by Don McQuinn
“We can’t do anything about it.” Sylah was exasperated by Lanta’s persistence. “Once Windband’s beaten, Odeel will come after us. I marked her. Our struggle is mortal.”
…having borne, what Flower remains as before?
Lanta said, “Our struggle is not with the good and innocent of Church.” Probing inside her robe, she felt the True Stone on its golden chain. It seemed to vibrate in her grasp. A bitter image of Sylah surrendering the infant Jessak crawled across her inner vision. Dismissing that, she called to the Opal leader, demanding he come forward with his men. With her hand still on the True Stone, she looked up at the broken-nosed warrior monk. “Tiger brotherhood is sworn to Church, not to the person of Sister Mother. How stands Opal?”
The man frowned uneasily. Behind him, his companions were silent as the night. The man cleared his throat. “Opal answers to no Healer, small priestess. We…”
“We bluster.” Lanta’s stinging interruption shocked the monk into openmouthed wonder. She rushed on, firmer than ever. “I will know your answer and your soul now. Consider what you are. Speak. Commit yourself now. For eternity.”
Straining, gaze rigorously avoiding the Harvester, the monk blurted. “Church, Sister. Opal lives and dies for Church. Not for any human.”
“Good. Then you are witnesses. To save Church, not to serve the Harvester, a Violet Priestess, companion to the Flower, does this.” Lanta withdrew the talisman. Extending the closed hand to the Harvester, she opened it dramatically, revealing the amethyst in her palm. “Church Home will survive. The Flower has made it so.”
Even in the guttering light of the torch, the Harvester’s swift blanch was shocking. She snatched the True Stone from Lanta, held it up to inspect the symbol in its depths. Clutching it to her breast, she closed her eyes tight, face a scrawl of pain. She keened a note so high the dogs shook their heads until their ears slapped like wet leather. She stopped bent over, chin almost touching her knees. She spoke, the words muffled, cavernous. “You mock. Burden my every moment by handing me Jessak of the accursed name. Give me the True Stone knowing its gift will cheapen my triumph. All will say Lanta, the Flower’s friend, saved Church Home in her name.”
Unsteadily, she rose. An Opal brother trotted to her side. She braced herself with a hand on his shoulder. Strength flowed back into her features, restored the familiar steely hardness. “You want Church to know I’m beholden to you. So be it. Understand, however, that Sylah was right; after Windband, you. All of you. I—Church—will pursue you to the death. Hear my promise.”
No one around the torch spoke long after the rumble of departing hooves marked the Harvester’s leaving.
The wolf resumed his song.
Nalatan pointed at the ridge. A wavering glow marked an advancing torch, still hidden from direct view. Tate said, “They finally worked up the guts to attack,” and loaded a round into the boop.
Conway did the same. Everyone eased away from the light.
The glow enlarged. A flame appeared. Sylah called to Nalatan. “Only one person?”
“Or something to distract us.”
Conway said, “Be back soon,” and called his dogs to him. Scratching noises from the brush faded quickly, and the group heard no more from them.
It was Orion bearing the torch. The group watched him, remaining in covered positions. Orion, unperturbed, put his light down beside the sputtering old torch. “I’m alone,” he announced to the surrounding silence. “I had a long talk with the most important men of Starwatch. You won’t be disturbed.”
He cringed at the ghostly materialization of Mikka in front of him, and failed to completely smother a yelp of alarm when he inched backward and ran into Karda. Conway stepped out of the darkness, wipe slung over his shoulder. “No one following him,” he said, and sat down beside Orion. The others returned to their places.
Orion’s eyes widened. “The Harvester. Gone?”
Sylah told him what had happened, and Lanta told everyone of finding the jewel. Sylah ended by saying, “Nothing could have meant so much to Lanta. My heart can’t hold enough love and appreciation—and sorrow—for all my friends have endured.” Taking Lanta’s hand, Sylah looked around the circle at her companions. On seeing how Conway looked only at Lanta, she ached to tell him she understood the pain he shared with the small Seer. Still, Sylah knew that any word, any hint, would be unwelcome intrusion. She could only hope.
