by Don McQuinn
Bos was saying, “…intercepted by Lance Gatro, who extended the Chair’s invitation.”
Flustered, Sylah realized Bos was finished. She quickly asked for safe passage. The Chair granted it with a wave of the hand, adding, “As much as I admire your courage in your quest, Rose Priestess, I admire more your ability to surround yourself with loyal supporters. These friends, by their presence alone, tell me more of you than all the tales and rumors.”
The earth-dark eyes held hers. She said, “My quest breeds enemies, as well. I saw the Harvester.”
He smiled. It was less than pleasant. “It’s not important. You’re in no danger from her in Kos.”
Sylah tossed her head. “I have no fear of her.”
“Of course you do. The only reason she hasn’t had you killed, as she tried to have the Matt Conway one killed, is because you have knowledge she doesn’t. It’s her aim to cheat you out of your prize. You fear her as you fear nothing else.”
Forcing herself to stay focused on him, despite the cold image of the Harvester at the edge of her thoughts, Sylah said, “I respect her—capabilities—but I don’t fear her.”
The Chair swept them all with a warning look. “Odeel won’t harm anyone. Nor will she be harmed. If one of you does, all die. No questions, no appeals, no mercy. Is it heard?”
Sylah said, “None of us would risk the others.”
“Of course.” The Chair rang a small bell. A door at the end of the dais swung open. The Harvester stepped through, hooded, flashing a welcoming smile at the Chair that turned venomous when she directed it at Sylah and her group. She directed her attention to Conway and Nalatan. “I’m told I have you two to thank for Sylah’s arrival here. I’ll find a proper way to make you aware of that error.”
“Not on Kos land,” Conway said. “And if I ever see you outside its boundaries, you won’t make me aware of anything.”
Nalatan made a three-sign, then said, “You know my oath. Keep out of my way, Harvester.”
She swept off her hood. In the diffused light filtering through the multicolored window the silver hair took on the patina of an ancient helmet. Eyes blazing, she said, “Your master put himself in my way by refusing to cooperate. You saw what happened to him.”
“Enough, Odeel.” The Chair’s order was hardly louder than ordinary conversation, but it carried unquestionable authority. Nalatan trembled violently under the strain of containing himself. Conway noticed Bos’ hands stealing to the handles of his twin swords. The doors leading to the hall were suddenly filled by the warmen guards. Ignoring all of it, attention fixed on the Harvester, the Chair said, “Harvester, you and the Rose Priestess are both here because the search for the Door has split Church. I mean to decide how I can best serve Church and Kos by observing you while you shelter in my lands. Don’t force me to base my judgments on petty feuds.”
Sylah said, “My search takes me to the land of Church Home. Every day, every hour, I lose here means more danger to us from the summer heat of the Dry. Even the nomads may interfere with our goals.”
“Good points. The last one’s better than you realize.” He gestured at Bos, who hurried into the hall. A moment later, two warmen half carried a bound man through the nearest door. His face was hidden, hanging down. The part of his forehead that could be seen was swollen, discolored. He wore a shredded singlet and torn trousers. More bruises marred the exposed flesh, and one ugly cut ran across his shoulder.
Sylah said, “I must tend to him. He’s infected.”
The Chair said, “His treatment’s been arranged. This is a nomad, from the Long Sky People. He says all of you will reject Church and accept the silver disk of Moondance or be exterminated.”
The man raised his head. The face was a bloody, shattered mask. Barely intelligible, he said, “We come. S’ren’er or die.”
“Nervy,” the Chair said, gesturing. The warmen hustled their prisoner out.
To Sylah, the Chair continued. “He was a scout. The rest escaped. They’re elusive. His group was exploring a route from the Enemy Mountains to Harbor, following the Duckhunter’s River. Other raiders have struck our farm communities even farther south. They tap here, tap there, looking for weakness. I can feel them building up behind the mountains like a summer storm. Ride toward Church Home, and you stand an excellent chance of stumbling into them. But that’s enough serious talk. I invited you to eat, and I’ve neglected my responsibilities as host.”
