Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Don McQuinn

  Suddenly, inexplicably, Darbannen’s face fell. His unexpected seriousness ended the laughing. “There’s other news. I didn’t want to mention it until you were all rested. I’m ashamed for smiling, for laughing. I let the excitement make me forget. There is plague at home. At the same time, the Skan grow worse every day. Gan Moondark battles them constantly.”

  Sylah’s voice was thick with unspoken plea. “The plague. Has it taken anyone I… we… Has it taken many?”

  “Your husband was well when we left. The sickness kills only the very young, the old, the ailing. There’s fever. Weakness. It lasts a long time, but most healthy adults recover.”

  The five who’d sought the Door looked at each other. None had to speak. All remembered Conway’s sickness. The symptoms sounded very similar.

  Darbannen was saying, “Windband has it. They were dropping around Church Home. The pyres burned constantly.”

  Sylah said, “Have you heard anything of inside Church Home?”

  “No. But I think the plague will send Windband running.”

  “And us, as well.” Sylah was definite, in command. “We rest here only until everyone’s fit to ride. Darbannen, you arrange our defenses. My group will camp upstream, past that cleft rock. We have things to discuss. You understand.”

  “Privacy. I understand perfectly.” Darbannen winked at Tate as he spoke, then affected a grotesque simper. It was Tate’s turn to be flustered. Before she could collect her wits and respond, the sturdy Nightwatch was walking away, chuckling, vastly pleased with himself.

  The separate site Sylah chose offered reasonable seclusion within the defensive perimeter. Soon there was a fire licking at several spitted rabbits. With the group gathered around, Sylah addressed the paramount issue in everyone’s mind. “Conway. Tate. You know more of reading. What value is in these books we salvaged? From the little I understood of ‘vidisks’ and ‘library,’ I realized the treasures of the Door were vast. What we have seems pathetically small. Have I failed, then?”

  Both Conway and Tate bubbled with cheerful reassurance until Sylah’s cold pragmatism silenced them. “What is in the books?”

  From an improvised bag made of a knotted Church robe, Sylah produced the five volumes. Bound in plain black, they were identical in size, save for thickness. Conway handled them with delighted tenderness, turning them over and over.

  Impulsively, he dumped them all in Tate’s lap, moved to embrace Sylah. Holding her at arm’s length, he sobered. “All the prophecies of bringing power to Church can be realized through these. Everything needed to build a state, a people, a world, is here in black and white. Understand, though, any of this knowledge can be profaned. You’ll do great good, Sylah. There are those who’ll corrupt everything you accomplish. Be warned. But don’t hesitate. Go ahead with your mission. You were chosen to be the Flower. You’ve succeeded. Magnificently.”

  Tate said, “There’s something else you have to see.” With a care that was little short of reverential, she handed Conway a slim, red-jacketed volume. There was no title, only a scribbled column of numbers on the plasticized cover. He looked at her quizzically, and caught the glitter of unshed tears. She looked away, saying, “It was in the Teacher’s other drawer. When I saw what it was, I almost left it, but I guess we have to keep it. For the record, sort of. I don’t know.” She gave a helpless half-shrug and waved a hand as if to make him go away.

  The interior cover sheet said: TOP SECRET (BORN FREE CLEARANCE REQUIRED).

  Conway turned the page. He made a choking sound and sat down hard. Hardly audible, he said, “Crèche locations. Names of volunteers. Dates. Five sites. Ours, Arizona, Michigan, Georgia, New Hampshire. Thousands of us. Gone. Just us. All that’s left.”

  The others respected the pained silence of their strange friends. They drew away. Tate eventually spoke. “We don’t know we’re all that’s left. Any more than we knew about the Door.”

  Conway nodded, continuing to flip pages. “You’re right.” He sighed heavily. “Quite a day’s work. What’ve we turned loose, Donnacee?”

  In a transparently conscious effort to accommodate a dubious situation, Tate straightened, threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin. Conway watched bemusedly, waiting. She said, “You wanted to create your identity. I wanted to have something to say about the culture of this new world. We’re getting our wish. God help us.”

  “The One in All help us,” Conway corrected. His smile could have been mocking, could have been hurting. However, he added, “An elegant way to express a supreme being, actually.” He got to his feet. Tate followed him to rejoin the others. He told them, “This book is about our people—Tate’s and mine. It’s extremely important. Can I ask all of you to forget it was found? Please. It doesn’t exist.” He tucked it under his shirt.

