by Don McQuinn
Odeel insisted she rinse the cups, continued on in the role of pourer. Seated once more, another side of her crept into their quiet talk. “My father was a godkill digger.” She said it with a touch of wonder. Sylah understood that well she might. The godkills were all that was left of the communities where the slaves lived when the giants who ruled the world destroyed it. There was no more dangerous job. No one still believed the ancient tales that godkills harbored incurable disease or the flesh-eating radeath. Still and all, digging was normally the province of slaves or human scavengers. Or Peddlers.
Odeel continued. “Father lost our farm to a merchant. We were Kossiars. In Kos, desperate men can hire themselves out to dig godkills. It’s not pleasant, knowing your father is the only freeman in the village looked down on by the slaves. Still, he fed and clothed us.” She excused herself, went to the window. Returning to the table, she resumed her story. “The day after Mother’s burning, I presented myself to the abbey. My tenth year, I reckon. The Sisters took me in. I never saw my father or any of my family again. Church is my world, my soul. As Church gave me life, so I gladly give life for Church.”
Sylah said, “We both know bitterness.”
Odeel’s smile had a peculiar, almost cruel twist. “All women are harshly bound. You seek to change that. I know they must live within the bonds. It’s a lesson we all learn, Sylah. Some with more difficulty than others.”
A searing twinge in her stomach cut off Sylah’s response. The pain faded slightly, only to return like the twist of a blade. The Harvester gripped Sylah’s wrist. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Sylah managed. The pain mounted steadily. Her head felt stuffed, as if it were swelling. She had a sudden mad fear that it might split. Her mouth was dry, and she reached clumsily for her mug.
The Harvester stopped her. “No more tea. Fresh water’s what you need.” She hurried to fill the mug from the large urn by the fireplace.
Sylah drained it. In seconds, she felt better. Much better. Oddly, the pounding pain remained, but it seemed… What? Pointless. That was the word. Nothing was important. Everything was nice. Soft.
The Harvester put gentle fingers to Sylah’s throat pulse, studied her face, fingertips, ears. “What do you feel, Sylah? Tell me.” She took Sylah’s hands in her own. Sylah was startled by the heat of the Harvester’s touch. Or was it because her own hands were cold? Her feet certainly were. And her nose.
Sylah said, “It’s cold.” She couldn’t imagine why the Harvester was so completely unmoved by the massive import of that news. She merely pressed the cup on Sylah again, demanding she drink.
The Harvester rested against the edge of the table for another few moments, then suddenly walked away to stand with her back to the window.
“Come to me,” she said. “Now.”
An order.
Sylah’s mind fragmented. She heard commands shouted at Chosens. There were punishments for being slow or—terrible thought—disobedient. She struggled out of the chair.
One step away from the steadying table finished her. She pitched forward, reaching out to the Harvester. Crashing into the stone wall, staggering backward, hands flung out for balance, she cried out for help. The sound was a faint mewing. Blurry, wavering eyes found the Harvester. The tall woman seemed far away, a force that loomed like Snowfather Mountain, cold and forbidding. She looked down at Sylah on the floor.
And smiled triumph.
Chapter 11
When Sylah woke she was prone, with no idea how long she’d been that way. The glow from embers in the nearby fireplace burned her eyes. Blinking back tears that owed as much to fright as to pain, she turned her head. The tiny flame of the room’s single candle now was needling brightness. She moaned, shut her eyes. Struggling, she forced herself to all fours, only to collapse and roll onto her back.
Framed in the window, glittering stars swirled madly across the sky. Suddenly, they stopped. Instead, she spun, a terrified, nauseated speck in the vastness of night. She was attached to nothing, bathed in coiling trails of light. She gagged, twisting away.
Then it was over. She was still. The stars were in place. Silence—menacing, suggestive—filled the world.
A darkness at the topmost edge of her vision loomed over her, ever larger, blotting out the stars. A voice said, “And so it ends, poor fool. ‘The truest of the true’ you may be, but you’ll not destroy my Church.”
Squinting against the pain-bringing light, Sylah tried to wipe tears away. Her muscles refused to comply.
