Moongather

by Clayton, Jo;

  When she woke, she was cramped and stiff but her body was cooler; whatever had been on the lash tip had done its worst and was passing off. She blinked. Her eye-spot throbbed and her night-sight came back. The carpet of rats quivered and shifted about, chittering nervously. A roach whirred out of haze and settled beside her head, clinging to the stone of the wall behind her. More came, crawled over the stone, over her, roaches came and came and came, flights of them whirring about her, crawling on her head and arms. She chuckled, roaches coming to avenge their ancestor, stopped chuckling when the sound grew too shrill. “Army,” she muttered. It was hard to move her mouth properly to speak. The whip had touched her face, opening a cut at the corner of her mouth. Her cheek was swollen and her whole face felt stiff.

  The dark in the passage was timeless. Only the throbs of her heart clicked off the minutes for her. She was thirsty, drank again from the wineskin. She felt cooler all over though the wine was heating her gullet. There was a small intense hot-spot on her leg where the tajicho burned hotter and hotter as time passed. She began to remember what had happened and why she was here in this stifling darkness. She sat up, dislodging roaches and rats, staggered to her feet, peeling them off her like a lumpy blanket. She swayed, slapped her hand onto the wall to keep herself from falling. It had to be time for the Norid’s rite. Close to it, anyway. The Norid was busy, the tajicho’s fire told her that. She closed her fingers and slammed her fist into the wall, angry that fear, fever and the Sleykyn’s whip-poison had held her impotent for so long until now, until the Norid’s Moongather spell gained momentum.

  She let her nightsight dim and spent her strength searching out Domnor Hern. She turned her head slowly as the eye-spot throbbed and the immaterial search-fingers spread out and out, wavered, finally tugged upward and to the right. With roaches whirling about her head, clinging to her tattered clothing, with rats swarming like dingy foam about her boots, she began the climb through the walls to the Domnor’s bedroom.

  Up and around, up narrow stairs where the flood of rats lengthened before and behind her, up and up, then around in a squared spiral up the central tower. Up and around, wading against a wind that tried to push her back, that grew stronger and stronger until she was leaning into it as one leans into a gale, fighting for every step.

  Until she stopped before an exit like the many she’d passed before. She stopped, knowing without doubt that the Domnor was there. The rats piled up around her. She could feel the whole mass trembling until she feared the building would topple; they crouched around her without a sound, ominously, unnaturally silent. The roaches whirred about her head, then settled around the exit, clinging to the stone, so close they touched, like brown scale mail covering the wall. She leaned her head against the planks of the door. It was hard to think; she had to fight against the steady pressure of the force flowing out of the bedchamber.

  Lifting heavy, clumsy arms, she fumbled at the catch, locking the spyhole shut. As she turned them back she felt her eye-spot go still. She blinked slowly, startled, then leaned to the hole, hardly daring to breathe.

  The Domnor sat in a straight-backed chair, his back turned to her, his short pudgy body stripped naked, his arms and legs bound to the chair. His thick mop of straight hair—black liberally streaked with grey—was tousled, one lock standing like a lizard’s crest above the rest. His body was still but his strong blunt fingers were working patiently at the ropes, shifting them slightly, working a knot closer and closer. The ropes were cutting painfully into his flesh; every movement had to be a minor agony, but he showed no sign of that. With iron patience he kept working, all the while seeming to concentrate his attention on the Norid. Serroi caught her breath, astonished. She’d seen little of the man during her ward. In spite of her contempt for Lybor, she’d let herself be influenced by that viper’s contempt for her husband. Still, there was what Tayyan said. She closed her eyes, the pain back. Tayyan said he was a terror with a sword, said you wouldn’t believe how fast he could move when he wanted to, said he could ride a macai better than most Stenda even. She blinked again, able to believe this as she watched him coolly and stubbornly working at the ropes while the Norid stalked about the room making preparations with an arrogance that held the other two in Serroi’s field of vision reluctantly silent even when he bent double and began tracing a pentacle around them, muttering a complex chant under his breath as he drew the circled star, dragging the thick greasy crayon over the inlaid floor. The rugs had been kicked aside to lie in tangled mounds against the wall. When he finished the pentacle around Lybor and Morescad, he turned to the Domnor and drew a second pentacle around him. When that was closed he set a thick black candle at each of the points, then stepped back, frowned, black eyes searching restlessly about the room, bothered by something.

