by Don McQuinn
“I never heard that.” Intrigued, Sylah leaned forward. “Did Starwatch train the other brotherhoods?”
“Recruited them,” Orion declared proudly. “Our men have always protected Church. The reason I know as much about this as I do; I’m Starwatch legender. I have three young warriors living with me now. They’ll be the men who wrap Starwatch in the web of our legends. We’re not like other people. We respect the ancients, and legenders know the way the ancients lived. Canis Minor’s the best of my men. You met him yesterday.”
Introducing herself into the conversation, Tate said, “I’ve got a goal of my own, aside from helping Sylah find the Door.” She indicated Dodoy, barely visible against a distant tent. “I think he was stolen from the Dry. Is there any chance he could be from around here?”
Bitter memory darkened Orion’s features. “All tribes lose children to slavers. How old is he? Ten? Twelve?”
Tate shrugged.
Orion said, “We were raided seven summers ago. We lost many women and children. I’ll inquire.”
Tate hurried to kneel closer to him. “Oh, yes. Please.”
Startled by such fervor, Orion leaned away. “Understand the family may have died then. We lost many lives, as well as prisoners. The river ran black for two days.”
Sylah asked, “Ran black? Ashes from burned tents?”
“Pyres.” Orion was grim. “We burn our dead, as all people do. We have another custom, however, and that is to consign the ashes to our river. The river brings us life. So, when we die, we ride the river’s flow into the Land Beyond.”
“From here all the way to the sea.” Lanta murmured the words; there was something like envy or longing in them. Sylah turned to offer her a confiding, sympathetic touch, but Orion’s next words turned her blood to ice.
“Not to the sea. This river joins another. The combined waters flow westward many days’ journey. At the place we call the End, the Dry absorbs all. Our ashes disappear into the earth with the life-water. We call our river the Devourer.”
* * *
Canis Minor appeared out of the darkness to walk beside Orion. “Did you learn any more, or was this entirely social?” The question carried a teasing edge.
Orion said, “I wasn’t prying. She’s the Flower, Canis Minor. That’s a very powerful thing.”
“She says she’s the Flower. You’ve mentioned that old tale. Who will you send to tell the Harvester Sylah’s here when the Harvester gets back to Church Home?”
“The Flower’s appearance among us and her obligation is no old tale, as you put it. Which is why I don’t think we should involve ourselves with a Church power struggle. Let them handle it themselves. We support whoever wins. It’s beyond our authority to influence Church.”
Canis Minor threw an arm around Orion’s shoulder. “We’ve had this discussion before. I can talk to you better than my own father. Starwatch has always supported Church; I know that. Why shouldn’t Church return the favor? If we give this so-called Flower to the Harvester, we’ll be in a position to demand real privileges for the new First Star brotherhood. There are more Peddlers all the time. They should pay to cross the Dry. Water’s worth a great deal here; we can control most of it. With the other brotherhoods, all of it. The opportunities demand us.”
Orion was dubious. “We’ve offered our hospitality, Canis Minor. I told her and her friends they were welcome.”
The younger man chuckled softly. “We wouldn’t get much use out of them if we didn’t, would we?”
“That’s not worthy. You didn’t mean that. One gives one’s word.”
“You never laugh anymore. Don’t be so serious. If you have to worry about something, worry about the effect on our women of three females who wander around in the Dry with a monk. There’s a moral problem for you.”
“Priestesses. Women of unquestionable reputation. The black one cares only to find the boy’s parents and support the Flower. You’d do well to note their character, their loyalty. Nalatan’s beyond suspicion.”
Canis Minor withdrew his arm. “I don’t think they’re that pure. I don’t trust any of them, and I think we should take care of ourselves, first and always.”
They were at their tent by then. The deep questioning call of an owl followed them inside.
Chapter 18
Clustered around a single candle, the three women shielded even that paltry light with consuming care. Finger to lips, Sylah raised her eyebrows while looking at Tate, then gestured at the tent entrance. Tate nodded. Stealthily, she pushed aside the hide entry flap to peer out, then slipped away.
