Witch: The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Don McQuinn

  Or her. Clas’ image persisted at the edge of her vision.

  Conway came next. Sylah remembered his original garb, the peculiar, splotched design on unbelievably tough, weather-resistant cloth. All of the strangers wore identical clothes, then. Now Conway dressed more like a Dog horseman than anything else, although not so gaudy as those dashing warriors.

  Tate sat beside him. As always, she set her own style. Tonight she was in a black, close-fitting blouse, with a black jacket featuring silver buttons. She also wore obsidian-and-silver earrings. Her trousers, with their finger-wide white stripe up the side of each leg, were hidden under the table, but Sylah knew they, too, were form-fitting. No man in the castle was unaware of Donnacee Tate.

  Not that any would trouble her. Tate’s own martial prowess was enough to discourage the most unbalanced of aggressive suitors. Nalatan’s ferocious skills were legend.

  Sylah reminded herself that tonight was supposed to provide good food in good company. The concept drew a wry smile. No matter what entertainment Bernhardt, Carter, and Anspach had planned, there was amusement aplenty in store, Sylah thought. Jaleeta was on full display for the first time. Neela had prepared her well, a nervous hen with her chick. What made that particularly comical was that Neela was the elder by perhaps two years.

  Oddly, Jaleeta looked the older. Not aged, by any means, but accomplished. Smooth. Calculating. Her eyes were sword points, bright and undeterred.

  Servants brought trays of food. Musicians filed in. The latter took up places on a small raised stage to the right. The servants distributed crockery bowls full of greens and the last of summer’s tomatoes. Pottery bottles placed on the tables held herbed oils and vinegars. In moments, the room was thick with their redolence. Shortly afterward, heavy plates were distributed, each laden with slices of baked ham. Vegetables—corn, beans, potatoes—circulated in serving bowls. The buzz of relaxed dining struck Sylah as another major difference between this gathering and Altanar’s court. In those times, more food was wasted than consumed; excess was quality. Now, with shortages facing his people, Gan insisted the castle’s regime consist of adequate rations and nothing more. Also, in the past, the music of the dining room was metallic, horns that brayed and piercing bells, rather than the melodic strings and subtle small drum rhythms of the present. People in Altanar’s court forced laughter, admiration, awe. The air trembled with falsity. This was communion, people immersed in fellowship.

  Suddenly, like a doe sensing a hunter, Sylah stiffened, head up, alert. Logic told her there was nothing untoward for her to see in the midst of conviviality, nor anything to scent through the richness of food and drink.

  Movement at the edge of her vision drew her attention. The Violet Abbess rose from her seat across the room. The exposed green lining of her thrown-back hood gleamed jewel-bright in the fireglow. As if aware of Sylah’s scrutiny, the woman stopped. Standing behind the unconcerned diners at table in front of her, she turned slowly, deliberately, and looked directly into Sylah’s eyes.

  In that moment, Sylah was aware of no one else in the room. She lost the thrum of conversation, the melody of instruments. There was only the hostile presence of the Violet Abbess.

  Chapter 29

  Pulling her hood over her head, the Violet Abbess retreated into its enfolding fastness. From a face transformed to pale, shaded malevolence, her gaze continued to burn across the room. It pinioned Sylah, held her as the jewel eyes of a snake hold a bird.

  Anger released Sylah, however, a warming flood that quickly became a liberating torrent. She caught the look of the other woman fairly, and held it with confidence. The message from the Violet Abbess demanded submission, one will to another. This was irreversible confrontation, beyond theology. Sylah smiled mockingly into that arrogance.

  The Violet Abbess broke. Resuming her original course, she proceeded as if nothing had happened.

  Pleased with her small victory, Sylah settled back in her chair. A touch on her forearm brought her completely back to reality. Lanta’s whisper trembled. “I saw. That look. She’s never been so obvious. Church has already cast us out. We haven’t challenged that, or confronted it. Why show such hatred so clearly now, of all times?”

