by Don McQuinn
Leclerc remembered a hut on the trail, some farmer’s opportunistic settlement on a burn. He had a dim recollection of cornstalks. He’d paid no attention to anything but Jaleeta on the way up into the mountains. He couldn’t be sure exactly where he’d seen the place, or if people lived there.
Resignation played across his turmoil with gentling concern. A small voice sighed, said the hut was too far. And how could he walk on a sprained ankle? There was nothing to be done.
A cramp clenched leg muscles into an iron knot. He squealed, leaping to his feet, stamping, massaging. It seemed forever before he stood still, panting. Pain, although less than before, seemed determined to break him.
“The hell with it.” He spoke aloud, the defiant declaration puny against the cruel reserve of mountain, forest, stream. Nevertheless, he repeated himself, louder, building to a shout. “The hell with it. I won’t just sit here and die.”
Limping, he moved to Jaleeta. Her eyelids fluttered when he lifted her. Leclerc told himself that water draining from her clothes would make her lighter as he walked. For perhaps fifty paces he tried to believe it.
It was much farther than that to the trail. Leclerc promised himself the hut was around the next bend. When it wasn’t, he promised himself it was the next. His ankle became a distant agony, so constant he couldn’t imagine a life without it.
Then the small voice was back, whispering from the growing darkness, “Why punish yourself? You’ll never reach the hut. If you do, what difference? You have no way to make fire. Is it worth this effort to die on rotting straw, a feast for fleas and lice, just to have a roof over you when I end your misery? Please, be kind. Stop. Hold Jaleeta to you as you’ve dreamed. Sleep. Let me give you ease.”
“No. As long as I can see, I’ll walk.”
Seduction coated the voice of despondence, made the words sweet. “Well, then, I’ll bring the night. Why not wait here, let the daylight pass? I’ll do my task gently. Kindly.”
“You lie. Cold. Hard.” Leclerc trudged on.
The abandoned hut finally appeared. Leclerc limped and staggered to the shoulder-high doorway, dragged Jaleeta inside. Daylight’s waning efforts threaded between rough boards. A hole yawned in the roof. The black maw of a small fireplace mocked him, round and empty. He imagined silent, knowing laughter.
Leclerc pulled Jaleeta’s fur coat over her nose and mouth, so she breathed warmed air. Beyond that, he was helpless, ignorant. He was sure massage would be good, but pressing the cold, wet clothes against her seemed wrong. To strip them only exposed her. He decided to simply hold her to him and share what little warmth they had.
The snap of jerking awake sent pain stabbing down his neck. At first, he thought the dim light meant dawn, and he exulted at having survived the night. Then he realized it was still dusk, and despaired.
Until he realized he was looking at people. Men on the trail. Staring at the ground, then at the hut. Hope energized him. He lowered Jaleeta, dropping her in his eager clumsiness. A hand groped at the wall, found a fingerhold. He strained to rise, drew breath to shout for help. He imagined the men with fire in their pockets, in their packs. Fire. Life.
There were five men, eight horses. Four riders handed their reins to one man. That man retreated. Leclerc recognized his gray, Jaleeta’s golden mare. The four men now on foot spread out, advancing, darting from cover to cover. Raiders.
Infinitely slowly, Leclerc forced stiff, stone-cold fingers to draw out the holstered pistol. He had to brace it against the pounded dirt floor to jack a round into the chamber. The clack of the receiver slamming forward sent the four outside to earth like rabbits.
A voice called, “In the house. We’re travelers, lost. Can you help us?”
Leclerc said nothing. He faced the door with his knees raised, arms on his thighs. The position damped his shivers.
The voice cajoled, “We saw your tracks. Were you fishing? Fell in? We have fire makers. Food.”
A man rose, little more than a shape against darkness. The others got up. Leclerc shot at the leader.
The explosion inside the tiny hut was a physical blow. Dirt cascaded from the roof. The flash from the muzzle dazzled.
Terrified shrieks preceded howling retreat. Echoes rumbled up and down the valley. When they stopped, the night was utterly silent. With no more action from within the hut, the raiders took heart again. “One of the aliens, aren’t you? Belong to the Church witch, Sylah. You and your lightning weapons. Good. We’ll see how long your magic can keep you alive after your swim. Here’s what we have for you if you come out.” An arrow hissed through the door, punched into the opposite wall.
