by Don McQuinn
“He said nothing about you. I told you: He doesn’t want people to know he uses human lives to reward his favored servants.”
“Then what? What’s so terrible?”
“Moonpriest’s magic weapons. When Leclerc heard about them, he promised Gan to defeat them.”
There was a long pause, and Nalatan realized it was because Jaleeta was thinking. It was a faculty he hadn’t connected with her until that moment, and it was an unnerving revelation. He remembered the penetrating way she looked at things, the quickness of her answers. It occurred to him that there was more than one fool in attendance on Jaleeta that night. He resolved to reduce the number by half.
Jaleeta’s long sigh preceded her resigned submission. “I’m doomed, then.”
“It can’t be. He’s little more than a Peddler. I’ll tell Gan myself.”
“Tell him that you want me?”
Emso choked. “Me? I don’t… I mean, I couldn’t ask you to… That’s crazy!”
“Is it? You can’t imagine it? You can’t close your eyes and see us? Together?”
“Of course. But it’s impossible. You said it yourself. Gan wants you to go to Leclerc.”
“Because he believes Leclerc’s magic can defeat Moonpriest’s, isn’t that right?”
Emso nodded hesitantly. Jaleeta pressed ahead. “And we need a victory by Moonpriest to bring about the merging of Church and Moondance, to assure Gan allies with Church to rule the Three Territories. Isn’t that right, too?”
Up in the loft, Nalatan watched Emso’s head bob erratically. The lamp flame was like shining oil on the older man’s cheekbones. There was a small scar on the right side. The smoother skin there caught the light better, glittered jewellike.
Cajoling, leading him into agreement, Jaleeta said, “What if Moonpriest knew what Leclerc intended to do to defeat him?” In the murky light of the enclosure, her hand emerged from a voluminous sleeve like a blind, white cave-creature. Long, delicate fingers seemed to undulate as she reached for Emso’s face. “We mustn’t provoke Gan, not to resentment, not to suspicion. I will do what I must, and you must help me. We must be brave together.”
He grabbed her hand, kissed the fingertips. “Do what? You just said there’s nothing we can do. I won’t let you throw yourself away on that man, not for all the magic secrets in the world. I’ll kill him first, if I die for it.”
Gently, firmly, she extricated her hand, resumed fondling his features. Nalatan shivered, imagined her pulling Emso’s soul out of his body with those slim, wraith hands. Her voice chased the picture. “I’ll learn Leclerc’s secrets. He wants me. He’ll tell me what I want to know. I’ll tell you. You’ll tell the Violet Abbess. Her Priestesses can go anywhere, even to Windband. True Church will win, Emso. You’ll save Gan’s soul, save his kingdom.”
Emso pushed her hand away. The gesture was solid, convinced. The voice that followed was craven. “What you say betrays Murdat. Moonpriest will never let him live. If I help the Abbess this way, I betray my friend.”
“Church wants Gan Moondark back, not killed. Once everyone sees that Gan can’t defeat Windband, all of our friends will confront him at once. He’ll compromise. He won’t let his Wolves die for nothing, he won’t let himself be overthrown. Church wants him to rule the Three Territories in her name, advised by all the other friends of Church. You’re not betraying him. You’re doing what a friend is supposed to do. You’re saving him.”
“Church cannot be divided. But I’ve fought beside him from the beginning.”
The last was a plea, and Jaleeta was properly sympathetic. To Nalatan, she appeared to flow forward. She pulled Emso’s head down, nestled it against her shoulder. Her free hand ran fingers through his hair. “You’re the most loyal friend he has, Emso. Possibly the only true friend.” The graying head stirred, but Jaleeta held it firmly in place, continuing to talk in the same singsong tones. “Sylah betrayed Church, and made Gan her protector. We know she wants only to destroy our culture, make women what they cannot be, raise children to do the secret things only nobles and Church have the right to do. Now Gan fights Church. The Black Lightning and the White Thunder—where are they? Why is Lanta with them, and Nalatan is not? If Sylah weren’t witch enough, she has Lanta the Seer to plot with her. And poor Nalatan. The black one abandoned him. Lanta works with her and Conway; all plot to bring other powers against Church. Evil powers. Admit it, Emso; you’ve thought the same thing. And Leclerc, my specified husband. You’ve seen how he looks at Gan; he’ll help him only so long as he must. There’s only you. Bring Gan back to Church. Make him listen to those who can make the Three Territories great. Only you can do it.”
