by Don McQuinn
“You’re an excellent Healer. We’re dealing with something very unusual, very insidious. And you’ve described almost all of the symptoms. The Iris Abbess talked about a similar case. Sweet sickness.”
“But Jeslaya’s a good mother. If there was sweet sickness in the family, she’d watch her children like a hawk.”
Sylah nodded. “That was the terrible thing about the other incident. All the trouble came during pregnancy. Only afterward, discussing it, did anyone guess. The mother and child were both lost, so no one’s ever been absolutely certain.”
“You’re saying that even if we’re right about the sweet sickness, the other woman may have died of something else. And so might Yasmaleeya’s sister. And so might Yasmaleeya.” Lanta stared at the basin, transfixed.
Taking a deep breath, Sylah exhaled in a rush. “We’ll worry about that next. First…” She let the sentence trail away. Gripping the edge of the table with one hand, she closed her eyes. Quickly, as if to complete the task before her mind could grasp what she was doing, she dipped her fingers in the fluid and tasted.
Outside, a gull squalled ribald amusement.
Lanta offered a drying cloth. Sylah chewed on it, scraped at her mouth, tongue, teeth. Next she grabbed at a proffered mug of water, rinsing, spitting out the window. She poured more water over her hands, drank more, scrubbed and spit. After a final deep breath and a shiver, Sylah spoke. A bit too forcefully, Lanta thought. She kept the observation to herself; Sylah appeared to be in no mood for constructive criticism.
“It’s there. The sweet sickness. No mistake.” Sylah said, and made a three-sign.
“You’re sure?”
Sylah’s eyes flashed. She jerked a thumb at the basin. “You doubt? Taste.”
Blushing, Lanta shook her head. “What do we do?”
“Risk. I feel the Harvester’s hand in this. She wouldn’t hesitate to arrange the midwife’s murder.” She paused, laughed bitterly. “There was a time when I couldn’t have imagined that, much less said it so easily. Anyhow, with the midwife dead, she could easily convince the Chair that I should treat Yasmaleeya. If I lose the girl, I eliminate myself from the Harvester’s game.”
Lanta squirmed nervously. “How could she arrange a murder? She can’t leave the fort. I think the Chair’s involved.”
Sylah thought back to their first dinner, remembered the slave woman who was the center of so much deference by her fellow servants. Musing, she said, “Somehow, Odeel's made Church her weapon here in Kos. There are spies here. I’m sure there are those who do as she orders.”
“Then we have to tell the Chair right away.”
“We’d only be accused of failing. Our friends would suffer.”
Lanta inhaled until she thought her lungs would burst. Her emotions spun inside her, filling her with apprehension. Sylah refused to see how far her delusions about the Chair had carried her. Rueful awareness shot through Lanta, obscured everything momentarily: She was, after all, the authority on infatuation.
Nevertheless, someone had to speak.
Lanta said, “The Chair is capable of his own deviousness, his own murders. Odeel is wicked; no one argues that. You mustn’t make excuses for the Chair, Sylah. Your view has become confused. This talk of the Chair as ally; do you mean Church’s ally? Or yours? Remember what you set out to accomplish. It had nothing to do with alliances. Your will isn’t your destiny. Your will is the way to your destiny.”
Sylah gestured distractedly. She dismissed Lanta’s words. “You—all of you—only see the surface. You don’t understand him. He’s been a great asset to Church. He’ll be a greater one in the future. I know. Our only real enemy is Odeel. To thwart her, we must save the mother and child before it grows too large. It’s our only chance.”
Lanta backed away. “I know what you’re thinking. You want to bring the baby early. What if we make a mistake?”
“You have what we need in your bag? The blackness?”
“I have it. I’ve never used it. Must we? I fear, Sylah. We could kill her.”
“The Iris Abbess always said she believed sweet sickness swelled the child until the birth passage was impossible. If we force out the child early, we may save them both. If we wait, we certainly lose them both.” She reached to grasp Lanta’s shoulders, forced the smaller woman to stand erect. “We’ll fight, Lanta. We must. Not like the men, though. We do it to save life, to create life. Our battle is the proudest of all. Savor it—the excitement, dread, hope. We’ve been dared. We accept. We live.”
