by Gayle Greeno
“No, it isn’t fair,” Khar continued, having scooped her earlier thought as well. “But they feel you deserve the right to go first, because of Oriel. You must speak for him, for Saam, for Asa and Wwar’m, and who knows how many others with no voices to tell their tales. The heavier the borden, the more honorably it must be borne.”
“Well?” Harrap prodded. “I don’t know what we face ... not for sure, but I must know what we hope to accomplish ... that it is right, fitting, proper. Or ... or I can’t go on!” He wadded his fists against his thighs in helpless anguish. “I’m being torn in two directions! One way I know, the way of Our Lady. The other way, your way, I’m still seeking. Sometimes it runs fainter than the path we follow, or say we’re following—and I fear I cannot reconcile its end with what I know of the Lady’s teachings.”
Doyce stood alone in front of the fire, its flickering light dappling her legs, her arms wrapped around her to try to ward the inner cold and fear she felt. “We were all raised in the ways of the Lady, Harrap, even if perhaps not all of us worship Her, or at least not formally now. But what the end promises for us or for those we seek, I can’t offer you an ironclad guarantee. Not and be sure I speak the truth.”
“But murder for murder? That’s what Jenret indicated earlier today.”
“Pain for pain, blood for blood, murder for murder, if that is what it takes to expunge them from this world!” Low and cold, Jenret’s words lanced with a ritualistic, incisive clarity.
“No, Jenret, to understand, to learn, perhaps to cure and control, if that be Harrap’s Lady’s will.” Beads of sweat clung at Mahafny’s hairline, catching the fire’s flash and flare like opals. She pushed herself straighter with her arms, a small grunt of pain escaping as her leg shifted.
Doyce tried to mediate. “Any one of these ways may be our answer, Harrap, or a combination of them may prove to be our course. I’m sorry, but I don’t know any more than that because I don’t know what we’ll discover when we reach the end.” And what she resolutely refused to say was: If they reached the end, whether some of them or all of them or none of them. No more promises to make, she didn’t dare try to live up to them, couldn’t. Tired of standing like a mute sentinel, she abruptly folded her legs under her and sat, hugging her knees for comfort, defeated by her own thoughts.
“But in all honesty, we don’t even know who or what we’re seeking. That’s what you’ve admitted. Parm says the same. Who are these people? What are they?” Harrap plowed ahead, determined to search for answers, or at least ask the questions. “What do we know—really?”
“Yes, Doyce, what do we know? Perhaps you could tell us?” She felt Mahafny’s words were intended as a goad, a command to recite and analyze as she went along, to make quick and accurate deductions. In short, to diagnose. To give the aches and pains, related or unrelated, the fevers, the fears, a name, a status, see it as a whole, and with that, with a coherent knowledge of the ailment, to treat it. She threw Mahafny a rancorous look and opened her mouth to respond, but Jenret interrupted her. She subsided, rested her cheek on her knee. What caused the extent, the depth of his anger, what hidden aches, what wound healed over yet perhaps infected within, spurred him to react to this situation as he had?
“That they killed—in cold blood and without quarter—Asa and Wwar’m and their loved ones, for reason or reasons unknown. That some perverted, unnatural connection exists with the ghatti, something unheard of in all the years of Service of the Seekers. That, most logically, these same people, or others of their group, killed Oriel and nearly killed Saam. That they will shame and humiliate us, invalidate and destroy the Seekers Veritas, and sacrifice other innocents if we do not destroy them first!
“It is self-defense, it’s as simple as that! A Seeker does not serve as judge and jury, but he has the right—anyone has the right—to defend himself from death and danger!”
“Three facts, or seeming facts, and one multiple assumption. Doyce?” Though she might be in pain, Mahafny missed nothing, unperturbed by Jenret’s outburst, awaiting Doyce’s response.
Doyce wet her lips, started to speak, then paused. “Before I—before we—analyze, I should introduce some additional facts, related or perhaps—not. But I would be remiss not to consider all the ...” she found herself wanting to say “symptoms,” knew Mahafny heard her whisper it, then continue, “evidence.”