Orion said, “What I’ve heard, what I’ve seen, is what brings me to you.” He coughed nervously, addressed Sylah. “In the time of the Teachers, Starwatch was the most favored of tribes.”
Tate groaned.
Wincing guiltily, Orion went on. “We prided ourselves on the equality of our society. Starwatch hated fighting, compromised when possible, was merciful in victory. We offered asylum to the oppressed of other tribes. Legend says Starwatch absorbed the beaten remnants of whole groups on occasion, making them part of Starwatch itself. Still, the pressure of constant warfare demanded a haven. Our siah brought us here, to the Dry, taught us how to irrigate, how to use this land. Church Home existed before we arrived here. As soon as we did, however, we aligned with her. Nalatan told you we supplied the first brotherhood defenders. Not even he knows that many of our women were Teachers.”
Sylah and Lanta made three-signs. Confessed association with Teachers, even after so many generations, was suicidally bold.
Orion said, “As the purge of Teachers swept the world, the men of Starwatch failed. There were betrayals.” He drew himself erect. “No Starwatch man participated in the exterminations, though. Not one. Starwatch actually hid a small group of Teachers. For years. Then they were betrayed. No one knows how, but the tale tells us that the men of Starwatch decided the tribe couldn’t challenge the winds of the times. The Teachers fled to the hills. Only one man fought for them. He was killed. One Teacher secretly passed on relics to our senior legender. As she died, she told him someone would come for them. Starwatch legenders have waited since then. We—I—hold the relics in sacred trust. Not even the chief knows. The senior legender passes them on.” He hesitated. “That was to have been Canis Minor. Someday.”
Sylah said, “What are they? Where?” The voice was in her mind, ecstatic, laughing.
Orion held up a hand. “Few know how cruel the purge was. To avoid suspicion after sheltering Teachers, Starwatch changed. We treated our women as other tribes did. We became warriors for war’s sake. The senior legender has always known the truth. None has ever fought for a return to the right ways. Until now. The wrong path has cost me the one I loved most. My people will change. I must see to it.”
“The relics,” Sylah jittered with impatience. “Tell me, please. Please. The relics.”
Orion reached inside his vest, took out a rectangular leather packet bound with a stained, frayed cord. As he opened it, he said, “The Teacher said the one who came would bring a spring of rebirth to the world.”
Sylah bit her fingers in a frenzy of suspense. The voice was pure happiness now, golden song, a simple melody of joy.
The packet held a folded, tattered sheet of paper and a polished steel object. The latter was as long as a man’s forearm and hand, and looked like a fork with three long, unequal prongs. The central prong was longest. The polished wooden handle was only slightly larger in diameter than the metal fingers.
Orion unfolded the paper. Lanta squealed, retreated fast enough to stagger Conway in passing. She made a three-sign, then turned her back.
Sylah was transfixed. She reached to touch the paper, now revealed as a multicolored square. “Writing.” She gave the word the power of holiness. “The Teachers owned writing. And numbers. See? There. And there. And here. Everywhere! Words. Numbers. Sacred things, all over. Oh, Teachers.” Her voice broke. Reverently, she made her three-sign, then went to Lanta. “Don’t be afraid. No one can hurt us. Only our friends know we’re looking at paper from the ancient times. It’s marvelous. Generations ago, a Teacher held these things. Read them. S
hared them with other Teachers.”
Orion carefully refolded the paper, replaced it. He closed the packet.
Conway sidled to Tate’s side. “You saw?”
She nodded. “A one-to-fifty-thou satellite tac shot on resinated weatherproof paper. Computer-enhanced colorization and lasered contour lines. Somebody used it a lot; handwritten compass azimuths, some ranges from known points. The print legend identifies processing unit, issuing unit, tac headquarters ID, and security classification. The problem is, there’s no way to locate the ground in the shot without reference data. Did you see any?”
“No. And I can’t figure out what the weird-looking trident’s all about, either.”
Tate nodded. “Look at Sylah. The word is beatific, old buddy. What d’you bet we’re looking for the hills in that tac map tomorrow morning?”
“No bets. You ready?”
