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

by Don McQuinn

  “I know another one, I think.”

  Jaleeta’s tone and sly, sidelong glance amused the Abbess. The older woman said, “I’ve been too critical of you. You did well to bring me the information of the meeting. Still, I can’t get involved. Church must remain on good terms with whoever wins this fight between Gan and his enemies.”

  Jaleeta was blunt. “I think that’s another secret. I heard that a missionary Priestess traveling north stopped here a few nights ago. She came here from Church Home with instructions for you, didn’t she? This decision to avoid involvement comes from Sister Mother, doesn’t it? Did I guess right?”

  “Quick. Very quick, you are. If your guess were correct you’d know something very much none of your concern. Did you know people are killed for silly mistakes like that?”

  “I do. I also know your friend, the one who can give you the best eyes inside Gan’s circle of closest friends.”

  “Quite possibly too quick, my child. Remember, no one tolerates a show-off for long.”

  Good sense prevailed; Jaleeta lowered her gaze and repented. “I get excited, Abbess. I want to do well.”

  “Then assure that your information reaches the right people. You’re not to mention me. You understand?”

  Jaleeta nodded. “Yes.”

  The Abbess smiled approval. “Excellent. No questions. Because you’re obedient, and because I truly like you, I’ll explain. I must appear neutral, but Church actually assists Moonpriest. He and the beloved Sister Mother have just made a religious peace. We’re to cooperate with each other, allowing free practice of either faith. That means we oppose the Skan together, as well. Not until the right moment, however. So you must be, as you so cleverly put it, my eyes inside Gan’s circle of closest friends. Do be careful to report everything. I’ll know if you try to keep something to yourself, dear. That could lead to uncertainty, to doubt. Let me show you why you must be completely open with me.”

  The Abbess rose, walked to the door. A push generated a grating squeal. Jaleeta gritted her teeth; she’d been unaware of the cowled Priestess standing guard—or witness—just outside. The Abbess addressed the figure, the tone commanding. The figure hurried off. The Abbess remained at the door.

  Fury raged in Jaleeta. Her first thought was to inform Gan of the Abbess’ multidirectional treachery. That would protect herself and get rid of this dangerous work. The notion passed as quickly as it came. The Abbess was too powerful to be toppled by one push. Gan considered the Violet Abbey enemy ground; confirmation of that conviction was worth little. Calming, Jaleeta reconsidered. Spying for the Abbess was no great hazard. If caught, Neela and Gan would believe the Abbess forced a helpless girl to inform. More, anything learned in the Abbess’ service could likely be used to personal benefit. Best of all, if Gan somehow survived the net drawing tight around him, knowledge of who plotted against him would be excellent currency to buy favor.

  The logic of it was quite satisfying.

  Gold-orange light from a lantern crept along the wall outside the door. Anticipating, the Abbess leaned out. Jaleeta saw her greeting smile in profile. Obsequious, servile, there was nevertheless something predatory there.

  When the familiar figure carrying the lantern stepped into the room, the name exploded from Jaleeta, a raven’s croak. “Emso.”

  He continued on into the room, unmindful of the hovering Abbess, even when she plucked the lantern from his hand and summarily extinguished it. “It’s me,” he told Jaleeta, “come to hear what must be heard. I need you.” He was on her before she could recover, hands gripping her upper arms, so close that everything but shining, demanding eyes were outside her vision. His breath was fetid with beer, cabbage, fat. There was sweat; not the hard smell of exertion, but a stale, acid thing that reeked fear and exhaustion.

  A shove moved him backward with surprising ease. He winced, looked hurt. “I need you,” he repeated.

  Smoothly, the Abbess glided to his side. “Emso is the last hope for Gan Moondark’s soul. The Apocalypse Testament tells us: ‘The first evil act of humankind, be it the smallest spark or the mightiest blast, can be defeated, must be defeated. The start of the fire of evil is aberration. The conclusion of the fire can only be eternal destruction.’” In the close, dim confines of the room, the woman’s voice took on rolling sonority. When she finished, Emso stood taller. Uncooperative knees and twitching fingers gave lie to his show of control.