“First, and perhaps I’m stretching a coincidence into a connection, when I rode Oriel’s circuit, I heard the story of a cat who had disappeared and died. The boy who found the cat’s body said that the brain had been scooped out; Byrta used a similar phrase when she spoke of finding Oriel’s body and seeing the head wounds: ‘clean as a melon scooped of seeds.’ ”
“Where did this incident take place?” Jenret’s normal light tenor croaked harsh as a crow.
“Near the Hospice at Wexler,” she responded and then froze, mind reeling, making a rapid, distinct connection with the trepanning instrument found in Asa’s barn. Not just Mahafny, but any eumedico would have access to trepanning instruments and the knowledge of how to use them. Did the others have any idea? She risked a glance around the circle. Mahafny’s head dipped once in acknowledgment.
And then her brain reeled, grappling with new associations. Were eumedicos involved? And if they were, then why, why, oh, by the Lady, why was Mahafny here with them? Why had she shown up when she had? Why had she hurried to catch up, cajoling and convincing Harrap that they must join them? And when Doyce had mastered her emotions and dared look Mahafny’s way again, the eumedico gazed at the night stars, serenely innocent.
“Perhaps only a coincidence about the cat,” offered Harrap. “What else is there we should know?”
“Oh, aye, I’ll go on, but while I do, Jenret, tally how many head or brain injuries have befallen Seekers the past few years, either human or Bondmates, and ask yourself if there could be any other explanations than the stories we’ve accepted.” That would give him something to chew on and perhaps remove the question Swan Maclough had planted in her mind days before, a question that had gnawed at her since. Oh, to run a search through the records back at the capital. Not for the first time she cast a wistful thought back toward Parcellus and Sarrett, wondering how they fared in their research and how the others all fared.
“Hear this, then, Harrap, and the rest of you. The man we found dead just outside Deutscher, the man who rode with those we’ve been trying to catch, once wore a Seeker’s tabard.”
Harrap cast the sign of the eight-point star, whether to ward off evil or to give peace to the dead, she dared not ask. Nor would he be sure if she did. Even Mahafny appeared disconcerted, Jenret tensely alert, remembering that he hadn’t listened to her when she’d announced it before. She had their attention now.
“Yes, Calvert Tipton had been a Seeker, or so goes the story I was told. And after his ghatt died, he was poor, alone, and at last took refuge with the eumedicos, allowing himself to be used for experiments in return for shelter and food. Had you heard of this, Mahafny?”
Mahafny’s hair drank in the firelight, helming her in silvery light with bloody underglows. Her eyes narrowed in pain as she stretched to change the compress on her leg. Harrap clambered up to help, wringing out a fresh cloth to replace the old one. “No, I had not heard of this instance, of this man, specifically.” She eased herself back, shifted at the discomfort. “But it’s not unheard-of, you know that full well yourself, Doyce. There are always those willing to help us in hopes that we can help them.”
The cavalier dismissal stung. “An understated way of putting it. Perhaps you should explain in detail what you mean so that Harrap and Jenret can understand.”
With a bitter sigh, Mahafny began what sounded as if it were a set recitation. “To be a practicing eumedico, to be able to help and heal, means constant attention to new ideas, new facts, new experimental procedures. Without this there would be no advances in our skills or our ability to save lives. Sometimes we seek permission from
a terminally ill patient so that we can experiment, not so much in hope of saving that life, but in hope of making a discovery that will save another life.
“But all of our theories and ideas mean nothing if we cannot test them. Often the experiments are painful and fraught with danger; many fail. But we always need volunteers, and volunteers are few and far between.” She stopped, shook her head as if she’d lost her place. “Except that sometimes we hear of one like the man Doyce mentioned, Calvert Tipton, alone in every way. And then perhaps we can strike a bargain: the use of his body, his time, in return for whatever it is that he needs to sustain him—food, shelter, money.”
