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

by Don McQuinn

  Jaleeta smiled. Another secret of Emso’s was exposed. He’d called her “girl.” The image in his mind now was “woman.” Jaleeta saw it excited him.

  Smug Church women could brag all they wanted of their ability to read messages in the movement of an arm, or the appearance of a blood-beat where none existed before. They were so arrogant about their special training. Jaleeta had no need of their self-important skills. A real woman created messages, she didn’t read them. Nor did she care about a witch’s craft in seeing the future. A real woman created the future.

  As poison creates. It gets inside and twists things to suit its own purposes. Poison whispers softly. Deliciously.

  “I hope we can be friends, as well,” Jaleeta said, squeezing the sweaty hands. “I trust you. Please don’t shame me for what I’m going to say, because I must. It’s very, very important for me to tell you. I need the strength of someone mature to advise me. I’m alone here. Everyone’s been nice, but I’m unsure of myself. Will you help me? Can we be friends?”

  “Of course. There’s no shame in what you say. There’s a great difference between being brash and being honest. It’s honest for you to admit to weakness. You’re stronger than you think, but I understand how you feel. You can depend on me.” He pulled his hands away. Jaleeta let them go, delighting in his reluctance, deliberately trailing her fingers across the hard, callused palms.

  “Thank you, Emso. I feel you’re someone I’ve been looking for. I know we’ll be even closer, as time goes by. I hope someday my friendship can warm you, make you as happy as yours has made me tonight.” She whirled. Ran inside.

  Chapter 4

  Jaleeta woke the following morning to gray, cold rain. It was already quite light. The realization that she’d slept so late came as a shock. She lurched out of bed, more asleep than awake, and yelped when warm, bare feet missed the wolf-skin rug to land on raw stone. Two frigid steps across her small room brightened her mind to full consciousness.

  No Tears of Jade stood over her, switch in hand, to punish her for failing to stoke the cabin fire. No mother hovered nearby, wringing her hands and wailing that her daughter neglected her morning prayers to the One in All.

  That Jaleeta was dead.

  This Jaleeta must live. Must live properly.

  Throwing herself in an abandoned leap, Jaleeta crashed back onto the bed. The rope suspension squealed outrage. The heavy frame banged off the stone wall. Giggling, Jaleeta burrowed back under the warm furs, curled into snug, secret darkness.

  So it should always be, she told herself, squirming about in luxurious self-indulgence. Scent tickled her nose; the wild, outdoor aroma of bear hide tanned to silken suppleness in the secret way of Neela’s Dog tribe. And the lanolin smell of the wool blanket, woven by the same tribe. Crisp linen sheets made by her own For People gave off a scent that made her think of fields touched with sea mist and the sharp stink of the soaking process that was part of curing the flax.

  Languorously, she thought of other smells, absent from this bed. Exciting, excited smells. Not smooth, like linen or fur. Rough. Dizzying, strong as the forbidden leaves and twigs Tears of Jade strewed across brazier coals when she sought communion with that world that no other could comprehend.

  Jaleeta forced away the image of the old woman’s bent figure cranked over her smoldering mess. She pictured Lorso, looming. Her fingers tingled with the memory of his eager, sliding muscles moving under her touch while his hands sought, explored, caressed. His breath touched her cheek, her ear, made her tremble with tiny messages of yearning.

  “Enough!” She shouted the word, flinging back the covers, rising quickly. Ignoring the cold stone, she hurried to the small metal stove at the room’s outside wall. Stoking kindling inside drew her mind away from dangerous thoughts. Opening the ceramic jar next to the stove, she poked at the coals she’d packed inside before going to bed. A few bits of dried leaf, powdered in a mortar, smoked immediately when poured into the jar. She blew the powder to a dainty flame, quickly feeding it small twigs. Once they were burning, she dumped it all onto the waiting kindling. In moments the stove fire was warming the room. Fortunately, the ceramic chimney drew properly. When the wind was wrong, it backed badly, turning the room into a veritable smokehouse.

  While she waited for the water basin on the stove to warm, Jaleeta wrapped herself in the woolen Dog blanket and stared out the window. Her room faced east with a clear view of Snowfather Mountain’s shattered northwest face. Looking at it made her shiver, but not from cold. It was generations since Snowfather exploded in rage, but the tales of death and horror were as fresh as yesterday. The same was true of Destroyer’s fury, to the north, but no one cared so much about that one because only Kwa and Mountain People were hurt by it.

