Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Don McQuinn

  * * *

  After one final leap, Dodoy sank to the floor of the dank, dark passage behind the wall. He was exhausted from his attempts to see through the inconveniently high peephole. He hit the cold stone with his fist, wishing it was the pasty face of one of the three cows who brought such information so unexpectedly. If they’d had the sense to give anyone a hint they had really important news, he’d have brought something to stand on. Now all he had was bits and snatches of what the old Abbess said.

  He was glad she was dead. It served her right.

  Still, he knew something. Not far from Church Home, whatever that was. Something about a desert. That was a place where there wasn’t any water, he knew that. He seemed to remember being hot and thirsty as a child. And what was that about a river? Maybe he hadn’t heard that correctly, but he was sure the old witch’s paper said, “A city where there should never be darkness.”

  He had no need of a torch to make his way. There were metal fittings for lights along the walls, but the network of secret passages was his playground. Dim light from peepholes occasionally leaked into the gloom, and it was all he needed. The others suspected the existence of the spyways, but he was the only one who’d discovered a way into them. Cold and dampness troubled him, at first, but now he welcomed it. Even if someone else discovered the passages and came in after him, they’d move cautiously, repelled by those things, as well as the spiders.

  That meant the spiders were his friends. So was the clammy stone and the dead air. A slave understood: Whatever or whoever helped you get what you wanted was a friend. So long as the help continued. Or was needed.

  Again, he thought of the Abbess’ message and scowled. He’d heard much less than everything. Still, if he used what he knew properly, they’d tell him the rest.

  Running his fingers across the stone until he found a suitably dry spot, he leaned against the wall to think. Soon he was humming softly.

  He must control Tate, and they all must continue to believe he was afraid.

  Tate was easy.

  The others… They weren’t friends.

  Chapter 17

  Conway waited at the thick-planked table in the castle’s conference room. To his right, tall rectangular archer’s slits pierced the granite of the south and west walls. Blades of afternoon sunlight lanced through them and down across the interior, where their angularity softened into pools of warmth on the floor. Crystalline inclusions within the stone glinted. The light also picked out the vivid colors of the magnificent Dog blanket that covered the tabletop. Its bright yellow circle and surrounding yellow winged vee on a scarlet background was Gan Moondark’s family crest.

  Shifting the beaded shoulder bag that held his outdoor boots, Conway wondered why the use of soft indoor shoes was one of the Olan cultural quirks Gan hadn’t changed. On improving sanitation and personal cleanliness up to Dog standards, he was inflexible. The Olans were just beginning to realize the benefits.

  Conway appreciatively sniffed the herb-scented atmosphere in the room. Prior to frequent scrubbings and the introduction of incense burners and treated candles, the castle had always reminded him of a chill, malodorous cave. Altanar and his forebears had practically littered it with art and treasures, but they had little interest in soap.

  Unlike the Olans and the Mountain People, Gan’s tribe considered cleanliness integral to religion. Somehow, they’d made the connection between washing and “dirt creatures” and “unseens.” Conway thought of the meticulousness of the War Healers who’d treated his wounds.

  Then there was the matter of alcohol. Church knew how to make it. When he recognized the smell and asked where it came from, he created a minor scandal. Shocked Chosens avoided him for days. It was Lanta who finally took it on herself to explain to him that what she called “clear-clean” was a secret potion, known to be good for the outside of people, but deadly inside.

  He accepted that as a rational, if arbitrary, analysis.

  He also wished he had a gallon of clear-clean quietly aging in a charred oak keg.

  Sylah’s entry interrupted his musings. She carried a rolled parchment. Using it to salute Conway, she strode to stand on the opposite side of the table. She glanced at his chest. “How are your wounds? I spoke to Tate this morning. She’s ready.”

  He tapped himself, not too hard. “Fine. I’ve been exercising—sword drill, riding. Between us, we’ve delayed things at least two weeks. I apologize for both of us.” He wondered if she heard the contradictions in his voice, the eagerness and the uncertainty.

  She gave no sign as she spread the parchment flat. “The important thing is that you healed well. We’ll be on our way in two days. That’s why I wanted you to see this. The best map Altanar was able to create,” she said. “The result of spies, Peddlers, careless words dropped by Messengers, and from Church.”