“And a good time was had by all!” Jenret’s voice snapped whiplike as he cut off Mahafny’s story, intent on his own thoughts. “Doyce, there was Tabor and H’maw that time in the flood, a few years back. And the ghatta and her ghatten who were stoned to death, oh, an octad or so ago, up near the northern border. When they went to bury the bodies, they were gone. And Carolus and his ghatta, from the fumes after that strange chemical fire. And Khem, but that could have been old age just as easily.”
“And Khem’s grave was vandalized, his brain stolen.” She watched him digest that piece of news. “And Oriel. And Saam. And Asa and the ghatti dead, even if the killers lacked opportunity to do anything further.”
“Summation, please. Working hypothesis.”
Despite herself, Doyce admired the eumedico’s courage. She rose, clasped hands behind her back, voice steady as her thoughts jumped ahead, marshaling disparate facts, abrupt intuition limning the shadowed spots, startling herself with the rightness of her response. “That the goal involved is mindspeech, how it works, how it operates, the discovery of this to be determined by examination of the brains, whether from dead or live specimens, of those trained as Seekers, human and ghatti, and of related brains—regular humans and cats, distant cousins of the ghatti. A cat’s brain is strikingly similar to a human brain, especially the limbic system, the center of emotions and sensations—that is well-known from standard dissections. Until now, the capabilities of ghatti brains have never been explored, but considering their intense mind interactions with humans, it’s likely that their brains resemble ours even more closely, especially in areas of cognition. In short, whether this goal involves the acquisition of mindspeech for those who do not possess it remains to be seen.
“Further, that the person or persons involved have a relationship within the community of eumedicos, on what level—witting or unwitting—we cannot ascertain at this time. There also remains the possibility, somewhat more remote, of a relationship within the Seeker community, although currently available data—including Calvert Tipton’s death and Georges Barbet’s madness—indicates a relationship detrimental to any Seekers so involved.”
“A good beginning, but anything more to postulate? Such as who the prime movers might be, who else might have a vital interest in such matters as mindspeech, or where this is taking place, or why?”
So crisp, so icily confident, Doyce marveled at Mahafny’s self-control, realizing that only she and the older woman knew the fraudulence of the eumedico’s vaunted mindtrance. Did Mahafny think she’d expose her? How deeply was she involved? Doyce resolutely examined the idea from all angles before she answered. “Perhaps. But one thing more. Jenret, would you retrieve the medallion I asked you to hold for me? The one we found on Cal. I’d nearly forgotten about it.” So like the medallion Vesey had worn, and her surreptitious fingers touched her pocket to make sure it was safe. Wild goose chase? What had made her think of the medallion now? The faintest, most elusive connection tweaked her brain, and the harder she thought on it, the deeper it hid. She gave her head a little toss to clear it.
Surprised at the request, Jenret rolled to his knees and began rummaging in his saddlebags, digging deep and, at first, seemingly fruitlessly. Harrap held the hem of his robe to capture the untidy odds and ends pulled into view. “You’re blocking the light, Harrap,” he groused as he pawed through his possessions. At last, with a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled the medallion from the folds of a wadded-up shirt and held it aloft by its leather thong. It glinted sharply, like ice struck by sun, in the firelight.
“Looks rather like mine.” Harrap craned his neck for a better view.
“Mayhap. Toss it over, Jenret.” As it sailed toward her, she was again reminded of a comet set on its course through space, perhaps someday slicing through the atmosphere close enough to damage or destroy, or harmlessly flaming by.
She plucked it out of the air by its leather thong as it started its downward curve, thong trailing behind; somehow the thought of touching the silver repelled her—sheer silliness. Besides, she allowed ruefully, not much choice if she wanted to examine it. Small solace that Saam wasn’t near, since it had unnerved him so much before.
