by Don McQuinn
The tapestry was dark, fat with rolling boils of smoke and the angular char of burned trees and buildings. Here and there, sharp red and yellow teeth of flames scavenged what was left.
Lanta disliked the tapestry. She disliked the quotation, although she never confessed it; a beating was the least she could expect for such impertinence.
Lanta rose to greet them.
Without any return greeting, the Abbess said, “This is a Messenger. From Sister Mother to me. You must hear.”
Lanta cringed inwardly. What could she have done to warrant the attention of Sister Mother?
And a Messenger? The very name made people nervous. A tight, self-contained band, Messengers were most people’s sole method of long-distance communication in a world where writing was regarded as a profane art. They were expensive. And inviolate. If a Messenger was interfered with in any way, even offered a bribe, the offending tribe was refused all service until the guilty party was punished and the Messengers were compensated. Normally forbidden to reveal anything that might harm their clients, they willingly told all they knew of those under such a sentence. It was a dire penalty. Unable to communicate with neighbors, such a tribe was blind, deaf, mute. Unable to negotiate alliances, they stood alone. And fell quickly.
Messengers were treated with regard, but little liking. The wicked smile this one sent Lanta, while keeping it carefully hidden from the Abbess, did nothing to improve her opinion of them.
Sweeping off her cloak, the Abbess assumed Lanta’s chair. She fanned her face with a corner of the material, the violet lining and the green outerwork alternating like a butterfly wing. At her command, “Speak,” the Messenger began. As was required, he imitated his client. Lanta marveled at the aged, cracked voice, the feminine cast to the words. She was afraid to look away, afraid that when she looked back, it would be Sister Mother herself.
“My words will reach you a year after the death of the One, the Seer of Seers. As our treasured sister, Abbess of the Violet Abbey of Ola, you have the honor of sending the Priestess Lanta to Church Home. She will be examined and tested as a replacement for our departed One. Please express our joy in anticipating Lanta’s arrival, as we know you experience your own joy in seeing her selected.”
The Abbess’ words came as if she had sand on her teeth. “We’re proud of you, my child. One of us, a Chosen. Our gift, and now recognized by Sister Mother herself. You bring honor to the abbey.”
Lanta murmured modest thanks.
The Abbess continued, “You’re relieved of all your duties. Prepare to go. I suggest you isolate yourself and pray. You have a problem with pride.”
“Yes, Abbess.” Covering her unease, Lanta fell back on the safety of catechism. “‘We are all Chosen of Mother Church. She is past and future.’”
Rising to leave, the Abbess patted her on the head. Her thick, two-fingered ring of gold and amethyst hit with enough force to hurt. Lanta almost giggled; the symbol of the Abbess’ office had its hidden dangers.
The Abbess said, “The Messenger has more information for us, intended for all Church in Ola. There will be a meeting after the evening meal.”
Lanta barely got through the good-byes. Church Home. Sister Mother. The answer to her restlessness.
There was no future for her in the Three Territories. There never had been. During King Altanar’s time there was repression, intrigue, and the struggle to protect Church. That gave motion and excitement to life, but not fulfillment. Now that the Three Territories were united in Gan’s hands, peace would give Church the opportunity to grow and provide ever-better service to her people. The Violet Abbess would always seek more power. She was probably capable of conniving with the unwashed barons who secretly longed for Altanar’s return.
Lanta made a hurried three-sign to protect herself from the wrath of the One in All for impiety. Or impoliteness.
There would be great challenge in maintaining Gan’s peace. But Violet Priestess Lanta would toil in a very small, very insignificant corner. The Abbess would continue to use her. If Lanta was successful in all her efforts, she could hope to replace the Violet Abbess in the distant future. If the old schemer didn’t outwit death itself.
Lanta considered another three-sign and ruefully decided she’d need stronger medicine; a special prayer after dinner might help.
She hopped back in the chair, pressed against the back, hugged herself with delight.
The other mind, full of troubles and fears. Still present.
