Witch: The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Don McQuinn

  “I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. All I wanted was to be free, Donnacee. You know that.” Sylah moved forward. In the ground-sweeping robe, she appeared to float across the balcony. A pale hand, appealing, fluttered in the dark, lit on Tate’s sleeve. “I want to be safe from orders and obedience. The Door was supposed to free me, give me power to reject the restrictions men put on me, that Church put on me as a Chosen. I’m more of a prisoner than ever. My Abbess, who chose me and helped me, made me into the Flower. Why didn’t she just tell me? She couldn’t know what it would mean. She wouldn’t do that to me, would she? If she loved me? She did love me, Donnacee. I know she did. Why didn’t she understand what would happen? I want to go to my husband. I want to be me, not the Flower. Why can’t I have that much peace?”

  Taking the white, agitated hand in her own darker grip, Tate spoke soothingly, yet with stern purpose. “Look around you. Gan, living out a prophecy. You think he doesn’t want to walk away from all this trash and raise a houseful of little Gans and Neelas? Leclerc? Poor man wanted adventure, and now it’s got him by the throat so tight he can’t spit. You see Carter, Anspach, Bernhardt? The first of the new Teachers. Elated. And scared stiff, ‘cause they know how dangerous the job is, and there’s no one else to do it. We’re all thrashing around like cats in a sack. At least you and Gan have missions. Your freedom can’t come until you’ve made the way clear for others. Oh, you could be free, easy enough. All you have to do is walk. Go to Clas. But you’ll never be free inside. Not until you do what you know you have to do.”

  Sylah wept. There were no sobs, no sniffling. Eerily, on a face of unbearable sadness, tears simply welled and flowed as spring-water.

  Choking, Tate hugged her. They stood that way until Sylah pulled back. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She managed a wan smile, put on a scolding manner. “My mind and my conscience tell me you’re right. My heart wishes you’d dry up and blow away.”

  Tate’s answering laugh was confiding, binding. “I’m not that easy to shake. I hang on pretty good.”

  “My sister.”

  Before Tate could respond, Gan was requesting they return. He stood beside the chair now, arm draped across the carved back. He spoke to Sylah. “Once again, we run together, Sylah. Something reaches for me from these books. It frightens. It excites. We will make a world, or make a failure in such glory as none has ever seen. Who is with me?”

  Shouts of camaraderie echoed from the timber and stone. Laughter and excited conversation swelled among them as they moved to the dining room.

  Sylah spoke to one, and then another, steadily falling back until she was alone at the rear.

  Church training in reading reactions exposed many things to her.

  She saw the angry uncertainty lurking behind Emso’s forced smile. She saw the infinitesimal glint of smug self-congratulation in Leclerc’s overenthusiastic endorsement. She saw the quick admiration for Leclerc and covert eagerness in the faces of the three quieter women of his tribe.

  What tore at her, however, was the covert glance between Tate and Conway. In that swift look a lie was born, a bastard that shamed them, hidden from all others. Every War Healer knew the surest cure for a corrupted wound was cleanliness. And exposure to the sun’s healing, to the light brought by the One Who Is Two.

  Deceit was an insidious infection that poisoned friendship. Deadly. It must be exposed.

  Chapter 15

  The rattlesnake whirred brittle threat.

  Wedge-shaped head aimed like a dart, it watched the advancing man.

  The snake was massive, its muscular length compressed inside the shaded shelter of a rock overhang. The sinuous S-curve of its forward third sat a full handspan above the dry, sandy ground. Fifteen rattles vibrated in a furious blur, as troublesome to the eye as the heat waves shimmering up from the sunbaked earth.

  The snake’s fangs were as long as a boy’s little finger. Behind them, stretching along the roof of the mouth, were the poison sacs. On striking, the mouth would gape, jaws opposed. Impact collapsed the sacs, turned the hollow fangs into conduits for venom.

  The snake’s toxin reservoirs were full to bursting. Hunting had been bad for some time. The snake was famished. It was hot. It was very irritable.

  The man squatted just out of range.

  There were other men, far behind the squatting figure. The snake ignored them.

