by Don McQuinn
The root of the problem was the fight on the dock. Sylah had seen similar reactions to a death-fight. For many, it burned their minds the way farmers burned their marks on the flanks of cattle. Some hungered ever after to relive the mad thrill or were haunted by what they’d done. A smaller number became haters. Or visionaries.
Sylah couldn’t identify the exact change in Tate, but she feared it. Since the fight, her friend’s attention drew ever closer to that single subject. Losing the boy practically dominated Tate’s conversation. She even treated the incident with the Harvester as a minor matter.
That disturbed Sylah more than she dared admit. The minimal concern for religion displayed by Tate and the rest of the strangers was one thing. To deliberately wound a Church leader, a Harvester, was a vast sin. The local abbeys were rent with argument over it. No one argued the Harvester’s guilt; not everyone agreed Tate had a right to interfere, much less use force. The Harvester’s successful flight dampened some of the passion in the Three Territories. What would happen when the woman reached Kos and Church Home to relate her version of events was too dismaying to dwell on.
At least she and Conway were healing well. Conway. There was another complication, another reaction to excitement. Sylah carried one central image of him, his hand resting on the bandages on his chest. There was something possessive about the way he did it. That was all she needed, she thought sourly; a man who’d go out of his way to find combat, rather than avoid it. Worse, the general consensus, from Gan down to the average Wolf, was that Conway had been lucky beyond belief. Good fortune made a sorry platform for a warrior to stand on.
Tate had fallen into a sulky silence. Rather than intrude on it, Sylah pretended interest in the courtyard. Conway had introduced her to it. At any other time, it would be a welcome haven, with its walled-in solitude, waterfall, and pool.
A hummingbird appeared. Swift, erratic, utterly confident of its aerial mastery, it was a welcome distraction. Shining green, it made her think of a wet storm-thrown leaf. When it faced the sun, the incredible amethyst gorget on its chest blazed a retort. Magically, it whirred from flower to flower, hiding its fiery jewel and then exposing it in a game that defied her eyes to keep pace.
Tate broke the silence to drive her argument forward. “I know you and Conway think I’m crazy, but I’m sure the boy came to me when I was still in bed. There were a lot of dreams; I admit that. But I know I woke up once in the night, and he was standing there looking down at me. He stayed until I had to close my eyes, and when I opened them again, he was gone.”
“Surely, though, you see why I have trouble accepting what you say. The castle’s guarded day and night, inside as well as out. No one—I mean, no one else—has seen the boy since that first day. I want to believe you…” Sylah’s voice trailed off in apology.
“But you don’t.” Waving away Sylah’s attempt to respond, Tate continued, “He’ll come. He’s afraid, that’s all.”
Nodding a bit too eagerly, Sylah said, “That must be it. He’s so small. Everything’s so strange. He’d want to be sure of his welcome.”
“Welcome? I fought for him.”
“And for me. What would have happened to me without your belief in me?”
“You’d have been all right. That old hag drugged you.”
“She meant to take me away with her. She did something to my mind. I had to do what she said. Say what she told me to say. I can’t get her out of my head.” Suddenly, Sylah felt weak. It had happened before. When she thought of the Harvester fouling her dreams, controlling her life, nausea swept her. Oddly, she felt a surge of strength at the same time. It was as if mind and body were erecting inner barriers. This time, however, Tate was there immediately, steadying her. Leaning on her friend, Sylah said, “You see, I do understand. Things happen to us all, things we can’t explain.”
Tate looked shocked. “That’s it. Same thing. I mean, I can see; he’s not a pretty child. But there’s something there.”
“It’s like the Door. People hate me for wanting it, think I’m crazy. But just when I’m ready to agree with them, it’s as if I can hear the Iris Abbess, supporting me, telling me I mustn’t give up. And I want to go.”
Shaking her head, Tate laughed softly. “We’re a pair, we are. Couple of weirdos.”
“Weirdo? What a perfect word.” Sylah hugged her.
