by Don McQuinn
Lightning flashed. Sylah blurted questions. “He dies? Gan Moondark dies? Who? When?”
The voice was directly in front of her. “The Seer saw no more. Gan Moondark knows poison and knows death. The Seer is certain.”
“And me?” Sylah tried to sound calm.
“Of the plot against you, I speak with more authority. Sister Mother orders your death. More, she has tasked the Violet Abbess to assure it. In return for success, the Violet Abbess will be raised to rank as Harvester.”
“You said Sister Mother’s Seer was involved. Does she See my end?”
“The Violet Abbess appeared to the Seer wearing the robes of Harvester.”
Something hard and sharp leaped to life in Sylah’s breast. Her words were almost panting. “The Teachers. Do I succeed? Will there be Teachers? Does Church endorse them, support them?”
“The Seer told that wearing the robes of Harvester, the Abbess disappeared into a darkness filled with evil.”
The shock of such a vision drew Sylah’s thoughts away from her own fate. “What does that mean? How can such a thing be?”
“What a Seer Sees is always true, but it is not always accurate. You know that. The darkness may be a symbol. The robes, too. We know what happens. We don’t know exactly how or why. But names are names.”
“Yes. Names. You promised names.”
“Hear. Remember. There are four. Remember. Ondrat. Krevelen. Byrda. Mull. They plot against Gan Moondark. Church Home knows, and will support them.”
“Proof. Give me proof, so I can convince Gan.”
No answer was forthcoming for a long moment and then the voice responded from afar, hushed. “Someone comes. Flee.”
Without hesitation, Sylah obeyed.
Black robe and hood made her part of the darkness, drew the night around her in protective folds. Yet someone else was there, as well. Slinking along a wall streaming rainwater, Sylah hoped desperately it was a friend.
She stepped on something, felt it give under her weight. Time tantalized her, let her dread the entire sequence of foot bearing down on a pottery shard, unable to stop. A convex curve pressed against the resistant leather of her shoe sole. Stresses built. Fired clay cracked, a report like two hands clapped together. Rubble crunched.
In the manner of all hunted creatures, Sylah became one with her background, wished herself invisible.
Sound. From behind her. Following. Scraping? Dragging? She twisted her body in that direction, unwilling to move her feet. Sluicing rain washed away all other sounds, blurred vision.
Something moved. Treacherous clay fragments grated. An indistinct figure advanced with definite purpose. Sound pricked at Sylah’s ears again. Steel on steel.
Straightening, Sylah drew on her training, put her entire being into authority. “Stop! Whoever you are, beware! I am Church, a War Healer. Begone!”
The figure was close now. Someone bulky, short. Crouched. She raised her right arm, pointed. “Leave here while your soul is still safe.”
A rough, incoherent expression, like the snort of a bull, presaged the figure’s charge. In the darkness, in the befuddling rain, the hurtling body took on the immutability of landslide. Sylah heard herself make a shrill, surrendering cry for dying.
Sparks flew from the impact where steel drove through her sleeve and struck the stone wall behind it. Sylah leaped away. The thick cloth caught the sword blade. For a moment predator and prey struggled to escape each other. Then, with a defeated sigh, the material sheared. Staggered, Sylah caught herself, spun away in headlong flight. Dodging from post to post, weaving, feinting, she felt the slashing weapon cutting air behind her.
In the diffused light forcing its way through a waxed hide window, something glittered at the edge of her vision. From the corner of her eye she saw the forepart of the blade descend. A rising scream degenerated to a gasp that clotted in her mouth. The force of the blow made her stumble. Reflex pulled her to the left, away from that gleaming horror.
Momentum carried the attacker past her. He whirled. Agile despite his bulk, he poised to stab.
The savage will to survive functioned in Sylah when fear and exhaustion crushed everything else. Without conscious thought, her right hand slipped into her left sleeve, drawing her shortknife. Instinct turned her sideways so the plunging sword passed harmlessly in front of her, right where her stomach had been. She whipped the shortknife at the snarling, snorting face. Caught in his forward posture, the man could only arch backward. The move exposed his throat.
Sylah felt a tug on the blade. It caught, slowed in its arc.