  White clothes reflected sunlight that hurt the snake’s eyes. Since it relied as heavily on the heat-seeking organs in the pits in its head as on ordinary vision, the heavy, flowing robes confused that function, as well. Heat and sight images were both muddled, indeterminate.

  Flickering rapidly, the snake’s scent-gathering tongue clearly defined this slow aggressor as man. Strangely, there was a scent of snake, as well. The tongue worked even harder, stabbing aroma from the air, trying to assign a value.

  Most troublesome of all, however, was the white figure’s refusal to close the minute gap that would eliminate indecision, guarantee an effective strike.

  Vibrations tingled across the snake’s belly scales. The snake-man thing was making noise. In the snake’s world, noise normally meant seek or evade. There was no retreat from the present position.

  Flexing its scales delicately, edging forward one grain of sand at a time, the snake gained a tiny advance. With escape impossible, attack was demanded.

  A white turban covered the man’s head. On his chest, dangling from a silver chain, was a large, polished silver disk. The man’s eyes glittered with the intensity of the snake’s cold pupils. Still, the man smiled. He bantered, practically baby talk.

  “You’re afraid, my fat, old brother. You don’t recognize me. I am Moonpriest. My mother, the moon, gives me dominion over my brothers who lose their skin, who are reborn as was I. All men must acknowledge me, and so must you.” He aimed the disk to throw sunlight directly in the snake’s eyes. The animal flinched. Rattles chattered wildly.

  Pressing against the ground, it gained another hairsbreadth advance.

  Moonpriest crooned, “I need these savages to understand my power. I dislike bringing you pain, but they must see you defer to me. Behold, I have brothers with me.” Moonpriest reached inside the robe. When he removed his hand, he held a pair of rattlesnakes. They were almost the size of the old one coiled in the shade. Both rattled and coiled instantly. Moonpriest hurriedly stuffed them back into the leather carrying sack against his chest.

  “They hate the noon sun as much as you, my brother.” Slowly, Moonpriest spread his knees as wide as he could. With both hands he clutched the robe material at his knees, drawing it tight. Waddling awkwardly, he advanced. Eager murmuring rose from the crowd. Moonpriest’s smile flicked to scorn, returned to rapt concentration. Sweat runneled the dust on his brow and cheeks.

  The snake struck. Too fast to actually see, its speed cheated the eye.

  Fangs punctured the taut white robe between Moonpriest’s knees with an audible snap. Moonpriest winced in spite of himself. Behind him, a loud shout, part horror, part amusement, split the hot, bright day.

  Caught in the material, the snake thrashed heavily. Grabbing it behind the head, Moonpriest raised the reptile high. The tail dangled below the level of his knees. It took all his strength to control it. The turban was knocked askew. Moonpriest straightened it before turning to face the crowd. There were at least a hundred River warriors and the five Windband nomads. Women and children strained to see past the men.

  A hush fell as Moonpriest approached, thrusting the enraged, writhing snake ahead of him. Remnant drops of venom dangled from the needle tips of the fangs, liquid gold that caught the sun and turned the life-giving light malevolent.

  A similar color marked the twin penetrations in Moonpriest’s robe.

  Stopping perhaps three body-lengths from the crowd, Moonpriest dramatically brought the gaping head even with his face. Smiling, beatific, he bent to the animal. He kissed the rough, scaled head.

  Moans of disbel
ief and fear moved through the crowd. In the trained voice of a public speaker, Moonpriest said, “Go, my brother. Tell all our brothers that your ruler, Moonpriest, son of the moon, is here to bring eternal life to all the River People who come to him.” Gently, Moonpriest lowered the snake. Aiming it toward some brushy shade, he released it.

  The snake hesitated. None of this was within its experience, its instinctual references. Then it fled. With silent muscular sinuosity, black diamonds rippling beautifully against the brown of scales and earth, it whisked out of sight.

  Rushing forward, cheering, the River People crowded around Moonpriest on three sides. Everyone was careful to avoid the area where the snake disappeared.

  “Bring me Saris now,” Moonpriest said. The hubbub dropped to silence. A part in the gathering allowed two warriors to advance. They carried a blanket by the four corners as a sling. Saris lay in it. His skin was pallid. Individual black hairs stood out starkly. The warriors deposited him at Moonpriest’s feet.