  “The very question,” Sylah answered absently, automatically. She was in the grip of a growing storm of feelings. Startling. At the same time, she was exhilarated. With each beat of her heart, she realized a transformation was taking place. Her mind worked with awesome clarity. What she saw in her inner vision was so cold-bloodedly precise, so analytical, that it literally repelled her.

  Images.

  Tate always swung her left arm away from her body before lunging forward with her murdat.

  Gan always made an almost-imperceptible nod before giving his dogs a command.

  The Violet Abbess always blinked twice immediately after making a statement she knew to be false. She licked her lips before uttering words intended to injure.

  Why now? What use were those observations?

  What was the unknown, irresistible force building in her? It had a purpose; she sensed that. If it had a goal, what was it?

  Strength. Will. Cunning.

  Qualities, not sensations. Yet she felt them within herself, thought this must be how the earth felt the stirring of seeds. She looked at her hands. They carried healing, repaired the damaged. Sylah, War Healer, stood for life. Her enemy was death.

  Once again, an image. Her beloved Clas. Different; wrenching. The feral look of him when he surrendered himself to the mistress she hated so fiercely, yet dared not challenge. She saw him with his eyes widened, his jaw set. Thick muscles drew smooth, like steel bending. Impassioned. She felt that passion, felt his terrible fear and joyful exultation, as he embraced his demonic lover.

  Sylah finally understood. All her senses, every part of her, understood. The silent, dire challenge posed by the Violet Abbess broke Sylah through all normal levels of comprehension.

  Sylah knew suffering and struggle, knew the magic that floods the heart of one who escapes maximum peril. This new sensation was entirely different. This was embracing existence in a manner beyond the understanding of those who only fear death and never tempt it. The stakes soared immeasurably higher than life against life. The victor in this battle would define good and evil for generations to come. It was overwhelming responsibility. Yet Sylah exulted. Her whole being sang with glad, living anticipation.

  As Clas must sing, when he faced his enemy.

  Sylah looked to Tate, her oft-envied friend, who knew that wild sense of mortality. Her mind cleared itself of that distraction quickly, bringing her focus back to the one who generated these thoughts.

  The Violet Abbess.

  Here began the real war to control Church. Now.

  At risk were the souls of people unknown and uncountable, but people who deserved a faith that taught hope, not obligation. There could be no compromise. Sylah wondered if there could be mercy. Pity.

  The Apocalypse Testament. “The choice between defense of Church and the celebration of peace among men will test the souls of all who love Church. Church cannot and will not die, but better she be lost to men a hundred years than her love for all be forgotten for the blink of an eye.”

  Sylah resolved to never forget that admonition.

  Halting at the point where one table joined the other, the Violet Abbess wedged herself into a dim corner, her robe compounding the darkness there, rendering her almost invisible. Lanta hissed like a small cat, then, “She’s going to make a scene, Sylah. What can she be planning?”

  Sylah shook her head. “I have a feeling I know. What puzzles me is her timing; you mentioned it yourself. When we first arrived in Ola, she was chewing her bit she was so anxious to confront us because we were cast out. We’ve been here quite long enough for her to declare the personal animosity we just saw. Why now, indeed? Look: what’s this all about?”

  Interrupting the final moments of dinner, Kate Bernhardt, Janet Carter, and Susan Anspach
ushered in two columns of Chosens. Sylah joined the other women in an involuntary exclamation of sheer delight. Then the room fell expectantly quiet. The girls swept in, exuding the almost angelic solemnity enabled only by the innocence of childhood. Full black robes hid their feet, drawn hoods enclosed all but the bright, excited faces. The tiny figures wore soft indoor slippers. Soundless, they floated magically past the thick, iron-banded doors, across the stone slab floor that suddenly seemed coarse and ugly.