The man coughed. Called out startled, wordless protest. He raised both hands to his neck. The sword clattered wildly on the stone street. He slumped forward, coming so close to Sylah she could see the dark, lost holes that were his eyes. He gurgled, wheezed. His weak, clutching hand dragged at her sleeve as he fell.
Sobbing, screaming, Sylah bent to the body lying at her feet. “What have I done? Someone, please, help! Bring light, bring cloth. A man is dying. Help!”
A door flew open. Light spilled out, first here, then there. Voices came with them, querulous, afraid.
Lightning flashed. A searing, crashing bolt, and then another, turning the night into flickering, metallic day. Sylah looked around. There was someone behind her, above her, hands raised, carrying a mace.
He struck.
Chapter 8
Music.
The sound of chings, the flat, round disks used in Ola as percussion instruments. And as vicious throwing weapons. Metallic notes coiled intricate rhythm and melody through Sylah’s straying consciousness.
Smoke. Acrid. The smell was unpleasant, but there was release in it. Pain hovered out there somewhere, dislodged.
Pain? Why was there pain? Why couldn’t she think, and why should her head hurt at all?
And then Sylah remembered.
Her eyes opened. The disembodied hurt seized the opportunity to claw its way through that opening. Sylah cried out, tried to roll away.
“Be still.” It was Lanta, ordering, pleading. “You’ll hurt yourself more. Be still. Please, please.”
The music was gone. In its place was an iron clash of agony. And Lanta’s soothing voice. “It’s all right now. It’s all right. You’ll be fine.”
“Will she live? Is she truly saved?” Gan’s voice. Loyal, dependable Gan. Friend to Sylah, friend to Church. There was something he had to know. A secret. What? Important.
The music started again. The unpleasant, wonderful smell came back. The pain retreated, growling like a whipped animal.
Music. Lanta played the chings, a high and a low, a four-beat and a six-beat, weaving through each other.
Ondrat. Krevelen. Byrda. Mull.
Names. The chings rang their names.
Conway’s voice broke in. “The guards who stopped Tate and me at Sunrise Gate said if that Baron hadn’t gotten there when he did, they’d have killed her. We’re staying here until we’re sure she’s all right.” So many friends, such worried voices. Sylah felt her mind sliding away. She fought to hold it.
What Baron? Who’d he save?
Gan spoke again. “You can’t know how ashamed I am about that. Of all the old Olan nobles, he’s the one I trusted least. Now he’s given me the life of one of my dearest friends. How do I apologize?”
“You don’t,” Conway said. “He doesn’t know how you felt; why tell him? Thank him, and let it go at that.”
Someone knocked at a door. Neela spoke. “Baron Ondrat. We were just talking about you. We owe you so much.”
Sylah strained to hear this new voice. When it came, it was bluff, hearty. “There’s no debt. As a matter of fact, I was cursing the luck that had me out in that storm when the lightning showed me what was happening.”
Eyes closed, mind drifting like dust on wind, Sylah fought to remember, fought to comprehend. The figure that struck her was faceless in the night. Was it Ondrat? He continued to speak, the words pulling her back from t
he soft pleasure of unconsciousness. “She was finishing off the first attacker…”
“That’s not true.” Lanta’s interruption was offended, shrill. “I saw the wound. The man was standing when it struck. She must have been kneeling, trying to help him, when the other man hit her.”
“Of course. Forgive a warrior for leaping to a warrior’s conclusion, Priestess. I only made the assumption based on what these old eyes told me. As I was saying, she was bent over, and the second man struck. A blink of an eye quicker, and I’d have spitted him before he could do his dirty work. Will she live?”
“More than we can say for the man you cut down, Baron,” Gan answered. “I’m forever grateful.”
“Glad to serve you, Murdat.”
The conversation subsided to a faraway drone. Lanta’s voice traveled through fleecy clouds, rushing waters, to reach Sylah. “My dearest friend. Take in the smoke. Let it smother the pain. You’ll be fine.”
“How long? When hurt?”
Swift as ever, Lanta understood perfectly. She spoke softly, directly into Sylah’s ear. “That night, the next day, and last night. It’s the second morning. A War Healer examined you. You’re bruised. No detectable break in the bone.”