  “I’m here, my son.” Moonpriest knelt to put a hand on Saris’ forehead. “You have been my major support among your people. I come because you and your people need me. If my mother wills it, I will make you well.”

  Saris tried to speak. Moonpriest pressed a hand to the bloodless lips. There was no telling what the fool might blurt out. The crowd was completely under control now, and it must remain so.

  Saris’ wound was far uglier than Moonpriest expected. The blade had opened the chest and slashed across the right bicep. Fortunately, it hadn’t cut major blood vessels. The problem was infection. The stench was harder to bear than the sight. Moonpriest gulped loudly.

  Saris’ hot, bright eyes widened in alarm.

  Moonpriest hurriedly feigned dabbing at tears. “How it hurts me to see you injured,” he said, careful to keep a clamp on Saris’ mutterings. For the merest moment, Moonpriest longed to pinch the nostrils between thumb and forefinger, press the heel of his hand against the chin. He imagined the rolling eyes, the air-starved, heaving chest. It would serve the incompetent fool right. No one gave Saris permission to make his own arrangements with the pagan Skan. Foul savages.

  Fool Saris. Useful, though. Moonpriest sighed. He’d try to save the man. Meanwhile, there had to be a way to capitalize on it if the treacherous lout died.

  Moonpriest bowed his head.

  The River People murmured at such intense religiosity on behalf of one of their own.

  Straightening, Moonpriest forced himself to inspect the wound again. Then, loudly, “My mother says it was a great sin for you to deal with the Skan without my permission. She knows what is in your heart, however. She instructs me that, if you repent satisfactorily, you will heal.”

  Saris’ eyes grew even brighter. He reached to push weakly against Moonpriest’s silencing hand.

  There was no choice but to let the man speak. Moonpriest glowered as the River warriors crowded closer to hear. He felt himself suffocating. How could he have failed to notice how they reeked? Fish and sweat and muck. Moonpriest waved his arms. The closest Rivers edged away.

  Saris said, “I don’t want to die.”

  Moonpriest held back a sigh of relief. If the man was going to be simply banal, there was nothing to worry about.

  Straining, fighting for words that came in breathy gusts, Saris continued. “If Moonpriest… truly new Siah… speak to moon. Save me.”

  Moonpriest rose, ignoring a knee that cracked indignantly. To the warriors who’d brought Saris, he said, “Take my son to my camp. I will pray for him.”

  The warriors lifted the sling. Saris groaned. A grizzled warrior in the forefront of the crowd, body mapped with scars, frowned across Saris at Moonpriest. “The High Chief of all River People knew of Saris’ plan. He approved. He also looked at Saris’ wounds two days ago. He said Saris will die. So say I.”

  Saris’ groan rose in pitch, became a wordless beseeching. Moonpriest gestured for the bearers to remove the injured man. To the graying warrior, he said, “Be careful, my son; you’re assuming the power of a goddess. She alone will decide Saris’ fate.”

  The warrior spat at Moondance’s feet. “The unseens in Saris’ wounds will kill him, not the moon. And don’t call me your son. I am Vessash, a River warrior and Church believer, no child of false religion.”

  Anger warped Moondance’s face. “You challenge my mother? Make her angry and she leaves, takes her powers with her.” Suddenly suggestive, Moondance put on an evil grin. “You and Saris aren’t friends, are you? You’d like to see him dead.”

  Vessash’s grim contempt wavered. Still, he held Moonpriest’s gaze. The other tribesmen edged away. When Vessash answered, what was meant to be defiance carried a tinge of bravado. “I argue with all who speak of alliance with the Skan or following a false Siah. Saris himself sent away our one War Healer. The One in All is testing him. I say you and the moon can do nothing for him. Witchwork with a snake won’t save a man’s life. Once Saris dies, we’ll know you for what you are.”

  “He won’t!” Moonpriest shouted. “I have the power. I’ll save him.” Aware of his own words, Moonpriest stopped abruptly. Frightened eyes swept the crowd. The shift in their attitude was palpable, a psychic eddy that laid a cold hand on Moonpriest’s back. They were entranced. The child of a goddess had promised to save a tribesman.