Leclerc slumped again. How long ago was he so happy? Two hours? Three? Pointless to count; only six other people in the world knew what an hour was, and he’d never be able to tell them of his brief joy because soon he’d be dead. Strength and consciousness irresistibly drained away.
A slow, careful thumb moved in the dark, examined the pistol. Chambered round. Cocked. He put the muzzle just under Jaleeta’s chin. He hoped there’d be time to use the second shot on himself.
An eruption of sound and light brought him clumsily awake. Only when he saw the torch at the door and tried to squeeze the trigger did he comprehend his helplessness. A hand squeezed his wrist. The pistol dropped from paralyzed fingers. Leclerc tried to struggle. Brute strength brushed him aside like dust.
“It’s me, you stone brain.” Nalatan shoved his face into Leclerc’s. He held the torch so Leclerc could see. Leclerc ignored the man, worshipped the flame. He formed a word. “Jaleeta.”
Neela piled through the tiny door. One glance told her what she needed to know. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Get wood. Quickly. Someone get water. Nalatan; your jacket. Now. Get Louis’ clothes off, get dry clothes from the Wolves. Hurry.”
Leclerc’s head swam at the whirl of action. Nalatan yanked the sodden clothes from his body. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jaleeta, white, naked, and then Neela was covering her with her own cloak, followed by shirts and jackets passed through the door. A fire leaped to life in the fireplace. Neela heated water, demanded Leclerc and Jaleeta drink. After the second mug, Leclerc managed to speak, the words slurred. “How’d you find us?”
Nalatan was grim. “You were seen riding this way. There are only three trails. Toward late afternoon, Neela insisted Gan send out patrols.”
“I should have listened.”
“I know.” Nalatan gingerly tucked Leclerc’s pistol under him with the toe of his boot. “First Sylah risks her life. Now you. Doesn’t anyone here understand ordinary caution?”
Leclerc swallowed. It made a hard, hollow sound. He explained what happened, blaming himself for the accident. Nalatan listened, made no comment. Leclerc looked away. The warmth of the fire and the gentle glow of the hot water in his stomach brought back sleep. He surrendered willingly.
Nalatan stepped outside.
Almost simultaneously, Jaleeta stirred. Her eyelids trembled, flew open. Uncomprehending, she looked into Neela’s warm, relieved smile. A frown etched her brow. Then, suddenly, her eyes were open wide. She bolted upright, the piled clothing falling away, unnoticed. Clawing hands clutched at Neela. “Sosolassa. Water. Pulling. Cold. Choking. Help me.”
Soothing, crooning, Neela managed to calm her, bundling cover over her once again. “You’re all right. You fell in the stream. Nalatan and I thought this was the most likely trail to check. So here we are.”
Jaleeta smiled. “Nalatan. Rescue.” Then she slept, pale features relaxed in repose, rather than exhaustion.
Chapter 9
Jaleeta wished she could cast a spell on the candle, turn it into a wall of flame separating her from the stony visage of the Violet Abbess. After living with Tears of Jade, she doubted that any other woman could genuinely frighten her. Even so, the Abbess had power, as her dry laughter presently suggested. She said, “You do well to suspect that Emso might discuss any relationship between himself and you with Gan Moonda
rk. You do well to suspect everyone, child. But don’t concern yourself with Emso. Emso is mine.”
“Then what purpose does it serve for me to be nice to him?”
“He’ll say things to you he’ll never say to me.” Grotesquely coy, the Abbess simpered. “At least, I should hope he’d never say certain things to me.”
Jaleeta stifled derision. “What would he tell me that he’d keep from you?”
“His plans, silly. If duty tears him away from you, he’ll arrange for your safekeeping. If work wearies him, he’ll complain to you, so you can properly sympathize. When Gan resists his arguments, he’ll tell you so you may console him. And when Gan confides in Emso what the witch, Sylah, intends, he’ll tell you because you’ll understand and agree with his opinions. Do you see now?”
At Jaleeta’s rapid nod, the Abbess smiled grimly. “And when Gan speaks of defeating the Skan and Windband, you will tell me exactly what Emso says of it.”
Rising so swiftly she tumbled her chair in a rattling fall, Jaleeta stepped back from the table. “You ask me to help the Skan defeat the Three Territories? You know what the Skan will do to me if they catch me.”
