by Don McQuinn
The whole action took only a moment, and then Tate was saying, “So I think we ought to move out as soon as we can. To beat the snow. It could take a long time to find it, you know?”
“The crèche.” Conway’s voice was as sharp as the crack of the bitten apple. He looked away. “I’ve been hoping you’d let it rest.”
Tate dismissed his disapproval with a hard smile of her own. “We’ve talked about everything under the sun lately. Except the crèche.”
“Because I don’t want to argue with you. I think going back is a mistake.”
“Spit it out, Matt. You think me leaving Nalatan behind is a mistake. You know we need what’s in the crèche.” Tate rose with her usual lithe grace, so well coordinated she seemed to drift into the new posture. Fists on hips, she glared down at her companion. They were alone on an unbroken beach of smooth gravel that spanned away, left and right, until it disappeared around distant headlands. Shattered, abraded drift logs, some as thick through as a tall man, littered the shore. Here and there one raised a broken branch stub in supplication. Against the dull earth colors and the leaden fall sky, Tate blazed in bright green trousers, shining black boots, and a poncho of blue and green, done in alternating stripes of random width. Her headgear was a wide, floppy beret that matched the trousers.
Still seated with his back resting against the log they’d shared, Conway stretched out his legs lazily. The black-and-brown wildcow hide that made up his shirt and trousers sparkled with minute droplets of condensing mist. Farther out on the Inland Sea, denser fog advanced in a sluggish wall.
After tolerating Conway’s silence as long as she could, Tate made an irritated sound, then went on. “My husband’s not the issue here. Survival is. There wasn’t any disagreement before. We talked about it on the way back from the Door, before we got to Ola, even. ‘We were lucky to find that ammo,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to make it last.’”
“And I still agree. But things are different now. I’ve got a bad feeling. I’d rather wait for spring.” He moved jerkily, almost as if he were squirming.
“We can’t take a chance on running out of ammunition. What’s coming down this spring is going to be lots worse than anything we’ve seen yet. Moonpriest is building catapults. What if he builds a wallkiller?”
Conway made a face, nodded reluctantly.
Tate went on. “That gives Windband an edge in mobility and missile power. The Skan can control the coast. Maybe Gan’s For allies can hurt the Skan at sea, but they can’t stop them.”
“You think the ammunition in the crèche—assuming the whole cave hasn’t fallen in—is necessary?”
“Nobody goes into a battle with enough cartridges in his belt. There’s Hy-Pex in there, too, remember. A lump of that the size of my fist is worth pounds of Leclerc’s black powder. And more weapons. We can’t wait for spring. We’ve got to hit Moonpriest before he hits us. We intercept him. We can be anywhere ahead of him, on his flanks. We choose the battlefield, prepare it to our advantage. Attrition, Matt. We can cut his war fighting power in half. Maybe more.”
A quick shake of the head expressed Conway’s view. He went on, however. “We could do a lot of harm. Not that much.”
“Think about it. Windband depends on mobility. They have to concentrate forces to come at us, they have to get close to cut at us. I know about their horseback archery. I won’t tell you I’m not afraid of dealing with them, but I’ll tell you I don’t like to think what we’ll do to them with our firepower. It’ll be slaughter.”
“I rode with them, remember? Imagine yourself facing a charge ten times, thirty times, larger than we fought off.”
It wouldn’t have surprised Tate to see apprehension in Conway, or even a certain sadness over past mistakes, and the need to fight men he’d once fought beside. What she saw, however, was a deep, brooding pain. The silence that wedged between them was grayer than the fog, and far colder.
Conway finally broke it. “Slaughter’s the right word. You’re as sick of it as I am, aren’t you? The killing.”
“I was sick of it before I ever did it. Every time it happens, I hate it more. If I thought we could talk sense into Moonpriest, I’d go that route in a minute. He’ll never quit. He wants it all.”
Conway turned away, still darkly contemplative. “And Gan? The man we serve? Doesn’t he want exactly the same thing? And what of our friend Sylah? All she wants is the soul of every living person on this burned, blasted, primitive planet. What are we, if we’re not their star killers?”