  Three heads nodded unhesitating agreement. Conversationally, Sylah said, “That’s settled. Now we must eat and rest. We’re needed in the Three Territories.”

  They ate slowly, with infrequent, desultory bits of conversation. After the meal, Sylah watched Nalatan and Tate, hand in hand, walk uphill away from the firelight, drawing the gathering dusk around themselves. A few yards away, Lanta and Conway prepared for the night. Sylah had to smile at the prim distance they arranged between their beds, and how they automatically met at the center of that gap. Together, seated knee to knee on the ground, they joined hands and conversed with the earnestness of lovers building their years.

  The four of them filled Sylah with self-pity. She battled tears, confessed her loneliness. Her bitterness.

  Where was that musical, strengthening, cajoling, demanding voice now?

  Alone.

  If this was triumph, what harm was in defeat?

  The Door. What was it Conway said? “Everything you need to build a world, here in black and white.” Something like that. Simple words. Awful, awesome responsibility.

  A life that belonged to everyone, with nothing left for herself?

  I will not be owned.

  The words rang in her ears until sleep brought relief.

  Two days later Nalatan declared himself fit for travel, and refused argument on the matter. Yet again, Sylah marveled at her comrades. Tate, battered and scarred. Nalatan, vehemently denying pain, even as he bent to ease it. Conway and Lanta. Quite likely the worst casualties of all, with no scars to prove it. Eager to ride north.

  For her. Because it was what she must do. Because she yearned so desperately to be with her husband.

  On the morning of the third day they left off, scouts far ahead, main body clustered loosely around Sylah and her precious cargo. Mikka managed on her splint. She whined complaint when Karda strutted off with Conway, but Tate and Lanta quickly spoiled her into a martyred acceptance of her lot.

  The sun was directly overhead two days later when the white banner appeared on a ridge to the east. Nalatan called to Darbannen. “You see him? Helmeted. Kossiar, or nomad with a trophy.”

  Darbannen grunted, then. “Now’s when I wish we’d brought our dogs. We were afraid our pace across the northern Dry would kill them. We could use their scouting abilities. We’re going so slow people can ambush us too easily.”

  Sylah interjected. “That’s a peace symbol. Look, he’s coming toward us, alone.”

  Darkly, Darbannen said, “The symbol means peace. I don’t know about the man. We rode through a lot of nomad-conquered country getting here; we know what they do. There are three more people on that ridge now; who knows who’s hidden behind the one west of us, Priestess?” He barked orders for security to deploy to cover. Then they waited.

  The Kossiar rider stopped several yards away, acknowledging Sylah formally, then saying, “Sister Mother Odeel requests a meeting. Will you receive her in peace?”

  Nalatan snapped his response before Sylah could. “Will she come in peace?”

  The Messenger flinched, and Sylah let him dangle for a moment before giving her own answer. “Tell Odeel this: No bargains or compromises. The Flower h
as not forgotten that she put the mark on the Odeel one. Or why. The Flower says, ‘Let the apostate come.’”

  Wheeling his mount, the rider galloped to the ridge. The trio left him behind, advanced at a trot. Lanta moved away from Conway’s side to be closer to her sister. Together, they faced their enemy, straight backed, unhooded, defiant. Conway, Nalatan, and Tate drew up behind them.

  Odeel wasted no time in greetings. “I come to collect what is mine. These men are my assurance of fair value.” She gestured over her right shoulder. “The leader of the Opal brotherhood. The other’s Tiger’s leader.”

  “I have nothing of yours. If that’s your only message, go back where you came from, and leave us to our journey.” Sylah was imperious, as if Odeel had the capacity to annoy, but nothing more.

  Undisturbed, Odeel flashed a sly, malicious grin. “All warrior monks know of the Nalatan one’s oath to kill the one called White Thunder. I am here to see the honor of the brotherhoods observed.”

  “Why?” Lanta’s interruption was a plaint of heartbreak.

  “For the same reason I will destroy you, when the time comes, outcast Priestess. He is the ally of my enemy.” Glaring at Sylah again, Odeel continued. “You marked me. To the death, then, sister mine.” Suddenly, she rose in her stirrups, her pointing finger a raking, accusing weapon. “All of you. Doomed. Church denies the Three Territories until the evil one is disavowed. As your untended people die of sickness and injury, blame Sylah. As your unprotected souls are devoured by dark forces, blame Sylah. I stand ready to forgive. After you deny her.”