  Serroi moved her foot, feeling the heat in the tajicho against her leg. His eyes had a wild look to them; his stiff black hair was tied back from his face with braided gold wire that crackled with the energies flowing around the room. Watching as he placed white candles at the points of the pentacle around Morescad and Lybor, Serroi thought, He’s Norid, not Norit at all. I was right. One of the little Nor, reaching over himself out of greed and ambition, backed, I suppose, by the Nearga-nor or he wouldn’t dare. She shivered, sick to her stomach at the sight of him. Power enough to light a match on a hot day and he terrifies me. All the time she’d watched him moving about she was trembling, sweat thick and slippery over her body. Her hair clung to her head in ragged oily strings; her eyes blurred and cleared, the thudding of her heart seemed loud enough to wake the whole Plaz. It took a strong effort of will for her to hold her eyes at the spyhole when she wanted to run and run, to get away from the Nor.…

  And all the time she knew that the Norid in the bedroom was a nothing, a fool, as much a fool as Lybor and Morescad.

  The Norid stepped in front of Morescad and Lybor. “The demon will materialize within the pentacle drawn about the Domnor’s chair.” He thrust his hand into a pouch dangling at his belt and drew forth a knobby stone, dull black streaked with red. “I shut the demon’s soul in this sjeme. Who holds it will control the Domnor once the demon swallows his soul and animates his flesh.”

  “Give it to me.” Lybor started to step out of the pentacle.

  “Don’t break the line, Doamna,” the Norid cried hastily. He thrust a hand out, pushing at the air in front of her. “Or I can’t answer for your safety.” Sweat beading his forehead, he tossed the sjeme carefully into her cupped hands.

  She caught it eagerly and cuddled it against her breasts, her eyes glittering, her face drawn in harsh lines of greed. Morescad narrowed his eyes, then smiled indulgently and slid his arm around her shoulders. Lybor shuddered, smiled stiffly at first then with her practiced charm. “When do you begin, Ser Nor?”

  “Soon.” He glanced at a large hourglass placed on the seat of a chair. There was about a fingerswidth of sand left in the top bubble. “Soon.”

  Serroi moved her head away from the spyhole, then braced herself against the wood, her eyes closed, her body trembling. The tajicho was a fire eating into her flesh but she didn’t dare pull it out; it was shielding her. Shaking and sick from too many memories, she pulled in a deep breath and put her eyes back to the spyhole.

  Lybor and Morescad were talking in low tones that held a touch of acrimony. One of Morescad’s big hands was resting over Lybor’s, the tips of his fingers touching the sjeme.

  Serroi forced herself to watch the Norid and found her fear diminishing as she in a sense confronted him and it. The rats pressed closer against her. Several roaches half-fell, half-flew from the wall, landing on her head and shoulders. The touch roused her, set her wondering, but she shook off her questions and brought her attention back to the room.

  The last grains of sand were trickling past the waist of the glass. The Norid circled Morescad and Lybor, flicking a finger at the white candles. One by one they flared up, then began to burn steadily, giving off a thick greasy smo
ke and an appalling odor. Ignoring Lybor’s exclamation of disgust, he commanded fire from the black candles around the Domnor. Their flames burned an acid green, releasing a mist that smelled of rot and death. Lybor stirred, protested. “Must you?”

  “Silence, woman.” The Norid’s voice was unemphatic, but Lybor closed her mouth and snuggled closer to Morescad.

  The Norid faced the Domnor. The air shivered around him as his hands moved through a complex sign and he began a guttural unpleasant chant. Inside the pentacle the air thickened and a bilious green smoke slowly changed from a mist to a billowing shape, many-armed with a great gaping mouth.

