by Don McQuinn
Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6
The Path Of Mistakes copyright 2013 by Don McQuinn
The Path Of Confusion copyright 2013 by Don McQuinn
The Path Of Discovery copyright 2014 by Don McQuinn
www.DonMcQuinn.com
Omnibus Edition Published by Raven’s Call Press 2014
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9903489-3-1
Wanderer
The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6
The Path Of Mistakes
The Path Of Confusion
The Path Of Discovery
Don McQuinn
Contents
Map
Start Reading Book 4
Start Reading Book 5
Start Reading Book 6
The Story Continues
Contact Information
Full Table Of Contents
The Moondark Saga: Book 4
The Path Of Mistakes
Map
To view the map at full resolution, visit: www.DonMcQuinn.com/map
Prologue
The sun was at its highest in a faultless sky. Its brilliance scourged the barren mountainside with a light as pitiless as truth. Erratic winds pressed one way, then another, swirling away all the heat, except for that hoarded in the tumbled boulders.
Labored breathing rasped from the throats of the three figures struggling up the steep path to the mountain’s blunt summit. Dressed in heavy black robes that reached to the ground, cowls drawn over their heads, their progress was halting, unsteady.
Far below that trio, a straggling group of other black-clad figures huddled in protecting crannies. Downhill farther yet, the black-green wall that was the edge of the forest pulsed to the wind’s insistent music. The first pale tips of spring’s new growth was an almost festive wash of color against the weatherbeaten sobriety of older pines.
Three large curtain-enclosed litters rested on the ground near the waiting group. Startling against the muted tones of the mountain, they were painted in bright colors and festooned with flowers. Occasionally the wind worked free a soft, bright petal. Tossed aloft, each had a translucent beauty that sparkled in the grasp of the air’s rough playfulness. Inevitably, however, they all were crushed to earth and lost among the rocks.
There were flashes of color on the black robes of the three climbers, as well. Piping of silver and gold, the stripes no wider than a finger, marked the edges of the sleeves, skirt, and cowl on the leading figure. The other two featured different colors, and the trim was twice as wide. Each inner part of the cowl was lined in the same colors as the outer decoration. One wore a pattern of stylized long green leaves against a blue that exactly matched the sky. The third wore two entwined shades of different dark brown that seemed to melt into the soft black of the robe.
Groaning, the leader stepped onto the mountain’s crown. Almost flat, the entire expanse stood revealed. Clear of any rock larger than a man’s fist, the plateau was perhaps one hundred long paces from end to end, and half that wide. At the southern end, there was a temple. It was hut-sized, but the sophistication of its immaculately dressed stone, precise architecture, and gabled roof shocked the eye.
The gray iron door was firmly closed. Its metal blankness questioned: Did it shield whomever—whatever—dwelt there? Or did it confine danger?
Or both?
The robed figures threw back their hoods and raised their faces to the sun. They were women, into the years of graying hair. The one wearing gold and silver trim was eldest. All made three-signs, making a fist, using the thumb knuckle to touch forehead, mouth, left eye, and right eye. All bowed heads in prayer.
Self-consciously adjusting their robes, they then closed toward each other and replaced the hoods. They advanced on the building in step, gold and silver on the right, brown in the center, blue and green on the left. In spite of all that, there was imbalance. Two showed reluctance in their gait and in the way they continually sought physical contact with a companion. The third, she of blue and green, strode with determination.
The door swung open.
The wind steadied from the south. It whisked away puffs of dust raised by the women’s footsteps.
Beyond the plateau, the world stretched away in bold mountains and canyons. Crystalline air brought rivers, forests, and small villages so close one expected to hear the call of birds and children’s laughter. Something in the depths of the soul made it known, however, that such simple joys never touched this place. Here was mystery. Here the wordless wind warned of power that transcended what humans called reality.
When the women reached the building they knelt before the stone slab doorstep. From inside their robes, they produced offerings. The elder placed a kernel of corn and a grain of wheat on the step. The woman of brown poured salt from a leather pouch into a dish. Her second contribution was a finger-sized ingot of steel. Lastly, the woman of blue and green set down another saucerlike dish and filled it with water from a flask. Beside that, she placed a tuft of wool. Her hands were the only ones that didn’t tremble.
As much felt as heard, the rhythm of a huge, unseen drum pushed against the women. The minor-major double beat of a heart grew louder and louder. In a reverberating crescendo, it seized the women. They became earth, stone, mountain. And then the rhythm retreated, fading back to subliminal pressure.
Softly, dry as ashes, a voice echoed hollowly from within the stone walls. “One knows why you come, Sister Mother.”
A nervous tremor turned the eldest woman’s formal nod into a spasmodic twitch. She tried to speak, but managed only a weak, crying note.
The woman of blue and green pushed back her hood. Pale lips were drawn tight. Her eyes slitted in concentration. She said, “We come to beg your help.”
The dry voice intoned, “Sister Mother speaks here, Harvester. Not you. One knows where your mind has taken you. One prays you find your way back.”
The Harvester lifted her chin. “My soul, my heart, my mind—all are sworn only to Church’s service.”