“Who?” Sylah’s question caused Lanta an audible intake of breath that brought Sylah’s eyes open again. Lanta’s face was above her now, the earlier concern warped by fear. “A former slave, a godkill miner. And a Peddler.” She barely mouthed the last word.
Sylah’s stomach threatened. Peddler. That was important. Why? Disorientation tore at her mind, brought on harder, heavier throbbing pain. Whatever made the Peddlers important, she couldn’t stay awake any longer. The soothing smoke called. Lanta stroked the lulling chings again.
Ondrat. Krevelen. Byrda. Mull.
Lies. Someone lied. Who?
Then the worst realization of all crashed in on her. Memory. And truth.
Sylah, Rose Priestess of Iris Abbey.
Murderer.
Sylah tried to cry despair. Blessed unconsciousness claimed her.
* * *
Leclerc looked over his shoulder. A few more paces, and the tiny, distant walls of Ola would be out of sight. Good riddance, he thought. And especially good riddance to people who thought they knew everything. He sniffed, then glanced around anxiously to see if Jaleeta heard.
She had. Her expression was quizzical. “Why did you make that noise? You’re thinking about that silly argument with Nalatan, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes. I am. He’s got no right to keep us cooped up in the city.”
Prim, Jaleeta nodded agreement. “You shouldn’t dwell on it. But I’m glad you told him so. If he wants to tell someone what to do, he should start with his so-called wife.”
“So-called? Sylah herself performed the ceremony.”
“The real Church… I mean, the Sister Mother, not the real Church, cast out Sylah. She can’t marry people. And Tate’s more of a man than most men. It’s no wonder Nalatan’s irritable.”
“Tate’s a fine woman. And all his talk about roving outlaws was just to scare us. Locals and traders and trappers use the roads and trails every day.” Leclerc looked back. The trail itself was the only sign of human presence. True, they’d ridden since shortly after sunrise; even so, he couldn’t adjust to the incredible isolation that surrounded one so quickly in this world.
Jaleeta said, “Let’s let the horses run. To that big rock, up there.” Without waiting, she whooped and whipped her mount to a gallop. Leclerc pursued gamely.
Leclerc disliked horses. Horses bit. They kicked. When you got on them, they schemed to shake you off or brush against trees. Or rocks. Or another horse. Always, they bounced. Chafed your crotch. Pounded your rear. Mushed your brains.
Riding at speed multiplied all of that.
But it was worth it. To be this far away from the interference of others, to be alone with Jaleeta. Leclerc gritted his teeth.
By the time the race was over he stood in the stirrups, as if that would distance him from the fire consuming his afflicted parts. Turning to Jaleeta, he said, “That was fun. You ride well.” Settling back into the saddle, Leclerc partially stifled a yelp. His first attempt to speak was a strangled croak. He coughed over it, then, “We could eat over there by that burned snag. There’s grass and moss. It looks soft. And cool.”
“Cool? Of course, silly. There was frost on the ground this morning. It’s not cool, it’s cold.”
Leclerc forced laughter. “Did I say cool? I meant comfortable. Here we are, both of us wearing wool and fur, out to enjoy the fall colors, and I’m talking about being cool.”
Reining her horse around, spurring it toward the tall, blackened spire, Jaleeta made a sound of delight, pointing. “Look, right down there. A stream, with a rocky little beach. We’ll eat here, and then we can walk there.” She bounded out of the saddle. Singing to herself, she unlashed the saddlebags holding their lunch.
Leclerc worked his way to the ground. Walking normally was a test of will. Gaily, Jaleeta called to him, “Start us a fire right over there, Louis. There’s good dry driftwood. You brought an axe?”
Chopping wood, Leclerc decided, had to be on top of the preferred list of tortures. Vibration shot up his arms, sent tremors racing down his spine. Tenderized nerve ends exploded. Sweat sluiced his face when he returned with the fuel.
Jaleeta sympathetically helped him unload, then mopped his brow with her sleeve. “You shouldn’t have worked so hard. We’re here to enjoy ourselves.” She ushered him past the hobbled horses. One whickered; Leclerc was sure he detected malicious humor.