  Serroi’s skin started to itch; her eye-spot throbbed with pain and power. She dropped a hand to the Sleykyn’s sheath and closed her fingers tight around the hilt of his poison knife.

  The Norid groaned and swayed, sweat popping out on his face. Within the pentacle that shape was solidifying, a huge warty thing curving over the Domnor.

  Serroi shivered, remembering too much, eyes blurring, mouth dry. Maiden help me, I can’t go in there. I can’t. Tayyan, help me. Ayyy, I can’t.

  THE CHILD: 13

  For a year Serroi worked her way south over the plain, gaining fluency in the language, begging at times, other times working in stables and for farmers, staying in one place for a day, a week, sometimes even a month until she found enough money or other means to move farther south, following her eye-spot’s tug, hunting the Golden Valley. She kept away from people, trusting no one, making no friends, fending off questions about the green color of her skin. At times she was desperately lonely with no one to talk to; even the animals weren’t enough. She needed an outlet for her strong affections and there was no one; sometimes she felt like she was going to burst in a thousand pieces, sometimes she almost turned back to find Raiki-janja, but she never quite lost the urge to find the Valley. She slept in stables on straw, bathed out of buckets, found no way to wash her clothing, discarded it when it was soiled beyond bearing, buying new things when she could. She kept nothing she couldn’t carry easily, went across the Cimpia Plain as a small grubby boy whose wizard’s touch with animals won him a job whenever he wanted it. At times the steady attrition of small irritations wore her down until once again she considered giving up. There were no great dangers to be faced, nothing but dirt and hard work and loneliness, but they wore her down until she thought seriously of turning back. The stubborn core that made her fight the Noris, that kept her alive in the desert, kept her moving toward her goal.

  Toward the end of her thirteenth year she was working in the stable of a busy tavern in a small trade city on the edge of the Plain when she felt something like a blow in the stomach, though no one was near, no one touched her. She closed her eyes, felt warmth suffusing through her. The hostler led in two lanky high-bred macain and cuffed her for dreaming on the job. “Clean ’em good, boy.” He snorted. “They belong to a couple of high-nosed meien. Old Poash is in there kissing their feet.” With a sneer he muscled the animals into two stalls. “Lick ’em clean, brat.” He wandered off, leaving her alone to do the work.

  Two meien. Excited and fizzing with a new hope, she stared after him. Going or coming? If the meien were going home, perhaps they’d take her with them. She sighed and began washing the macain, cleaning their neck fringes, scrubbing their backs, working the tiny stones and other irritants from between their toes and out of the cracks in their pads. She pushed out the claws and polished them until the white-grey horn gleamed dully. The macain whined and burbled, nosed at her until she scratched behind their ears and under their chins. Finally she fed them an extra helping of fat yellow liga seeds and left them crunching happily.

  She walked through the quiet stable, checking on the other animals, stopped by the door and looked around. A lamp lit by the door, the stables swept clean. Gear hanging neatly on pegs, wiped clean. She nodded to herself, stretched, yawned. All work done. She was supposed to stay around and tend the needs of any late customers when the hostler took himself off to the battered hedge tavern outside the walls where he drank up his wages after grudgingly giving her the few coins he allowed her for doing the work. She was pleased enough by this. The hostler hadn’t the wit to see her as anything but the boy she pretended to be—and he wasn’t put off by the color of her skin, a color all too evident in the day though she tried to tone it down with smears of greasy dirt. He was too glad to have a silent, willing worker to ask her any questions.

  She wandered a last time along the line of stalls then stood in the stable’s doorway looking at the busy bright tavern. She hesitated, but the temptation to see the meien was too strong. Slipping into the tavern behind a group of laughing townsmen, she squatted in a shadowed corner where few were apt to notice her.