  “Church?”

  “Yes. Healers and War Healers. Kos was once a Church stronghold. There was a plague. Church was blamed and banned for many generations. There are three abbeys; Rose, Violet, and Lily. The sisters are closely watched, confined to the abbey grounds, but otherwise treated very well. Kos is generous with gifts of appreciation to Church.”

  “How do you know all this? Why haven’t I heard any of it before?”

  “Some of my earliest recollections concern this quest.” She put both hands on the table, leaning forward, projecting intensity. “I woke nights, sweating from dreams of unbearable heat. I’d be so thirsty I couldn’t cry out. I dreamed of snowcapped mountains, of canyons that seemed to split the world. And always I understood, without knowing why, that my dreaming was a search for a thing called the Door. When I told the Abbess—she wasn’t the Abbess then, of course—she made me swear I’d tell no one. For the rest of her life, she helped me get information about the world beyond Ola.” She stopped abruptly, dropping her head. The silence was thick with grief. Conway wanted to speak to it. There was nothing to be said, however, and he knew it.

  Sylah resumed. “Legend says the Teachers flourished in Kos before the great purge. We may find clues there. Now, everyone who deals with Kos says it’s full of intrigue. It’s a society of caste and privilege, opulence and oppression. Slavery’s a mainstay of the economy, cruelty the backbone of social control.”

  Placing a hand on the thick parchment, she moved it slowly southward, across the blue scrawl of the Mother River, across the land between high peaks and the sea. The mapmaker indicated passes and rivers, trails and man-made features. Two mountain tops were painted red and decorated with plumes of smoke. Black curlicues on the slopes were, presumably, lava flows. About where Conway vaguely remembered a peak called Mt. Hood, the artist had penned in a neat, snowclad cone. The fact inspired a faint hope that there might be some accuracy in the portrayal. Then Conway noticed Sylah’s moving hand uncover the picture of a whale off the coast. It was swallowing a boat, complete with a crew of ten.

  Conway wondered what Mt. Hood really looked like. Whatever it was called now.

  He already had some knowledge of the Empty Lands. No settlements approached Ola’s size, or even Jalail’s. A mere handful had so much as a central fort for protection during times of attack. The mountain reaches were home to tribes similar to the Mountain People of the Enemy Mountains between Ola and the land of the Dog People, but not as bloodthirsty.

  Sylah drew a finger from mountains to sea about a third of the way between Ola and the deep bay of Kos. “Kossiars patrol this far north and as far east as the sunrise slopes of the Enemy Mountains. No one knows how far south they reach. The patrols enforce tribute, raid the uncooperative.”

  Conway said, “Tate and I heard other stories about Kos; a godkill site that seems to go on forever, strange animals. It’s said even the Skan fear the place. Peddlers have to stop and trade at its borders. Messengers are blindfolded and escorted. Sea traders told us they can only come ashore on an island, that the Kossiars kill anyone on their lands without the right tattoos or official badges.”

/>   “We avoid Kos by crossing the Enemy Mountains about here.” She pointed to a place marked He Watches Pass, glancing at Conway. “You remember we discussed it before?”

  “Right, because it’s far north of the main trade route between Kos and the east side of the mountains, the country everyone calls the Dry. I spoke to a Peddler who said He Watches isn’t hard to follow.”

  Without taking her eyes from the map, Sylah said, “What else did he tell you?”

  Conway heard the amusement in her question. “He also said there’s only one acceptable road running south from the Mother River to Kos. There are a few maintained trails between settlements not on that road, and no inns anywhere. According to him, the best thing about the Empty Lands is that it’s easy to get lost; if you’re lost, the Kossiar patrols may not find you.”

  “He felt the patrols are the only real danger?” She was smiling at him, challenging.

  “Not exactly. He also mentioned tigers, bears, wolves, and a population that’s likely to turn you over to the Kossiars for a reward. Unless they think you have something worth stealing, in which case they’ll just kill you and rob you.”

  Sylah rolled up the map. “You didn’t mention Church as a danger.”