Lassitude swept her. She didn’t care about the rebellious muscles.
Nothing mattered. She drifted in carefree warmth.
Softness. That feeling had happened to her before.
At the table. Drinking tea with the Harvester.
Now she was separated from everything. Alone.
Fight. Embrace the pain, the nausea. Recognize them as reality.
No. Everything was all right.
Helpless. Echoing, echoing.
It didn’t matter. Everyone was helpless.
She tried to concentrate, pinched her lip between her teeth. Something crunched. The salt taste of blood startled her. It also seemed to spur her mind to clarity.
The Harvester.
Sylah managed to sit up, then slump back against the stone wall. Its chill indifference seemed to drain her resolve. A wavering, tremulous thought tried to remind her that she must protest something. But what? Protest to whom? There was no one but the Harvester, and she was authority.
Everything was all right.
She was losing herself again.
Fight!
Something swallowed her mind, something dark and evil, living inside her.
Everything was all right.
The Harvester gripped Sylah’s hair, lifting. The crack of the other hand across her cheek sounded like a distant branch breaking. Pain came as a slow, breaking wave that crashed and retreated in a confused welter of thoughts and reactions. Sylah knew she should cry out. It didn’t seem worth the effort. She braced with her hands on the floor, tried to focus on Odeel’s face. It was almost touching her own.
“That’s better, then,” the older woman said. “You shouldn’t have the will or the strength to sit up. Your eyes are correct, though; no fear, no recognition. Dear, dear Sylah. You have no idea how distasteful it is to look into such eyes.”
The Harvester shivered slightly as she turned her attention to the golden sickle at her breast. The surface of the piece was etched with crisscross lines, creating myriad facets on the mirror bright surface that caught every glimmer from the candle. The effect on Sylah’s sensitized eyes was a swaying, demanding dazzle. The Harvester commanded her to watch. Watch.
Sylah’s eyelids grew heavy, as the Harvester’s voice said they must. She wanted to sleep.
No, not sleep. Escape. Get away from the pressing, cold-voiced orders, the will-crushing gleam of the sickle on its chain.
Suddenly the Harvester’s face was in front of her again. There was a hint of admiration in her voice. “You’re very strong. You resist my little toy as well as my drugs. It’s over, though. Your mind is mine to command now, a stilled pool, waiting for whatever ripples I choose to create there. From what I’m told, it’s not an unpleasant state. I could almost envy you.”
Sylah forced a sound past the straining muscles of her throat. She willed the Harvester to feel her rage, the determination to regain control of herself. Her fingers curled, scratched at the stone floor.
The Harvester took a half step backward. “Incredible. You saw? You heard? I’ve never…”
She broke off, decisive once again. “Stand. Stand, Sylah!”
The sickle swayed, gleamed, lured. Sylah rose.
Other orders followed. Sylah walked, sat, stood again.
Secure in her victory, the Harvester gloated. “Once I’ve had time to work with you, you’ll be a great asset to Church. You’re far too headstrong, presently. You must understand that I am Church
, now, Sylah. All your training, your indoctrination is centered in me. I am Mother. I am Church.” Odeel repeated the latter statement over and over, bringing out the sickle again, swinging it in a gentle arc in front of Sylah’s fixed, dull eyes.
Odeel finally stepped away, gazed out the window. “Church needs you Sylah. You’ll come with me on the ship, back to Kos, then to Church Home, where we’ll pursue your quest for the Door. Together. Church will help you. You remember your catechism; are you sworn?”
“I am sworn to Mother, the Healer.”
“Exactly. And who is Mother, Sylah? At the word Mother, whom do you see?”
“The Harvester. Odeel. You.”
“And Church? Who is Church?”
“You. Mother.”
Softly, the older woman said, “Oh, excellent, excellent. You worried me for a while, my dear, yes you did. No one’s resisted my potion the way you did. No one who lived.” Then, briskly, “This is the time when you normally call on the black one, Tate; we’ll do that. Remember, you’re exactly the person you always were, except now you serve Church through me. Your new way to pursue your quest is a Church secret, and you must protect it. You understand?”