  Jaleeta paused to make a three-sign. She felt foolish doing it because she no longer believed in its power. Still, it couldn’t hurt to go through the motions.

  Tears of Jade called those mountains earth breakers, instead of volcanoes, and she said Sosolassa controlled them, as he controlled the sea. Jaleeta wasn’t sure she believed that, either. Tears of Jade also said she spoke to whales. Jaleeta’s own people hunted the whale, and none of them ever made such a claim. The secret singers, the men who spoke of salmon gods and whale gods in defiance of Church’s rules against such things, sang to those spirits, but no spirit ever sang back.

  “Tears of Jade.” Once again, Jaleeta spoke aloud in the silent room. This time her voice was barely audible, even to herself. She tasted the name, moved closer to the open-shuttered window. She spat to clear her mouth. Frothy whiteness fell away, losing itself against the rain-soaked ground far below. Lifting her gaze, she contemplated the mountains. Because the clouds were so high, the view was clear. The peaks around Snowfather appeared insignificant at this distance. She’d never been to them, but everyone assured her they were almost as high as the Whale Coast range of her native country. Snowfather towered over them. This morning there were mists in the hollows and valleys, pale against the silvery black of wet forest. Closer at hand, the fog was alive, filtering in and out of the folds of the earth. Sometimes, even as she watched it, it shimmered away to nothing, like a thing sent to trick and bewilder.

  Repelled, fascinated, she stared out at the teasing maneuvering. There was something about the way the mist’s veil slipped across the terrain that frightened her. Her mind told her mere fog had no power. Still, the unceasing waves and invisible currents reminded her of Tears of Jade’s tales of the god Sosolassa.

  Did the land harbor a similar occult menace? The image of Tears of Jade dabbling in the coiling tendrils of her spirit-smoke caught at Jaleeta’s mind once again.

  Deliberately, Jaleeta concentrated on Lorso. Eyes closed, brow furrowed with intensity, she hugged herself tightly and brought up memories. To her dismay, they wavered, fled. The harsh, carved face of Tears of Jade demanded full attention. Then the old woman’s image laughed, the hacking rasp Jaleeta knew too well.

  Opening her eyes, Jaleeta inhaled deeply. Rain continued to paint the landscape with its gleaming sheen. Clouds prowled sluggishly eastward. Snowfather brooded in monumental indifference.

  Retreating to the stove, Jaleeta stripped off the shapeless nightgown and washed carefully. That done, she reached for a wooden object cunningly carved to represent an opening rose. An almost-invisible line marked where the top was fitted. Opening the container, she dipped a finger in its ointment. A smell of roses filled the air. She rubbed the perfume on a comb. Using a polished copper mirror, she experimented with minor variations on her hair as she stroked it, organizing and scenting simultaneously. She was replacing the comb when someone knocked on her door.

  “I’m not dressed. Wait.” Jaleeta leaped to the wooden clothes cabinet. After pulling on linen underwear, she yanked out a goatskin blouse, the cloth-thin leather dyed bright blue, embroidered with twining green-leafed vines and red roses. The cotton lining was a darker blue. For trousers she selected heavy, dark-green wool. As she
buttoned and adjusted, her anger grew; whoever knocked was being very rude by not stating an identity. She jammed boots into her shoe-carrying bag and got into indoor slippers. Flinging herself into a chair, she began wrapping ankles and lower legs with multicolored leggings. “Come in.” She barked the order, making no effort to hide her irritation.

  The Violet Abbess flung the door open. She was every bit as angry as Jaleeta. Arms folded across her breast, she glared down at the younger woman. “No former slave, not even a favorite of our most-noble Gan’s charming Neela, keeps an Abbess of Church standing in a drafty hall. You assume. You offend.”

  A sharp retort burned Jaleeta’s throat, but she quelled it. The Violet Abbess lacked real power, now that Sylah had Gan’s favor, but there was nothing to be gained by irritating her. “I would never offend Church, Abbess. I was too well raised. Even when I was a captive of the Skan spirit woman, I found ways to say proper prayers.”