  Jaleeta inhaled, startled by awareness she was holding her breath. Simultaneously, the full import of the Abbess’ words struck her. There was nothing personal in Emso’s declaration: He merely wanted help. The pounding of her heart slowed.

  If they wanted religious reasons to whittle away at Gan Moondark’s strength, Jaleeta knew exactly what they should hear. She described the new catapult with complete honesty and accuracy, then added, “Leclerc said they slaughter the animals for the bow-strings in a special ceremony. Secret acts. He wouldn’t describe them.”

  Emso interrupted. There was firmness in him, now. “Who does these things?”

  “Leclerc and the woman. Bernhardt? I almost forgot her name. She’s so plain, keeps in the background.”

  Emso growled in his chest. “She’s fooled everyone. We all knew Leclerc was dabbling in forbidden knowledge. She fooled us all.”

  The Abbess said, “Go on, dear. Tell Emso what else you learned.”

  Jaleeta edged sideways, positioned herself by the candle. Not too close; she remembered Tears of Jade, how the old woman stayed at the dim edge of light, using shadow and contrast to confuse the eye. Movement caused the small flame to sway, heightening illusion, spurring imagination. “Leclerc captures invisible power from the air, the power of Lightning. Moonpriest uses it to kill unbelievers. He turns a handle, like this. The thing is made of iron and copper, but it whispers. I couldn’t understand. It’s a different language. It spits fire, blue fire, and makes a noise like a whip. If you touch it while it’s weak, it makes you jump. Leclerc says it kills when it’s strong. Nalatan asked what it did; Leclerc said it was like the sun.”

  The Violet Abbess made a three-sign. Her lips fluttered in silent prayer. Emso’s eyes bulged. Cords stood out in his neck. The Abbess’ words came on labored breath. “The sun? He said this power is lightning and sun? The sun is life. Nalatan was a Church warrior-monk before the evil black one seduced him. Now he listens to an unclean one speak of the sun, and does nothing. He, too, is evil.”

  “Stop.” Emso’s order thundered. “You walk too close to the part of Church that is man’s alone, forbidden to woman.”

  Contrition swept away the Abbess’ rage. “I forgot myself, faithful Emso. It’s too easy for a woman. We’re weak, excitable. The things Jaleeta reveals are too strong for a woman’s mind to accept. Forgive me.”

  “Of course.” His eyes remained fixed on Jaleeta. “Gan made no objection to this blasphemy?”

  “He said nothing.”

  Anguish scarred Emso’s face. Ponderously, he turned to the Abbess. “It’s worse than I feared. My friend. Tell me how to save him. I beg you.”

  Under control once again, the Abbess was judicious. “Forgiveness will be his with repentance and return. His arrogance is his curse. He must abandon the false and evil, humble himself, come to Church. You will save him.”

  Eagerness threatened to overwhelm Emso. “You know this? A Seer told you?”

  “Church forbids, save where Church is concerned. If he is to be saved, only you can do it.”

  Jaleeta bowed her head. It hid her smile. She remembered the terrible night on the shore of the nameless Sea Star island. Cold wind slid across her naked back. Hot, shaming firelight exposed her to lusting eyes. Jaleeta saw Tears of Jade’s pointing finger again, gnarled, dry, ugly. She remembered the leather line the Skan tied around her neck to lead her to the sharker. They used it to lead her, display her, through their village.

  Gan Moondark would never know such humiliation. But he would know defeat. He would know the agony of seei
ng one life snatched away and a life of another’s choosing crushed down on him. He would choke and chafe on a rawhide leash, too. One of many strands, cruel with knots of betrayal. His best friend would bind him.

  Chapter 44

  Snow fell on the Three Territories for three days and nights. Animals took to dens or sat huddled under whatever cover they could find. Country folk sheltered alone in their homes, worrying in quiet voices, retelling the ancient tales of years that knew no summers and winters that eliminated humans from some lands for generations. Where people clustered in settlements, they trudged through storm and drifts to share misgivings, finding perverse solace in exchanged and reinforced fear. Voices spoke harshly of uncivilized horse riders from distant lands who interfered with established tradition. Others muttered of even stranger people who came with mystical weapons of unimaginable power, unknown to any but themselves.

  The name of Teacher, which shone so brightly in the summer sun, became to many an imprecation.

