by Don McQuinn
Could that be intentional?
If she ran forward, she could be on the stairs and halfway up before whoever waited in the darkness would realize they’d been discovered.
She took another step. One more. Gathered herself, tensed.
“Lanta.”
“What? What? Who?” Inane, idiot words. They tumbled out of her. She knew who: Conway. Her face burned. Why did he do this to her? Why did he make it impossible for her to be anything but a stumbling, choking fool? “Hello?” She croaked, and wanted to bite off her tongue.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “There’s something I’ve got to talk about, and you’re the one I want to talk to. Please, have you got a little time?”
“Of course.” She managed it.
He had waited for her. For her.
Chapter 7
Conway took Lanta’s arm and led her outside to the central courtyard. Her mind soared with that meaningless touch. She was completely aware she was being silly, and was powerless to dismiss a flood of idyllic images.
Neither spoke until they were walking a path through rose bushes that came to Lanta’s shoulder. In the darkness the yellow and white varieties had a soft luminosity that Lanta’s overworked imagination transformed into gentle, smiling ghost faces. The picture sent a delicious fright singing along her spine even as she delighted in their beauty. Perfumed air embraced her, and she thought of the contrast between those tender, invisible eddies and the crushing surf that mumbled in the background.
Conway said, “Something’s been troubling me. It could cause Sylah a lot of trouble. With the quest, you know? I mean, two people getting involved.”
Words were hot in Lanta’s mouth, but when she answered, her tone was tentative. Still, she wanted to be encouraging. “Sylah understands that sort of thing. After all, it was during her own escape from the Dog rebels and the Mountain People that she fell in love with Clas.”
“I never thought of that.” He stopped, causing her to turn so that she was facing him. “When I tell her, I’ll remember to mention it. If I have to bring it up at all. Sylah sees just about everything.”
“I think she’d have said something to me, if she’d noticed.” Lanta wanted to scream at him to be direct. She couldn’t tolerate much more oblique chatter.
Conway said, “On the other hand, I may be wrong. I mean, Nalatan’s never said anything, not in words.”
Lanta’s heart banged once, a throb that took her breath away, so that when she repeated the name, “Nalatan?” it was an ugly, rasping sound.
“He’s getting pretty interested in Tate. She claims she doesn’t have time for him. I don’t believe it. Sometimes people are sort of afraid to say what they really feel, you know? What bothers me most is Dodoy’s probable reaction.”
Lanta felt lightheaded. She seemed to float around this suddenly bizarre scene. Words came automatically, but they had a slurred sound. “Yes. In his way, Dodoy loves her.”
Conway went on. “I don’t want to see anyone hurt. I have to be careful, you see?”
It was almost unbearable, Lanta thought. What had started out so precious, so dear, was now low comedy.
“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Conway had her by the shoulders. He looked worried, almost afraid. “You look almost ready to cry. Or laugh, maybe.” His grip loosened, and he pulled back slowly.
Lanta straightened weak knees. His hands fell away. She said, “Nothing, nothing. I’m fine now.” She turned to walk toward the door. Conway followed, and Lanta went on, “If you get involved, you’ll be seen as a meddler, no matter how it turns out.” She laughed, and was instantly sorry. Each pealing note ripped like a claw.
They fell into a mutual silence. Her smaller steps and lighter boots tapped out a staccato counterpoint to the heavy crack of his heels.
She wanted to see him die. She wanted to see him battered and broken, so she could hold him, heal him, nurse him back to health and back to her. She wanted to hit him. To throw her arms around him with a wantonness that made her blush. She wished she could escape this place, these people, and never see them again.
Karda and Mikka were already on their feet, great tails flailing at the sight of their master. Karda barked once. Echoes raced up and down the long hall. Conway went to them, a hand for each huge head, tousling the fur, tugging the ears. Ecstatic, the hounds pushed and shoved against him, sent him staggering.