The first words of the voice came so softly Lanta was afraid it was the Seeing. The touch of ice tingled on her flesh. When the words came again, she realized the voice was human. “Don’t turn around, Priestess Lanta. I have no wish to be seen by you, or anyone else. Our meeting must remain unobserved.”
A woman. Eyes straight ahead, Lanta said, “Who are you, to be so certain we’re not watched?”
Laughter rustled like a small creature breasting dead grass, then, “It is my business… no, my life, to be unseen. The violet flourishes best where unobserved. The Tender of your order has words for you.”
“From the Tender? Herself? You have permission from my Abbess? You’re another Messenger?” Lanta bit down on the questions an instant ahead of harsh interruption.
“That swaggering fool? You insult. I raced him. The snows trapped us, but I left first. I speak to you alone. Listen. Church is in the greatest danger since the purge of the Teachers. A force has risen in the east. It grows stronger with each conquest. It advances, bringing Moondance. To survive, Church must lose no opportunity, deny no weapon. You understand?”
“Yes.” She hardly heard herself.
The unseen speaker continued. “Our Tender, guardian of our souls, is concerned about the Rose Priestess called Sylah. Her search for the legendary Door suggests sacrilege. The Door is only rumor, a tale for children. Nothing more. That being true, why does not the Iris Tender forbid this waste? The Violet Tender suspects a plot. The Violet Tender fears that Sister Mother will refuse to pursue accommodation with the one named Katallon, the leader of this new force. Church must ensnare this evil before she can destroy it.”
Lanta’s throat worked convulsively, fighting against welling nausea.
Church was splitting.
The speaker waited, knowing questions must come.
Reluctantly, Lanta forced herself to address the central issue. “What does the Tender wish?”
“Ahhh.” The unexpected relief in the deep sigh surprised Lanta, but before she could ponder it, the voice went on, “They said you were as obedient as you are… gifted.” There was a pause both before and after the last word, a silence that raised the hair on Lanta’s neck. Then, “You have helped this Sylah before, Priestess. She trusts you. You will go to Church Home as Sister Mother orders. Accompany Sylah. Assure that whatever she learns of the Door is known to you. The Violet Tender must have that information as soon as the devious, aggressive Iris sisters.”
Desperately, knowing it was a useless ploy, Lanta pretended suspicion. “I don’t even know you’re who you say you are.”
A fist from behind appeared above Lanta’s head. The robe sleeve pulled back from the wrist, exposing a bracelet of woven gold wire, its mesh enfolding several small, spherical amethysts. It was a decoration afforded the highest priestesses of the Violet Order, and Lanta was certain its exposure was no accident. The fist, at the upper limits of her vision, opened. Something large on a golden chain fell free to gyrate just inches from her nose. Lanta gasped recognition as the movement slowed, and the speaker chuckled softly. “You have heard of the True Stone? Then see it, and believe. Look deep, child, and see what you serve. See our heart.”
It was a large, irregular amethyst, unworked, save for one polished surface. The prime talisman of the order; Lanta had never heard of it leaving Church Home. As it stopped moving, Lanta felt her whole being focus on that flawless, beckoning smoothness. Her gaze went into it, ever deeper, until it seemed she must flow, like water, to its scintil
lating mystic center. There was the marvel, just as legend told. A resistant corner of her mind knew the phenomenon was no more than a juxtaposition of crystals and light. What her heart and spirit saw was the cross, the holiest and most forbidden symbol in all Church. Men had used it to kill the One Who Is Two, and were eternally shamed. No woman was allowed to even mention His name or the cross. The very existence of the True Stone was a peril to the entire Violet Abbey.
She blinked.
Stone, chain, and fist were gone. Before she could turn, the voice behind her hissed warning. Lanta slumped in the chair. She said, “What you ask is impossible. How can I persuade Sylah to let me accompany her? How would I even get a message to the Tender? Does she require me to See? I am not allowed—”
“Obey your instructions. All else will be attended to. Never tell anyone of our meeting. Now, from the lips of the Tender herself: Fail, and Violet will find cause to cast you out. You will live, but only as an object lesson to others who would reject Church’s needs. Your life will be an unending prayer for release. Am I understood?”