“What you say is true. But ask yourself if we’re on the right side. What happens to those lives, those souls, if we don’t do what we can? You watched Windband capture villages. You told me about it. The Skan are no better. What do we do, Matt?”
“Better men than me have gone crazy trying to answer that one.” A lopsided, deprecating smile tried to lighten the mood. “This business of thinking is too hard. I believe I’ll have to give it up.”
“You’d be a pretty sorry specimen if you didn’t wonder about it all. You’re okay.”
The grin lost some of its sardonic twist. “Soaring praise, indeed. But speaking of good men, I still think you should take Nalatan with you. He’s twice the warrior I am.”
“I can’t take him to the crèche. We don’t dare let anyone know about the equipment there, about what and where we came from.”
“We keep having this same argument.”
Uncharacteristically, she refused to meet his gaze. Looking out over the water, chin high, she went on. “If I ever let Nalatan know what I am, where I’m from, he’s got to live with the same secret—if he doesn’t run away, first.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.” Conway strained to sound properly indignant, remembering Lanta’s Seeing that exposed fragments of his own life. That episode was a wound that wouldn’t heal. “Nalatan wouldn’t run away from hell itself, if you were there. The only thing that’ll send him away is if you push.”
Tate stiffened. His view of her was a profile, and he saw how her jaw muscles hardened to small knots, how a pulse leaped to life in her throat. She closed her eyes, breathing with slow, structured poise. Conway tensed. He knew she was thinking of his twisted, tangled relationship with Lanta, and that she was fighting the urge to remind him of his own folly.
Only when Tate was relaxed again would she face him. “It’s probably best if we don’t question each other’s judgment on something so personal. Nalatan isn’t invited, okay? The sort of danger he’d protect against isn’t what worries me. We’ve got a much larger problem than a few Mountain People or Kwa raiders.”
“Moonpriest.” The single word was a curse, a warning, a realization. “You’re not concerned about us running short of ammunition, you’re afraid he’ll empty the crèche himself. If he does, we’re dead.”
“Not good stuff to think about.”
“Look, I’m not trying to restart our argument about Nalatan, but we could use another pair of hands. We can’t pack all that gear out of there, just the two of us.”
“We get it out of the crèche; that’s priority one. What we can’t bring here, we relocate.”
“The snow could be a real asset. It’ll hide the new cache. I imagine Moonpriest is thinking pretty much the same things we are, right now.”
“He has to be. And he’s on the same spot: Who does he tell? If he wants those weapons, he almost has to come for them himself. If we see him, I’m taking his ticket.”
“Jones? Kill Jones?” In his dismay, Conway fell back on the true name. “He’s one of us.” He walked several paces to lean against a weathered log. With a weight measured in tons and life of centuries, its gray inertness seemed to mock anything as swiftly transitory as a man’s grief.
Still, the taint of accusation in his tone hurt. Tate answered with a coldness she regretted, even as the words flew. “Would it be better if I cried? I nursed him when he was still Jones, when he was dying.”
“We’re arguing again. A coupl
e of great partners we are. If we unload the crèche before Moonpriest shows up, all of this is pointless speculation. Let’s get on with it. The sooner the better.”
“You’ve told Lanta?”
Conway met Tate’s gaze. “What’s this? Taking turns? I’ll explain to her.” A bitter aside, more for himself than his audience, slipped out. “Not that my explanations seem to have much effect on her.”
“Whatever happened, she forgave you long ago. The woman loves you. Anyone can see it. You’ve got to move close. I think she’s waiting for you to tell her you’re both wasting your lives. Step up, man.”
Conway jerked, like a horse reacting to a sting, or a dog stepping on a burr. It took a moment for him to recover. “You worry about your monk. Lanta’ll be just fine. I can leave in the morning.”
“If that’s the way you want it.”
“That’s exactly the way I want it.”
Unperturbed, Tate continued. “I’ll meet you in the stables. We ought to move out prior to first light. The fewer who see us leave, the fewer to talk about it.”
