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

by Don McQuinn

  He froze. Silence was his best friend. Slowly, fighting the urge for speed, he drew on the murdat. The blade’s voice was less than a mosquito’s song.

  “Emso.” Urgency shrilled in the whisper. Emso said nothing, bent toward the voice, pulled his blade free. Raised it like a woodsman’s axe.

  “Emso.” Calmer, confident now, the speaker had lived to call out again, and believed the danger was past. Emso flexed his arms. One step away. Perhaps a shade more. The speaker was close enough to be killed.

  “It’s the Violet Abbess.”

  The murdat was moving, thirsting. Emso almost screamed with the horror, the effort, of checking the killing sweep of his weapon. He stumbled, bumped a figure that was unprepared. They both tumbled to the ground amid muffled feminine cries of distress. Emso rolled to his feet, sheathing his murdat, hoisted the Abbess to her feet. He tried to apologize. A voice like a striking whip cut him off.

  “Quiet. Fool. Did I creep out here in the night to be beaten? Exposed to our enemies by your witless clumsiness? I’ll have bruises tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t know…” Emso’s whisper trailed away in bewilderment. “I thought…”

  “It’s all right.” Forgiveness came grudgingly. Then, completely befuddling Emso, the Abbess was suddenly ingratiating. “You responded as the warrior we need, and it gladdens my heart to see it.”

  “Me?”

  “I said you.” The acerbic retort stopped as if the Abbess lopped it off with her teeth. Sweet reasonableness followed. “Yes. Exactly like you. A man who understands the needs of those you defend.”

  Emso straightened. He was too battle-wise not to recognize a trap. “This conversation is unacceptable, Abbess. I’m Gan Moondark’s man.”

  “My point exactly. No one loves him as you do. It was Emso who guided him to success in creating the first Wolves. Emso saved his life only days ago. Emso fought to destroy Church’s enemy, as well as Gan’s deadly foe, and to free the imprisoned Neela. These things are known.”

  “Because they are known, you insult by coming to me in the night this way. I say nothing against Murdat.”

  “Nor do I wish you to. Church loves him as you do. Church mourns his waywardness.”

  “Church wastes its time. There were Teachers before. He brings them back. It cannot be wrong. Church itself says there were Teachers. Their mission must have been to… They were allowed to…”

  “Teach. You can’t say the word, can you? You speak the title. Teacher, like Abbess or Murdat or Baron. But you can’t say teach. Because it’s wrong. In your heart, you know it.”

  “You plant doubts and confusion in my mind.”

  “Your mind? Dear Emso. I seek your heart. Your eternal soul. And I seek to save your friend. Church’s benefactor. How can I prove this to you?”

  “Leave me alone. Don’t interfere with Murdat.”

  “So be it.” Emso blinked at the swift ease of her answer. He stepped back smelling treachery. The kindly voice flowed on. “I ask you to do nothing, save that which you are committed to: Protect your leader. Help him, loyal Emso. Remember who he is, what he is, what he must be. His mother foretold his destiny. He’s to bring glory to the Dog People. Now Church feels his path is flawed. He was good, and will be good again. Be with him. Guard him, guard his reputation, guard his soul. As for the so called Teachers, do you think Church would injure innocent children, particularly Chosens? Think a moment Emso. Chosens belong to Church, body and soul; would Church so wantonly and wastefully wound herself?”

  “No. But I can’t go against Murdat. Church should help him, for her own sake.”

  “He’s been turned against us. We bear no malice. Church ever forgives. I beg you to help us help him.”

  Emso opened his mouth to respond, and a hand as soft as the mist rolling up from the sea settled on his chest. “Say nothing more. Be patient. Your good, true heart will lead you in the path of righteousness. Go. My blessing is on you.”

  The barely palpable hand pressed lightly against Emso, and he heard the heavy breath of robes swirling in retreat. Mist mingled with sweat on his brow. He wiped at it with a hand that trembled. Squaring his shoulders, he resumed his way. The guard who admitted him executed a perfect salute and greeting that went completely unnoticed.

  Knowing the Violet Abbess’ words would deny sleep, Emso walked aimlessly through the castle. In common with Gan and Neela, he shared a dislike for the simple weight of the place. The angular precision of the walls made him feel encased, rather than enclosed. At night, their dark bulk was friendlier, like the irregular press of forest trees or the solid affirmation of hills. His aimless wandering took him past a side door. It opened into the yawning cave that was the King’s Hall. The name was a holdover from Altanar’s time.