  He felt his face grow warm. “I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  She shook her head irritably. “No. Never do that again. I need your mind, Matt Conway. Your thoughts and opinions. Unreserved. We know the Harvester will tell her version of what happened here. Most will believe her. My life guarantees were weakened by the division in Church. Thanks to Odeel, they’re worth even less.” She reached for his hand. “Our greatest danger is treachery. You see why I must know you are honest with me at all times? At any cost?”

  Conway squeezed her hand, released it. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.” He paused, then blurted the question he dreaded. “What about Tate? Not Tate, exactly, but that kid, Dodoy. He’s all she thinks about. You know about people’s minds, about women, what’re we going to do?”

  “Trust her. We can’t pull her to us. We can push her away. Patience, my friend. Compassion.”

  Conway made a sound he hoped was noncommittal. In spite of his better judgment, he went on. “She knew this was the last time we’d be meeting, checking the map. You know why she’s not here? She had to take Dodoy to the market. He needs shoes. I’m worried about her, Sylah. She’s fixated.”

  A frown knifed lines across her forehead. “I don’t know that word, fixated. It sounds very bad. I worry about her, too. We must give her time. She’ll always be our Donnacee. We know that.”

  “Yes, that’s so. Look, she was going to go with me to the military stables and make one last equipment check and work out the horses and the dogs. Join me?”

  Smiling once more, she left the chart on the table, coming around to take his arm. They were chattering like schoolchildren as they left the gray, stone room.

  Conway wondered if she was really as excitedly sure as she seemed. His own mind was clouded, ashamed. Sylah had said, “…I must know you’re honest with me at all times.” Then he’d let her believe he was sure Tate would be all right.

  The first lie had come in less than a minute. And it had come easily.

  Tate hurried up as Sylah and Conway stepped outside. “I’m sorry I’m late.” The apology was breathless. “Dodoy had to have better boots. The others pinched him.”

  Sylah said, “I thought they were new.”

  Tate grimaced. “Isn’t it awful? The man measured him all wrong. Dodoy hated them.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “At the stables. He’s going to wait for us while we exercise the war-horses, and then help with the last supply check. He was so excited when he told me. He’s so darling when he gets like that. Bursts with life.”

  Conway was surprised. “Did you tell him why you want him along?”

  “Absolutely not. If I told him now, he’d think I was using him.”

  Sylah resisted the urge to tell her that she was doing exactly that.

  Riding through the city, Sylah took part in the conversation, at first. In a while, her mind ranged beyond the bricks and stone of the confining city. She let Tate and Conway drift ahead.

  Passing out through Sunrise Gate, she eased off to the side to trail her fingers across the polished brass plates of the huge door. A wavering image mocked her. The face was distorted, unrecognizable.

  She heard the Harvester, whispering. “I am Church. At the word Mother, whom do you see? Answer, Sylah. Answer Mother.”

  There was another voice. Loving.

  I will not be owned.

  The words boomed.

  When her eyes flew open, she discovered herself well clear of the gate. She hurried to rejoin the others.

  Nothing happened, she told herself. I heard nothing. Imagination.

  It took quite a while to reach the military stables. Tate chattered the entire distance about Dodoy. Sylah risked one eye-rolling look at Conway, and was rewarded by a quick grin of complicity.

  The war-horses had no names. The Dog People who bred and trained them never named them, feeling it was bad luck. Sylah’s horse wasn’t a war-horse. He was named Copper, for his lustrous coat.

  Dodoy appeared, creeping through a door as warily as a barn cat. He sped to Tate’s side. Even as she tousled his hair, he watched Sylah and Conway. When the other adults greeted him, he nodded silently, continuing to stare bluntly.

  Lifting his face toward Tate, he said, “The soldiers say there’s a storm coming. Can we wait until it’s over before we leave? We’ll get all wet. What if I get sick? Sylah’s just a War Healer; she wouldn’t know what to do if I got really sick.”

  Yes I would, Sylah thought grimly, but she put on her most duplicitous smile. Through the smile, however, she sent thoughts at Dodoy that should have knocked him down.