  “Did you?” The Abbess’ question was a cold knife. Her eyes held Jaleeta’s. “And your mother? She prayed, too?”

  Jaleeta’s memory darted through her conversations since her arrival in Ola. Had she mentioned her mother? What had she said?

  Jaleeta felt a trickle of sweat under her arm. “My mother’s faith saved us both. She is truly loyal.”

  “You are not?”

  Suspicion. Accusation. Jaleeta heard, and tensed. The way the Abbess asked her questions, the way she held herself, spoke of hidden knowledge. And testing.

  “I believe.” As proof, Jaleeta executed a three-sign in the manner of her branch of the For; left fist to right breast, right fist to left breast, both fists to abdomen, then to forehead. “I’m not so worthy as my mother.”

  “Your mother would have been entertainment for Skan warriors for a short while, then slaughtered. She lives because of you. Don’t lie. I know more than you imagine.”

  For the first time, the touch of fear found Jaleeta. The older woman took a quick step forward into the room, her smile positively wolfish. She bent forward. The heavy cape swept open, winglike. Jaleeta imagined a bird, violet, green, and black, swooping. The Abbess’ crackling demand was a rattle of hard feathers. “Tell me the truth. Tell me all. Tell me honestly. You must not lie to Church. The true Church. You understand?”

  Jaleeta needed time. She pretended confusion. “But Gan said… In the dining hall, when you—”

  “Gan Moondark is cursed! And the obscene witch Sylah, her that he calls Church in his Three Territories.” Spittle danced on the thin, quivering lips. The flickering wetness fascinated Jaleeta. She stared, remembering how she’d spat Tears of Jade’s name into the rain washed morning.

  Jaleeta stood. The movement forced the Abbess to rise with her, then take a grudging step backward. “What is it you want from me, Abbess? If I was rude to keep you waiting, it was an accident. Trying to frighten me is intentionally rude. I survived the Skan. You think to shout at me and make me nervous? You expect me to weep and confess? Confess what? You expect me to somehow betray Gan Moondark after he sheltered me? I’m not such a fool. Neither are you. Speak plainly. What is it you want?”

  For several long breaths, the women held each other in unyielding grips of sheer will. Jaw muscles tightened. Small, excited blood vessels writhed, in tight, scrawling messages of tension. And then the Abbess laughed.

  Head back, mouth agape, hands clasped under her chin, the Abbess howled delight. Quieting momentarily, she gripped a startled Jaleeta by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “I see it. I see now. The witch, the Tears of Jade one, she saw it too. It pulses at your temples, draws your hands to fists. The ambition, the irresistible sense of self. The lines at the corners of the eyes, the mouth. The dark, watching pupil, unchanging, uninfluenced.” The older woman sobered. She dropped her hands from Jaleeta’s shoulders. “I forget myself. Pleasure numbs the brain, opens the mouth.”

  “Tell me what you saw.” Jaleeta didn’t cry to disguise her excited curiosity.

  “Only what Tears of Jade saw.”

  “You weren’t there. No Church was there. Nor in the Skan village.”

  “Skan travel. They talk. Church listens. I know how dutifully you worked for your mistress.” The Violet Abbess was again accusative.

  “I did what was necessary to save my mother’s life and my own. I never denied Church.”

  “Or yourself,” the Abbess added dryly. Then, “Church also knows how fortunate you were to escape.”

  After a long dueling silence, Jaleeta finally said, “I asked you before, Abbess: What is it you want?”

  “Help Gan find his way back to Church. Speak only the truth to him, to Sylah, and all the others. Tell them that I’m forbidden to cross this terrible gap between us, but I yearn to see them cross it and rejoin Church. Take no action. Tell me only what you feel is helpful. But be diligent, child. Remember, the Skan are coming. So is Windband. All who die without the blessing of Church face the Land Under. I beg you to help me draw Sylah and the rest back into Church’s love.”

  Jaleeta broke away from the fixed, piercing eyes that seemed to poke into her head. The fine, delicate hair at the back of her neck was erect, sensitive to the faint breeze swirling through the open window. There was a sensation of tiny creatures crawling across her flesh. “I can’t inform. I won’t. Anyhow, I’m alone, a stranger. They’ll tell me nothing. If I say I’m trying to help you, they’ll ignore me, maybe even send me away.”