Unspeaking, not even meeting each other’s eyes, Sylah and Lanta waited. Rejoining them at the flame, Tate said, “There’s no one out there. Tanno’s watching.”
“Good.” Lanta’s whisper was packed with relief. “Now, explain, Sylah. Orion said this is the ‘devouring river’ the Iris Abbess told about. Why did you pinch me? I wanted to ask him about the other things. Why so secretive?”
Sylah felt her face warm, and was glad for the dim light. “I don’t know.” Confessing made her feel a bit better. “It’s Orion. The way he says things, not what he says. His eyes: he meets one’s gaze, but his facial muscles tighten too often. When he was telling us how welcome we are, when we first met his pupils dilated, contracted, dilated. Confusing. Possibly stress, possibly lies. I just don’t know. But I want everyone to be very careful. As for the river, the name’s no proof. There could be more than one Devourer.”
Lanta’s face dissolved into complete disbelief.
Tate muttered. “And tomorrow we could wake up to the music of pigs flying overhead.”
Lanta exploded, covered laughter with a hand. In amused exasperation, Sylah said, “Tate, I’m serious about this.”
“Me, too. Believe. I agree with Lanta, though; why the big secret?”
“We’re so close, Donnacee. Can’t you feel it? We’re nearly there.”
“Nearly where?” Lanta challenged. “If this isn’t the river, we’ve accomplished nothing. If it is, why are we sitting here in the dark, arguing?”
“Because we have to be certain. Not of the Door, or what the Abbess said. We have to be certain of Orion, of Starwatch. We’re four against the world. If anyone actually knows where the Door is, they’ve kept it a secret for generations. That alone suggests caution’s wise.”
Tate sighed. “What’s the plan, then?”
“We learn. Remember the rest of what the Abbess told us: ‘Near Church Home, across a destroying desert and a devouring river, south of the country where the sun can kill and the place where the sun can never shine.’”
“There was more,” Lanta said. “‘…the giants decreed there should never be darkness.’ And the thing about monsters that kill with their eyes.”
Tate said, “You’ve got a point, Sylah. If there’s a place Starwatch considers forbidden, it could be the site.”
“Exactly. Tribal legends may be our best signs. We can’t afford to be spied on, though. The Harvester must have informants here. Be alert. Please.”
Her friends murmured assent. Sylah blew out the candle.
In the morning, Nalatan joined them at their breakfast. A trio of men waited in the background. All were mounted on handsome horses, interesting animals with slender, energetic-looking forelegs and massive hindquarters. Nalatan’s accepted a sniffling inspection from Tanno with equanimity. Nalatan said, “I’ve been invited to go hunting. Do you mind, Sylah?”
“Of course not. It’s wonderful to see you among your people.”
Nalatan blushed. Not much, but enough to notice. He turned to Tate. “Would you ride with me later? There are places you should see here. People you should talk to.” His glance touched Sylah and Lanta, slid away. He tried to ignore their presence. Drops of sweat glistened at his temples. “There are things I’ve waited to tell you. About Starwatch, I mean. Things.”
Tate rose, walked to him. “Any time.”
He grinned and led his friends away on the dead run.
An unofficial welcoming delegation of Starwatch women arrived soon after Nalatan’s departure. Hospitable, friendly, they settled in for a chat.
The unofficial leader of the women’s group was named Tida. Like the others, she wore a loose cotton blouse, shortsleeved, with embroidered designs of flowers, fanciful animals, and geometric figures. Skirts reached the tops of heavy, protective ankle boots. At least ten narrow steel bracelets adorned every woman’s wrists. The women used their hands incessantly while they talked, filling the tent with sibilant metallic whispers. For some reason, it sent chills up Sylah’s back.
After some preliminary introductions, Tida clearly worked up her courage before addressing Tate boldly. “We’ve been talking about you a lot, Donnacee. You’re a puzzle to us.”
Tate tightened, and Sylah readied herself to intercede. Tate’s apparent reaction was deceptively mild. “You want to know about the skin color?”
“Oh, that.” Tida dismissed it with a clattering flick of her multibraceleted wrist. “What we wonder about is your tribe. Did they really let you go, to just wander? Is it true no one at all holds you?”