Neither was ready to quit with such discord swirling around them. They moved about aimlessly, each making a great show of studying beach rocks, driftwood, seaweed. Any subterfuge that prolonged the togetherness was seized on. When they caught each other at the game, they broke into spontaneous laughter. Conway said, “We really are great partners. You give lousy advice to the lovelorn, but that’s a minor flaw, I guess.”
Tate looked fierce. “We don’t even want to start on flaws, my man. Life’s too short for me to explain your failings to you.”
“Be serious a moment. You’re sure Nalatan’s all right?”
“I told him the trip was a holy obligation.” Tate looked away.
“You told the truth.” At Tate’s swift uncertainty, Conway added, “Maybe not the sort of holy Sylah would agree with, but close enough. If Moonpriest gets that stuff, Gan’s not the only one who’ll fall. Moonpriest believes in that whacked-out religion of his. With that kind of power in hand, he’ll be pure evil.”
The two stood mute, aware of the other’s thoughts. In the world they’d left behind were evils unknown to this one. Here the streams now ran free and clean, the earth’s wind carried no killing compounds. Nature was harsh, even cruel, but she was fair and honest. Men had failed to purify similarly.
Conway said, “A while ago you asked me to think about whether we’re on the right side or not. I can’t answer that the way I know you want me to. I’ve seen too much. Any side that solves its problems by killing can’t be the right side. My heart tells me so. My heart also tells me it doesn’t want to die.”
“We’re protecting innocents.”
“I know. I’m sure what I’m doing is right. What’s it costing us, though, Donnacee? How do we do what they do, and not turn into them?”
Tate laughed, the sound a cold hand that gripped Conway’s spine. “All soldiers know that one. The right fights end when the noise is over, and you’re still standing; the wrong fight ends when you do.”
She reached out, took both his hands in hers. Conway marveled at how they combined supple strength with feminine warmth and delicacy. She said, “I’m glad you’re with me. You’re a brother. Come on, now; we have work.”
Together, they walked away from the sea. Behind them, the fog slipped ashore. It hesitated, gathered itself. With a gray, damp shudder, it swept over the tiny, lapping waves, smothered them, and moved in pursuit of the retreating humans.
Chapter 6
Nalatan’s ill-concealed anger cast a pall over everyone gathered around the front firepit of the King’s Hall.
Sylah looked away from him and the circle of friends, scanning the crowd behind her. She remembered how she’d felt the day she stood in this same huge room and confronted King Altanar, asked permission to go to the Dog People as a missionary. Now, on the raised stage where Altanar used to hold sway, one of those Dog People waited for the crowd to subside before he addressed them. Gan was dressed plainly in gray woolen shirt and trousers, in contrast to the gaudy splendor affected by Altanar. The only finery he displayed was a remarkable dagger dangling from his belt, the handle and scabbard ablaze with jewels.
Torches burned in sconces attached to the hall’s carved tree trunk pillars. Despite the fires in the huge pits and the torches, the distant walls eluded the light. There was a shadowed, menacing darkness along the blunt stone surfaces. So it was with Nalatan. One felt the fire and heat in him, yet behind that, one sensed cold danger lurking. He hovered near Tate, as if daring intrusion or insult. It was very unlike him, and frightening. As a warrior-monk, he could strike swifter than thought, faster than apology. Sylah hoped Tate could keep him calm.
Lanta broke in on her thoughts. The smaller woman whispered, her lips barely moving, “Look at them. I recognize too many of Altanar’s former Barons in this crowd. They make me think of coyotes watching a crippled deer.”
“Not yet, sister.” Sylah soothed her friend. “They know they end up slaves if Gan loses the war in the spring.”
“Unless they help overthrow him.” Lanta’s elfin face was clouded with worry. “I don’t trust any of them.”
The fire crackled. A thick log fell. Sparks cascaded upward, swirled out of sight into the copper smoke hood and thence into the chimney. When Sylah spoke, it was a musing sort of speech. “Sister Mother brands me witch. I know I’m not. I’m rebuilding the Teachers, creating a new Church, one that blends learning along with its other ministries. Shouldn’t I be allowed to call on your Seeing? If your talent is accessible to Church, isn’t that us?”
“I’m not sure, Sylah. I agree, but what if we’re wrong? It’s a sin.”