Wind hissed between the gaping boards of the barn, moaned in knotholes and cracks. Cold struck Nalatan, through flesh to bone. When he moved to massage himself some warmth, the hand on his sword hilt was locked in unconscious rigor. He pried the fingers free.
His head hurt worse than his hand, horror melding with cold. No man should be destroyed so utterly, so falsely, as Emso. Nalatan knew he must stop her, whether he was called spy or no. She killed the way the merciless Dry drained the strength of a victim, drop by drop. She would leave nothing but a loathsome, brittle husk, and people would call it traitor.
Liar.
And there was that odd look and manner of Leclerc’s when he spoke of his own worth, and his rightful status.
Liar?
Sylah did enlist Gan in her cause.
Liar?
Donnacee should have returned by now. Gone with the Seer. After swearing no one but Conway or others of their tribe could be allowed to know the holy site.
Liar?
Chapter 39
Deeply perturbed by the galling insecurity created by the activity below, Nalatan missed some of the conversation. Jaleeta’s chiming laughter brought him back to the present with a surge of near-panic. He didn’t know what he’d failed to hear, what amused her. She went on.
“Our women are raised correctly. After all, the Apocalypse Testament tells us, ‘In man is the strength of Church. In woman is the life of man. From her comes that which is tomorrow for man. From man and Church must come support for her.’ How can a woman be protected if she isn’t supervised? It’s for her own good. We respect men who know that. We please them.”
“You quote from the Testament. You’re so young, and you understand so much.”
“I know only what’s right for me.”
Nalatan winced at the brutal irony of the words.
Jaleeta and Emso still embraced, but Emso sat straighter now, gazing into Jaleeta’s eyes as if finding the world hidden there. Her words rode the pale cloud of her breath. “Spend the rest of the night here with me. We may never have a time like this again until you’ve saved Gan, and we can tell him about us.” She kissed him lightly, and then was apart from him, sliding away to the limit of his grasp. With his hands barely in contact with her shoulders, she raised her own to her throat. Tantalizing, she untied the lacing of her cloak. Falling like rippling water, it pulled away her hood. Freed skeins of black hair swirled alive in flame-glow. Under the cloak was a blouse. White hands danced against dark material, opening buttons.
Emso made a low groaning, deep in his chest. Jaleeta smiled at him. Nalatan tried to look away. He might have, but for Jaleeta’s smile at Emso. There was nothing of conspiracy in it, or promise, or even anticipation. Nalatan told himself it was the angle of his view, yet he couldn’t rid himself of the sensation that her expression was raw triumph.
The widening blouse created a dim, ivory wedge of flesh. Slowly, controlling, she revealed, pulled Emso deeper and deeper into her thrall. Looping her fingers under the edges of the completely undone top, she spread it wider. Half-moon aureoles appeared, dusky contrast emphasizing the rounded perfection of milk-white breasts.
She flung herself backward. Emso floundered, empty hands clenching empty air. “What was that?” Jaleeta’s wondrous breathiness was gone, taken over by shrill alarm. “I heard
something! Someone’s out there, Emso. I heard them.”
She pivoted, bent forward to listen as she re-dressed. She managed to get between Emso and the tiny lantern. Overwrought, taken completely by surprise, Emso thrashed and floundered like a man in spasm. Desperately, he struggled to reach the lantern to snuff it. Clumsily, Jaleeta blocked every move. He literally flung her aside. The light disappeared. Utter silence filled the barn.
Nalatan knew no sound interrupted Jaleeta’s performance.
He dismissed that latest perfidy, concentrating all his senses on tracing Emso’s investigations around the barn’s interior. When Emso made his way back to the tack room, Nalatan refused to return to his peephole.
“Wait here,” Emso told Jaleeta. “I’m sure there’s no one outside, but I’ll look. I’ll come for you. We’ll go back to the castle together.” Jaleeta evidently attempted argument, because Emso pressed ahead hurriedly. “I won’t let you go alone. Not now. Not ever. We have a pact now, you and me.”