Chapter 18
Conway harangued Tate and Nalatan enthusiastically, oblivious to their worry. He paced the small room like something caged. New clothes reflected his identification with Tee’s For people. Black leather vest over black cotton shirt, black full trousers, black boots. He was saying, “The slaves we’re freeing are some of Kos’ best artisans. Their loss is a serious blow to Kos. They’re a tremendous asset for us. I mean for the For, for the economy of the Three Territories.”
Nalatan was less sanguine. “The loss of twenty slaves will irritate more than harm. Getting them all together, much less safely to sea, is going to be very difficult.”
Irrepressible, Conway jabbed a finger at them. “Tee says they’re all alerted. They can go in minutes.”
Skeptical still, Nalatan said, “Twenty slaves holding the same secret. You have ten times twenty chances of being betrayed. These men live under the lash. Or worse. For some a day without pain is a luxury, a dream. Many men break for much smaller reasons.”
“These men would rather die than live as slaves. They’ve got enough character to take a chance.”
A hint seemed to taint the words. To one as sensitive as Nalatan it was a shout. Flushing, he was on his feet instantly. He shrugged through Tate’s restraining touch. Only when she called his name did he stop. She tensed at the wounded pride in his face, but disguised her alarm. A gentling hand on his shoulder assured he stayed in place. Conway, pacing again, saw nothing.
Tate spoke to him. “We haven’t heard from Sylah or Lanta for almost half a moon. What happens to them if this operation of yours comes apart? What if you’re identified as part of it?”
“Sure, there’s some danger of that. But we’re freeing slaves.”
Tate shook her head. “You’re going to bring down repression like hailstones. It won’t work. And we’re not here to free slaves, Matt; we’re here because we agreed to help Sylah. Don’t you think you should at least let her know about this?”
Enthusiasm drained from Conway’s manner. His shoulders slumped. “I guess that means you two aren’t interested in helping.”
Tate’s anger flared. “You know how I feel about slavery, Matt. But we promised Sylah.”
“And you’ve got your own project. You forgot to include that.”
Tate recoiled. “Everything I’ve done has been for our goal. What I do for me is on my own time.”
Dismissing her argument entirely, Conway left. He turned right down the hall. Fat candles burned in a pair of sconces, the farthest illuminating another door. Carefree shadows skated along the polished wood walls and floor. Entering the next room, his manner brightened. Seated at a long table, flanked by candelabras bearing a thicket of burning tapers, Tee sat facing him across a table sawn from a single massive log. Wal was with her, his back to Conway. Seeing Tee’s shift of attention, the For sea captain looked over his shoulder. He waved greeting.
Rounding the table, Conway sat beside Tee. He broke his news dejectedly. “They won’t help.”
Frustration and anger cut across Tee’s features, left a dark frown. “I expected better of them.”
“And I told you they have reasons to keep out of it. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them what you told me—if you don’t fight slavery, you condone it. I agree, but I just couldn’t say it to them.”
Wal stood up. The dark man’s expression was blank. “You’re a good man. I welcome your help; never doubt it. But I think you’re both mistaken
here.” He nodded a goodnight and left.
For some time, neither of the couple moved. Finally, Conway slumped forward, forearms pressed to the table, fists clenched. “Everyone wants to tell me how to help. I give my dogs more freedom.”
Tee got up, slid in behind him, massaged his shoulders. Conway continued, “The Door’s Sylah’s search, Tee. Her goal. I have to be something on my own. I want to share my dreams and my goals with you. Only you.”
Tee stepped back. “We talked about that a long time ago.”
Leaning back against the chair, he reached blindly for her hands. She pulled them behind her, retreated another half step. Her face was pained, confused.
Conway put his own hands back on the table. He said, “Don’t you believe that if one person wants something, he can make that something come true for someone else, as well?”
Tee sighed. “You speak generalities. I’m talking about us. About me. I’ll stay as I am forever.”