As she cooked and they ate, Jaleeta spoke of her life. Leclerc was an avid listener, pleased that she confided in him. With the meal finished, she brightened, bubbling with energy. She whirled, headed for the tumbling creek and rocky beach she’d remarked earlier. “We don’t have to leave right away. Who cares if we get back after dark? Come with me.”
Planting each foot carefully, Leclerc followed. He laughed, more at himself than in accompaniment to Jaleeta’s oddly wild amusement. He was happy.
From navel to knees, he was a throbbing, burning concentration of pain. His brain screamed with desire he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge, much less express. The prospect of the ride back to Ola was exquisite torment worthy of the most perverted mind.
And he was happy.
Face alight with excitement, Jaleeta clambered atop a large rock, then leaped to another farther out in the stream.
Leclerc protested, shouting against the roar of the waters. Fear raised his tone. “Don’t do that! Come back right away.”
“It’s not far. I’ll jump from rock to rock.” She demonstrated. She failed to consider that her target, with a surface barely above the stream, would have a slippery coating of moss. For a moment, she appeared to stand firm, so that her small squeal carried more surprise than fear. She teetered atop the midstream boulder, feet churning for purchase. Arms flapping wildly, she fixed huge eyes, still not believing, on Leclerc.
“Help?” It was a question, asking why he didn’t make the whole situation disappear. She screamed in earnest as she toppled. The torrent swallowed the noise.
Leclerc was already moving toward her. The rushing water was so cold it hurt, striking to the bone with the force of a club. His feet were leaden, yet unstable on the treacherous, slippery bottom.
Lunging, he caught her leg. Smooth boot leather slipped between his fingers. Jaleeta thrashed wildly, her lovely black hair now a fanned mass, flaring downstream. Her face broke the surface, coughing, sputtering. Water pounded up her nose, into her open, screaming mouth. Current seized every fold, every wrinkle of her heavy clothing. Gagging, she submerged again.
Leclerc heaved back, gained against the pressure.
His feet lifted.
Instantly, both bodies whisked away. The world was bludgeoning rocks, blood-freezing cold. And sound. Tossed to the surface for a breath that granted life, they were assaulted by thunder. Plunged
back into black-green suffocation, there was the terrifying muffled rumble of tons of living force.
Despite panic that already rendered him nothing more than a life-form struggling for survival, a corner of Leclerc’s mind marveled at the fact that he was dying in a stream no more than five feet deep. If it were still, he could stand and laugh at it.
The thought flew away when he impacted. There was pain. Then realization; he was pinned. He put out an arm. His hand struck something soft. Jaleeta. The lovely features under the surface, distorted, bubbles streaming from mouth and nose.
Her foot was caught in the crotch of a branch and the trunk of a downed tree. He was pinned against the trunk and a different, vertical branch. The pressure of their bodies caused the whole issue to roll. Jaleeta’s features disappeared, her face a drowned smear deeper in the stream.
Leclerc threw his body out and up. The current caught him, tried to sweep him away. He screamed at it, hooked a hand under Jaleeta’s foot. The other hand reached to pull them both free. They went downstream together.
They struck a shelving, cobbled beach. Leclerc braced himself on hands and knees, Jaleeta’s limp form lodged against his upstream side. He wrapped a hand in her hair, hoisted her head out of the water. Slowly, like some baffled beast, he crawled through the shallows onto dry land.
Hacking, convulsing, Jaleeta was sick. It was nauseating. It was proof of life, and wonderful. Leclerc laughed, a wheezing croak that attracted the interest of a shoreline-stalking crow. It tensed, gauging the potential danger of the large creature crouched over its kill. For a moment, the bird considered waiting for scraps. It ruffled hard, black feathers against the cold and resumed its own search.
Leclerc struggled upright and discovered a twisted ankle as he dragged Jaleeta into a narrow gully. She shivered horribly. Arcing across her pale features, the wing-curve of dark brows made Leclerc think of ravens, of battlefields, and wasted life. He massaged her unresponsive cheeks. Her hand, splayed limply across her breast, was stark white; veins—ugly, wormlike—netted the back of it. Her fingernails showed the same pallid blue as her lips.
