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

by Don McQuinn

  “Tell me. Who?”

  “No one. I can’t.”

  “You have to.” He came to her, put out a consoling, pleading hand. He stroked her hair.

  Covering her face with both hands, she shook her head. “It’s a secret. I’m not supposed to know. I don’t dare tell.”

  “You can tell me. You must. I’m here to protect you. I promise.”

  “It’s too dangerous. You’ll get hurt. I couldn’t live with that. Louis, please: I owe you my life. I can’t risk yours.”

  “No one’s going to hurt us.” His gentle embrace pulled her close. She calmed, taking strength from him.

  “Gan has to make stronger alliances, protect the hold he has on the Territories. He wants to… to use me. A gift.”

  Sick with disappointment, with disillusion, Leclerc denied the possibility. “We won’t let it happen. It’s savage.” Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Has he told you who?”

  Her head moved against his chest in a small, sorrowful negative. “He never said anything to me. Only to Neela. She told me. But it’s a secret, Louis. She’s been so good. I can’t cause her trouble. Please, promise you won’t ever tell.”

  “Certainly. But who does Gan have in mind?”

  Silence fell over them, a thing Leclerc felt he could reach out and tear apart. He gripped Jaleeta tighter as her arms stole up to wrap around his waist. Clutching him as if he anchored her to hope, she finally spoke. “Emso.”

  Chapter 19

  The voice of the north wind in the rigging sang of cold. Sometimes it crooned, in a low throbbing that spoke of muscles so chilled they cracked when forced to move. Another song was faster, stronger, its message one of hopelessness, of icy wind and water draining a man’s will so he sagged, waiting for death. Worst of all was the shrill wailing of the stormwitches. Every Skan had a tale of the invisible women called stormwitches. Their evil hands tangled the ties, ripped the sails. The worst were from the north. Their breath turned flesh and blood to stone, their voices numbed the mind.

  Grunting incoherent pain, Domel leaned into the tiller. Stormwitches knew he steered by sound and feel; they redoubled efforts to confuse him. He put a hand in his mouth, bit hard on the fingers. The pain helped him think; the touch of warmth restored a moment’s flexibility.

  North wind drove the sea down on his stern. What he felt for was the reflected wave, a counter to that force. Only a man who’d tested waters all his life would feel it at all. Even to Domel, it was almost indistinguishable in the flow and thunder of the torn sea. Not quite quartering, almost exactly three heartbeats apart, the echo deep in the water came to him.

  During those brief lulls when the stormwitches paused for breath, he heard the boom of breaking waves. Those, too, told him where he was.

  Instinct was his timekeeper. Without a horizon or stars, he could only guess how long before dawn. Not that it would be very bright. The storm had the smell of the far Ice Ocean, a promise of somber days, opaque. Domel searched his conscience, asking himself if he was considering a run for land because it was time, or if he was simply beaten. He decided it was time.

  Both mornings since his departure, sharkers beat the coastline, looking for him. For two days he’d sheltered in tiny clefts before resuming the sea at night. Again, he needed a secure hiding place before sunrise caught him out in the open.

  Thinking of Tears of Jade’s revenge warmed his blood. He worked a bit more smoothly, changing course, edging closer to land.

  He knew exactly where he wanted to touch. There was a small bay, with a narrow, almost hidden entry. It featured a place where a creek ambled through a marshy valley before feeding into the sea. Sharkers used the bay from time to time. Hauling the balancebar inland would be a struggle, but it had to be done.

  He wanted to call up a young Domel, the one who knew that three freezing nights and two days without sleep or food were nothing. In spite of everything, he laughed aloud. Time rearranged memory most kindly, but there were some lies a man couldn’t even accept about himself.

  Domel set his course. Making this landfall was the greatest challenge yet. Sosolassa would send waves like mountains. Stormwitches would scream in his ears, cut him with ice knives. But he must try. Without rest, fire, warm food—soon—the race was over.

  He searched the blackness so hard his eyes watered. The god lifted waves ahead of him, disguised the tattered white tops to look like the rocks marking the harbor entrance. Wind caromed off the land, set up swirls and eddies to confuse him. Domel sneered. The god couldn’t disguise the sound of the right surf, couldn’t make the wind do anything Domel didn’t know about. These were Skan waters, and Domel exulted in his knowledge of them.