When he rose from his seat, it was obvious he was tall. Only when he was on the floor beside them did his true height register. Conway and Nalatan, both a shade over six feet, came to his chin. When he moved, it was with a supple, assured grace. Leading the way, he took them into the west wing and a sumptuous dining room.
Dozens of people were already seated at the benches of massive trestle tables. Helping Sylah to a place, the Chair explained, “These are mostly staff; Crew, as Bos explained. Some are visiting Crew or Board. Your presence brought them. Excuse the clumsy dining arrangements. One of my ancestors was killed after a particularly festive dinner by a cousin armed with a chair. No one will ever lift this furniture and bring it down on someone’s head.”
The Harvester was directly across the table from her. The Chair leaned toward the other woman, their conversation too low to follow.
Too friendly, thought Sylah, and consciously arranged a serene expression. What made the scene particularly galling was the way the Harvester postured and preened. It bordered on obscene. The woman was old enough to be his mother, and she positively simpered for him.
Beside Sylah, Tate said, “Are you going to eat?”
A steaming bowl of soup seemed to have materialized in front of her. Sylah tingled with embarrassment. She told herself the spectacle of the Harvester literally trying to seduce their host was enough to distract anyone.
The soup, in its porcelain bowl, was a savory combination of mussels and cream, with a gloss of onion. Servants in bright yellow sped silently from point to point. As the sun faded, they lit copper lanterns mounted on the stone walls. A salad arrived, crisp and fresh. Bread came in large, round loaves, to be broken in chunks. The main course was a huge beef haunch, carved at an adjoining table, served steaming hot on more porcelain, which had a strength its delicate appearance belied.
Under the obsequious, near-invisibility of the servants hurrying about their duties, there was a sense of furtiveness. Sylah thought of the expression “hidden in plain view,” feeling she was seeing something and still not aware. A shiver of discovery flittered across Sylah’s skin as she realized that every aspect of her group was under intense scrutiny by the slaves. No gesture was too small to go unseen. After a while, Sylah noted that all deferred to one woman. It was done with such clandestine grace that Sylah almost missed it. The rest of the yellow-clad crew came and went around her in the manner of bees treating the queen in a hive.
The Chair finally broke off his conversation with the Harvester and turned to Sylah, asking her to comment on her travels. As he did, the dominant servant presented Sylah with a plate. The inside of her wrist slid across Sylah’s shoulder with the touch of a leaf. Later, removing a glass, her fingers brushed the back of Sylah’s hand, a contact no heavier than a sigh.
Later, Sylah left the dining room with the Chair, leaving the seething Harvester to follow. She absently put a hand to her throat. The drawstring of her cowl was missing.
Chapter 6
The south wall of the castle was breached by a pair of triangular portals, widest at the bottom. They were only a few feet across at the base and approximately ten feet high. Leading into the castle from the bay, they ended at a square pool, a docking place for small boats. Presently, there were six vessels crowding it. Four were single hulls with folding masts. Two were balancebars, the outriggers raised, the masts unstepped. Secured for the night, they tugged at their mooring lines nervously and muttered frustration, eager to slip free and dance with the waves.
Outside the fortress wall, which was
separated from open water by a narrow ledge of native rock, a heavy chop drove in from the sea. The play of the dark water showered silvery spray in unending lacework against night’s ebony. The rush of wind and water paralleled the peninsula’s face, so that each wave sheared against the land as it went. The resultant hissing crash burrowed into one’s consciousness.
Lanta, immersed in the pounding, liquid roar, stood outside the wall, a few yards from the boat portals. Silent, unmoving, she could have been an irregularity in the stone surface behind her.
Matt Conway had been seated beside her at dinner. He spoke to her occasionally. Conversational crumbs, thrown to her the way he’d feed birds.
She wished she had the strength to hate him.
