by Don McQuinn
The second magician-priest was more of a challenge. He placed a moon disk in a box. It disappeared from that one, to reappear in another. Next, he ostensibly produced an egg from the air. Moving to a small basket he unfolded a bolt of cloth perhaps four feet long and a foot wide. He arranged the material to pad the inside of the basket, long ends hanging free outside. The egg was nested on the cloth, and a volunteer folded the loose ends over it. At the priest’s instruction, he drove his fist down on top of it.
The crowd hushed. Jones realized they were seeing this trick for the first time. Wippard was determined to out perform his opponent.
Snatching up the cloth, the priest opened it to reveal it free of blemish. Then he picked up the basket, turned it upside down, and dumped out a live, squawking chicken. It fluttered and ran crazily around the cleared area until it found its way past the grim darkness of the waiting pyre. The crowd erupted into laughter.
Wippard spoke while the young priest hurried off. “Who else but Windband priests could create a grown bird from an egg? This cheat claims greater powers than we have. Let him be judged.”
The answering roar staggered Jones’ small group. Some of them reached for weapons. All looked to Jones.
Proudly, he stepped in front of Katallon. “Insulting tricks. Entertainment for children. He disgraces Moondance.” He glared down at the seated priest. “Chickens?” The word dripped contempt.
Turning back to Katallon, he said, “Can the mothers and wives of the five dead warriors be brought here? Can someone bring me the liquid Windband uses to start fires?”
Katallon ordered a man to see to both requests.
Jones signaled his Mountain warriors. Two trotted to the device’s seats. Facing Katallon again, Jones drew himself erect, pitched his voice to its resonant best. “Does Wippard dare test himself against me? He says I must be judged. That is right. I must be worthy of Katallon, I must be worthy of Windband. I must be worthy of Moondance. Is there one to disagree?”
Silence. Captivated silence. Jones went on. “I challenge Wippard to touch the power of my mother. First, you will see it spare me, the son, and then one of you, an innocent.”
This time there was audible eagerness.
Jones went to the device. Standing at the left side of it, he said, “This is my altar.” Bracing by holding the decorative knob, he spun the massive front disk, rubbing the copper rays with a cloth as it rotated. He repeated that routine at the rearward disk. His lips moved in continuous silent prayer.
Back at the front of the altar, he brought out a ceramic flute from an inside pocket of his cloak. He used it to lift the copper chain into the inner copper pot. That done, he faced the moon, playing a short, mournful melody. When he stopped, the two warriors started turning the wheels.
The spinning disks rolled a deep, self-satisfied mumble. The hissing noise grew to a menacing crackle.
Jones walked to the baggage once more, returning with a piece of copper shaped in a crescent. It attached by a sleeve to the end of his flute. After waving it at the crowd, he place one end of the crescent on the altar’s copper top. Slowly, he rotated the upper end of the crescent ever closer to the figurine in the inner pot.
Suddenly, explosively, a fat, blue spark fired across the intervening space.
The entire throng recoiled. Women screamed. The sound of blades drawing free of scabbards was like rain.
It took Katallon himself to restore quiet.
When Jones presented himself in front of Katallon again, the man who’d been sent for the women had two younger ones, probably wives, and one who was clearly a mother. Jones went to the elder, dangling his silver Moondance symbol. Her face was a wrinkled mass of hatred. “Your noises don’t frighten me. You killed my son. I hope Wippard skins you alive.” She spat on him.
Jones closed his eyes. He shivered. When he was sure he was back in control, he looked. The spittle was a frothy mess running down his shirt. “Your son will be beside me forever. He’s forgiven me, because he understands that I give him eternal life in the moon, with my mother. As I will give you, when your life in this world is ended. As mine will end one day.” He pointed, saying, “Come with me. I must bless you at the altar.”
The woman snarled up at him. “Don’t touch me! I’ll kill you myself.”
“Go,” Katallon said. “Wait for him.” To Jones, he said, “If the old woman is harmed, I give you to Wippard. You understand?”