  Skepticism and sheer, raw arrogance warred with religious fear.

  The headland loomed suddenly. Dim, menacing, it roared challenge: Execute the turn properly and live to chance the chaotic winds of the tiny bay; miss the turn and go down. To the lusting god.

  The balancebar skidded around the guardian rocks. Domel hung on, shouting defiance, muscles afire with effort. The sea crashed around him, over him, clawed at his hand on the tiller. Taking one last risk, he aimed the prow for what he believed to be the creek mouth. At full speed, he drove across the small bay. Wind-whipped reeds slashed at him. The dread grate of hull on rock failed to sound. Then branches clutched at his clothes, screeched along the hull, grappled with the rigging. Their presence meant he was past the marsh itself. The boat lurched to a halt. The actual stream channel was a boat-length to his right.

  Snuffling with exhaustion, Domel fought collapse. There was work. Drop the slatting, banging sail. Lower the mast. Raise the balancebar. He cursed pain, his awkward, cold-stiffened body. Paddling, he moved upstream. When the hull scraped bottom, he stepped out, pushed inland. At last, tying off to a tree, he staggered away. In the lee of a downed log, he sagged to his knees. He was asleep before his body hit the ground.

  The next morning, wrapped in soaked hides, shivering under the lash of continuing rain, Domel held his breath as the sharker prowled the inlet. The sight brought a pained, grim smile. Tears of Jade and Lorso must be mad with fury, he thought smugly. Nothing else would force sharkers out in this weather, or spur them to search so diligently.

  Approaching the mouth of the creek, the slim hull seemed to tense. Domel watched with a mix of fear and heartbreak. In the depths of his being, he felt the living hull. Sharkers were predators, like their masters; Domel believed that. Right now the vessel whispered to its captain. It smelled prey.

  While oarsmen steadied the boat, others manned the side, scanning the reeds for signs of passage. The few broken stems at the mouth of the creek were scrutinized, dismissed. Slowly—reluctantly, Domel believed—the vessel slid back out to open sea.

  Domel knew he was seeing the last of his life as Skan. He thought of cool mornings, with wisps of fog draped across valleys. Evenings, rich with the sounds of his people and aromatic coils of smoke from driftwood fires. He closed his eyes to savor memories of the rough beauty of his mountains, his cragged coast.

  The search would last perhaps another two days. He was confident he’d avoid it now. This place was good shelter. The storm would end about the time the searchers tired of looking for him.

  It was time to consider exactly what he’d done. Sosolassa’s spirit woman herself wanted him dead. To escape her, he’d dared the god’s sea, the wrath of the god’s stormwitches.

  He lived. And planned. He would have fire. Food.

  For the first time in many, many moons, Domel felt the prickle of bloodlust jitter across his skin. He grinned, teeth white against gray cold flesh, wild eyes blue-bright as ice. “Skan. I live. To kill. Again.”

  Chapter 20

  “He was very aggressive.” Jaleeta looked away from Emso’s fierce glare. The toe of her boot drew a formless squiggle in the damp sand of the beach. Holding her breath made her face red, exactly as if she blushed. “I wasn’t really afraid. I don’t think he’d hurt me, really.
I’m just a girl. Maybe it’s all my fault. I don’t understand men.”

  “How was he aggressive? What’s he done?”

  Jaleeta took a quick half step that almost put her in contact with Emso. “He didn’t do anything exactly improper. It’s just that…” She turned away, hugged herself. “He acted like he could do anything he wanted. Like I didn’t have anything to say about it.”

  “You never should have gone there. Especially alone. I hate to sound like your father.” Emso swallowed audibly. Stiffly formal, he resumed. “I know what I’m talking about. Stay away from Leclerc. In the future, when someone acts as if he’s interested in you, tell me. You’re a beautiful woman, and far too trusting.”

  She frowned darkly. Her voice quivered. “Why do you insist on talking about your years as though they shame you? First your words tell me I’m a woman. Then they tell me I’m too young to think of myself that way. Your age makes you attractive, gives you character and strength. Other women tell me I’m lucky to be able to walk with you, talk with you, because you’re my friend. They speak freely because they see how you think I’m just a child. They embarrass me. Am I so insignificant?”