The double-beat thundered. Sister Mother prostrated herself on the step-altar. The woman of brown fell over, curled in a fetal ball. Only the Harvester remained in position, and even she grimaced, eyes closed. The rhythm trailed off. The voice went on in cold, rustling fury. “You dare lie to One. You think to enlist me in your schemes. You, Sister Mother, hear. You need strength, as never before. You, Gleaner; your spies are Sister Mother’s eyes and ears and must know all. The beast that stalks Church is ever new and ancient beyond the beginning! Small enough to hide in any place, powerful enough to have obliterated the giants and their slaves. What comes makes evil of the purest. All that can save Church is the rarest of treasures. Church must produce it. With it, she guides. Without it, she dies. In no case can Church ever be the same.”
Still facedown, Sister Mother pleaded. “Help me. Tell me what to do, whom to trust.”
Rough laughter scraped through the doorway. “Church would do well to trust her enemies; they have the virtue of dependability.” Then, sternly, “One cannot do for Sister Mother what she must do for herself. One can only warn. New empires are a-borning; fear not only their might. The long-feared blossoming of Sylah of the Iris stirs. The force to destroy Church shall come forth with the first life of next spring. You have exactly one year to prepare. The Flower will be brought to glory by the white and black, by all-powerful magic that creates beauty and destruction, peace and wa
r.”
The door swung to half-closed. Nearly hysterical, Sister Mother edged forward. “Must Church strike Sylah? One of our own? You are the Seer of Seers! What is the treasure? Tell me what to do.”
Inch by inch, the door continued its movement. “One never sees all. One never completely understands all that One sees. Still, I have something else to say. For you, Harvester: I have changed and tranced many times lately, trying to plumb this matter. Always, I find you waiting in my Seeing. At the edge, you understand? Not clearly visible, but a presence. And I feel death. What does that suggest, sister?”
Heavy sobs from the unmoving Sister Mother punctuated the long pause while the Harvester considered her answer. “Perhaps that I will fight for Church. It must survive. There will be violence, as there has been already. As for me, I have no fear of death in Church’s name.”
“Admirably said. May Church at least change, then?” The voice was impatient.
“Church is immortal, immutable.”
“You sadden.” The door swiftly closed. Through it, the voice was amazingly clear. “Beware, Sister Mother, of deceit, of unbelievers. Beware most of-all the truest of the true. Therein lies perversion.”
* * *
A small man wrapped in a cloak the color of the surrounding rocks watched carefully from a hiding place at the lip of the plateau as the women filed off the opposite edge. When the Harvester stepped down, she turned and pushed back her cowl, then replaced it. Immediately, she followed her companions and was lost to sight.
The man sped to the small building. Stepping over the offerings, he drew a thick-bladed short sword and knocked on the door with its butt. He poised to strike.
There was no response.
Gripping the door handle, he yanked. It swung open easily. The sword stabbed reflexively at empty air. Slowly, eyes-bulged with fear, he entered the room. On the floor, a small stone pot held a glowing coal of incense, its wispy smoke rising to enshroud the wizened face of an old, old woman. Through the shimmering pall she glared contempt that clashed with a voice as soft as a caress. “Aahh, you come. Brave warrior. One commends.”
She gestured at two pieces of cloth next to the censer. The movement sent tendrils of smoke coiling at the man. He flinched. Her face cracked in a twisted, pitying smile. “Pick them up,” she said, and as he did, she went on, “You will give these to the Harvester. Tell her this: ‘It grieves One to have seen that you will have other victories, some as important as this one.’”
He managed a nod.
“Then strike,” she commanded. “It is as it must be.”
Shivering violently, the man made a three-sign. He hugged himself.
“Strike!” She shrieked it. “Now, or by the word of the One in All, One will tell you of your own death. Strike, coward, as you must.”
And so he did, his own desperate scream overriding any cry the Seer might have made.
The heartsound roared. The man choked, dropped his sword, and covered his ears. The noise throbbed along every blood path in his body, tearing at flesh and bone. Whimpering like a beaten child, he stumbled backward out of the room. Once in the sunlight, he ran.
* * *
Some time later, at a rest stop amid the pines of the lower slope, the man sidled close to the blue and green litter of the Harvester. Peering through the semitransparent screen, the woman saw him. After a quick glance around, she ordered her bearers to leave. When she was quite alone, she gestured the thin figure forward. As soon as he knelt outside, she asked, “Is it done?”
Eyes averted, he said, “Yes, Harvester.”
The tone roused her suspicion. She pushed the screening aside. “She spoke, didn’t she?”
The man blindly extended the articles. The Harvester’s face tightened at the sight of her own belt, missing over a year. The second was a patch of Church robe, with the small embroidered iris emblem of that order’s Chosens. The Harvester threw them both to the foot of the litter. She listened stonily to the Seer’s message, then sat back to think.