When he turned to Lanta, some trick of the oil lamp softened his features, cast his eyes into a strange, secretive shadow. There was something inexpressibly sad about him. Watching the dogs’ antics, he said, “I envy these brutes. We say they’re less intelligent than we are. Don’t you feel it’s more like an innocence? We puzzle and pose. We talk, but we don’t listen. We look, but we don’t see. These two are what they are. No questions. No recriminations. Just loyalty. Love. I think they have that; love.” He paused. “Don’t you?”
She tossed her head rejecting pointless discussion. “I never thought about it. They really are just animals.”
“Aren’t we all?” he said, and laughed. Lanta was dismayed to discover that his amusement seemed to have the same nasty sharpness as her own.
He turned away, signaling the dogs to follow. “I suppose you’re right. I get too close to the problem. Thanks for your help. Sleep well. I’m going to take these two out for some exercise.”
She called, “Good night,” and he half turned, saluting.
* * *
Outside the castle, Conway headed for the flank of the closest defensive berm. Torches atop the wall threw a faint light. The crest of the berm was silhouetted, and Conway realized there were torches beyond it. When he reached the point where the land dropped precipitously into the bay’s waters, he turned to climb up to the berm’s crest. The back slope was an easy grade. A trench on top allowed warmen to defend the landward side with no more than their heads exposed. The torches, set at the base of the berm, served a dual function: they prevented surreptitious approach, and any attempt to extinguish them would warn the defenders of impending attack.
Without speaking directly to the warmen, Conway shouted at the dogs to make sure his presence and purpose were known. He jogged for a while with the team, then released them to chase each other.
In the pale illumination of the torches, they stretched out, reveling in their freedom and strength. Growling ferociously, Karda launched himself after the fleeing Mikka. More agile, she waited until he was abreast and poised to deliver the shoulder blow that would send her tumbling. Then she swerved, leaving him nothing but air. Dodging, cutting, reversing herself, she led him back and forth in front of the wall, turning the meadow into their playground. Finally, however, Karda caught her. Conway held his breath as Mikka went hurtling sideways. She fell with an audible thump and accompanying grunt. Legs flailed as she tumbled, but when she came upright, it was to charge recklessly. She surprised Karda, rocked him back on his haunches. He rose on his hind legs, holding her off with forepaws. She did the same. Roaring at each other, snapping great jaws, they towered far taller than Conway. Then they were back on all fours, leaping, feinting, exuberant as puppies.
Behind Conway Nalatan said, “If I traveled north to where these Dog People live, would they part with one of those?”
“They told us they’d never given any to anyone before.”
Nalatan was thoughtful. “The first time they make a gift of such animals, and one recipient is a woman. She’s a very different person.”
Dryly, Conway said, “You could say that.”
Oblivious, Nalatan plunged on. “I don’t mean the obvious differences—the strange weapons you two use, or her color, or her attachment to that Dodoy. You both reek of secrets. That doesn’t bother me. There’s something else, though: I don’t think you yourselves are aware of what makes you the way you are.”
Conway laughed softly. “That’s complicated, my friend.”
“Oh, I know how self-important I sound. But you both walk in a d
ifferent sort of light than the rest of us. I can almost touch it, but I can’t name it.”
Conway was becoming very uncomfortable. “Look, let’s talk about something else. How long do you think we’re going to be here?”
Nalatan spat into the darkness. “Kos invented lying. They’ve been perfecting it since. The Chair won’t let us leave until he has a reason to do so.”
“What reason does he have to detain us?”
“Discontent among the slaves, coupled with trouble with the nomads. With most freeborn Kossiar males already full-time army, they could barely handle the situation; now they’ve got the nomads pressing them from the east. The Chair’s looking for allies.”
“Why get mixed up in this Church thing? Church has no armies.”
“There are more believers than you think. The Empty Lands support quite a few settlements of Smalls. They keep to themselves, but they grow stronger every moon. Even the Hents respect Church. If the Chair controls Church, he controls all believers and cloaks himself in a faith to recruit others.”