  Forming a semicircle at the open end of the rectangle defined by the two longer tables, the twelve children waited. Susan Anspach stepped away from her two friends. In their robes, the adults looked huge beside the Chosens. Anspach cleared her throat. “Murdat. Friends. Since our sister, Rose Priestess Sylah, returned with the treasures of the Door, many have said that only evil can come from them. Others have said they’re useless. We, of the Iris Abbey, believe great good is within books. We believe learning is good.”

  Several people gasped audibly. Many more frowned, casting uncertain glances at Gan, who continued to watch inscrutably. Anspach continued. “What Healers do comes from learning. Is there one who objects to his or her life being saved? Those who build, or tan leather, or make steel are able to do so because they learn. Is it evil to live under a roof, wear shoes, cut firewood with a sharp axe? No one says so. Evil is the fault of people, not learning. By refusing to learn, we deny ever greater accomplishment to good people. If we deny such good, do we not encourage evil?”

  At that there were many clear objections. One man half rose, only to be jerked back to his seat by a clearly terrified woman next to him. Sylah recognized the couple as a Baron leftover from Altanar’s reign. There were several such nobles in Ola; many were considered less than completely trustworthy. The wife of the pair obviously feared having her husband included in that category. Sylah wondered if there were other reasons for the woman to worry.

  Anspach swayed, as if facing up to a wind. Sylah wanted to applaud her resolution when she continued. “The Iris Abbey wants to make learning available to all. We believe the Teachers hid their treasure for our Sylah, whom all acknowledge is the Flower, to discover when the world was ready. The time is now. To help you, Murdat, the first thing we suggest is that you decree the way we measure things. Uniformity of measurements will improve many things. It will improve the value of the books.” Another frightened, angry buzz moved through the gathering until Anspach held up a slim bar. “We suggest you call this length a ‘unit.’ It’s divided into twelve sub-units. If you do this, everything in the Three Territories can be measured in units. A man can tell you a wall is fifteen units high, and you know exactly what that means. We ask permission to demonstrate two advantages.”

  Gan nodded shortly. It was a troubled response, and Sylah winced at his faint frown. Her heart went out to him. He was being asked to contradict the laws and conventions of generations. He already permitted female children to violate those concepts by learning to read and write, and now Anspach was proposing something even more daring.

  Kingdoms—and kings—had been destroyed for far less.

  Anspach moved to the table and helped herself to one of the large serving bowls, now empty. She carried it to where the Chosens waited, and raised it for the diners to examine. “You all see this bowl. If you want one exactly the same size around, how do you tell the potter?”

  A man called out, “Anyone can do that. You just look at the first one and make another.”

  Another corrected him. “Not if you want the same size. You use string. Lay it around the top, cut it off where the ends touch. Give that to the potter. Another piece of string tells him how deep to make it. Even women can manage that.”

  Muscle bunched in Anspach’s jaw. “If the string doesn’t shrink. Or get broken. Or lost. But what if you want ten, twenty, a hundred potters to each make a pot exactly the same size? A piece of string for each? Perhaps. But watch how the Chosens do it.”

  From inside the robes, the children produced tablets, slabs of wood layered with wax. Sharp scribes served to mark the surface. In turn, each girl used the unit to carefully measure the diameter of the bowl. They calculated the circumference. Anspach carried the tablets to the table, displaying them. “For those who can read, observe: The Chosens spoke no word among themselves, yet each one writes the same numbers in the wax. The size of the mouth of the bowl is known in unit measurements. We can send that number anywhere in the Three Territories, and a potter with an identical unit bar will make a bowl with a mouth the same size.”

  The uncertain, angry grumble followed her progress along the table, moving with her as the sound of growing flood in a stream. Nevertheless, there was curiosity, too, and many of the audience were impressed. The ban on learning never eliminated intelligence, and there were agile minds in the crowd, speculating on the advantages of the proposal.

  A woman raised a timid hand as Anspach reached her. “They didn’t measure around. The Chosens. Only across. How can you know…?” She shrugged helplessly, straining to avoid looking at her husband’s glare.