Sylah nodded, then followed the Harvester out of the room, docile, unconcerned.
At Tate’s quarters, Odeel ordered the attendant Chosen to wait outside. With the girl out of the way, Odeel moved to where Tate lay flat on her back in bed. She was packed in poultices from waist to scalp. At the sound of visitors, she reached up with painful slowness to lift the bandages from her face.
Bending over to look directly down at her, Odeel said, “I know you, Donnacee Tate. Our friend Sylah speaks highly of you.”
The battered features managed a grotesque smile. The effort impressed Odeel. One eye was completely closed by massive swelling. The other was a mere slit. The lips were split, round and swollen like broken fingers. A thick aroma of herbs rose from dark skin that gleamed with a mix of sweat and moisture from the hot packs. A trick of the light caused a gleam, like a sputtering candle, in Tate’s good eye.
Halting, her voice a husked croak, Tate spoke. “I know you, Harvester. Gan was here. Said you want stop Sylah’s quest for Door.”
Odeel worked to understand the distorted words, but her primary effort was directed at reading any signals sent by Tate’s features and movements. The dark complexion added intrigue, and the terrible injuries created almost-insurmountable challenge.
Still, Odeel was certain she’d seen resentment and a touch of smugness. A reasonable assumption was that the upstart Gan had bragged to her about putting the Harvester in her place.
Gan would learn about places.
There was more, though. Fear. Why would Tate be afraid?
Unless the Door was as important to her as to Sylah. Unless Tate knew something.
Strangers. Secretive. Claiming no particular purpose for their wanderings, claiming to be from a land that knew Church, but had no actual Church contact.
Tate was saying, “…‘specting Conway, my friend. Going with Sylah, too. We help her.”
Before Odeel could respond, the young Chosen opened the door. “Matt Conway, Donnacee. He’s coming.”
“Just in time.” Tate raised her head from the bed, twisted it gingerly from side to side, obviously seeking. “Sylah?” The word was concerned, almost plaintive. “You so quiet. You here?”
Quickly, Sylah was at the bedside, taking her friend’s hand in hers. Odeel stepped back, chagrined; she hadn’t realized how near blind Tate was. She’d been so busy looking for hidden things she’d overlooked a major vulnerability. She resolved to do better. Once the initial greetings were over, she eased away from the trio, observing while Sylah and Conway entertained Tate.
Everything about them spoke of unity. Unconsciously, Conway moved to partially overlap Sylah, a position that shielded her, as well as Tate, from the interloper, the stranger. Odeel was certain it was quite unconscious on his part. He wasn’t that clever.
They both hovered over Tate protectively. Their voices were warm, consoling—and too soft to be understood beyond the bed. Odeel heard Tate, however. Concerned, puzzled. “You all right, honey?” She reached to close slow fingers around Sylah’s wrist. “You sound funny. What’s wrong?”
Sylah murmured. Tension remained in Tate’s stiff attitude, the continued grip on Sylah’s wrist.
It all irritated Odeel. And disturbed her. The black woman’s perception that Sylah was somehow different was obviously intuitive, rather than intelligent. That fact alone clearly revealed the bond between them. The man Conway was a fool, but loyal. When they found Sylah gone, they’d be very angry. There could be pursuit.
They couldn’t possibly catch up before Sylah was safely inside Church Home. They’d never rescue her from there.
Still, they’d come from somewhere far away and survived to reach Ola. They had marvelous weapons.
Conway turned and walked to her, smiling brightly. She waited amusedly for his attempt to surprise her. He was so disingenuous, the way he revealed himself even before he spoke, his head involuntarily inclined toward Sylah. “I know you oppose Sylah’s search. I suspect a lot of the opposition is because Church is afraid for her. So are Tate and myself, so is Gan. You see, even though we represent a potent weapon for him, he’s glad to see us leave with her, because he knows we intend to protect her.”
He paused, glancing around.
It really was ludicrous. He was going to confide in her. She tingled with delight, already envisioning the faces at Church Home when she told the story.
Conway said, “There’s more to it than that. I think someone should explore the Empty Lands for a better route to Kos. If we can open up a trade route between Ola and Kos, we’re a step closer to some sort of alliance. Church should welcome that, what with all the reports of nomads stirring to the east.”