  The word witch acquired heretofore-inconceivable currency. Those who previously never dared speak it now used it with common familiarity. In dimly lit taverns it slipped, whispered, from many tongues, drifting from ear to ear. It brushed frightened listeners with gray-moth wings, poisoned minds everywhere it touched.

  For many simple folk, the word witch and the disastrous weather combined into one magnificent opportunity. Those people blamed everyone’s specific misfortune on dark powers. After all, the snows proved evil was unleashed. Empty, boring lives were instantly filled with the sweet savor of influence.

  Leclerc and Bernhardt labored in isolation, unaware of turmoil or defamation. In fact, they were only aware of the storm to the degree it interfered with their passage from building to building within Leclerc’s compound. They noted the depth of the trenches through the accumulation, remarked on it, and kept working.

  The smith and his assistants melted copper, poured ingots. Those were hammered and reheated and hammered again to form the necessary sheets. Leclerc demanded perfection. The smith failed to produce it. Hand forming resulted in imperfections—waves, dimples, ripples. Worse, there were frequent minute, hairline cracks.

  The work of a full day ended up back in the crucible. Three times.

  Leclerc and the smith worked two nights and a day on a project. Not even Bernhardt was allowed to participate. The morning the job was done, Leclerc woke Bernhardt, pounding on his housekeeper’s door. “Got something to show you. Are you dressed?”

  “Of course. Come in.” She was saying, “I’m finishing eating,” unnecessarily, as he practically flew through the door. He grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her to her feet. Crockery clattered on the table when she bumped it. Leclerc was oblivious. “It works, Kate. We got it, Smitty and me.”

  Bernhardt was delighted; she pretended irritation. “You mean I finally get to see this marvelous thing that’s going to solve our problems and make the whole world a better place? It’s about time.”

  Leclerc laughed aloud. “I couldn’t show you until now. I didn’t know if it’d work.” He sobered a bit. “I saw how disappointed you were getting. I didn’t want to add to that. This is sort of a present.”

  Bernhardt flinched, hoping he wouldn’t see. Thoughtfulness was the thing she feared most. A kindness, a warm look, a friendly touch—those things could destroy her. She warned herself constantly that overt display of her feelings would send him scurrying. No matter how much it hurt, her only hope was to let him find her. Standing there in front of him was a woman in love, as clear as the sun in the sky, and all he saw was an obstacle to his need to get his hands on Jaleeta. Damn Jaleeta.

  Aren’t you coming?” Leclerc was three paces off, looking over his shoulder.

  “Don’t rush me.”

  “Women. Complain about waiting and when it’s over, you won’t hurry.”

  Drawing her cape around her with an imperious flourish, Bernhardt said, “My wait’s over. Yours just started.”

  Tramping single-file along the packed snow trench to the workshop, they joked easily, comfortably. Leclerc threw open the door. The machine in the middle of the room was waist-high, very sturdy. It looked quite simple. Bernhardt wasn’t sure how to react. Leclerc’s enthusiasm was enough for both of them. “Isn’t she a beauty? Smitty worked himself and his boys ragged cutting those gears, let me tell you. There’s not another one of these in the world, I’ll bet. You want even sheets of copper? Just watch.”

  He rushed to the machine, which was essentially two steel rollers, one above the other. Turning a handle, Leclerc made adjustments, and inserted a bar of copper between the rollers. Then he cranked another, larger handle. The rollers turned. The copper bar advanced. Coming out the other side, it was visibly thinner and longer. Leclerc brandished it. “This is a roller mill, Kate. We can turn out sheets of copper thin as paper. Steel, too. To dimension. No warts, wiggles, or wobbles.”

  Bernhardt rushed to him, hugged him, then took his hands in hers. The copper, heated by its ordeal, formed a shared, warm center. “I’m so proud of you. The rest of us would never have thought of it. It’s what we need, isn’t it?”

