaze deep, past the Harvester’s eyes, Sylah said, “I swear I am she. I will succeed. I must, whatever the cost. Church needs the Flower, and the Door will only open to the Flower. I do what I must.”

  Turning away from the weight of Sylah’s stare, the Harvester spoke in a tight, straining voice. “Church Home may fall. If she does, for the first time in history, unbelievers will walk our halls. Our sisters will be slaughtered in sanctuary. I will die there, if I must.”

  “As the One in All wills.”

  The Harvester faced Conway and Tate. “I am betrayed by my own. I implore the kindness of strangers.”

  Neither bothered to check with each other. Both refused her with a head shake. Conway added, “I’d fight you as readily as I’d fight Moonpriest.”

  Startling white teeth flashed in the Harvester’s harsh laughter. “You’ll get fighting. Windban
d will range the Dry, search every crevice, every peak. Church Home offers shelter, defense, survival. Outside our walls, Moonpriest will pursue you as cold bloodedly as his snakes stalk gophers. He can keep us penned up with a fraction of his men. If Tiger brotherhood deserts, I fear he’ll actually overrun us. Whatever numbers he can spare will seek you. And the Flower. With or without the secret of the Door, she is the focus of hope. He cannot tolerate her alive.”

  Lanta turned away from the silence that followed. She watched heat rise from Tanno’s gray-cloaked pyre. Sinuous waves twisted darkness, gave eerie movement to the bushes on the mound’s far side. Burned free of leaves, the scorched, skeletal branches stretched upward in supplication.

  Sacrifices.

  Tanno, dead. Dodoy, given up.

  Conway, Tate; rejecting Church Home.

  Violet, Tiger brotherhood; willing to abandon Church, rather than consent to the Harvester.

  Lanta, who should be the Seer of Seers.

  The True Stone.

  One will sacrifice most.

  Even the most wicked one, she who suborns the Church herself, must be appeased, if necessary, so the Flower may succeed.

  Lanta faced the group again. For a long moment, she studied Conway, the line of his jaw, the way his hair curled at his collar. When he stirred, she looked away quickly, sought the Harvester. The imperious eyes met hers. Lanta said, “If Violet joined you, Tiger would defend Church Home?”

  Speculation leavened the Harvester’s bleakness. She cocked her head to the side, suddenly alert. “Yes.”

  Like an animal running an unfamiliar trail, Lanta felt the tug of a snare’s set-string in that single word, knowing there was no turning back. She tried, hopelessly. “Without the Flower, is there anything, any other way, to attract Violet?”

  Sylah interrupted. “Why pursue this with this murderess?”

  Lanta forced herself to look only at the Harvester. “Our sisters must not die. If Church Home demands Windband’s full attention, the Flower will be free to discover the Door.”