“They’re not just stirring, young man. They’re swarming across the land. You can be sure Church will be most interested in what you say. Tell me, what does Gan think of your plan?”
“He doesn’t know.” Odeel thought how his diffidence gave him a certain engaging quality. For a moment she pitied his naive unawareness of exactly how dangerously he’d just changed his position in the game. Conway went on, “Once Tate’s well, we’ll need very little time to prepare for the trip. Clas na Bale brought war-horses for Tate and myself—Dog war-horses, the best in the world—and a pair of dogs for each of us. Until she’s better, I ride out beyond the settled area into the hills and work them every day. I can’t wait for Tate to be able to join me.”
“You do this alone?”
Conway grinned, boyish. “I don’t think of myself as alone. The horse and the dogs are better company than most men.”
“That’s been my experience.”
He laughed. A good laugh, she thought; robust, brimful of living.
Such a pity.
Chapter 12
Tentatively, Conway dropped the war-horse’s reins. Its jet black ears twitched forward at the touch of the straps on the back of its neck. Light pressure from Conway’s heels and knees sent them on a random course through the huge trees. With a growing sense of unity they played games that one day might save their lives.
Behind them, one on each side, two huge dogs duplicated every maneuver. Long-legged, rough coated, they loped silently through the forest. The grizzled gray female, Mikka had to weigh at least one hundred and thirty pounds. The rawboned male, Karda, was a rich black, and by far the gawkier of the two. Conway estimated his weight already at a good hundred and fifty pounds, and obviously destined to grow to fit now-floppy feet and oversized lazy ears.
Thinking of Shara, Gan’s mature war dog, Conway grinned at Karda’s attempts at seriousness. Just now, faced with a dead branch in his way, the youngster approached boldly, never breaking stride. He launched himself into the air with a sort of violent grace, and snagged a hind foot. He landed running, but in a flustered scramble, and a genuinely hangdog look at
his master.
Still, he kept up with the trotting horse.
A few moments later, they broke free of the forest onto a vast cattle pasture, and Conway heeled the horse to a gallop.
A product of centuries of selective breeding and training, the Dog war-horse was born for open ground. At Conway’s urge, it stretched its neck as if to catch time in its teeth. Ears back, eyes wide with excitement, it reached forward with eager hooves, driving, pounding, racing so hard it seemed about to soar.
Bent forward, chin almost resting on the streaming mane, Conway gripped the reins. A glance over his shoulder assured Karda and Mikka were hurtling after, white fangs gleaming against tongue-lolling grins.
The smell of horse blended with the sharp tang of firs from the towering mountains and the crushed grasses of the meadow. The warm sun that bathed him was suddenly so pure it almost hurt, and he whooped delight at myriad shades of burgeoning green, earthen browns, brilliances of early wildflowers.
He reined in where the pasture ended at a wall of timber. The ground sloped away sharply. From somewhere deep inside the forest’s darkness the heavy rumble of a hidden waterfall reached for him.
Conway pressed ahead, eager to be searching out the new and different. He wished Tate could share in it.
There was a certain irony in that. He genuinely enjoyed being alone with his team. He used them as an excuse, actually. But frequently the new Conway was bad company. Despite his general eagerness to meet and test himself against the unknown world awaiting him, there were times when he was depressed to a state of near immobility.
Tee was usually at the base of it. He missed her with an ache he’d never known before. She’d saved him. More than his life, she’d saved the part of him that made him fully alive.
Then she left him because she was a slave, a woman who’d been used by any who wanted her, and couldn’t believe anyone could love her.
There was another memory that wouldn’t leave him alone. Burl Falconer, the Army colonel who committed suicide because he was afraid his delirium would lead him to reveal to Altanar the secrets of their origin and their weapons. Falconer knew—they all knew—that people in this world who claimed to be from a five hundred-year-dead past would be called witches and killed. More than that, Falconer feared he might babble something revealing about their weapons. If Altanar, or someone like him, ever learned how to use them, that person would eliminate them immediately.