“Holds me?” Tate rolled the words, still mild. Sylah and Lanta, disturbed by the seeming inference of the question, realized Tate was smoldering. Sylah moved closer, making body contact with her warrior friend. Tate went on, “I’m not sure I understand. Is holding something like marrying?”
“Much like, and more.” Tida was pleased with Tate’s perception. “You have such cleverly built weapons; that doesn’t match up with a tribe primitive enough to let a woman roam about without a holder. Especially since our own Nalatan’s been shouting your praises to anyone who’ll listen. Does the Conway one, the White Thunder, hold you? In secret? Is that why Nalatan hasn’t asked you to belong to him? Some say Conway may hold you as a sister, to keep the proprieties observed. Women in Starwatch were unheld once, generations ago. Before our men realized how much we really need cherishing and protecting. Now all females are held, from birth to death. I don’t understand how Kossiar or Windband women just do almost anything without protection or even asking permission. And Church; you women are insanely brave. How do you bear it?”
Tida put a sympathizing hand on Sylah’s knee. At the touch, the glinting bracelets slid forward, clinking to a stop. Sylah’s earlier revulsion defined itself. Chains. The clashing steel made her think of chains.
Carefully, Sylah said, “Our customs aren’t exactly as you imagine. Tate’s not held by anyone. In any way. We’ll talk about it later. As for Lanta and me, Church protects us as your men do you. Which reminds me: we must bathe, in order to make our prayers as Church requires.”
At Sylah’s mention of bathing, Tida insisted on showing them the women’s facility.
The square tent abutted one wall of the central fort. More than a bathhouse, its interior walls were decorated with the sun and flower symbols of Church. In one corner, a pair of older women showed a cluster of girls how to do fancy beadwork using porcupine quills. When Lanta showed them a design from Ola, they crowded eagerly to copy it. Another group worked with leather, trimming and carving. The largest number of children gathered around a massive loom; small faces screwed tight in concentration, trying to understand the clacking of treadles, the shooting of the shuttle, the bang of the bar.
Considerable time had passed before the trio were finished bathing, drying, and socializing. Leaving the tent, they found Orion and Canis Minor coming out a door of the fort. Tida and her friends drifted away when Orion waved. Both men came over. Quickly, Sylah whispered to Lanta and Tate. “It starts now. Learn all you can. Carefully.”
Tate went through the preliminary small talk with a practiced ease that startled her. The glossy social graces and artifices that carried her through hundreds of cocktail parties and officers’ club functions were centuries out of use. Nevertheless, they worked well. Canis Minor left Orion’s side, fell into step with her. She remarked on his necklace, hand-hammered silver squares, each centered with a shining opal. Blue, red, and green darts flared from deep within each stone’s depths.
He slowed, describing the location of the canyon where the stones were found. The couple fell behind the others. The gap grew. Proportionately, Canis Minor moved closer to Tate. When he asked her if she’d like to see the rest of the village, she agreed. He led her off on a tangent.
Tanno, attentive, her long-legged gait a shamble at the slow pace of the humans, trailed.
Canis Minor was an entertaining escort. At first, Tate worried about his obvious interest in her. Anxious to please, he leapt between sexual aggressiveness and a peculiarly disturbing fear of offending. Despite the latter, Tate confessed to herself that he was exciting. She found herself thinking of Nalatan, his rigid refusal to be drawn into anything like a repeat of their evening on the island. The memory irritated.
She encouraged Canis Minor. She told herself it wasn’t as if she was leading him on. There were things she had to learn. Once this conversation was ended, they’d go their separate ways.
They stopped beside a tent decorated with paintings. Crude figures engaged in everyday life. Women cooked, rocked babies, knitted. Men hunted, tanned leather, fought. There was even a weaver. And a potter.
Looking past Canis Minor and the paintings of the placid village, Tate felt a wash of envy. It passed quickly. Such a life wasn’t unimaginable or impossible. Donnacee Tate had requirements, though. More than that. Obligations.