  The boy went on. “What if the wind blew over a tree? And somebody got hurt? We’d just have to come right back here, wouldn’t we?”

  Patiently, Tate explained and soothed. Sylah and Conway mounted their horses, leaving her to follow when she was ready. Once at a safe distance, Conway said, “He’s going to drive me crazy. She can’t convince him we won’t hurt him.”

  Sylah nodded. “Sometimes it’s a great temptation to prove him correct. Look, he isolates her. We’re here. She’s back there with him. In an emergency her first concern will always be the boy.”

  “Tate’s too intelligent to lose sight of what’s important. She’s the best partner anyone could want.”

  Sylah let the unconscious irony of the statement pass. Conway’s loyalty wouldn’t tolerate any more criticism than she’d already offered. She decided to try another approach.

  “Has she learned any more about his birthplace?”

  “Only that it’s to the south.” He frowned, and she waited patiently. Conway’s features were peppered with doubt and concern. Soon, words burst free. “She says she doesn’t want to rush their relationship. What she won’t see is how he manipulates her.”

  “Wait for me!” Tate’s shout brought him erect in the saddle, face aflame. His eyes begged Sylah, who merely said, “We’re of a mind, Matt Conway. Be alert.”

  Chapter 18

  A quick shiver ran through Copper. Sylah turned his rump to the wind and stroked his neck. She wondered if the horse reacted to the weather or a premonition.

  Downhill, perhaps a quarter of a mile away from the field where the group bunched together, the Mother River surged seaward. Upstream to the left, it swung round a bend, clawing at the bouldered shore. Stained with runoff, spring-burdened with everything from twigs to trees, it slid past in silent, awesome urgency.

  To the west its course was almost dead straight, until it disappeared into an advancing mass of mist. Swirling, smoky weather tumbled up the broad canyon, absorbing the great river almost contemptuously.

  Sylah’s stomach tightened at the sudden, unwelcome thought that the water similarly enveloped whatever prey fell i
ts way.

  She shrugged herself further into her otterskin robe.

  The wind driving the mist upriver snatched at irregularities in the current’s surface until it created a wave. Then, with childish cruelty, it tore away the crest. The spew of white droplets somehow twisted itself around in Sylah’s mind so that she found herself thinking of executions conducted by Altanar’s white-garbed protectors.

  Another example of her morbid frame of mind, she thought, glancing at the diminutive Lanta as she did. The other priestess’ attention was firmly locked on the ugly ferry waiting for them.

  There was ample reason for Lanta’s apprehension. The vessel had the esthetic appeal of a brick, barely curved at either bow or stern. Propulsion came from two sails, presently furled on their long booms. The latter yanked and jerked angrily against restraining lines and the thick masts sunk into the boat’s deck thrashed back and forth. The forward boom would barely clear the head of a horse standing in the well-like deck space between the masts. A particularly heavy gust of wind made the boat stagger awkwardly at the limits of the thick chains that ran to the scarred trees that were her mooring posts.

  When Sylah looked away, Conway’s smile caught her eye. Droplets of mist spangled his face like sweat. He said, “This is where the adventure begins.”

  Tate said, “What do you call the past few days, the other rivers we crossed? Holiday time? I haven’t been dry since the day we left. Won’t this weather ever break?”

  “They were just rivers.” Conway was disdainful. “Across there is mystery.”

  Sharply, Lanta said, “If we get there. This is no young warrior’s ride for new and interesting sights. There’s more danger than you seem to realize.”

  He continued to smile as he rode off a short distance. In response to his whistles, all four dogs materialized uphill, where the forest bordered the field. Tate’s pair of brown females stood close to each other; they were never far apart, unless ordered. His own black male, Karda, hung back, still watching the back trail. Mikka, her lighter gray blending eerily with the mist advanced farther into the tall grass. Conway called his pair. They ran, and he thrilled at the fierce magic in their long-striding silence, a power that always beckoned him to join with them, more than the other way around. There was no question that he was the leader, the giver of commands. Still, when he worked with them, there was a feeling of wholeness that put them beyond other men, other animals. Conway thought of it as awareness beyond men’s senses, intelligence beyond dogs’ comprehension.