Tate pulled away gently, went back to her bench, worried that the dishonesty in her thoughts might show in her face. There was no way to explain to Sylah that she believed the boy offered a link to the world where that “perfect word” died at least five centuries ago.
A world that threw her up here, a total misfit.
Her inadequacy shamed her. Not one of the crèche survivors had the practical expertise to re-create algebra, calculus, geometry. Who’d needed any of that, when computers knew it all and use it with such efficiency? Of all the people to survive the cryogenic crèche, only Leclerc had any mechanical skills. They all understood that if Leclerc “invented” too much too fast, he’d be accused of witchcraft. He’d already reproduced black powder and coke ovens; everyone respected him. But when he walked by, mothers hid their children, making surreptitious three-signs and mumbling prayers.
So here was Donnacee Tate, world-class loser. Twice. With an obsession.
Sylah broke in on Tate’s brooding. “What if the boy blames himself for what happened? Maybe he’s afraid you blame him too.”
“I should have thought of that. I wish I could just talk to him for a minute, reassure him.”
“Be patient. Try not to become too upset.” The words were clumsy with the concern that tries to mask doubt.
Suddenly, Tate stiffened. Her fists jerked to her breast. Her gaze, directed past Sylah, took on feverish intensity. Sylah knew better than to move. Fear insisted she turn, but an even stronger force told her to let Tate dictate the action.
“Don’t go,” Tate said.
When Tate’s expression and position remained unchanged, Sylah understood that a crisis had passed. She turned slowly, taking her cue from Tate’s caution.
The boy greeted her with a steady stare. The last horizontal rays of the sun gave his eyes a strange luminosity.
Tate almost choked. “Don’t run away! We won’t hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I want to talk to you.” She stepped away from Sylah, extended hands that pleaded to touch him. “How’d you get here?”
“There’s a place over there where you can climb over. It’s easy.” His small gesture reminded Sylah of the hummingbird’s swiftness. His shirt and shorts were worse than before, rags hanging from the bone-rack body. “Are you angry? My master hurt you worse than he ever hurt me. Your friends saw what happened. They’ll beat me, give me back to him.”
“Never. You’re free. And I need your help.”
“Me?” Disbelieving, he retreated. Tate leaned forward, desperately trying to regain the distance. Sylah stepped aside. The movement sent him into a tense crouch. Despite the facial expression that gave every evidence of apprehension and a posture that was a readiness to flee, Sylah had no sense of fear.
Tate advanced, continuing to speak soothingly. With his attention focused on her friend, Sylah again felt that what she saw contradicted what was actually happening. Try as she might, she couldn’t rid herself of the sensation that he stalked Tate. It made her irritable, and she chided herself: What harm could there be in such a small, skinny child? He was a living definition of helplessness.
Tate reached to touch his head, stroked the tangled hair. His eyes flicked toward Sylah. Tate saw it. She said, “Sylah’s my very good friend. She likes you, just like I do.”
The boy’s head moved in a small negative shake. “None of them do. I’m just a slave. They like you. They don’t like me.”
Tate said, “Now that’s not so. Don’t ever call yourself a slave again. You’re free. And even if you weren’t, all my friends would still like you.”
“No. Promise you won’t let them h
urt me.”
“Of course I promise, because they don’t want to hurt you. They want to help you. We all do.”
Again, he looked to Sylah. “Will you help me?” It was more challenge than request. Sylah’s skin tightened, as at the touch of a dank wind. Bumps rose on her arms. Choosing her words deliberately, she said, “The friend of my friend will always have my help.”
Nodding, the boy faced Tate again. “I wanted to come to you. You were brave. My master wanted to kill you. He’s killed other people. I saw.”
Tate lowered her hand to his shoulder, and he shied out of reach. “My name is Tate,” she said, “and this is Sylah. She’s a War Healer, a Rose Priestess.”
He nodded. “A Chosen,” he said, and Sylah stiffened. Hinted contempt oozed in the words, a reminder that she, too, knew about being used like any other utensil.