The woman stood in front of the altar, frightened eyes darting in all directions. Jones had her kneel on the lower copper step. He repeated his cleaning of the disks.
After the wheels had turned awhile, he asked, “Mother, do you see anything in the jar?”
She stiffened, but looked inside. “No.”
Jones held the flute toward the moon. “I tell you I have called power from my mother, the moon, into it.”
The woman paled.
Jones ordered the men on the wheels to stop work.
Kneeling beside the woman, he faced the altar at a three-quarter angle, assuring the maximum number an unobstructed view. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the figurine. “I ask your blessing, Mother,” he intoned. “I prove my faith. I pray to you to prove your love.”
He clutched the figurine, lifted it out of the container. Nothing happened.
The crowd jeered, shouted curses, threats. Unperturbed Jones replaced the figurine.
Once again, he went to the altar, cleaning, praying. The wheels spun. When they stopped, he returned to the shivering, weeping old woman. He took her wrist, forced her hand toward the figurine. When she twisted to peer pleadingly at Katallon, he said, “Do what the priest says.”
Jones let go of her. Tenderly, she put her fingers on the metal head. Gaining confidence, she clutched it, lifted, brandished it.
“Nothing!” Bursting with bravado, the old woman shouted. “There’s no magic! I hate him, and it didn’t do anything to me. He has no power. We’ll put him in the Land Under tonight.”
Frowning, trembling, Jones repeated his earlier demonstration with the crescent moon attached to the flute. There was no reaction.
Even Katallon had trouble settling the crowd. Wippard and his priests howled laughter. The animal smell of a mob sullied the night.
Jones composed his features. He retrieved his figurine from where the old woman had dropped it. Distractedly, he wiped more of her spit off it, then replaced it in the pot. Yet again, he performed his ritual. The men turning the wheels streamed sweat. The whites of their eyes showed prominently.
Facing Windband, Jones spoke. His voice was uncertain, his gestures excessive. “The metal man is the Man Who Is Death. He strikes the false, the evil, those I will not bless. See. And believe.”
He pointed at Wippard. “I blessed the woman. She has done what I have done, and lives. I challenge you to do the same, but I cannot bless you. You have dirtied Moondance. Repent, Wippard. Repent, agree to serve me, and my mother will spare you.”
Wippard stood confidently. A breeze ruffled his long, silver hair. When he reached Jones, he scoffed. “You think to frighten me with this failed toy? You think I don’t know you made the first fire by burning clear clean? We of Windband Moondance knew the uses of fear and clever hands generations ago. You disappoint.”
Boldly, Wippard strode to the altar. Jones had to rush to catch up.
Burlesquing obedience to Jones’ demand that he kneel before the altar, Wippard mimed fear of the rumbling disks. Looking into the container, he recoiled in mock horror. The crowd cheered lustily. Playing to them, he posed dramatically, preparing to reach.
“Stop!” Jones held out supplicating hands. “Don’t touch it. Please, fellow priest, don’t shame me. Let me and my friends leave this place without your blood on our consciences. Take my life, if you must. Please, free my friends. But above all, do not touch the Man.”
Softly, Wippard said, “Save your tears. You’ll need them later.”
He grabbed.
A ravenous bl
ue spark leaped to check the oncoming hand. A shattering crack split the night.
Wippard convulsed backward, tumbling to earth as if his bones were melted. A tiny wisp of smoke curled from a seared finger.
The huge sigh of amazement raced through the crowd, and then it fell as silent as death.
Calmly, Jones walked to a gaping Katallon. When the guards moved to confront him, he waved them away with his flute. Pitching his voice to the crowd, he said, “I am Moonpriest. I am sent to Windband and Katallon. Hear me. See. And believe.”
Chapter 37
Sylah shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun. Beside her, Conway slouched in his saddle.
“I don’t like it,” Sylah said, continuing to examine the distance. “There aren’t any people.”