She surprised him by turning to look for Nalatan before answering. When she faced him again, her word beatific repeated itself in Conway’s mind, and he thought how wonderful it was that someone so terribly abused could continue to harbor so much love. He heard her say she was as ready as she’d ever be. He smiled automatically, responding as he knew he must.
His thoughts had gone to Lanta. He knew they always would. Her back was to him still.
Chapter 27
Sylah hovered fretfully behind Tate and Conway. Tate held the photo map. Sylah peered over Tate’s shoulder. Unable to stand the suspense, she clutched her shoulder. “Is this the place? It has to be. We’re close, aren’t we?”
Tate turned. Sylah was haggard, her eyes red. Tension pinched her features, aged her.
Tate nodded briefly. “I’m pretty sure. We’re two days’ fast ride from Starwatch; Orion said that’s the legendary distance to where the Teachers said they lived. The major points look right.” She pointed. “There’s that mountain, with the saddle, and this one over here, with the hump. I don’t know where your Door is, but we’re right here.” She put her finger on the map. Beside her, Conway nodded agreement.
Sylah made a face. “Now that you’ve told me what the paper is, it frightens me as much as it did Lanta. Why do those black lines tie up the land? Why those bright colors? Who can know how the world looks from the sky, from the Land Above?”
Tate said, “A gift from the Teachers can’t be bad.”
“What of the metal thing? I don’t understand that, either.” Her sidelong look at Tate and Conway challenged. She turned away quickly, however, ashamed of herself. Exhaustion was affecting her. What had started out as delight about the relics was becoming suspicion. Appreciation for her friends was giving way to criticism, eagerness souring to impatience.
The feeling of the Door was overwhelming. The voice was constant. No words. The same lilting music. When she managed to doze, she woke with a start, the inane happiness jangling in her head.
The thought of madness was a leering demon’s face peeking at her from behind the musical notes.
She wanted to throw back her head and scream into the silent, disinterested hills. Why bring her so far, claim lives, only to shatter her mind?
Movement drew her eye. Karda’s head rose, searching.
Nalatan wheeled his horse, trotted back the way they’d come. He dismounted, scrambled up a slope. Avoiding the skyline, he disappeared into a jumble of rocks. Coming back out, he sprinted to his horse, galloped to the others. “Nomads. Three, reading our tracks. Left at a run.”
Sylah said, “Then there’s no trouble?”
Patiently, Nalatan explained. “Orion said this is forbidden country. Windband wouldn’t be sniffing around, if they weren’t looking for something important. They saw the tracks of five riders and two dogs. They’re after help.”
Too sharply, Sylah said, “You can’t be sure there are others.”
“Yes, I can. They carry no supplies, have no pack animal. That means support somewhere close.”
Sylah heeled Copper ahead. Such needless argument. Exactly what she had to avoid. She wished she had the courage to apologize.
Lanta caught up. “We all understand,” she said, and smiled at Sylah’s surprise. “Everyone knows we’re close. It’s very hard on you.”
Before Sylah could do anything about it, all the stress and fear coalesced into a solid misery that blocked her throat, and the tears came. She slumped forward, unable to stop crying.
Lanta offered her shoulder to lean on. Neither woman gave attention to where they were going. The trio in the rear were preoccupied with the back trail. All ignored Sylah and Lanta’s drift off the main valley floor and into a narrow canyon. When Sylah looked up, she realized they’d wandered through a narrow gap leading off the main valley and into a steep sided dead-end valley shaped like a funnel.
Embarrassed, flustered, Sylah reined up abruptly. Startled, Copper jerked sideways. The move unseated Sylah. She grabbed Lanta, took her with her. Lanta’s horse bucked wildly. Her medical kit flew forward.
It struck a large rock, tumbled forward and sideways. It burst into flame.
Granite shards crackled and leapt from the boulder with a huge sound of bacon frying. Blue-gray smoke coiled up from a glassed dimple in the surface. The stink of burned earth stung noses and eyes. The leather bag, on the ground, belched smoke and flame from the hole in its side.
The rear group hurried to the priestesses. Tate arrived first. Even as she busied herself helping the shaken, but uninjured women, she absorbed the evidence before her. The men came, skidded to a stop. “What happened?” Nalatan asked. “Why are we in here?”