Nalatan was glad he wasn’t looking. Watching Jaleeta gloat might make him do something foolish.
When Nalatan let himself out of the barn, there was enough darkness to conceal his movements, but the last of the stars were surrendering to the new day. He hurried home. Instead of to his room, however, he went to the baths adjacent to the castle kitchen. The cleansing shower was room temperature—cold. Opening the spigot near the bottom of the large wooden tank overhead, he wet himself down, soaped up, scrubbed, and sluiced off suds at breakneck pace. With a bucket, he scooped hot water from a copper cauldron over a slow fire, pouring it into a barrellike soak. After replacing what he’d drawn from the cauldron, he added cooler water to the soak to bring it down to proper temperature. A few splashes from a ceramic jar infused the hot water and the steam rising from it with the crackling sharpness of sage.
Few people in this part of the world looked kindly on sage as a scent. For Nalatan, it brought back childhood memories from the Dry. This morning, however, was no time for reminiscence. The present was too powerful.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rough cedar staves. He thought about Emso; what a fool he was, and what a good man he was when he wasn’t being a fool.
He thought about being lied to.
It rankled. Jaleeta was nothing like Donnacee; there was no comparison. Still, lying was lying.
The thought that spying was spying scratched at his brain like a cat sharpening its claws. He shifted uncomfortably.
Love certainly made him do some foolish things, Nalatan considered. Why should Emso be condemned for something that happened to every man? Should a lifetime of honor be crushed under the weight of a moment’s infatuation? And all brought about by a woman’s lies?
Lies only a spy could know about.
Nalatan examined his present surroundings. The unaffected stolidity of stone and huge, aged timbers soothed him. There was permanence represented there, a visible patience.
There was no danger in keeping quiet about Emso; not for a while, at least. Once Emso realized that the entire scene in the tack room was no more than bait, he’d shed her like a duck shedding water. Nor would Leclerc corrupt himself for the pleasure of a few flattering words and a peek at some skin.
Overestimation. Women always overestimated their influence, one way or another. Sooner or later.
Nalatan heaved himself upright, stepped out of the tub. Steam billowed around him, a sequestering haze that accompanied him to the cabinet full of drying cloths. As he rubbed his body, he made his decision.
It would be wise to watch Emso. Not to spy, exactly, but to assure he made no missteps that couldn’t be corrected. Jaleeta was always about. It’d be no great chore to throw a look her way from time to time, as well. The important thing, really, was to protect Emso. Gan was in no danger; Emso would come to his senses long before that moment arrived. Emso’s reputation was gravely exposed, however. That must be attended to.
Still naked, Nalatan dipped a polished copper mirror in the hot water to keep it from steaming up. Propping it on a shelf above a bench, he lathered well and shaved. His razor was one of the knives he wore strapped to his biceps. He frowned. The dulled edge bit. That was carelessness.
The chore finished, he dressed and made his way to the dining hall, passing through the kitchen, rather than around it. He liked the kitchen. The one at his monk’s village was austere, a place where raw things got cooked. It wasn’t that the leadership didn’t appreciate good food, or that they felt eating poorly was a proper penance for some unknown sin. They simply never bothered to train any cooks, and the brotherhood didn’t encourage much criticism of anything.
Loitering along, he momentarily forgot his problems. Huge cauldrons billowed steam laden with delicious soup stock smells. Expansive griddles sizzled a patchwork quilt of aromatic smoked bacon. Banter from the industrious kitchen help flew around him, good-natured scolding for intrusion on their territory. The chief cook, a large, florid woman, made a great show of sniffing at him when he passed. “You’ve been in the soak again, haven’t you? You reek of sage. People use it to stuff chickens, not bathe in it.”
The cook had almost unlimited privilege. After all, she ruled the world of appetite. Nalatan decided to be uninsulted, sneered, continued on his way.
Some few steps later he snatched up a hot griddle cake and darted out the door. Grinning, munching his trophy of wheat, oat, and corn flours, he settled on a bench at one of the trestle tables. Pitchers of milk, pots of honey, hot pepper sauce, salt, and other condiments created neat islands of promise along its length.