Conway mulled that over, then, “If I were the Chair, I’d be more interested in Gan and Clas na Bale. Who else is going to keep these nomads from attacking Church Home?”
“The brotherhoods will defend it.”
“How many men is that?”
“Perhaps three hundred.” At Conway’s obvious disappointment, Nalatan went on. “Remember, defending Church is our life. Every mountain, every rock, every blade of grass is our ally. The nomads have tested us before. So have the Hents. We’ve even had ‘visits’ from Kos.”
“You think the Chair wants to keep us here because he believes we’re spies?”
“My advice for the rest of you is, trust no one here.”
“Trust?” Conway’s mind flew back to the earlier conversation with Lanta. “I can’t even understand my friends.”
“You had a disagreement with Tate?”
“I was trying to discuss something with Lanta. She blistered me. For no reason.”
“She’s a gentle woman. You must have said something.”
Biting back a retort, Conway whistled in the dogs. They came slowly, happily tired, and threw themselves down at his feet. Only then did he answer Nalatan. “Actually, I was asking her advice. I guess I expected her to be a little pleased to know how much I respect her opinions.”
“Advice about what?”
“Nothing important.”
“Well, there it is, then. She expects to be confided in, not condescended to. Women are like that. They know they’re not as intelligent as we are, so they try to make up for it by being clever. They can be surprisingly observant.”
Again, Conway was silent for a long time, contemplating the collision between this man and the fiery Tate. He sighed, then said, “You’re in for some exciting experiences, my friend.”
“More riddles.” Nalatan grumped under his breath, reaching down to twist Mikka’s ears. She panted and wagged her tail.
Conway said, “I’m off to bed. You?”
Nalatan straightened. “I’m staying outside awhile. There are things I want to think out.”
“If one of the things is named Donnacee, you better start thinking from the very beginning. That’s my advice to you.”
Nalatan watched his friend approach the yawning, black maw of the castle door. Faint light from behind two archers’ ports directly above the drawbridge created the image of slitted eyes. Someone moved a torch or lantern behind them. They gleamed brightly for a moment, as if Conway’s movement had attracted the hungry attention of a slumbering beast. The entryway appeared to inhale the man and his dogs.
* * *
The Harvester moved away from the narrow window. Her eyes flashed in the light of the lantern in the Chair’s hand. “Mindless dolts. They know nothing.”
The Chair said, “Don’t lie to me, Odeel. I watched you. You were intrigued.”
“I compliment you on your observation. The deceased Seer of Seers was of Violet. Shortly after her lamented death, that abbey dispatched an emissary to contact some unknown person. I know she traveled north. It’s my belief she contacted Sylah and arranged an alliance with her.”
“This person made an alliance with a visionary and her rabble of three? Plus the boy; I forgot him.” The Chair was sarcastically dubious.
The Harvester responded tartly. “I say she did, and it was her one prudent move. Fool that she was, the emissary took something of priceless importance as an identification token. I need that article. I will have it. Should Kossiars apprehend the emissary or discover her talisman, either must be handed over to me. I intend to be the new Sister Mother, and the talisman will help me consolidate my authority. As Sister Mother, I will intercede with the nomads and Moondance. Church Home is impregnable. Wouldn’t it be worth an alliance to know that such a fortress was always available to you?”
“If I were sure of that…” The Chair’s tone suggested more than his words.
“We could arrange a treaty. Secret, of course, for our mutual protection. I’d even be willing to include some words concerning Church’s efforts to maintain good order among Kos’ slave population.”
The Chair pulled back. One eye tightened to a squint. “Mind yourself, Harvester. I would be disappointed to learn that you’ve been spying on us.”
“There are no spies in Kos. Everyone knows that. The power of speech exists, however, as does the ability to hear and see. One looks and listens. There’s restlessness out there. Everywhere.”
“You’ve been misinformed.”