“An accident.” Tate grabbed Conway’s arm, dragged him off his horse and aside. “Look at that bag. The rock damage. I don’t believe it. It can’t be.”
Sylah was transformed. Assured. “A dragon tried to kill us. Lanta and me. Smell its breath.”
Nalatan made a three-sign.
Tate unfolded the tac map again. “Look, see this circle? That’s right here. Now here, on the edge of the map. Numbers. Azimuths, Matt. Bearings. Look at the first one. Look where it takes you. Up to that boulder there, see? Line of sight, right to the burn on the rock.”
Dreamily, Sylah waved, the gesture sweeping the valley. “It’s the place of the prophecy. I’ve come to the Door.”
Conway said, “Laser. Right through the leather, the contents, into the rock. Impossible.” He walked forward. Stopped, frozen. Several yards to the left of the smoking medical bag stood a tall clump of sagebrush. The old, twisted trunks rose amid scattered bones. A human skull grinned at Conway. Litter around the skeleton included smaller bones as well as a rusted shovel, a sword, and a pile of flint arrowheads.
Beside him, Nalatan said, “Old, old bones, Matt Conway.” His voice wavered with awe. “Not just man. Coyote. Bird; buzzard, I think. A bad place. The legend is true.”
Conway inched forward. Far away, high at the end of the valley, something moved. In a hushed voice, Conway said to Tate, “See that? Up there, past the shelf, to the left?” He pitched a small pebble forward. It arched to the ground, bounced about. Nothing happened. Frowning uncertainly he picked up a large rock and threw it high and hard.
Lanta screamed as something struck howling splinters from the flying rock’s surface. When it landed, the blasted side facing the group fumed. They stood in silent amazement as the rock crackled and popped as if talking to itself.
“Laser, for sure.” Tate said.
“Automatic. Sensor-controlled. Who?” Conway was mystified.
“A dragon.” Sylah was serenely unconcerned. “‘Kill with the blink of an eye,’ the legend says. The Iris Abbess didn’t believe. She was mistaken. Everything else is as she said. Up there, somewhere, is the Door. Come.”
She strode past Conway with a smile on her face.
He grabbed her, pulled her back just as the thing on the hillside moved.
Sylah struggled momentarily, then stopped. When she looked at Conway, he sensed a difference in her. He let go slowly. She blushed. There was a to
uch of mischief in her smile. “That was silly. Sometimes faith wants a dose of clear thinking, doesn’t it?” She settled down with her back to the cooler wall of the draw. Legs comfortably folded, hands upturned in her lap, she repeated the chant that drew trance around her, submerged her in its detachment.
The foolish, repetitious music fought her, pushed at her will. At last, it faded. The return to slowed, normal body rhythms was delicious. She softened, relaxed.
She was alone in her grove, with the sun streaming through the magnificently tall cool-shading trees.
Her mind was hers again.
The valley wasn’t impregnable. The Flower must open the Door. There was an answer. She hadn’t discovered it because she was reacting, not thinking.
The Teacher left the relics with Starwatch to be used. The thing Conway and Tate alternately called a tac map and a photo map brought them to this place. Still, neither of them was the Flower; they could see, but not understand.
The power of the Door demanded faith. Answers were provided, not guarantees. To open the Door, one risked life itself. The Teachers provided the key, but only those with courage and understanding could triumph.
They key.
Sylah woke instantly, bolted to her feet. “The key!”
Her friends stared, fearing another slide into mental disarray. She flashed them what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Taking the three-pronged device from one of the deep pockets in her robe, she flourished it high. “The magic of the Teachers tells me this is the place of the Door. We don’t understand all, but we will. With this. The key to the Door.”
Tate was almost patronizing. “Maybe. First where is the Door?”
Sylah was blissfully unconcerned. “I know. I just don’t know I know.” She laughed, wishing they could join in the gaiety, the carefree certainty, of success. “The answers exist. I’m too foolish to see them. They’ll come.”
Karda and Mikka growled, trotted together to the mouth of the canyon. Everyone fell silent. Nalatan closed his eyes, listened. “Many horses, ridden hard.”