  Nonplussed, Emso stammered. A crescent-shaped scar by his right ear contrasted whitely with his red, sweating face. “You’re the most significant person alive. I mean… what I said… the thing I meant is that I don’t want to see you hurt. You’re too important. You mean too much to me.” The last ended on a rising note of surprise.

  Jaleeta seized on it. “To you, Emso? Not to Gan Moondark?”

  “Gan? What’s he have to do with this?”

  “Nothing.” Once again, she turned away. She hesitated, head down, then walked off, shoulders slumped.

  He was beside her in two long strides. He forced good humor. “Whoa, there; I expect straight answers from my friends. And I expect them to answer like adults, not like little children that the other women tease.”

  Her smile forgave. “Everyone says you’re so harsh, so ferocious. I wish they could see you as I do.”

  “Never mind the flattery. I want to know why you mentioned Gan.”

  “It’s nothing. Everyone knows how you love him. Everyone knows men like you know what’s best for the Territories, what’s best for all of us.”

  “I never said I know what’s best for everyone. Neither did Gan.” She shot him a sharp, disbelieving look, and he went on hurriedly. “He rules. He doesn’t tell young women how to live.”

  Walking again, she said, “Rulers have to do things other people don’t. Or can’t.” She sounded bitter.

  Stopping, Emso called, “Wait.” When she turned, he went on. “I don’t understand hints and sideways remarks, Jaleeta. I speak my mind. I don’t deal with those who don’t.”

  Jaleeta ran back, embraced him impulsively. “What a loyal heart you are. The Territories will never know how fortunate they are to have you. You make my small troubles seem so unimportant. But they’re unimportant to me, and I do want your help.” She tilted back, turned pleading eyes on him. He waited. At last she continued, with the faintest touch of asperity, as though Emso missed a cue. “We talked about Louis taking me for granted. Don’t you think he might have a reason?”

  Coloring yet again, Emso nodded. “It’s the way men are.”

  Irritation swept away the beseeching manner. “Do I have to shout? I think he expects Gan to give me to him. Oh, he’d never say it out loud—and I forbid you to ever say a word—but we both know Gan’s in Louis’ debt for the magic things he makes. A king rewards those who keep him in power. Just as they forget to reward those who brought them to power.”

  “That’s uncalled for. Gan’s never forgotten his friends, nor will he. He doesn’t give away humans, either. He’s no slaver.”

  “That’s not what I meant. A woman can be pushed into a marriage very subtly. He’ll push Louis on me, make it impossible for me to talk to other men. Eventually, I’ll have no choice.”

  “Your imagination stretches too far. Gan’s said nothing. Leclerc’s said nothing. Yet you have your whole future planned out.”

  “I knew that’s what you’d say. You do think I’m just a child. Or a thoughtless woman, good only for breeding. I think through a problem, and you call it imagination. See if I come to you for any more help.”

  Jaleeta flounced away, remembering to throw her hips wide at each step. She listened confidently. When his hands dropped onto her shoulders, she was ready, stopped instantly. Emso’s momentum brought them into hard contact. When he rebounded, she pressed back against him. She affected a tiny catch in her throat, saying, “Oh, Emso, hold me. I’m so confused. I don’t want to belong to a man I don’t want. I don’t want to offend Gan, who’s given me such a good life. I don’t want to quarrel with you.”

  For a space of several breaths, he said nothing. The silence ground into Jaleeta. Had she pushed too hard? Was his loyalty truly that solid? The false sob; was it too much?

  Emso’s words rumbled. “I have to think. But while I live, no man will have you against your will.”

  Spinning around, she clung to him, hiding the irrepressible delight and triumph that consumed her plans in an instant.

  * * *

  The Violet Abbess twitched the reins, moved her horse as close as possible to Emso’s. In a confidential near-whisper, she said, “Don’t frown so, my friend. You did well to come to me.”

  Emso shook his head. The confounded buzzing refused to go away. “When I told you I had a question, you said you’d no time to talk, that you were on your way to a meeting. When I insisted, and you listened, you said I must come with you. Why the change, Abbess? And why so reluctant to discuss a simple matter like Jaleeta’s future?”