  Darbannen was pale. He raised his voice in a brave show. “My orders come from Clas na Bale, Chief of the Dog People. We know Rose Priestess Sylah as pure. We are hers, as she is ours.”

  Odeel made as if to answer, and Sylah kneed Copper forward, pulling the horse up just short of contact. To a startled Odeel, she said, “We have nothing for you. Conway and Nalatan are the best of friends.”

  Recovering quickly, Odeel said, “Nalatan must fight Conway. One will die.”

  Sylah backed Copper, looked to Nalatan, then Conway. Nalatan refused her gaze, stared fixedly at Odeel. Conway said, “I won’t fight him.”

  Smiling, Odeel drawled. “Tell this man who changes sides so easily what honor is.”

  The Opal leader said, “Nalatan fights you to the death, as his oath said or he shames all the brotherhoods. We must kill him if he shows cowardice.”

  “Cowardice? He’s the bravest man you’ll ever see. You want a fight? Good. Nalatan and me—we’ll take you two. Right now.”

  The Tiger leader shrugged. “It was his oath. We must see it respected.”

  “For the sake of this warped old hag? Forget it. I free him of his oath. I surrender to him. I’m afraid to fight him. I beg protection of Rose Priestess Sylah.”

  Small smiles pulled at the faces of the Dog warriors. Lanta’s wide grin was triumphant.

  Nalatan was ashen, trembling. His voice caught as he spoke to Tate. “Understand. I cannot live with that oath over my head. I cannot kill my friend. My words were a sin, and I must pay.” Tate’s shock was so great she made no response, didn’t interrupt when Nalatan turned to face Conway. “I will die here. I can’t make these men do it. All who were my brothers would be shamed. You will win. It must be so.”

  “Wait a minute.” The icy control in Tate’s voice demanded obedience. All looked to her. Sylah noticed how the black woman had turned, a small movement, but one that put the empty eye of the wipe in direct tie with the Opal leader. Sylah said nothing, wondering if she could permit what seemed to be developing.

  Tate went on. “You, with the Opals. And you, Tiger. You’re sworn to protect this Sister Mother, right?”

  Offended, both men nodded shortly. Tate said, “I’m making you an offer. Release Nalatan. Acknowledge that a mistake was made, that the oath isn’t binding. Give him some penance or whatever, but let him go. Otherwise, I’m going to ice both of you; that means kill you. Then I’m going to take this old woman to Windband and sell her. Think on that: the Sister Mother, sold into slavery on your watch. How’s that for dishonor?”

  Odeel made an elaborate three-sign. “I can’t hope to touch the soul you no longer have. I can affect you, though. I cast out Nalatan. I declare him under your spell, witch.”

  Tate’s gaze remained on the warrior monks. “Cast out? That means he’s not a brother. His oath’s canceled. That’s right, isn’t it? Brothers?”

  Twisting in her saddle, Odeel snarled at the men behind her. “Agree at risk of your souls. I can cast you out, too.”

  “If you do, they’re not bound to protect you,” Tate said. “In fact, I think they’d like to avoid protecting you.” Unexpectedly, Tate turned to Nalatan. Her hard manner cracked. “Help me, Nalatan. Please. Tell your brothers you want to be free. Everybody knows your honor’s beyond doubt. Don’t leave me. I love you. Don’t leave me, not to prove something that doesn’t need proof. Please.”

  “Me, too.” Conway spoke to Nalatan, despite the monk’s refusal to look anywhere but into Tate’s eyes. “This is how people like Odeel beat people like us. They debase our integrity by using it. Don’t let her do it.”

  Moving her mount sideways, keeping the wipe leveled at the warrior monks, Tate edged to his side. She put her free hand on his. “I love you. I can’t say any more than that. I don’t have any more than that.”

  Agonized, muscles straining against the weight of a lifetime of dedication, of centuries of tradition, Nalatan tried to speak. Scarlet, his throat worked convulsively. At last, hoarsely, he said, “I refuse my oath. I was foolish. I won’t worsen that foolishness. Odeel. I refuse you.”