To the casual eye it did very much resemble a Lady’s Shield, Harrap had the right of that: a Shield very much like the one that he, the Shepherds, and many other believers wore, very like the misshapen remains of the one she carried in her pocket, mute reminder of Vesey and Varon. This too was octagonal, each of its eight sides faintly curved, nearer to a circle in shape than a strictly geometrical octagon. The convex side bore signs of etch-marks, the symbol of the Lady, no doubt. Turning it this way and that in the dancing light, Doyce caught her breath, felt her heart lurch and pound. A trick of the firelight, her tiredness, perhaps, and the wearing down of the design, almost obliterated in spots, but the symbol did not appear to be that of the Lady. She rubbed it against her sleeve, then peered at it again, willing her eyes not to deceive her into seeing what didn’t exist, couldn’t exist.
But it did. A crude delineation of a human brain, its segments outlined: cortex, cerebellum, pons, medulla. The very image of a page in a medical text or—worse— very like the emblem she had chanced upon in the old records, closed records that she had been given permission to search once, nearly another lifetime ago, because of the curious paths her life had taken. “So I’ll grant you permission,” Swan Maclough had said, scribbling the order on a slip of paper, impatient hand dripping sealing wax on it. “Let you see how you were recorded by the Seeker after your family’s death.” And she, restless and unnerved by this account, each word a reliving of a time she wanted desperately to forget, had strayed through the other pages of the leather-bound record book with its iron catch-lock, only to find an obscure reference to an earlier volume and record, one she had located before the Recorder had returned, mindful of her need for privacy.
The key had stuck, frozen by old oil and a hint of rust, but at last she’d worked it back and forth, felt it catch. A transcribing of an old case, shut away for some fifty years: a case detailing a group of outcasts, of Gleaners, those dangerous mindstealers who had hidden their secret ability, had found others like themselves and had banded together, hoping that their individual talents would meld and increase with numbers. They had just begun a tentative test of the extent of their powers and their ability to control them when they were found out—and destroyed.
They had sounded a frightened group—or so she read between the lines—fearful of their strange skills and more terrified yet of discovery by outsiders. They were correct; the townspeople had banded together and am-bushed them, but not without loss to themselves: five killed outright, seven sucked mindless as the frantic Gleaners defended themselves with their most lethal weapons—their minds—in a battle with no quarter given. The identifying symbol they had used amongst themselves bore the same shape as the one she held in her hand. After all, how many people would look closely at a Lady’s Shield—except for those who knew to look for a difference? Out of sight in plain sight. She had closed the book then.
Icy-fingered, she flipped the medallion over and saw another design scratched onto the back. Clearly much newer and done by an even less skilled hand, it represented a cat—or a ghatt. Puzzled, she rubbed her eyes, thinking hard, wondering at the connection.
Jenret stood by her
shoulder, staring down at the medallion. She handed it to him without comment, glad to have it away from her and curious as to what he would make of it. His response electrified her with its unexpectedness.
As if it were a thing unclean he cast it into the heart of the glowing embers, and then began to feverishly stir new life into the fire. Snatching at their small stock of dry wood, he recklessly began to rebuild it, making a conical stack of branches that the flames began to writhe through like a chimney. He remained crouched close until satisfied that the fire had caught, soaring into the night air like a beacon.
“Gleaner! Let them see that!” He quivered with revulsion, wiping soot-stained hands on his thighs as if to wipe the brief contact with the medallion from his fingers. “If I’d known I carried that with me!” He kept rubbing, unaware, as he stared into the fire.
“I feared as much.” Mahafny made the reluctant admission. “I suspected it, but at least I, we, now know for sure.”
“But how would you know? Either of you?” With a rising unease, Doyce sidled near Harrap, glad of his comforting bulk, although the Shepherd appeared mystified by what he’d seen and heard. He fingered his own Lady’s Shield protectively, silently defying anyone to rip it from his neck and cast it into the fire.
“A cup of water, someone, please,” Mahafny asked, and Jenret sprang to do her bidding, kneeling beside the eumedico, his arm cradled behind her back to prop her upright while she sipped. Dark head dropped close to silvery one, and Doyce heard the indistinct thread of conversation, lost in the crackle of the fire.