  A glow of fire startled him. He almost called alarm before he realized the source was one of the square firepits that ranged the long axis of the room. Flickering light played across immense timber posts. They supported the soaring roof, invisible in the darkness overhead. The pillars were carved to represent men standing on each other’s shoulders, three tall. Their faces were contorted.

  A small figure knelt at the knee-high wall around the firepit. Natural caution tempered curiosity, and Emso advanced quietly. There was a suggestion of feminine grace in the form, and the size indicated a woman. Still, Emso stopped a safe distance to the left rear. A right-handed person would be disadvantaged drawing a sword, forced to strike awkwardly. “Who are you?”

  Cat-quick, the figure whirled away. Jaleeta faced him, shortknife in hand. Emso noted that her jaw was firm, despite eyes rounded in fear. Her ferocity amused him. “I only wanted your name, child, not your life. I won’t hurt you.”

  “You say it. The knife guarantees it.”

  Emso eased his weight onto the balls of his feet. “If I meant you harm, you couldn’t stop me. Tell me why you’re here.”

  Unwavering, the knife held aim directly at his navel. “I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m under Neela’s protection. I go anywhere I want, when I want.”

  Emso stepped forward, turning to his left at the same time. When Jaleeta reacted, thrusting, he was already halfway around, so his right forearm slammed into hers. The knife penetrated the air where Emso used to be. Still spinning, he elected not to drive the point of his left elbow into her ribs in the usual crippling stroke. Instead, he merely pushed her further off balance, then caught her from behind. With her right wrist firmly in his grip, he tightened the left forearm across her throat. She struggled momentarily. When he lifted, leaving her toe-tips in contact with the floor, she stopped. Her plea came in croaking bursts. “Can’t breathe. Let go. Please.” The knife dropped, the steel ringing unconcerned gaiety.

  Released, she stumbled forward, ignoring the weapon at her feet, holding her throat. Facing him, defiant through tears, she said, “I never thought it would be you. That cruel-looking monk, Nalatan, perhaps, or the Conway one, who pretends to see only his little Priestess. Even Gan. Not you.”

  “Not me what?”

  Jaleeta sneered. “I know what you mean to do.”

  Understanding crowded into Emso’s overworked mind. He shook his head. “You’re more of a fool than I suspected. I have no interest in you, except to discover the name of someone crazy enough to sit by a fire alone in this huge room this far into the night. Go to bed. And don’t forget your nasty little toy.” He swept past her to sit on the firepit wall. Lowering his head to his hands, he reflected on a world saturated with nonsense. Several heartbeats passed before he realized he wasn’t alone yet. Peering up through his eyebrows, he looked into Jaleeta’s sorrowing eyes.

  “I misjudged you, Emso. How can I apologize?”

  “Go away. If one of the guard patrols finds you, they’ll have to put you in a cell until morning. You’ll have to explain to Murdat what you were up to in here, all alone. What were you doing in here?”

  “Praying.”

  “What? Here? Why?”

  Jaleeta
smiled, a forlorn, apologetic thing. “Sylah came here to ask King Altanar permission to go to the Dog People. Her quest started right here.” She stopped abruptly, looked away.

  Emso said, “You admire our Sylah that much?” He was quite certain Jaleeta’s admiration for Sylah was only a corner of her concern. If so, she’d want to correct his error. Long ago, he’d learned he had no talent for asking the right questions. Silence usually generated more pertinent answers, anyhow. So he waited.

  “It’s not just that I admire her so much. I’m alone.” She could have been talking to herself. The words made Emso think of the night’s mist, soft, seeking, drifting without hope or purpose. Involuntarily, he stepped closer. Two steps, before even he realized it. He was close enough to see the delicate tracery of veins in sheltering, lowered eyelids, close enough to see how the firelight stroked color across the raven gloss of tumbled hair. He felt her sadness enmesh him.

  How truly the Abbess had spoken, he thought awed. He really did understand those he must defend.

  Chapter 3

  Jaleeta pinched ever harder on the soft fold of inner lip between her teeth, and still the smile struggled to break free.