“Indeed I do.” The Abbess patted a chair. “Come, sit down.”
Jaleeta hesitated. Awareness of her actual inexperience and vulnerability rolled over her in a wave.
The Abbess saw only disobedience. She snarled, “Sit, I told you. Sit.” The style that cracked the wills of uncounted Chosens jerked Jaleeta into her chair. The Abbess leaned forward, face hovering just out of the candle’s heat. “My instructions carry no element of choice for the likes of you.” Rising, the Abbess took the candle from the table. Moving to the window, she removed the draft-defeating blanket hung over the closed wooden shutters. Then she opened the shutters themselves. Cupping the candle behind her hand, she raised it to the window. Three times she exposed the flame to the night. With the shutters closed again, and the blanket replaced, she turned to Jaleeta. “Put some more wood on the fire. It’s cold in here. And make tea. Enough for three.”
Jaleeta did as instructed. No one spoke to her that way, she told herself. Except Tears of Jade. This crone assumed too much.
Preparing a perfumed brew of chamomile and dried raspberries, Jaleeta entertained herself with images of her revenge. Not until she was setting out the cups did it occur to her to wonder at the third one. When she asked who was coming, the answer was a silent, superior smile that set off a fresh round of fantasized humiliations for the older woman.
The tea was warming in its ceramic pot on the charcoal brazier beside the empty cups when there was a soft knock on the door. With startling swiftness, the Abbess moved to a position where she’d be invisible to anyone looking into the room. She whispered to Jaleeta to ask for a name.
When Jaleeta said, “Who is it?” the response was another knock. Three sharp raps, then two more, deliberately separated. The Abbess moved away from her hiding place, nodding for Jaleeta to admit the newcomer.
Baron Ondrat swept in. He took two long steps and spun about, inspecting the room, hand on sword hilt. A black, rain-soaked cape swirled. More rain dripped from his equally black wide-brimmed hat. Raindrops on his dark beard caught the candlelight. Satisfied, he moved a chair close to the crackling fire and sat down, carefully flipping the cape over the back of his seat. Hanging that way, it trapped and held heat while it dried out of contact with the wearer. His right hand remained on his sword hilt.
This was the man everyone in Ola was talking about. Jaleeta was intrigued. A big man, she suspected he was more bulk than strength. His movements were ungraceful, although forceful. Dark eyes, too close together. Thick black hair. The hand on the sword hilt was huge, the fingers unusually long. His nose had been broken, and a welted scar ran diagonally across his forehead, extending back into the scalp.
The Abbess sat in the remaining chair. “Baron Ondrat has a message for you, my dear,” she said. There was triumph in her voice, and a grating malice. Still, her expression of importance crumbled at Baron Ondrat’s swift disapproval.
“I’ll speak to the girl in my own way, Abbess. Don’t interrupt.” Then, to Jaleeta, smoothly, “One who wishes you well asked me to say you are remembered. Even missed. One sends you congratulations for becoming the companion of Gan Moondark’s ruling clique.”
“You? You’re the one who… The one I…”
“We are united against our enemies, Gan Moondark and Rose Priestess Sylah of the new Teachers.”
Disbelieving, Jaleeta moved with infinitesimal slowness toward the door. “I don’t understand you or your message.”
The Baron smiled again. “The old fool isn’t aware she’s helping Church—the right Church. But you will both help. Certainly.”
There were at least two ways to take the Baron’s words. Jaleeta sensed that her best defense was offense. “You’ll rebel against Murdat? His Wolves will leave your bodies for ravens. Who’ll fight by your side? Her?” Jaleeta jabbed a rude thumb in the Abbess’ direction, ignoring the older woman’s shocked sputter.
Ondrat darkened. “My alliances are secret. Yours are not. I know you were sent here. I know your mission. You’ll carry it out as I direct, or be exposed as a spy.”
Defiantly, Jaleeta interrupted. “Who’ll expose me, Baron? You, Tears of Jade’s own fishhook? If Gan Moondark learns you plan revolt I’ll be treated gently compared to what happens to you.”
“Stop it, both of you.” Tension made the Abbess’ command brittle, but it had the desired effect. Ondrat and Jaleeta fell silent, glaring like two trapped cats. The Abbess continued. “We depend on each other. Murdat and that unspeakable Skan witch are threat enough for both of you. Jaleeta, you report all you learn of Gan’s plans to us. The Baron will get the information to the Skan. In turn, they inform Windband.”