“That’s right.” Sylah meant to continue, but he cut her off, turning away with cool dismissal to face Tate once more. “And you’re Donnacee Tate, one of Gan Moondark’s Six Strangers. They call you the Black Lightning. The Matt Conway one they call the White Thunder.”
“Well.” Tate was a bit taken aback. She recovered quickly. “How did you learn so much about us?”
“Old women will always feed a hungry boy. If you listen to their silly gossip, they feed you more. And talk more.”
“Learned to use your wits, haven’t you?” Tate laughed. “Tonight though, it’s you who’ll do the talking. What’s your name?”
“Which one? Masters gave me names. Called me names.” His lips were full and sensuous in the thin, pointed face. They made an empty smile.
“The first one you had.”
“Dodoy.”
Tate jerked. She reached to put her hand on Dodoy’s shoulder. He made no effort to avoid her this time. Tate’s voice remained calm. “There’s a familiar sound to that. Were you here in the castle? When I was ill?”
His laughter was high-pitched, harsh. “I thought the guards would kill me today, just getting here. Inside?” He laughed again.
To Sylah, Tate said, “I have to get him something to eat, some better clothes,” and led him away without looking to see if Sylah followed.
Dodoy looked, however. With Tate’s guiding hand still on his shoulder, he turned to peer past her arm. His face was coldly inanimate, the eyes like closed doors. Still, she knew she was being warned that he was a factor in her life now.
Chapter 16
Tate marveled at the change in Kate Bernhardt, Sue Anspach, and Janet Carter. They wore their Church dress with apparent ease. Her friends had clearly made their peace with this environment.
Everything in their manner spoke of fulfillment; in Carter’s case, that was little short of miraculous. Tate still smiled when she thought of the fiery Carter as a teacher of small children. Yet she loved it, as did Anspach. Bernhardt was an agronomist, was immersed in the uses of the land. She was already famous among the locals—and any travelers who came her way—for her questions and voluminous notes. She was respected for what she could teach farmers. What endeared her to them was her ability to learn from them, and spread knowledge wherever she went.
As they settled into chairs in the castle’s conference room, Tate’s major emotion was sorrow. She wished the three of them understood her.
Even in their own world they were women who were uncomfortable with the notion of female warriors. Tate knew she’d projected herself out of their circle. She mourned the loss of her friends’ closeness. But there was no turning back.
Donnacee Tate had also made her peace with this environment. Only, in her case, it was more like war.
Ironically, they all sought the same things. The other three, as women who’d lived in a world where they expected and demanded equality, brought to their new life as much activism as was practical. Their influence extended throughout Gan’s domain, largely because they were his official link with the wives of his soldiers. They acted as the business managers for the weaving, pottery, and leatherwork that came from those women’s cooperative factories. Already, women in towns and villages were starting similar factories.
That had been Tate’s function, once. Hers and Sylah’s when they lived in Jalail, creating the units now called the Wolves. It had hurt to watch the other three take over more and more of her functions dealing with the wives. At least she’d avoided the confrontation on the matter of male orphans.
Tate was there the day the trio presented their requisitions for food, housing, and care personnel; Gan approved everything. Except for the disposition of orphaned boys. He declared them ward of the Three Territories until sixteen years of age, when they’d serve in the army in some capacity until twenty-four. They were free to exit to civilian life then, if they chose.
In spite of her anger over Gan’s arbitrary and unreasonable attitude, Tate had truly enjoyed seeing Janet Carter’s temper explode. Just like old times.
Later, there had been secretive mutterings among the four of them about fascist pigs and imperialist adventurers. None of it served any purpose. The boys were being raised to soldier.
By the standards of Gan’s world, the program was radical social adventure. Slavery or instant death was the normal fate of captured male infants. Gan’s solution to the problem of freed or abandoned young slaves and the unadopted sons created by the war with Altanar might lack elegance, but it answered most needs of the children and his new state.