“Church determines what’s sin and what isn’t. If I’m Church, I’ll absolve you.”
“The One in All determines.” Lanta’s jaw jutted, and her gaze held Sylah’s.
Sylah’s face burned. Her throat was suddenly dry, achingly tight. Words came with difficulty. “Never leave my side. Never. You’re my conscience. How could I say such a thing? If my poor Abbess heard, she’d die of shame.”
Lanta’s features softened. Her manner was unrelenting. “You wanted power. You thought power would make you free. Now you know: Power imprisons.”
“What can I do?”
“What you were born to do, what the Iris Abbess raised you to do. You’re the Flower, and you bear the seeds of the new Church.”
“I could become like the Violet Abbess. The Harvester.” Horror tainted the last, and she looked stricken.
“Whatever comes, it must be from within you.”
“You’ll help me?”
“Any way I can.” Suddenly wry, she added, “We’re both cast out. If we fail to re-create the Teachers, we’ll at least be the most learned Priestesses in the Land Under.”
Eyes rounding in shock, Sylah was speechless for a moment. Then she giggled, the sound totally inappropriate to what had gone before. Both women realized it, and laughed all the harder.
Jaleeta’s words caught them by surprise. “Well, at least some people here haven’t forgotten how to enjoy themselves.” When Sylah and Lanta turned to face her, she was waiting with a mischievous grin. She nodded surreptitiously at Nalatan. “Tate’s pet tiger has a real burr under his tail, hasn’t he? Even Gan was tip-toeing around him. You’d think Tate was leaving him forever.”
The Priestesses nodded in unison. Sylah said, “He’s devoted to her. The trip could be dangerous.”
Growing serious, Jaleeta said, “I wonder why only two of them are going? I mean, if this is a holy obligation for Tate and Conway, how come it’s not for the other women and Leclerc?”
Sylah looked chagrin at Lanta, and got the same back. Sylah told herself she’d have to pay more attention to young Jaleeta. For now, she merely said, “It may have something to do with warrior status. Tate and Conway do most of that for their group.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Jaleeta said. She sniffed. “I Like Tate; sh
e’s nice. But a woman who fights men? And wins? It’s not natural.”
Lanta attempted to deflect the conversation. “They’re all very different. Louis Leclerc has already changed many things here. Like the strange oven he made for turning coal into what he calls coke. The coke burns so hot it makes the best steel we ever had. Yet he knows nothing of the smith’s art.”
“I wonder what other secrets he’s got?” Jaleeta focused on Leclerc with an intensity that had the two Priestesses exchanging glances yet again.
Tartly, Sylah said, “If he has any, he’ll share them with Gan Moondark.”
“Good.” Jaleeta nodded firmly. “I hope he knows lots of ways to beat the Skan.” She faced her black-clad companions, and Sylah thought how colorful the younger woman must look standing next to them. Jaleeta wore a long cream-and-yellow robe, floor-length, tight at the top and hips, full at the bottom. It defined her lush figure perfectly, and the swirling skirt gave her a light, floating appearance. The firelight cast myriad shifting hues across the material, glowed wildly in her rich, black hair. It baffled Sylah that so many people accepted Jaleeta’s self-description of herself as unschooled woman. It also occurred to Sylah that envy colored her own view of Jaleeta’s sound knowledge of how to present herself.
A blare of trumps stopped conversation. Everyone looked to the platform at the left front of the raised stage. It jutted out from the wall, illuminated by its own torches as well as the room’s general lighting. As the noise of the trumps dwindled to echoes, other men sounded warhorns. Made of copper and brass, the latter instruments tapered through two full circles, from flaring bell mouths to a metal mouthpiece. The musicians draped them over the left shoulder, holding the loops against their ribs with the opposite elbow. The bell of the horn was directly above the musician’s head, slightly forward. The noise they made was staggering in the confines of the hall. Basso, brazen, they raised a haunting thunder that crashed off the walls, shivered the huge columns, squeezed hearts.
Then came the drums. Nothing like the size of the Wolves’ regimental drums, they were massive, nevertheless. Their voices were the singing of mountains, and as the people leaned forward into that storm, the horns and trumps blared once more.