He ate a full stack of the cakes, with bacon and eggs, telling himself that a day’s work required a hearty beginning. Once finished, however, the good spirits faded under the memory of the previous night. He hurried outdoors, leaving a surprised cook silently extending his customary second mug of tea.
Nalatan went directly to the stable to saddle his horse. Thin light from a low autumn sun struggled to suggest warmth as he emerged. To the west, gray clouds advanced stolidly, promising more snow. There was a hard, wet taste to the air. Nalatan looked to the east. The walls of the castle blocked vision, shut him away from the depressing sight of the clouds shrouding the Enemy Mountains. He tried not to think of his wife and the choked passes between himself and her.
Occasional shelters jutted from the interior of the castle’s defensive walls. Rough wooden sheds, they were places for the off-duty watch to sleep and for stockpiling missiles, drinking water, and the myriad other accoutrements of combat. Nalatan tied his horse inside one, and made his way up to the battlewalk. Folding his legs under himself, back against the wall, he waited.
The best hunters aren’t merely the best marksmen or the best trackers. Those who kill most frequently enjoy a more important talent. They anticipate.
Jaleeta had spoken of friends who would help Gan rule. Emso asked for no names.
Nalatan imagined Emso’s night after leaving Jaleeta. Poor man, he thought; his brain must have looked like a drop of water on a red-hot plate. Sputter, spatter, pop! Waking would be the pop, when a bleary eyed, sleepless Emso would decide he had to talk to someone about his situation.
Nalatan wiggled about, got comfortable. If Emso failed to appear before it was time to begin the rest of the day’s activities, nothing was lost. If he rode out, however, it would be interesting to see what direction he took.
As it happened, Nalatan almost missed him. Emso left the castle and headed for the stables, but he turned aside. Nalatan mounted, galloped to reach the western gate before Emso was lost to sight. He arrived to see Emso on the road to the dock. Wasting no time, Emso engaged a fisherman in a spirited, gesticulating conversation. Directly, the man’s small balancebar, with Emso as passenger, cast off. They went north.
Nalatan puzzled over that. Where would Emso go, by sea, to find a sympathetic ear? Most of the coast close to the castle was the hold of Baron Ondrat. Nalatan shook his head; there was a time when he’d have suspecte
d Ondrat first. Ondrat saved Sylah, though. Nalatan resented the criticism for Gan that loudmouthed flowed constantly from the Baron, but how could you fail to respect a man who saved someone as important as Sylah?
A bit ashamed of himself, Nalatan acknowledged that he’d originally positioned himself on the wall to observe the approach between castle and Violet Abbey. He’d really expected Emso to head that way. The assumption almost ruined his chance to see what actually did happen. There was a lesson there.
Nothing was ever what it seemed to be, Nalatan told himself, and longed for the simpler days of a monk.
Emso had to be sailing all the way up to Baron Mull’s land. He was a known malcontent. Not as vocal as Ondrat, but not a hero, either.
Nalatan reviewed his performance since Sylah had spoken to him about watching Jaleeta. Without even trying, he’d embarrassed himself painfully and learned nothing he was willing to discuss. He couldn’t even carry out a good stalk anymore; he’d almost lost Emso because of an overconfident guess.
It was all a matter of being cooped up in a stone box, playing treacherous games. Sitting around. Waiting. No one had a right to ask him to live like that.
Chapter 40
The trail to Leclerc’s wandered south through towering forest. Hacked-out fields formed infrequent breaks in the dark mass. Clearings seemed to cower under the patient determination of the waiting trees. As the mounted group passed, stock—cattle, farm horses, or llamas—lifted heads to watch.
Oddly, there was more snow this far south. The previous night’s deposit blanketed the two-cart-wide track up to the horses’ cannons. Pale, choked sunlight pouring over white cloaked trees and softened earth forms created an ethereal luminescence. Haystacks, miniature versions of the occasionally visible Snowfather Mountain, dotted meadows. Smoke rose from chimneys, angling under a sharp wind to join the darker gray of the sky.
Nalatan and Gan rode side by side, ahead of the others. Nalatan glowered at his surroundings. Gan caught him, and laughed. After a quick glance over his shoulder to assure he spoke without being overheard, Gan said, “Beautiful, isn’t it? I don’t like it, either.”