Today, however, that issue was at rest. Kate, Susan, and Janet all looked like cats filled with canaries. Something was up.
When Conway came in with Sylah and Lanta, they stirred impatiently in their chairs, straightening robes that were already immaculately in place. Conway grinned crookedly at all of them, but when his gaze fell on Tate, he laughed out loud, then winced and groaned. When he’d recovered, he said, “Ah, Donnacee, it’s good to know you’re here. And that you’re still so wonderfully beat up. I was afraid I’d be the ugliest person in the room, but now I can relax.”
Feigning anger, she shook her fist at him. “If you were healthy enough to make it interesting, I’d put ugly on you. If there was anyplace didn’t already have a full ration. Who you calling beat up?”
Carter interrupted as soon as Sylah and Lanta were seated. Her tight, precise voice fired words more rapidly than usual. “We have a going-away present for you, Sylah. For all of you, really. Ever since you told us how the Iris Abbess had studied the Door matter all your life, we’ve been convinced she wrote down something about it.”
Carter paused, and Anspach, on cue, reached inside a voluminous robe pocket. She hauled out a roll of parchment, opening it with a flourish.
Bernhardt leaned forward eagerly. “It was under the stones of the hearth. Janet was tapping, and we all heard the hollow sound…”
“…and we found this,” Anspach finished. Looking about, blushing, she added, “Yes, we were searching for hiding places. It was Janet’s idea.”
Carter interrupted. “It wasn’t. We all agreed.”
Tate snickered. Carter heard. For a moment, the famous temper flared. Then she was giggling. She said, “So we sound like giddy little kids; we found it. It’s so exciting. Anspach said, ‘Think: Where do they always hide stuff in the movies?’ and we looked, and bingo!”
Sylah said, “Movies?”
Lanta said, “Bingo?”
Anspach shook the paper so it rustled. Rushing, she said, “Listen to what it says:
‘It is my conclusion, based on many interviews over many years, that the Door is truly lost to Church. I do not believe, as some do, that its existence or its purpose is a secret. It is a mystery. Possibly a false one. But I think not. Perhaps my reasons are romantic foolishness, but I choose to believe that our beloved and honored Teachers did not die for nothing. There are too many tales from too many sources of their never-revealed sanctuary. The tales are too consistent. Of course, I dismiss entirely the superstitious foolishness about roaring iron monsters that guard the sanctuary and kill intru
ders with a blink of the eyes. Nor do I accept spirits of thunder and lightning either.’”
Anspach paused, looking up from the document. “There’s a star added to it here, and a note on the margin. It goes on:
‘I may have to reconsider this last remark. These new people have come among us with weapons that are clearly the power of thunder and lightning. There is more to this than I understand, and far, far more to them than they are willing to explain. I trust them entirely, yet there is something about them that I fear more than any of their weapons.’”
Redfaced, Anspach kept her eyes on the parchment. She said, “The original document continues, then.
‘I have carefully and secretly analyzed every rumor and story about the Door that has come to my attention. I have participated in many Church conferences about it, some of them secret to all but we select few. Three things are remarkably consistent: A claim of a hidden city in the mountains (this is where the iron monsters usually enter the narrative). The description of that city as a place where the giants decreed there should never be darkness—the phrase is unusual, yet the folk legends of every culture known to me insist that the giants turned night to day at will. The location. Near Church Home, across a destroying desert and a devouring river; south of the country where the sun can kill and the place where the sun can never shine’”
All eyes went to Sylah. She beamed. “My Abbess. From the Land Beyond, she comes to me.” She rose with swift grace, rushing to hug each of the women. Coming to Conway, she deferred to his wounds, kissing his cheek in a more sedate celebration. Swirling, making a whirling rustle with her robe, almost dancing back to her chair, she sat back down. “I’m going to find it. My friends. My dear, precious friends. I’m going to find it.”
They all cheered, then clustered, overflowing with enthusiasm and congratulations.