Canis Minor’s hand was raising hers, placing it on a leather jacket. Preoccupied, Tate didn’t even remember walking to the front of the tent. The jacket hung on a pole that ran through the sleeves. The leather was incredibly soft, so white it glared in the sun. The yoke, front and back, was fringed to carry off rain water, as was the hem. Each strand ended in a rounded, polished agate. Rust red and white, the stones were drilled. The fringe was threaded through the hole, then knotted. At each breast was a rayed yellow sun of beads. With her free hand, Tate lifted the jacket to see the back. It was decorated with a stylized lizard in varying shades of green. She praised it extravagantly.
Canis Minor smiled happily. “This is the work of the best tanner in Starwatch. He’s working on an antelope skin of mine. If you stay with Starwatch long enough, I’ll have a jacket made for you.”
When she turned to look up at him, the faintest trace of, suggestiveness touched his smile.
Tate didn’t want the relationship to move that far. She said, “If we stay that long.”
Satisfied, he said, “Want to see our horses? I’d like to show you my favorite. I don’t believe anything can outrun Ramrod.”
Tate stopped in her tracks. “What?”
Canis Minor’s jaw jutted. “I said my horse can beat yours.”
“The name, man. What’d you call him?”
Truculence tightened Canis Minor’s features. “Ramrod. Our horses have traditional names. Like people. My father owned six Ramrods. Grandfather had even more. When one dies, the next one gets the name.”
“Oh.” Once again, Tate swallowed bitter disappointment. Once again this world, blood-cruel, reached out to her with memories of her own time, her own place. Then dashed whatever tiny hope it engendered.
Nevertheless, this most recent hurt made her all the more determined to pursue the matter of Dodoy’s ethnic background. Tida inferred black skin wasn’t worth mentioning. That had certainly never happened before. She launched her question head-on, asking him of legends about Starwatch’s ancestry.
“Oh, yes.” Canis Minor, opening a corral gate, missed Tate’s shock. By the time he turned, her expression was mild interest. He said, “Nalatan’s been asking people about that. Orion told him our legends speak of strange people. Different colored skin. Different hair. Even different eyes, if anyone can imagine that. When the Peddler said you were black, I thought he meant dark, like Canis Major or Lacerta.”
Tate kept her voice well-modulated. “Canis Major and the other one look like me?”
Canis Major’s glance was bold, his laughter a touch forced. “I think not. They’re men.” He glanced around, pointed at a horse. “The color of Ranger, there.”
When he looked back at Tate, he changed. She felt the strength of him in the concern of his gaze. There was challenge in the new manner. He said, “Everyone knows you want to reunite the Dodoy one with his people. He’s not so dark; why is it so important to you that they be dark? Would you love him more if he turned darker? Or less, if you were suddenly whiter?”
The questions were old ones. In plain fact, she’d asked them herself more and more lately. Perhaps it was true that one of the greatest dangers of the racism of her world was that it poisoned the minds of its victims with suspicion as surely as it injured them with insult.
But if unquestioning acceptance was the ideal, why was Nalatan asking? He wasn’t that concerned about Dodoy. He was concerned about Donnacee Tate, though. Canis Minor said Starwatch had legends of racial diversity in the tribal legends. Could it be that Nalatan was curious about black people, their character, their reputation? Could it have been more than hope of rescue that caused him to seek out the hunting grounds of his own people when pursued by the Harvester? Where else would he investigate for clues to her qualities? Or vices. What racial rumors existed here? Was that why that woman, Tida, brushed aside the reference of color? A sensitive subject. Another word for not us.
Saddling the horses, following Canis Minor through the camp and back onto the mountainside, was pure reflex. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
Canis Minor was aware of her distance. At the edge of a thick grove of piñon pine, he reined up, turning from his position in front to ride back. He stopped beside her, close enough that their knees touched. “You’ve gone away.” His tone was humorous, gently accusing. It invited, rather than criticized. “No Starwatch woman would go riding alone with a man, but I think if one ever did, she’d talk.”
Tate wanted to respond, wasn’t sure how. “I’ve been denying things to myself. I want to be free of all the things people think I am or want me to be. Even my friends think all I want is loneliness. I hate it.”