“This is how it started for us,” he said. He stared, heavy-lidded, at the fine grain of the table. His voice dropped to a husky rumble. “Remember? We were in my room in Altanar’s castle. My back to you, your hands on my shoulders, rubbing away uncertainty. Fear. You knew I needed you. You wanted me then, Tee; I know you did. I think you still do. I’ll always need you. Want you.”
“I needed you, too,” she said. Unlike the aggressive cast of his lowered pitch, her own softer tones were reticent. Sadness touched her voice as she continued. “You made me know I was a person, not a thing. All my life, I’ll remember. But how can you ask me to live with you, knowing those things may not happen again?”
Swiftly, smoothly, he rose and turned, taking her in his arms before she could get away. She stiffened, cold as steel against him. Too excited to notice her reaction, he said, “That kind of spark never goes out, Tee. We can find it. I’ll be so good to you, you’ll have to love me. We’ll have a lifetime of good moments.”
His hands slid down her back. They came to rest just at the rise of her buttocks, the fingers splaying, pressing. She raised her hands to his chest, pushed her way out of his embrace. She was pale, her eyes round. She begged. “Don’t do this. I’m not who you think I am, not the woman you want me to be.”
“You can be. You made me more than I was. Let me help you.”
She took a jerky, awkward backward step, shook her head in a vehement denial. The movement excited the candle flames; they swayed and cowered.
Tee ran for the door. When she turned, she said, “Wal called you a good man. He missed the mark. There never was a finer one, Matt Conway. Whatever else I am, I’m not blind.”
Conway stared at the empty doorway for a long time, as if the power of his yearning would fill it with her body, her voice, the aroma of her, one more time. After a while, he straightened, rubbing his eyes. He licked the ball of his thumb and the tip of his index finger. Contemplatively, he snuffed out the candles, one by one. Occasionally he wet the fingers again. His lips moved as he worked. By the dim light of the last, hesitant flame, he smiled. “She loves me,” he said.
The tiny hiss of the wick could have been the sibilance of an affirmative yes.
Or derision.
* * *
Nalatan hadn’t spoken for so long Tate wondered if he’d fallen asleep. His breathing was slow and steady. She turned her head enough to examine him in the final touches of fading day. He’d rid himself of his armor and weapons, except for the sword that seemed to be as necessary as footwear. His shoulder nearly touched hers where they shared the backrest of a gnarled oak. Relaxed hands lay folded in his lap. She smiled softly, a touch of self-mockery in the expression; she’d been examining his profile, thinking, of it as rich with character. Then it occurred to her she’d never considered a broken nose a mark of particularly high distinction.
Her mind did contrary things when it settled on Nalatan.
He said, “Did you hear it, too?”
“What? Hear what?”
“The seal. Barking. You were so quiet, I thought you were listening. Did you fall asleep?”
“No. I thought you were.”
He chuckled. “I was thinking.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Some of it. I was feeling sorry for Conway. And me. He’s facing a lot of trouble.”
“Tee?”
His features were almost a silhouette in the steadily falling light. He nodded. “If we could keep him away from her, maybe he’d come to realize she doesn’t love him. You’d be surprised how many of us think we’ve found the true love of our lives, and then, because we can’t be with her, we have time to think things through and change our mind.”
The whole thing was as distasteful as anything he’d ever told her. Tate said, “What’s this ‘us’? Did you change your mind on some poor girl that believed in you?”
“Never. There was one. We agreed we should walk different paths. But it wasn’t me who changed.”
“Right.” Tate’s dry sarcasm made Nalatan squirm a bit. His jacket scraped on the rough tree bark. The smell of oak and leather whipped Tate’s mind back through the centuries. She was sitting in the officers’ club, drinking a chilled Chardonnay. There was a man across the table. She’d been unable to keep her eyes off his hands, imagining them discovering her, herself discovering them.
Nalatan’s accusatory tones snapped her back to the present. “…left plenty of men dangling,” he said.
Scrambling in her mind, she vaguely remembered what he’d been saying. “Me, lead a man on? You bet. Only fair. They’re always trying to take advantage of a girl.”