  Leclerc was suddenly modest, almost shy. “Well, it’s not the whole answer, but if Moonpriest doesn’t have one of these, his capacitors will be pretty unpredictable. Ours’ll be almost standardized, long, long sheets of very thin copper. We’ll put take-up rollers in front and back of the mill. I’ll run the metal through one way, rolling it up as it comes out. Then we’ll roll it back the other way. Smitty has an annealing oven set up. Without heating, this stuff gets brittle and breaks. With this system we end up with fewer seams, too. That boosts efficiency. It’ll be heavy, but it’ll pack a real wallop.” His smile turned wry. “I think. We haven’t really made anything work, yet.”

  “Today’s the day.”

  “Right. Let’s get at it. You’ll take care of the waxed cloth? Supervise the work crew to put everything together?”

  “The sooner the better. I’m excited. The men are coming; I saw them in the distance.”

  By late afternoon, the man Leclerc called Smitty beamed as Bernhardt and three assistants completed the first capacitor. Two more assistants and the head beekeeper stood a bit farther away. Two men carefully unrolled thin copper sheets about a foot wide onto a table. A third assistant covered that with fine, waxed cloth. The cotton was pressed under another copper sheet. Bernhardt assured that a tag end of cloth about an inch long extended beyond the metal, both in width and length.

  Strain pulled at the faces of all; the metal crinkled at the slightest twist or distortion. When it did, everyone froze. All remembered Leclerc’s stern lecture about the ruinous effect of breaks and wrinkles. Bernhardt and two assistants wound the copper/cloth/copper combination in a tight coil. The overlapping cloth was folded to insulate one copper strip from the other.

  Heaving, Bernhardt and her helper upended the device. The completed roll was about the same diameter as its height. The top and bottom cloth ends were bent over. Melted wax sealed them down. Two protruding, thick terminals marked the top. An assistant strapped the capacitor to a packframe and carried it to Leclerc’s generator, which was firmly bolted to a workbench. Another man connected the terminals to the generator’s outlets. He was clearly afraid. Nevertheless, he grinned at Leclerc, too curious to surrender to fear. At Leclerc’s nod, he leaned into the handle.

  Soon, Leclerc stopped him, then demonstrated how to connect the leads of a two-tined spear to the capacitor. He warned about keeping the wires far apart. “If they touch each other, the weapon dies. Touch a man, he dies.” The cold certainty impressed the crew. They were all very attentive.

  With the capacitor on its packframe strapped to his back, Leclerc was prepared. A copper plate slung on a stout pole by a leather rope was the target. A copper wire trailed from the plate to the ground.

  One man asked Leclerc to wait. Puzzled, he paused. The youngster dashed past the frowning Smitty. Taking a polished iron disk from a
pocket of his leather smith’s apron, the boy centered it on the copper plate with a string looped through a hole drilled near the rim. Turning to Leclerc, he made a three-sign. “A make-believe Moondance talisman, Louis Leclerc. For Church, strike it.” He ran back to his place.

  The small group raised a cheer. Leclerc straightened, embarrassed yet stimulated. No one ever cheered him like that, no one clapped hands, set up a heartbeat rhythm to celebrate him. He hefted the spear, suddenly feather-light. The heavy capacitor was a mere pressure, no burden at all. He feinted, parried. His tiny audience yelled encouragement. Smitty’s deep voice demanded, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” By the third repetition, it was a chant from the workers. Leclerc thrust.

  Energy released in a crack. Dazzling blue, a jagged jewel of raw power spat into the face of the target. Smoke curled from a small, ugly pit in the seared metal. The burned-black hole lifted flesh-simulating metal edges up and out. Wisping steam and smoke rose from the wire contact with the earth. Tiny deposits of copper dimpled the fake moon disk’s shine.

  After hoarse cries of astonishment, the group cheered and applauded, louder than ever. They crowded around the blasted plate, admiring. Tentative fingers traced the torn surface. Awed looks admired the generator, the capacitor. Finally, the men looked away, past the confining walls. Speculative.

  Later, putting away tools, cleaning up, Leclerc noticed Bernhardt’s troubled expression. Leaving the clustered men, he went to where she worked alone, scraping spilled beeswax off the construction table. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “About what?” She continued to push the metal scraper, not looking up.

  “Whatever’s bothering you. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Certainly.” She checked, gaze fixed on her hands. Straightening slowly, she dropped the scraper, faced him, jaw set. “That’s a lie. I’m sick. You should have seen yourself, posturing with that spear. It was awful.”