“As you say. Things do get twisted. However, consider how eagerly the slaves would respond to Church if something dreadful—rumors of plague, for instance—came to Kos. Wouldn’t it be natural for the Chair to assure that only tractable workers received treatment?”
Still fuming, the Chair answered stiffly. “My concerns are for real problems, not conjecture. The nomads are foremost. The power of the Door may be the answer to them. I care nothing for your struggle with Sylah, but I care very much that I share in any discoveries that can benefit Kos. I must place all the pieces of the puzzle before I commit myself to any faction.”
The Harvester made ready to leave. “I hope you have no ‘place’ in mind for me, Chair. I must control Sylah or any discoveries she makes. She is a sickness within Church’s body. Disease is always burned. The Apocalypse Testament decrees it. Plan for her whatever you will. Make no place for me in your puzzle. I will not fit it.”
“Too late.” She checked her departure, spun to face him. His smile promised danger. “As perceptive as only you can be, Harvester, you should have noticed that your place is already determined. Here, beside me.”
She made light of the statement, waggled a finger at him, and smiled. The gesture could have been playful. Or a dismissal.
She would have held the gesture and swallowed the smile, had she waited for his final words.
“Now hear this: You will remain in Kos so long as I feel it necessary. You will never again in your life be out of sight of me or my agents. Ever.”
Chapter 8
As Conway and Tate walked across the courtyard the following morning, the Chair approached them. Bos and a pair of warmen shifted about nervously where the Chair positioned them out of earshot.
After exchanging greetings, the Chair said, “Would it be improper for me to ask why you both place such confidence in the success of Sylah’s quest?” The characteristic rise and fall of the Kossiar speech pattern couldn’t hide his intense curiosity.
Tate said, “We promised to help her. Win or lose.”
“I assumed you were bound by tribal or religious formality. Are you simply friends, then?”
Conway said, “We think that’s a good reason.”
The Chair put up a defensive hand, smiling past it. “Please, no misunderstandings. My appreciation of friendship tends to be objective. I sacrificed such luxuries to take the Chair many years ago. And speaking of friends…” He indicated behind them.
Tate and Conway turned to see Nalatan coming. Tate was impressed by the way the warrior smiled greeting for herself and Conway, then, without visibly altering that expression, managed to convey cold neutrality to the taller Chair.
Tate was suddenly aware how very alone and threatened Nalatan truly was. Sylah’s decision to travel to Kos was a leap into danger for all of them, but for Nalatan it was outright exposure. Her glance went to Nalatan’s hand, resting on the outsize hand guard of the Kossiar sword he carried in lieu of his lost gear. She looked away quickly, not wanting to think of him drawing it.
The Chair said to Nalatan, “You dislike me. Why?”
Visibly surprised by the directness, Nalatan hesitated. His color rose. “Many reasons. When the people who trade come to the borders of Kos, they must trade on Kos’ terms, or do without. My brotherhood has sent men to the Enemy Mountains to recruit fighters to defend Church Home, as is our rightful mission, and Kossiars have attacked us. Kos has never assisted us in our battles. Many travelers have entered Kos and failed to come out. Yet Kos admits no searchers, offers no explanations.”
“Everything you say is true. We expect to profit from trade. Is that wrong? Do you allow anyone to recruit on the lands claimed by Church Home? If two groups of nomads squabble, do you rush to help whichever one asks? Do you allow my warmen to search your lands for those we believe have fled our customs or justice?”
“Kos ends at the crest of the Enemy Mountains. As for Kossiar custom, we know something of that.”
“Territorial rights are something your leaders and I could discuss. I’ve requested such talks.”
“You forgot to mention the slaves.” Nalatan spoke as if pronouncing sentence.
It was the Chair’s turn to color. Still, his manner was unruffled. “Our economy is our concern. As for the treatment of our slaves, most live better here than they did in their homelands.”
Before Nalatan could respond, Tate interrupted. “However you defend slavery, we hate it.”
“Many say hatred springs from ignorance.”