  It was almost too much to bear. Emso was the one Tears of Jade feared.

  Pride surged through Jaleeta. The famous Clas would pose no more problem than ugly Emso. No man would. Dangerous they might be. Stupid they certainly were.

  She reminded herself that Emso was cunning, for all his foolishness. And violent. One mistake, and he’d kill her as quickly as he’d squash a mosquito. Jaleeta imagined an enraged, wild-eyed Emso, his murdat slicing toward her. Even as she shivered with fear, she pictured the sadness that would pierce his heart.

  Forever sure of his duty. Forever sad for what damage he did. Perfectly masculine.

  For a terrible moment that daydream was replaced by a vision of Tears of Jade. Jaleeta returned quickly to the surer subject of men.

  Bull seals, all of them, roaring, ripping everything and each other apart. For what? To claim females that waited helplessly to be driven, bitten, crushed, impregnated. Used and discarded as soon as their season ended.

  Tears of Jade said a human female used a man’s mad strength, his insensate need. The spirit woman made it clear that as a small piece of cloth captured the power of the wind to move a heavy vessel, so a woman used the strength of men to avoid the shoals of her oppression.

  Sometimes Tears of Jade explained more than she meant to, Jaleeta thought. The one fact Tears of Jade never mentioned was the most important: At any cost, Jaleeta must live.

  Repressing a shudder, Jaleeta looked around quickly, momentarily unnerved by her own temerity. Putting her own survival before Tears of Jade’s goals was risky. Somewhere in Ola, the ancient hag had at least one agent. Who? For the briefest moment, Jaleeta mourned the terrified For girl she had once been. That child never knew evil, never felt the need to look over her shoulder.

  She set her jaw. Jaleeta must live. Live well. Fate threw her into this cauldron of hatred and duplicity. Fate would bear the responsibility for whatever followed.

  Mere survival would never suffice. Jaleeta knew all too well what happened if a woman merely survived. A man who had nothing but his life to cling to had no reason to curse every minute of every day. Every man believed himself destined to be free. Grimly, Jaleeta thanked the Skan for making her understand that a woman’s servitude was predestined. They made her know that as long as she was full of promise of service or full with child, she was cherished. As a prize. Father, brother, husband, son were judges. Ordinary women hoped for men who treated them decently, hoped for children who were allowed to flourish, hoped to eat frequently, if not regularly. Joy was brief, humanity denied.

  Ordinary women survived. The ruthless succeeded.

  In her reverie, she forgot Emso entirely. Alarmed, she looked up, wondering what he must think of her extended silence. The craggy features smiled sad understanding. “You’re not alone here. We’re strangers to you now, but everyone regards you as very brave. You’re admired.”

  “Everyone’s been kind. I suppose I’m being ungrateful, but I feel… oh, never mind. It’s foolish.”

  “You’re not a fool.” Jaleeta flinched at the harsh declarative tone. It could be accusation. She relaxed when she saw his continuing sympathy. He went on. “A fool couldn’t have survived the Skan as you did. As for gratitude, we’re grateful to you. You’ve given us insight into our enemy. Now tell me what’s troubling you. Let me help you.” He took her arm, led her toward the inconspicuous side door.

  Demure, eyes lowered, Jaleeta went meekly. She sighed, then, “I feel strange, talking to a man this way. It’s all right, I guess. Your honor’s unquestioned. I don’t know why a young woman, especially an inexperienced one like me, should trust a man like you, but I do. Is that foolish, too?”

  Emso’s oblique response addressed the part of Jaleeta’s speech that affected him most. “It’s natural for you to trust me easily. I’m much older. You don’t see me as some young man eager to get you out of view so… That is, my interest in you isn’t just that you’re a beautiful young woman. Even if it were, you’d still be primarily someone who can help my leader. Gan Moondark must conquer, and I was born to see that he does.”

  Jaleeta recoiled, pulled her arm free. “Prophecy?” They were outside now, with nothing but starlight for illumination. Unable to read Emso’s features, she reached for him as she spoke, the way Tears of Jade had demonstrated. A finger touched the blood-beat surging at the underside of his wrist. Her thumb rested, mothlike, on the back of his hand, alert to the slightest movement. Emso’s hand tensed. The tempo at his wrist increased dramatically. He twitched, as if he’d pull away. But he didn’t.