  The meien were sitting together at a table across the room, their backs to the wall, their shoulders almost touching. They were relaxed, talking quietly together, the current of affection between them waking a powerful need in Serroi, a need that twisted her stomach and blurred her eyes. She blinked, folded her arms tight across herself, and tried to focus on less disturbing aspects of the weapon-women. From their chosen table they could see most of the room, the stairs up to the sleeping rooms on the second floor and the two doors leading into the taproom. One was a broad-shouldered, broad-hipped woman with a round face and a dusting of freckles over a snub nose. She wore her hair short, a shining nut-brown helmet following the lines of her skull. She was far from pretty but had a smile that shimmered with charm and dancing dark eyes that accepted and loved everything she saw. The second meie was slim and golden. Golden skin, golden eyes, hair a slightly darker gold; she wore it long, braided and wrapped about her head. Both women wore leather tunics, divided skirts made of the same leather, knee-high boots, a weapon-belt with a slender sword on the right and a grace blade on the left. Everything about them was plain, without any ornament but the pride that kept them clean and polished.

  She gazed hungrily at the two women, wondering if she could ever have their quiet assurance, the bone-deep serenity that she could feel even through the noise and confusion in the taproom. Serroi stirred in her corner, knowing she should be getting back to the stables. The meien helped her resolution by finishing their meal and mounting quietly to the second floor. A drunken townsman called an obscenity after them but was forcibly silenced by his two companions. The meien ignored the incident and turned down the hallway toward their room.

  Serroi slipped out and returned to the stable. She had just time to take a last look at the animals before the hostler came stumbling in, drunk and feeling mean. He snarled at her, picked up a whip. She backed away, avoiding easily his clumsy rush. He forgot what he was holding the whip for, staggered to an empty stall and fell asleep on the clean straw inside. Serroi waited until he was snoring then blew out the lantern and climbed to her own blankets spread out on sweet-smelling straw in the loft.

  The meien came for their mounts at Dawn. Serroi was up and dressed, but the hostler was still snoring off his drunk in the stall. She saddled the macain for the women and led the animals out, ran back inside and fetched her blanket roll, then stood leaning against the stable wall, looking cautiously around before she dared approach them. She could see the serving girls from the tavern hauling in water but there was no one within earshot. As the women swung into the saddle, she ran forward. “Meien,” she called, her voice hoarse with tension.

  The meie with the freckled face rode over to her, smiled down at her. “What is it, boy?” Her voice was a musical contralto, her eyes still pleased with the world.

  “If you’re going to the Biserica, take me with you.” She clutched at her blanket roll, waited anxiously for their answer.

  The freckled meie shook her head. “I’m sorry, boy. We only take girls there, and even they have to be twelve or older. If you want arms training, well, the army might take you when you’re a bit bigger.” She turned the macai’s head and started away.

  Serroi caught at her ankle. “I’m
not a boy and I’m a lot older than I look, near fourteen. Please, meie.”

  The golden meie gave an exclamation and rode back to them. After swinging her macai’s head around, she bent down and looked intently at Serroi. “It might be,” she said slowly. “You’re a windrunner, aren’t you?”

  “A misborn,” Serroi said bitterly, scrubbing at her face to let the green show through the dirt. “You guessed right, meie. I’m tundra born.”

  “I see.” The freckled meie smiled down at her, her face lit by amusement. “Well, little one, get you up behind me. I want to hear your story. I suspect it’s wild enough to keep the two of us entertained for days.” She chuckled, the sound warm with acceptance and interest, reached down toward Serroi.

  The hostler staggered out of the stable, stood gazing blearily at the small group. “The boy botherin’ you, meien?” he growled. He stumbled forward a few steps. “I’ll have the skin off his back for that.” His eyes were bloodshot and glazed with the pain in his head; he was unshaven and his clothing bore last night’s wine stains and a dusting of chaff from the straw.

  The two meien’s eyes met; the freckled one raised an eyebrow; the golden one nodded. Together they kneed their macain between Serroi and the hostler. The golden meie spoke sharply, “Go back to, your stable, man. This is none of your business.” While she spoke, the freckled meie caught Serroi’s reaching hand and lifted her up behind. With a shared laugh both meien sent their mounts trotting out of the stable yard.