  Vessash was waiting when Moonpriest’s gaze returned to him. Moonpriest found a smile, fashioned words. Hadn’t he said Saris must repent “satisfactorily”? Only his moon mother could judge Saris’ repentance.

  Vessash struck directly at that argument. “You say you have the power. Saris lives or dies by your hand.”

  Later, Moonpriest was sitting alone on a bluff, staring down a long slope to the river. Peering around anxiously, afraid he was truly alone, he was relieved to see his Windband escort preparing the evening meal and attending to chores. Affection for them surged through him.

  It was sad that affection—adoration was a better word—came from such lower orders. Moonpriest faced the river again. In the end he was always alone.

  Conway had understood. Treacherous, back-stabbing Conway. Moonpriest’s head roared with rage at the name. All the while Conway worked with Windband, pretended to be a true help, he plotted with lying, soulless slaves to destroy the god. It was sickening. Indeed, sickening. Wretched Conway, spreading disease. Disease and lightning weapons denied Windband the treasure of the Door.

  Furious, Moonpriest struck his thigh with his fist. Unintentionally forceful, the blow hurt, jarred his thoughts back to the problems of the present.

  That other warrior, the old, ugly one—Vessash, that was him. Witchwork, he said.

  Saris had to live. But how to manage it?

  By evening, Saris was weaker. He craved water. One of the nomads rode out into the dry brush, making no comment. Moonpriest was sure he was deserting. He’d never trusted him; not really. The scar that twisted the left side of the man’s mouth into a constant expression of disparagement was indicative. Moonpriest told himself he should have tested the man long ago. Too late now.

  Dusk was a soft touch on the heat-tormented landscape when the scarred nomad returned. He extended a handful of leaves to Moonpriest. Moonpriest’s continuing suspicion showed in his sidelong manner, his abrupt, “What’s this?”

  “My mother called it hurtweed. She made a tea for us whenever we were injured or couldn’t sleep well.”

  Moonpriest took the bundle without comment. Features twitching angrily, the nomad watched his ungrateful leader walk away, then yanked his horse around and retreated to tie the animal to the picket line.

  The proffered medicine presented Moonpriest with yet another dilemma. If it was, in fact, a well-intended remedy, he still couldn’t be sure what constituted a proper dose. The stuff might kill Saris. Accidentally? On purpose?

  Betrayal was everywhere. Treachery.

  Moonpriest built his own fire, cooked his own meal. The Windband escort nervously watched him eat. He heard them whisp
ering. About him. A god always knew. Their clumsy nonchalance was a shouted lie.

  Moonpriest wouldn’t suffer alone if Saris died. If they were lucky, they’d be executed in the River way, bound and thrown into the river to drown. Unfortunately, the tribe wasn’t above entertaining itself with some painful, if unsophisticated, torture.

  Moonpriest would die as a witch. He didn’t know what that entailed, but it was sure to be horrible. As a religion, Moondance understood that fear was the very fuel of spiritual life, and a witch was the most feared of all things.

  Saris drank the prepared tea greedily, the same way he’d been drinking water all evening. Moonpriest watched him anxiously. It was full dark when he noticed the change. Despite the cooler night, Saris perspired mightily. His breathing turned shallow, albeit regular. He seemed relaxed. Too relaxed? Moonpriest detected only a weak, tentative pulse.

  Down at the River’s shore camp, a drum sounded. Startling at first, it quickly assumed a compelling restful beat, exactly two-to-three against Saris’ pulse.

  Moonpriest settled to a sitting position. Slumped over, freehand fisted under his chin, he fixed his gaze where the moon must rise. Evening’s stars turned from uncertain specks to hard lights while he concentrated. The moon saved him once, claimed him as her son. Moondance must conquer, and for that her son must survive. Nodding to himself in the darkness, Moonpriest agreed with his assessment.

  Mother allowed them to torture him, though. She let him die. Revived him, to prove his truth and his worth.

  He remembered that torment. The exquisite agonies. Days and nights.

  Desperate for distraction, he released himself to the drum, to the solace of unchanging rhythm.

  Hypnotic.

  A word from another time, another place.

  Murky, frightening fragments of memory oozed through his mind. There was a place of logic, once. That world transformed reason into argument, confused thought with emotion. Confrontation. Discrimination. Terrorism. Murder.