Part of her treasured those crumbs. Part of her wanted to spit on them, and on him for his condescension.
She clenched her fists, insisted to herself that she did hate him.
Because she loved him.
Admission was a physical shock. She reached for the stabilizing solidity of the wall. Cold and damp had penetrated cloth and flesh while she was preoccupied, and now her joints rebelled with pain at the long-delayed movement. Throat muscles contracted, released a small cry of hurt. Crushed by the incessant roar of surf, the sound went unheard even by her.
She turned to leave.
A figure loomed over her, black against black, practically touching her. This time she heard her full-throated scream. Even as she did, she knew her puny effort would never be heard by anyone else.
The figure bent down, forced her to the wall. “Priestess, it’s me—the Chair. I came out to talk.” His deep rumble successfully challenged the sea’s tumult. Surprisingly gentle, he took her arm and guided her back toward the boat portals. They walked through them on the wooden catwalk she’d discovered for herself.
There must have been a guard watching the portal who reported her. Lanta made a mental note to pass that along to the others.
Taking a seat on the bow of one of the small boats, the Chair gestured for Lanta to join him. She chose a different boat; it was close enough for conversation, yet afforded her distance from this strange, large man.
He said, “I’m not exactly sure where you fit into this puzzle that’s been delivered to my land, Priestess. Will you speak plainly with me?”
“Will you believe me if I say yes?” It was said before she took time to think. The effrontery startled her.
The Chair threw back his head and laughed. At the sound, Lanta noticed movement around them. Warmen, discretely distant, guarding from the darker corners. It amused her. What sort of protection could this giant need?
“No, Priestess,” he said, “I wouldn’t believe you. I’ve learned to believe no answers completely. Fairly said, that includes my own. The difference between me and everyone else is that I change my mind. The others are all liars.” He laughed at his own joke, enjoying himself. “Now that we understand each other, why are you accompanying Sylah?”
“Because I’m her friend.”
“Odeel says it’s because you expect Sylah to make you the Seer of Seers.”
Lanta forced calmness into her words. “The Harvester’s wrong.”
“Nevertheless, if Sylah’s successful, she’ll treat you properly. As a friend.”
“She’ll treat me as a friend. No more, no less. And what of you? Why involve yourself in our pursuit of a thing that may not even exist? A thing that’s already split Church, a thing the Harvester has tried to kill for?”
She felt the change in the atmosphere even before she heard the faint squeal of stressed cordage when he shifted his weight and caused the small boat to lean harder into its lashing. He said, “Tread carefully. You’re on treacherous ground now. Unless your gift…?”
“I have Seen nothing. My powers are exclusive to Church, not used for personal benefit.”
“These are facts, known to all. My responsibility is to learn the truth.”
“Facts are truth.”
The Chair’s laughter was quiet. “Not even numbers are always true. We all use facts to suit ourselves. We all lie. Except me. As I said, I change my mind.”
Lanta said, “Sylah’s only concern is Church. If you help her, you have no guarantees of anything, except the Harvester’s hatred.”
There was a pause, and she knew he was thinking out his next statement. It came as a surprise. “My ancestors were largely responsible for the Purge. Kos was very important to the Teachers, who were highly regarded by my ancestors. Yet they killed the Teachers. I have tasted power, little Priestess, so I understand why men do such things. Fear or greed. The Teachers had something my ancestors wanted, and either couldn’t get, or couldn’t control. I want it. If I must, I’ll share it. Until I find a way to own it.”
“You’re saying you’d take it from Sylah, if you could.”
“For power, everyone steals. However, I can offer Sylah protection against the Harvester and her allies.”
The True Stone seemed to tremble between Lanta’s breasts. She filled with a swift, ridiculous fear that it was glowing, would reveal her crime to this man, of all people. She hunched forward, fighting to keep her hands and eyes away from the evidence. “Why tell me all this? Why not go directly to Sylah?”