Conway said, “It’s five houses, Sylah. There’s livestock everywhere, so there’re people. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll send the dogs ahead and we can wait here until they look the place over.”
It was what she wanted to do. The cluster of houses was a mile away, though, and by the time the dogs got there, sniffed about, and returned, they could cover the distance themselves. Perhaps she was being overly cautious. She mentally corrected herself; she knew she was worrying too much.
She couldn’t help it. The inexplicable death of the man who murdered the Tender and kidnapped Dodoy nagged her constantly. The white arrow indicated it was a second protector who killed the first. Why would one renegade do anything to assist her in conflict with another?
Indecision and unanswerable questions had become wounds that drained her. No matter how insignificant the development, before she could act, she found herself wondering what Clas might do. When she did manage to do something, there was a sense of him peering over her shoulder. The presence was always benign and caring, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she was constantly being graded.
Even that was preferable to the dreams of the Harvester. There were times that one supplanted Clas’ image in the lonely, aching reaches of the night. The Harvester sneered. Beckoning, taunting, she coaxed Sylah onward, into a future that whirled with visions of doors that turned into laughing, mocking mouths, of Church symbols that transformed into hating faces.
Occasionally Sylah woke, cold, and the silence of the forest joined that discomfort, seeped through to blood and bone. Then she wondered if her mind might be failing.
Occasionally that concern struck in full daylight. As now.
Conway was right of course: The people who lived in the houses could very well be off on a communal hunt, or fishing. Raiders would surely have torched the buildings, slaughtered the stock.
Conway said, “When we’re about halfway there, we’ll send the dogs ahead. That way we get a warning, if we need one, and we don’t lose so much time.”
She agreed. Time was becoming important. They’d already lost so much she was concerned about being delayed through spring and into summer. The tales of heat and dryness surrounding Church Home made it important they reach there in milder weather. She’d lost count of the number of times they’d retraced miles of useless path. In addition, it seemed every stream was at flood. Every trail had blowdown trees, or rock slides, or misleading forks that died away to worthless rabbit tracks.
Every morning now, when she faced the rising sun, she completed her required ritual. Then, however, she spoke words of her own. Church taught that informal prayer lacked the force of ordained routine. A tiny piece of her mind had always rejected that, and now, consumed by doubts, she found solace in the effort. Sometimes, after having addressed a problem, she was embarrassed to realize how tartly she’d expressed herself. One wasn’t supposed to scold the One in All. Each time she survived such an experience without permanent injury or other evidence of supernatural disfavor, she felt a bit closer to that unseen listener.
Conway sent his dogs ahead. Mikka was back quickly. The grizzled female sat off the trail, facing Conway. When he stopped his horse, she looked over her shoulder then back to him. He praised her before turning to Sylah. “They’ve found something. Tell Tate I’ve gone on ahead.” Right hand holding the wipe ready, he signaled Mikka, following her.
When the dog slowed to a stalk, Conway dismounted. For a while he ran from cover to cover, then crawled the last yards to where Karda lay on the ground behind a tree at the edge of a small potato patch. The translucent verdancy of the sprawling new growth looked tentative and delicate against the harder green of surrounding weeds. Lying prone, Conway examined the village.
The houses were of logs, chinked with mud and moss. Identical in size and shape, each had a stone chimney poked through the crest of its shingled roof. There were five windows—two in front, one at each side, and one in back—and one door. Hides across the windows admitted some light, and Conway noticed that several were missing, apparently to provide ventilation on this soft spring day. All the plank shutters were pulled back, secured by leather loops.
And no human stirred.
Each house had a three-sided roofed animal shelter and identical corncribs on pilings. Pig noises rose over the rails of a stout pen in the middle distance, and a goat bleated from some undiscovered location. Cattle lay about, placidly chewing cuds. Despite a growing sense of concern, Conway couldn’t help noticing the size of the animals. Karda was easily as tall as the nearby bull, although nothing like as heavy. Black, heavily muscled, the sturdy animal sniffed the wind blowing from Conway’s hiding place. It got to its feet and rolled white-rimmed eyes and tossed a wicked pair of horns. A hen wandered out of the nearest house. A scatter of chicks followed, cheeping constant wonder at unending discoveries.