  “You’re not alone. All admire your courage. Emso especially admires your character. He mourns Sylah’s mistake, fears for Gan’s immortal soul. Trust him. Between you, you may rescue Gan Moondark from sin.”

  Jaleeta’s mouth fell open. Her eyes formed rounds of surprise. “Emso hides his true face from Gan Moondark?”

  “You injure. Emso stalks his friend’s soul through a forest of evil. He is cautious, not devious. Gan is as one blinded. Startle him, push him, and he will strike out of fear and misunderstanding. You must help Emso; he’ll help you.”

  “You’re sure it’s right? You think I’m strong enough, smart enough?”

  Too swift to be denied, the Abbess stepped forward, embraced Jaleeta. A gasp clawed at the younger woman’s throat as the dark wings of the cloak closed out the world. A faint tinge of wood smoke clung to the Abbess’ robe; an amethyst clasp was pinned to her breast. As the cloak enfolded her, Jaleeta smelled the Skan bonfire and the consumed beach huts of her murdered family. In the deep sparkle of the purple gem, she saw the flicker of flames, the cold of honed steel. Memory of capture, shame, and terror ripped at her.

  The Abbess released her, held her at arm’s length. Alarm, and then a strange sort of triumphant sympathy flowed across the lined features. “Poor child. You do see the enormity of our challenge.” The Abbess’ face turned upward. “Bless this child, that she may deliver the sinner to grace. Deliver the enemy to vengeance.”

  Jaleeta swayed. The Abbess smiled again, confiding. “Are you all right? Do you need me to stay with you a while?”

  “I’m fine. I know what I must do. Depend on me.” She kissed the Abbess’ hand. Letting it go, she kept her head lowered, watching the hem of the robe to assure herself that the woman was, indeed, gone. Then she slammed the door and wedged the single chair against the handle to hold it shut.

  For a long while, Jaleeta fed wood to the stove and huddled over it, warming a body that shivered in spite of fire and massage. She mumbled to herself, “Wants me to deliver a sinner, does she? Yet she speaks of Gan and Sylah and all their friends as sinners. So her eye is on only one, and that one is Sylah. What of Gan? ‘You must help Emso,’ she said. ‘He’ll help you.’ Ha!” Scornful strength echoed from the stone walls in the last. Jaleeta unfolded, rising slowly. Color returned to her features. As she brushed at her clothes, straightening them, even they seemed to brighten.

  “Our dear Abbess and our upstanding Emso think to use me to bring down Gan Moondark. How Tears of Jade would laugh. Not only has she delivered her poison to her enemies, the
fools are fighting for the chance to feed it to each other.” Jaleeta leaned out the window until she was balanced on her midriff, straining to look as far north and west as she could. Rain streamed down her face, dripped from her chin. Long, dark tresses hung heavy with water that cascaded free in a constant stream. Her grin was mad, her whisper hoarse. “Tears of Jade. Hear me. We’re winning.” She rocked dangerously, brimming with power and confidence now, daring fate to take her.

  Tiring of that, growing cold again, she hauled herself inside. Shedding her blouse, she rubbed off vigorously with a drying cloth, then donned a similar top, this one featuring yellow and red. “We’re winning,” she repeated, then, “Jaleeta’s winning, you crazy old witch. And there’ll be plenty of poison left over for you.” She laughed happily. Holding up the copper mirror, she combed her long, glistening hair until it smelled rose-garden sweet and glowed black as ocean night.

  Chapter 5

  Tate gestured at the rough silhouette of the distant Enemy Mountains. “A Peddler came to the town market yesterday. From up north. He says there’s activity. Some Kwa, some northern Mountain People, some of the surviving Mountains who ran away after the war with Gan. Small groups, filtering in. The Peddler also says the first snows are here already, up high on the northernmost peaks.”

  Conway took another bite of his bright red-and-yellow apple. He sent Tate a long suspicious look, chewing thoughtfully before asking, “So?”

  Tate ran her hand across Karda’s wiry coated head. The dozing dog instantly recognized the touch as not his master’s. He jerked awake. An angry snarl raised his lip as he turned toward the offensive liberty. Seeing Tate, he stopped abruptly. Confused now, the animal looked to Conway, who ignored the byplay, then back to Tate. A wag of the heavy tail served as apology.