“Yes.” Lanta barely heard herself. The sun moved quite far before she assumed she was alone.
A moment later, however, she rose quickly, the motion firm and controlled. After all, before all this happened, wasn’t she complaining to herself that she had no future in the Three Territories? And the speaker wasn’t as clever as she thought; twice she called her Priestess, when her proper rank was Violet Priestess. A small gap in the armor of all-knowingness, but welcome.
She had taken no more than three steps when the false self-confidence collapsed. She leaned heavily against one of the old, comforting trees.
Everything she’d been taught about the sanctity and unity of Church—her Mother, her only family—had been thrown into doubt.
A single word stole through the pathways of her mind, fouling all it touched.
Betrayal.
Chapter 6
Sylah stood beside her horse and watched with amusement as her tiny companion lowered herself cautiously from stirrup to ground. The last part of the maneuver was practically a jump. When the elfin face turned up to hers, Sylah tried to hide a grin, but Lanta spied her difficulty and responded with her own laughter.
Sylah apologized as best she could. “It’s not right to laugh, Lanta, but you make it impossible. I’m not used to watching someone climb down off a horse.”
Lanta feigned indignation, drew herself to her full height. The pose brought her head to a point inches below Sylah’s chin. She said, “A small arrow will fell the largest tiger.”
Sylah’s edgy look around was sincere. “Don’t make jokes about tigers. We’re too far from any help for that sort of humor.”
Lanta was unconcerned. “They prefer brushier country, not old forest.” Her gesture dismissed endless ranks of massive trees. They’d dismounted on a long straight stretch of the main southbound road. Fir branches intermingled in a vaulted green ceiling that filtered sunlight to a pale luminescence. The air was a near-liquid richness of sharp resin and damp loam. When the horses whickered, the sound seemed to hover, caged in stillness.
In fact, until the matter of Lanta’s dismount, the pressure of the brooding woods had contributed mightily to Sylah’s general discomfort. Lanta had not been a pleasant companion. For that matter, it was unlikely anyone in Church was on this day. The Messenger had shocked them all. Still, Church trained her sisters to observe the unconscious movements and mannerisms by which all people signaled their deeper thoughts. They were equally well-schooled in containing much of their own reaction. Much of Sylah’s unease came from the way Lanta’s troubled state broke past the barriers.
Unless—most troublesome thought of all—Lanta was pretending distress.
The feeling of some sort of game in progress had cloaked their meeting from the beginning. Sylah decided to confront the problem. “You puzzle me. I speak of tigers and you wave them off, yet you were far from calm when you insisted on this meeting.”
It was Lanta’s turn to be concerned. “Did I seem nervous? Could anyone else notice?”
“Who could notice? We were alone.” Once again, Sylah glanced around. “Not as alone as we are out here, I grant you. Why this secrecy? Is it about your call to Church Home?”
“Guesses that accurate will have people saying it’s you who Sees, instead of me.” A twitchy smile moved her features.
The pace of the game had quickened. Sylah said, “If you can be ready soon enough, you could travel with us. It might be safer.”
Lanta’s nod was bird-quick. Her eyes, so dark a green they made Sylah think of the surrounding forest, never wavered. “The Messenger talked to the Violet Abbess about the nomads and their leader, Katallon.” Lanta took a deep breath. When she spoke, her gaze slid away from Sylah, set their focus on the distance. “The Messenger said none of his craft will go near the nomads, so he was willing to talk about them. He says that a few years ago, a Peddler came to Church Home with tales of a new nation of nomads to the east and south. Sister Mother honored my Violet Order with the opportunity to bring them truth and healing. Five Priestesses were sent, three Healers and two War Healers. Our sisters were accepted and sent a Messenger to say they were being treated well. In time, Sister Mother sent the customary replacements. They rode into open hostility. For several moons they continued east, always watched, never contacted. Finally, they were met by the original five Priestesses, who refused to return to Church Home. They gave no reason, but told the others to leave and never come back. Sister Mother sent a second group. Several moons passed before a Peddler brought news of them.”