  “Anyone can learn. Let me show you our second demonstration.” Enthused now, Anspach turned to her wards and clapped her hands. While Anspach hurried toward them, she whistled shrilly. A single Chosen walked awkwardly into the room, burdened with a large box in her arms. She put it on the floor. The girls reached into it and hauled out a motley lot of sticks and cord. They proceeded to build with the articles. The gathered diners rose. Some climbed on chairs. A few, perhaps overly appreciative of the beer served, pushed things aside to stand on the table amidst the crockery for a better view. In short order, the Chosens stepped back from a model suspension bridge.

  Leaving the children, advancing on Gan, Anspach boldly put her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward to talk directly at him. “Murdat, what happens to most of our bridges every spring?”

  “Happens? They wash away.”

  “This won’t. The ends rest on high ground. Nothing touches the water. Leclerc can build this, Murdat. Because the treasure of the Door tells us how. People can move things to market. Messengers can travel without waiting for water levels to fall. Think about the spring, Murdat. Windband will come from the south. No one thinks you can move swiftly to meet them. Leclerc can’t bridge the Bear Paw or the Deer or Shad rivers where they’re too wide, but he can bridge any of them somewhere. Mobility, Murdat.” Anspach backed away. As she did, Carter and Bernhardt moved forward to join her. Linking arms, they faced him. Anspach continued. “We believe you are Church’s best hope to survive the conflict to come. We work with Leclerc. We promise you power. We promise you loyalty. We offer you the full treasure of the Door. For a price. The Iris Abbey must become the new home of the Teachers.”

  Sylah was stunned. Emotions boiled through her mind, a stew of astonishment, resentment, confusion. Gratitude.

  If Gan rejected the proposal, the lives of the three women were dangerously jeopardized. All the change-resistant citizens of the Three Territories would consider them people without standing, less than Peddlers. Worse, no matter what Gan did, Sister Mother would never accept this insult. She would declare the strangers anathema. With the former Harvester now the Sister Mother, that was a death sentence.

  Sylah also realized that the strangers knew exactly what they were doing. They’d kept their intentions totally secret because they didn’t want Sylah or Lanta or their friends involved. It was an incredible risk, heroic.

  Dangerous for Gan, as well. Acceptance of the proposal was absolute rejection of Church Home. Gan would create a working counter-Church.

  Movement drew Sylah’s gaze. The Violet Abbess edged away from her retreat in the dark corner. Her sudden reappearance brought back all of Sylah’s earlier feelings of commitment and involvement. Nevertheless, she kept still, watching, waiting.

  From the junction of the tables, the Abbess raised a pointing finger. Even before she spoke, the naked force of her rage silenced the rumble of argument. “Murdat!
” Her single word snapped like breaking bone. The Chosens scurried clear of their model bridge, huddled against the three strangers. Carter and Anspach knelt to draw them close, enfolded them. Bernhardt placed herself, shieldlike, between the group and the Abbess.

  Again, the older woman called out, “Gan Moondark! Hear the word of Church. And obey.”

  A Messenger strode into the room on cue. He doffed a flat scarlet hat, bowed with a flourish of matching elbow-length gauntlets and cape. Straightening, he scanned his audience quickly and read it well; he wasted no more time on preamble. He closed his eyes. His features grew harsh. Spine rigid, shoulders back, he opened his eyes and spoke. “I address Gan Moondark, and all who would follow him.”

  The Messenger paused. Lanta hissed in Sylah’s ear, then said, “It’s the Harvester. How do they do that? He looks and sounds exactly like her.”

  Sylah nodded impatiently, unwilling to miss a nuance of sound or gesture. The body language and intonation captured by a Messenger could be almost as revealing as that of the person being imitated. The man went on. “The woman formerly known as Rose Priestess Sylah was cast out by mistake. The responsibility is mine alone.”

  The room hummed with excited whispers. Neela grinned broad relief and congratulation. Sylah saw from the corner of her eye, but instinct insisted she concentrate on her enemy. The Violet Abbess’ hate-warped features had taken on a gloss of satisfaction.