  “I’m a Healer, Emso.” Her look was arch. “My art is to comprehend symptoms. What you tell me of Jaleeta’s situation is merely one symptom. Others have seen different ones. They also seek my advice.”

  “I know nothing of illness. I’m not going anywhere where someone’s sick.”

  “There are many sicknesses. Jaleeta’s problem is one kind.”

  “She feels pressure from Gan that may or may not be real. How is that sickness?”

  The Abbess sighed. “For all the harm Sylah’s done, she’s right that Church must lead the way in assuring that women can’t be bought and sold. Gan should realize his attempt to force Jaleeta into marriage is a sign of disrespect for Church.”

  “We don’t know he’s forcing her into anything. And Gan is Church’s truest defender. Where else is Church as free as in the Three Territories?”

  “Nowhere. And we all pray for him because of it. What we fear is the apostate Teachers. His understanding of Church becomes warped. The very love he has for us is used against the true Church. See how he’s forcing Jaleeta.”

  “You don’t know that.” Emso’s temper forced words through clenched jaws.

  “He’s certainly not going to shout it, is he?” The Abbess reached to pat Emso’s clenched fist. “What would you say if I told you it was Gan’s suggestion that Jaleeta visit Leclerc?”

  “She told you that? Why didn’t she tell me?”

  The Abbess ignored the question. “Such an act is a knife aimed at all women’s status. A threat like that is a threat to Church, yet Gan says he is Church’s protector. He never lies. What are we to make of these contradictions?”

  Sullen, Emso sought relief in reminiscence. He remembered the early days in Jalail. Those were bad days, full of fear, torn by loss. But they were men, then, bonded together like boards nailed one to another. One leader, one goal.

  One goal. Even then, Gan knew his fate. He faced anything, knowing he must conquer or die. He was a true leader, one who knew the friends who raised him to his place, who would gain him ever greater glory. But gaining glory was the easy part. Simple courage and daring answered all questions. Being a ruler was more, meant holding power the way a rider grips the reins of a horse. Or the handle of a sword. Murdat.

  The Violet Abbess br
oke his meandering. “I’m taking you to another friend of Church. A man who loves Gan as I do. He’s had his differences with Gan, granted, but they stem from Gan’s senseless rush to accept Sylah’s outlawed version of Church. Other than that, he idolizes Gan Moondark and wishes him only good.”

  “And who would this fine man be?”

  “Baron Ondrat.”

  Emso goggled. “That old Olan? He’d rather die than allow women any freedom or Church any influence. Are you making fun of me?”

  “I was never more serious. It’s only Gan’s new arrogance that keeps him from seeing how much Ondrat’s changed. Has Ondrat asked a solitary favor, even a change in attitude toward himself, since rescuing Sylah? He’s too proud. Also, he knows how many of the old Olan nobles hate Gan, and how many of Gan’s other friends distrust all Olans. Ondrat is a more thoughtful, better friend than Gan knows.” She glanced around, dropped her voice even lower, forcing Emso to lean toward her to hear. “Again, I must fall back on my experience as a Healer to make my point. It’s very simple: The patient rarely knows what’s best for him. To grow well, the patient must be made to understand the nature of the illness. Only then can there be effective treatment. Gan must be made to see himself as others see him. You understand?”

  Nodding, Emso drifted away from her.

  It was very unsettling to discover that someone else was concerned about the changes in Gan. Just as he was trying to put his own thoughts in order, the Abbess touched on the very qualities he was afraid to consider.

  Loyalty. Trust. Humility.

  Emso worried his lip between his teeth. Gan was supposed to help Church, not split it. Ondrat was too slippery by far, but he understood the necessity for one united Church. That was the way it used to be, the way it must always be.

  Equality. The word was destroying Gan Moondark, undoing all the good he’d accomplished. No one quarreled with equality for men, and intelligent men understood that women deserved some. What Gan couldn’t understand was that the Teachers destroyed the difference between men and women. It was one thing for a woman to know how to work leather or make pots, or anything else that earned her a living. The trouble came with reading and writing. Once women got their hands on that they’d all want to be merchants, with the power that money brings, and they’d want to teach more women, so pretty soon all of them would be reading and writing and doing numbers. Then who’d watch the children? Who’d take care of the homes?