Lanta’s hand drifted upward awkwardly, blindly seeking her horse’s reins. She squeezed them until her knuckles were bone white. “The nomad leader, the Katallon one, gave the Peddler a box to deliver to Sister Mother. A gift, he said. Sister Mother opened it in front of the Councillors and all the Tenders of the Orders—Violet, Iris, Lily, Daisy—and all the rest. It was salt. They thought it was symbolic, like our spring offering to the Seer of Seers. Then Sister Mother tipped it onto the table. There was a head. Preserved. One of us.”
For a moment Sylah was too stunned to react. She said, “No,” disbelieving. Retribution was certain. Everyone knew that.
Lanta said, “There was a note. Between her teeth. It said two of the first sisters still lived, and that Church was doomed. Katallon will destroy her.”
She stopped. The shining pink tip of her tongue was a startling, darting contrast to her dry, bloodless lips. “Moondance, Sylah. Katallon crushes all who resist, absorbs all who surrender and accept Moondance. The note bragged: ‘Where Katallon steps, only my followers live.’”
“What’s been done? Why is this a secret?”
“Fear. Church Home is paralyzed. Some advise Sister Mother to make whatever peace she can with Katallon, saying that our skills will make us indispensable. Others demand resistance, whatever the cost. Church is split.”
“Split? Split? Church is whole, now and always! We fight among ourselves, but we are one.”
“No. The threat is too great. If Church chooses the wrong path, she dies.”
“Why have I heard nothing of this?”
“Moondance knows of the division within Church. Sister Mother has placed a ban on any talk outside Church Home. Even now, priestesses from both factions travel everywhere, demanding that leaders take one side or the other. Moondancers search for them, plot against them.”
Sylah sagged. Was this the game? To frighten her away from her quest? To force her to choose sides? Lanta was Violet, just as the priestesses who went to Katallon’s nomads. Surely Violet would want the power of the Door to come to them.
For the briefest instant, she feared the small woman and her unknowable power. The thought passed immediately. Lanta was a friend. A sister. She looked deep into the small face, wishing she could soothe away the confusion there.
Lanta said, “I don’t know anyone else who’d do what you just did.”
> “Did? What did I do?”
“Met my eyes. You always have. You trust me.”
“Don’t praise me too highly.” Sylah found a smile. “You have to use the trance to generate Seeing. I know that.”
“Everyone knows it. But they won’t look me in the eye. Or touch me. Can you imagine what it’s like when I reach for someone?” Suddenly belligerent, she extended a hand. She dared.
Sylah hesitated, not out of concern, but in amazement at the rush of contradictory emotions tearing at her friend.
She took Lanta’s hand. The small woman withdrew it. For several heartbeats, she stared up at the taller Sylah. Her voice trembled. “Long ago, I lied to Altanar about what I saw in your future. I gave you your life. I claim fair return now. I’m trusting you with my soul.”
Sylah nodded. Her heart was racing. The game had changed again, and she was lost. Too many directions, too many uncertainties.
Lanta said, “The Tender of the Violet Order instructs me to accompany you on your quest. I am to offer my services to you, do anything I can to help you find the Door.”
Relieved, Sylah smiled. “That’s all? To repay what you did for me? Your Tender’s no bargainer, my friend. I’d agree to that just for the pleasure of your company.”
Lanta’s shrill laughter abused the purity of the forest. “My Abbess is breaking her knees in constant prayer, hoping I will be chosen the One, and influence decisions as the new Seer of Seers. In the meantime, if you discover the Door, whatever you find must be shared with the Violet Order. First.”
Sylah flared. “I seek the Door for Church, for all women. My findings will be my secret. No one will decide how to use what I discover. I can eliminate your problem: don’t come with me.”
She spread her hands in sudden entreaty. The bitter, twisted arrogance shattered, to be revealed as empty despair. “I must. I must inform on you. Or be cast out. You’re the only person who never treated me as a witch. Please, please don’t tell them. If you do, or refuse to let me come with you, I’ll understand. I hope I can be strong about it. I know I did the right thing by warning you. I only wish…”