When Conway made as if to crawl past Karda, the dog swung his muzzle around to look off to the right. He seemed to be indicating an interest in a clump of scrub alder.
Behind him, Conway heard the others approaching. “Watch,” he ordered the dogs.
Keeping flat, Conway hurriedly backed away until he was sure the forest shielded him. When he got to his feet it was just in time to wave the others to a halt. He reported, suggesting he and Tate take the dogs and approach through the forest.
Sylah objected. “Church has no need of stealth. If there are people hiding from us, it’s out of fear. Lanta and I will ride in and let them know we’re Church.”
Tate said, “Too risky. It’s only ten days ago we found the dead Tender. What if we promise we won’t attack anyone who doesn’t attack us; fair enough?”
Lanta said, “Conway and Tate must’ve dealt with many similar situations in their travels.”
Sylah thought she saw something suspiciously like guilt in the look the two strangers exchanged but when Conway’s eyes met hers, his expression was perfectly bland. Tate dismounted and warned Dodoy to stay close to the priestesses. He nodded.
Sylah was impressed by the way Conway and Tate moved off through the forest. They’d gained confidence.
She smiled to herself. Beside Clas, they were clumsy.
The humor faded. The image of Clas wouldn’t go away. His expression, his eyes, yearned. It took every fiber of her will, the employment of every technique of mind control, to dispel the frighteningly inappropriate emptiness straining to overwhelm her.
Conway and Tate pressed ahead. As one took a covered firing position, the other advanced a few yards beyond. Karda and Mikka were farthest ahead. Tanno and Oshu assured no threat infiltrated from behind.
When the point dogs came trotting back through the forest, Conway and Tate jacked rounds into the chambers of the wipes, spread out, and went forward quietly. The dogs moved out ahead and to the flanks.
Their behavior puzzled Conway. They were too relaxed. He had the strange sensation that they were enjoying a new game.
He looked down at his hands. The skin across the backs shone from being stretched tight. He flexed his fingers to restore circulation.
Ahead, a baby cried. The sound was cut off. Conway gestured his dogs closer and saw Tate do the same from the corner of his eye.
Pressed against a substantial tree, he shouted around it. “People from the village! We’re travelers—two Sisters of Church, a man, a woman, and a boy. We want to buy food.”
Small rustling noises broke the forest’s silence. Tate cupped her hands to her mouth. A shout stopped her. “Go away!” Shrill fear robbed the voice of definition.
“We mean no harm,” Tate said. “We need fresh supplies. We hunger. We’ll pay.”
“Leave us alone. You’ll bring them back.”
Conway and Tate exchanged looks. “Them?” she said softly to Conway, then louder, “We’re coming. Peacefully.”
Feet drummed off through the forest. The same voice said, “Leave us alone, so I can tell them we never saw you. Go away. Please?”
Tate answered. “Don’t do anything silly, all right? No trouble.”
Without the dogs, Conway and Tate quite likely would have walked past the boy’s well camouflaged den. He was backed into a small hollow in an old maple trunk, with grass and bushes piled in front. The dogs grinned at him through the cover. Four heavy tails thrashed in greeting. The boy raised a broken sword, the stubby blade ground to a lopsided point, the cutting edges nicked. Nevertheless, he extended it through his makeshift screen steadily, his small, bright eyes unwavering. His expression was a rending blend of exhaustion, fear, and determination.
Conway squatted to speak solemnly. “The dogs are trying their best to say they like you.”
The boy spared him a glance. “They won’t bite me?” Conway shook his head. The boy turned a questioning look on Tate. She said, “Word of honor.” The boy thought it over. “What about the rest of us?”
“Your parents? Call them in. All we want is to buy some supplies.”
The boy blinked, but a moment later, he bent around to shout into the forest. “It’s not the raiders. Or Kossiars. Come back.”