“Oh, I will. But a friend is never a loss, as they say. You’ll tell her what I’ve said. I expect she’ll tell you whatever I say to her. I’ve seen how close you two are. Still, I want you to hear my words directly from me. You understand?”
“Will you offer her this alliance you mentioned?”
“Not right away. And I hope you won’t, either. Let’s see if the idea will come to her, shall we? But if you feel you have to mention it, by all means do; it’s not a secret.”
“I hold no secrets from Sylah.” A surge through the boat portals made the small pool heave. It excited the moored boats, set them to yanking on their restraints. Lanta wished she could shout at them to stop their sarcastic squeals.
The Chair said, “I had such a friend. Once. Never again.” He rose, bulking darkly. In the background, the warmen stirred. “If you ever remember anything I say to you, let it be this: Such a friend is the most precious thing in life. Guard that friendship against everything.” In the melodic speech of the Kos people, the last word resonated like a lament.
And then he was swallowed by the night. His escort moved to follow, their swift, obscure shadows more suggestion than reality. Alone again, Lanta begrudged the destruction of her mood.
The thought was shoved aside by the sudden realization that she’d seen a similar reaction in Sylah at the dinner table. The Chair had drawn her, as well.
It was a shocking concept, all the more disturbing in that Sylah herself was undoubtedly unaware of the man’s effect on her. Lanta chewed her lower lip, thoughtful, remembering. She closed her eyes, recreating every minute alteration in Sylah’s features during the meal. What she recollected was both relieving and disturbing. Lanta was sure the attraction was purely political.
That, of course, spoke well of Sylah’s personal qualities. The question was, what did it portend in the matter of Sylah’s ambitions?
Lanta hated the question. Sylah was a friend, and one didn’t suspect a friend’s ambitions.
The sheer power of the Chair’s attention forced one to look inside. Lanta shook her head, dislodging that unpleasantness. Conjecture about friends was bad practice. Introspection was even more painful.
It was one thing to stand at the edge of the sea and be romantic and sad and abstractly envision a violent end to problems and troubles. It was something else again to confront stark reality. The Chair forced her to contemplate the enormity of her dishonesty. She’d come to terms long ago with her rejection of Violet’s instructions to betray Sylah. It troubled her that she hadn’t had the courage to do it when she’d been approached. Still, she’d made a choice based on right and wrong.
The True Stone was different.
She wanted it.
That irregular little p
urple rock, with its peculiar flaw, was Violet. To hold it meant to grasp the heart of the family that chose her, raised her, was all she’d ever known. Every night, curled up in her blanket, she clasped the stone as if holding it was her lifeline back from the soft death of sleep. She pressed its one smooth surface against her warm flesh, the gold chain woven through her fingers. Lying quietly, her heart swelled with dreams of the Priestesses who’d preceded her, how they healed, guided, consoled. And Lanta, the Chosen who had no one of her own, now possessed them all, because she had the True Stone. Lanta, the Seer, feared by everyone, was transformed to the beloved of everyone.
There were other dreams. An embarrassing number were about Matt Conway. She remembered only that he was central, and that strange delights lingered in her body when dawn interrupted.
She wondered if her life was to be all dreams, all Seeing.
Lanta rose from her seat on the bow of the small boat and made her way back into the fort. Gleaming sconces held lamps that illuminated the austere stone hallways. Wrought of gleaming brass, the holders represented sharks. They balanced on their tails, holding chains in mouths studded with silver teeth. The lamps dangled from the chains. Soft, wavering light created regular islands down the passages. The oil they burned was scented with herbs; Lanta recognized thyme, bay, the prickly dustiness of sage. She raised her chin, breathing deeply, soothed. Her pace slowed.
At the end of the long hall, where the hollow behind the projecting stairway to the next floor created a dark hide, Lanta thought she saw a movement. She continued her advance, telling herself tiredness was stretching her imagination.
Then she saw it again. Lurking.
Behind her was emptiness, all the doors firmly closed. Normally there were warmen everywhere. Now there was no one.