He made a choking sound, and she came erect, turning to hit his shoulder. “You saying I did something wrong?”
Pretending to cower, he laughed aloud. “I’d never say so. I value my life.”
She settled back. “Don’t ever forget it, either.”
The comfortable silence drew around them again. Tate was watching the stars come to life when Nalatan spoke again. He was subdued. “You make me laugh. Not like anything that’s ever come into my life before. That’s the main reason I feel sorry for Matt Conway. There’s no laughter, Donnacee. He thinks he loves Tee, and she thinks she can’t love anyone. Lanta’s afraid to confess her love to him. He knows fire, but he doesn’t know warmth. I wonder if he’ll ever learn the difference.”
Uncomfortable with the weight of the conversation, Tate tried to deflect it. “This is strange ground for a monk, a warrior.”
Nalatan was unperturbed. He rose easily, unhurried. Extending a hand to Tate, he said, “Walk with me. I need to move.”
“Need to?” She took his hand, careful to keep her question light.
He nodded, a shadow against the stars. “In my brotherhood, we’re taught to in-study. That means we sit and think. I always fall asleep. My master beat me until he realized my spirit needed movement in order to focus.”
“I can’t imagine anyone beating you. And surviving.”
Softly, Nalatan said, “I love him. And he loves me. That’s why he beat me.”
Tate snorted. “That’s dumb. You don’t hurt people you love.”
“If you deny Dodoy something, it hurts him. Do you do it from love, or malice?”
“He’s a child. It’s not the same. You’re twisting things.”
“You deny a child because you know things that he cannot. Shouldn’t you do as much for an adult who’s ignorant?”
Exasperated, Tate stopped, forcing Nalatan to turn to face her. “If I try to do something you know will get me hurt, would you beat me to make me stop?”
“Beat you? No. But if I loved you, I’d do anything to save you. Why ask? Do you plan something foolish?”
He seemed closer, and yet Tate wasn’t aware that he’d taken a step. A disturbing warmth swept through her, exploring. The weight of his dark presence seemed to feed it. He said, “We’re having at least two discussions, Donnacee. Both of us are saying too much, too little, and, quite possibly, nothing about what’s
really on our minds.”
Turning him, she linked her arm through his to show him she had no fear of physical contact or any apprehension that the conversation had gotten out of hand. Donnacee Tate controlled herself, and she controlled what went on around her. Donnacee Tate had dated the smoothest, the most determined. She could afford to be as comradely as she chose. It was important to assure his feelings weren’t hurt. She said, “We’re just hearing each other out.”
“As you say. Sometimes I’m more aggressive than I should be.” He paused, then laughed at some inner thought, before adding, “We might never have met otherwise.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My original plan was to follow you, protecting from a distance, until Sylah found the Door. Then I’d challenge Conway and kill him.”
The unequivocal certainty lifted the hair on the back of Tate’s neck. It also irritated. “If you’re so good, how come he had to save your bacon, that day by the river?”
“Bacon? Pig meat? Yours is an amazingly crude dialect. They captured me because I was rash. They were preparing an attack on you. I thought I could kill a few of them and escape in the darkness. I was half right; my horse took a sword thrust and the escape part didn’t happen. I killed more than I expected, though. Had to. Couldn’t outrun them.”
“Ridiculous.” Tate breathed the word. “You think you’re some kind of one-man army?”
He stopped, turned to her. “Since my ninth summer, I’ve been trained to kill. Not fight, Donnacee. You’re a fighter. So is Conway and Sylah and Lanta. I admire you all. But I kill. You understand the difference? People play games to win. Make war to win. Gamble to win. I’m sworn to protect Church, and I kill those who threaten her. I’m allowed to defend a victim, protect someone weak, attack evil. If I choose to. If I believe it benefits Church, I have no option. My life, my skills, are born, live, die in my oath to Church.”
“Church trains you?”
“My master. We of my brotherhood are his weapons. Conway’s a noble man to agree to fight me. Because he saved me, he could cancel the challenge.”