  Emso was slow speaking, thoughtful. “No one’s placed a prophecy on me. It’s Gan. From his mother. He’s destined for glory, bound to raise his tribe to triumph. The thing is, he creates a single tribe of all of us. Just as I’m drawn into Gan’s personal rise, along with Sylah, Tate, Conway, Neela, Lanta, so tribes and nations are drawn into the rise of his kingdom. More than any of the others, his fate is mine, my life is his.”

  “You love him very much.”

  “He gave me back my manhood, saved my people. I’d love any man for that. He trusts me, gives me command of men. What conqueror does that for a used-up farmer? He chose me, Jaleeta. He gave me the opportunity to make myself more than I ever dreamed I could be. He looked at me and knew. I would die for him.”

  The last words sounded sad to Jaleeta. She released the wrist, noting that the blood-beat was slower now, and steady. She probed the seemingly selfless devotion. “Anyone can see how loyal you are. If I were Gan, though, I’d wonder if all my friends were so true.”

  Surprisingly, Emso laughed. There was a condescension in it that made Jaleeta bless the darkness, because her face burned, and she frowned angrily before she could stop herself. Blind to all of it, Emso went on. “You’ve put your finger on his weakness. Both of you have the same sort of innocence, but you have the wit to recognize it. Gan’s trouble is that once he gives his trust, he can’t imagine taking it back.”

  “Why should he? No one’s given him reason to distrust.”

  Emso disappointed her, ignoring her carefully cast bait. Impatiently she suffered through more blather. She wished he’d choke, but he went on. “Those like myself protect him. We know his enemies.”

  At last. Jaleeta wanted to sing and dance. The old man did have a bone in his throat. Someone. Who? She opened her mouth, snapped it shut again. She trembled with the need to hear the names of those enemies, real or suspected. Fear of exposure jangled warning. She remembered Tears of Jade: “I send you to the Three Territories to destroy Gan Moondark and Church’s witch, Sylah, as one sends poison to an enemy. Poison is guile, deceit, treachery. Be those things, my Jaleeta, and all you want will be yours. Is it love and courage that keeps you alive among the Skan? Are those qualities what allows an old woman to control our strong, bloo
dy warriors? Or is it watching, waiting, turning that man against this one, using the strength of others to achieve your own way? Go with my spirit, with my wisdom. Think of what awaits your success. Then think of me, and what awaits your failure. Kill them, my poison. My beautiful poison. Bring them writhing to the ground. Slyly. While we shall stand away, hidden, laughing.”

  That was Tears of Jade’s good-bye, given the night before the long walk across the island to meet the Nion. Jaleeta hugged herself with satisfaction, comparing that cold, hard knowledge with the foolish prattle of Emso.

  Emso said, “When you first came here, I wasn’t very pleased.” They were at the door of the abbey by then, under the glare of flaring torches, and Jaleeta peered up quickly. His warm look slipped to a more quizzical inspection. Still, his voice remained light. “I’m not much of a one for change, unless it’s something that helps us win battles. Even then… well. Anyhow, when Neela took to you, that meant a change, one close to Gan. It bothered me. Now I see you for the person you are, a brave girl, but still traditional. You behave the old way, with courtesy and respect. You’re the sort of person Neela needs. Link to the virtues. You know. Everyone’s too eager for new things and new ways nowadays. Neela needs someone around to help him—I mean her—remember the way things were. Ought to be.”

  “You’re a good man. Gan’s lucky to have you as a friend. I’ve only been here a little while, but I already know he loves you. So does Neela. All Gan’s friends do, because they know how important you are to him.”

  Instantly, Emso was the grim, forbidding warrior Jaleeta remembered from her first, inauspicious sight of him. The moment passed quickly, then Emso was saying, “We’re all very close. We’ve been melted together like steel in a furnace, you understand? Still, we have our differences. They don’t matter. All that matters is that Gan Moondark fulfills his destiny. We live for that.”

  Turning, placing her back to the heavy planks of the abbey’s door, Jaleeta studied Emso. She pulled up the hood of her cloak, relishing the sense of disappearance. Emso remained exposed in wavering firelight; she was hidden. She took his hands in hers, amused at the sudden wash of confusion that made him blink. He stiffened. Swift dampness coated his palms.