  Harshly, almost screeching, Odeel said, “Monks. Do what you must. Obey Church!”

  The pair looked at each other. Closing together, they backed their mounts. Whispering, oblivious to Odeel’s ranting, they deliberated. When they were ready, the Opal leader said, “The White Thunder is right. I’ve never seen such courage. Nalatan breaks his life because he’s learned that to be right is vital to a true man. All brotherhoods may grant dispensation for necessary acts that benefit the brotherhood or Church or both. It was always so. Nalatan’s first oath was to protect the Flower in her search for the Door. We believe that work is not yet finished. Until it is, Nalatan cannot execute his second oath.”

  Sylah and the others cheered, laughed, congratulated a dazed, surprised Nalatan. Like something losing force, however, the happiness slowed, stopped.

  The brotherhood leaders waited, stonily patient. Odeel watched them with hopeful malice. Speaking to her, the Tiger leader said, “Sister Mother, we swear loyalty to Church, but we won’t harm Nalatan. Nevertheless, he publicly disavowed an oath. That cannot be tolerated. Nevermore is he one of us. Even so, Nalatan, we’ll sing of you as the bravest of the brave.” To Sylah, the Tiger monk added, “We’re Church’s weapon. We’ll pray to meet next as friends. If not, until then, may the One in All protect you.” He paused, then, significantly, “All.”

  “I forbid.” Odeel was livid. She shook bunched fists at Sylah. Frothy white spittle flew, flecked her black robe. “They cannot bless you. I am Sister Mother and…” She stopped. Eerily, almost inhumanly, she reasserted control. Features relaxed, became marble-smooth and cool and white, defied the hot sun. Eyes lost their slitted glare, turned calm and direct. Her entire body eased. When she spoke, there was a freighted, deadly calm in her words.

  “I will win, Sylah. Whatever you scraped up from the destruction of the Door will do you no good. You stole Church secrets. Your mere death can no longer slake my anger. Your friends, your love—I’ll foul them. Remember Jessak every day. He’ll grow to manhood hearing how you stole him and abandoned him. Long before I’m willing to let you die, you’ll beg for the mercy of oblivion. Go, cast out, with your mangy pack. Go, knowing that every power of Church follows you, waits for you, searches for you. Go.” Slowly, haughtily, Odeel turned and rode away. Her escort unobtrusively slipped into tr
ail behind her.

  No one in Sylah’s group moved until the trio disappeared over the eastern ridge. Conway broke the long, thick silence, suggesting to Darbannen that they should resume their march. Awkwardly eager, the young Dog gave orders. The loudness seemed to shatter a spell. Everyone talked. Tate drew aside a still-troubled Nalatan, her every move consoling, reassuring. Lanta hurried to Conway, laughing, happy, eager to tell him of her pride in him.

  Sylah fell off the pace, rode by herself. She decided she didn’t mind being alone just then. Before, the lovers’ closeness of her friends meant exclusion. Now it suggested promise. For them. For her.

  She touched the saddlebags holding the books. Lanta had spoken of Seeing a successful quest. There was reticence in her narrative, a holding. Lanta had seen more than she was willing to tell. That was acceptable. There were things Sylah didn’t want to know.

  Odeel’s words came back. Sylah shuddered, forced herself free of them.

  Books. The problem would be in convincing men—and women—to accept learning. Of all things forbidden, that was the greatest.

  It would happen. Men could be changed. She’d seen it that day, with Nalatan and Conway. Honor need not be blindness. Courage need not be mindless. She had seen it.

  So had Odeel.

  Sylah threw back her head, doffed the hood, filled her lungs with savory, singing air that suddenly tasted of cool, high pines. She was going home. Not as Rose Priestess. Not as Flower. Those names meant battles past, battles to come.

  Sylah. Clas’ wife.

  Going home.

  Afterword

  Thank you so much for reading Wanderer, I hope you enjoyed it. I would really appreciate your feedback, if you get the chance to leave me a review on Amazon I would be truly grateful. Thank you very much.

  The Story Continues

  Witch

  The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9

  Rose Priestess Sylah and her companions are making their way back to The Three Territories, armed with powerful knowledge contained in sacred books. All the while, Gan Moondark has been struggling to keep his young empire alive. The kingdom suffers under constant attacks from enemies on all sides, and Gan’s campaign for freedom may already be dead.