The emblem had to be from the child Sylah. A grown woman, now; a War Healer. It was a warning, then. Everyone knew One was a friend of the crack-brained old Iris Abbess in the far north, she of the hysteric dreams of the Door. And Sylah was her favorite. Together, the articles proved One used personal possessions to work her predictions. That was a sin. She was a fraud, as well. No one who saw the future would wait so calmly to be murdered.
Still, she’d been absolutely accurate about many things for as long as anyone could remember. What she said about victories indicated she saw something. Old fool.
Suddenly, the Harvester sat bold upright. Of course. Victories. The Seeing told One who won the coming conflict. The witch couldn’t bear knowing, wanted to die.
She leaned out of the litter to address the man. “You’re sure she’s dead? Where’s your sword?”
Cringing, the man backed away, still kneeling. “May the One in All help me, I did it. Then I heard her dead heart beating. I left the weapon. It hurt my hand. Hurt. Cold, Harvester. Like ice. I can’t get warm. What have we done?”
“We?” The Harvester dropped the cloth between them. “You trespassed on holy ground. You killed the Seer of Seers. Pray I’ll continue to favor you and find a penance that will let you save your soul. Now, get away from me.”
The man fled.
Musing, the Harvester said, “Next spring, she said. A year from now. Not much time. If that fool’s allowed to seek the Door, she’ll create division among us all. If she finds something…” That didn’t bear thinking about. She stared off into space, then spoke decisively. “The Seer of Seers knew. And I understand.”
The Harvester looked toward the gold and silver litter. She smiled. Slowly, it waned. Only the most practiced, the most observant, could have detected the tightening facial muscles that betrayed suppressed emotion. Then, control rejected, the Harvester abandoned herself to expression. Her lips pulled back from clenched teeth. Her eyes narrowed. She breathed deeply, rapidly. Her breast rose and fell as if she struggled with an inner demon almost too strong to contain.
“Sylah,” she said, and the name was a sigh of hatred. “Sylah.”
Chapter 1
Anxious fingers of light reached out from the crackling flames in the fireplace. Their nervous search fondled grim walls and a floor of rough stone. Unable to reach the full extent of the room, they carved out a fitful, shifting island of ruddy illumination. When the last remaining log collapsed into a muddle of whispering coals, there was a startled, answering movement at the line where firelight broke on solid blackness.
There was a chair, a thing of leather and wood so darkened by age that it suggested a tangible structure of the night itself. Again, there was movement. It defined a seated figure, cowled in Church’s black robe.
The change in position was unhurried. The surprise occasioned by the falling log was obviously past. Nevertheless, there was a sense of irritation in the room now, and disappointment, as though the person had been immersed in some deep reverie and resented return to reality.
A languid hand appeared from inside one of the spacious sleeves, soft white against the wool. It stroked the cloth in a preoccupied rhythm for a few moments before sweeping up decisively to brush back the cowl. Gold glinted boldly, a massive bracelet and a ring. The facial features were sculpted in lines of determination so uncompromising they threatened to overwhelm the woman’s beauty. Ebony hair celebrated release in a shining cascade.
Rising smoothly, she moved to throw more wood on the fire. She stopped, head cocked, listening. Rain beat against the thick wood shutters holding out the night. Wind moaned deep in the chimney’s throat.
She was certain she’d heard something else. Distant shouts? And sharp, hard noises. Hoofbeats?
It made no sense. Gan Moondark would never schedule troop movements inside the walls of the castle—not without warning everyone who lived there. It couldn’t be an attack. The troops manning the battle walks would be shouting, ba
ttering the huge alarm gongs to fill the night with brazen thunder.
A shiver touched the small of her back, skittered up her spine to cower under the hair on the nape of her neck. Memories flooded her present.
Once there had been another night of unexplained presence. A child sensed its danger, a heavy, menacing force outside her home. That home was a hut, not a castle.
Men had made the sounds; the child had heard them. Now she was grown; Rose Priestess, War Healer, Sylah. Wife to Clas na Bale, who was Gan Moondark’s true friend.
The little girl’s name wasn’t Sylah when those men came and killed her family while she watched. Neither did the men care what became of her after Church chose her, thereby saving her from death or slavery. Church named her, as was Church’s right and obligation.
The child survived because she’d learned to keep her memories buried. A Chosen had no memory of any childhood except Church. Or she disappeared. Forever. It was the way. The Apocalypse Testament said it: “To be chosen to serve Church best, one denies all that has passed and once was. Past is dead is death is killing. Now and tomorrow, those called Chosen are Church’s most treasured instruments, the living proof that all are meant to live in peace with the earth.”
She heard sounds again, muffled by the wind and rain. Angry, confused, she told herself there was nothing to fear here. Hadn’t she, herself, participated in creating this sanctuary?
Sanctuary. The word rattled through her mind, ringing bitter discord.
Gan Moondark’s sanctuary, after he’d united the barons of Harbundai and overthrown Altanar, the king of what had been considered invincible Ola. Now Gan ruled the Three Territories; Harbundai, Ola, and the vast lands of his own semi-nomadic Dog People living to the east of the Enemy Mountains. It was Gan who asked Clas na Bale to lead the Dog People in his stead, and so deprived her of her husband. Sanctuary.