Jaleeta held up a hand, stopped her. “Don’t you understand what Tears of Jade plans for you?”
Ondrat answered, “Her plans are nothing. Once the Skan, Windband, and Moondark have exhausted each other, the rightful rulers of this land will plunge our blades in their backs. Olans will rule Ola. All heretics will be destroyed.”
“But the greatest heretic of all is already out of bed, walking. You saved her life. Explain that.”
Paling, eyes narrowing, Ondrat half rose from his seat. His sword hissed out of the scabbard. Jaleeta cringed. The Abbess made placating noises. Visibly trembling, Ondrat hesitated. His voice was raw. “As badly as I need your help, if you ever try to tell me to explain anything again, I’ll cut the heart from your living body. Am I understood?” He extended the blade, rested the bright, eager tip between her breasts.
Transfixed, Jaleeta nodded. Her throat ached.
Reluctantly, the sword retreated, went back into its hiding place. Baron Ondrat said, “Sylah lives through no kindness of mine. One superior to our esteemed Violet Abbess orders me to eliminate the anti-Church. But you two will bear witness: My hand never struck a blow. Not directly. I obey. If the misbegotten slave owned a sword, like the Peddler, the witch would be dead. Once Sylah cried for help, though, I had to get rid of them. They’d have told everything to save their useless skins. If Sister Mother criticizes me for not finishing her, you’ll testify that witnesses interfered.”
“We’ll be glad to verify.” The Abbess leered.
The Baron grunted dubious appreciation, then went on. “Nevertheless, young Jaleeta, we accomplished much. I’m accepted by the fawning filth that surrounds Moondark. Two men died and one witch should have to gain me free access to you. Fail to cooperate, and think what the Skan will do to you and your mother. Or think what life will be for you once we’ve won. You’ll find us extremely generous.”
A murderer’s friendship. Jaleeta didn’t hesitate. “I’ve already promised the Abbess I’d work with her.” She turned to the other woman, hung her head. “I couldn’t tell you about Tears of Jade. I was ashamed. I didn’t know what to do.” Readdressing Baron Ondrat, she went on. “There is a man you sh
ould fear even more than Tears of Jade: her son, Lorso. If he discovers that I’m here because she sent me here, he’ll give us to Sosolassa. He is Slavetaker, and his look is death.” She paused, letting her companions absorb what they’d heard. She finished, “Whoever rules Ola isn’t important to me, but Church must be saved.”
“Of course.” Ondrat rose quickly, nervously. When he caught the Abbess’ look of cold disapproval, he forced enthusiasm. “Church is all to all of us.” He made a mechanical three-sign. The other hand checked his cape for dryness.
At the door, he turned for a final look at Jaleeta. “You have great beauty. I may claim you for myself, when this is all over.”
The last took Jaleeta completely by surprise. Discreet coughing from the Abbess reminded her to respond. Demure, Jaleeta murmured, “I deserve no such honor, Baron, but I’ll do my best to earn your approval.”
Ondrat grunted. “That’s better. I thought there was a well-trained woman under all that loud blather. Very good.” The heavy door thudded shut.
The gobbet of spit Jaleeta sprayed after him hit the wood like a glistening dart.
The Abbess exclaimed wordlessly. Jaleeta rounded on her. “You said I worked with you. Now you expose me to that creature.”
“Not I. The Skan chose him as the man to contact you.”
“I won’t bear his children. Prevent it.”
“He’s no danger to you, although any other woman in Ola would consider him a prize. All the Barons will want you when Gan’s gone. You won’t be able to choose, of course, but I’ll be at your side to help as much as I can.”
“A prize? Scum. He tried to kill a Priestess. Oh, she’s cast out. Ask yourself if he’s capable of killing any one of you, if he thinks he won’t get caught. There’s your ‘prize.’ And ask yourself how he and his murderers knew Sylah would be out that night. For all that, why was she out? You call him prize? More like penalty. Sister.”
The Abbess bid a hasty good night. She moved hurriedly down the narrow stone hall. She kept her hood back, chin high, reminding herself that a Church woman had nothing to fear. Gan Moondark enforced the old rules. Never mind that evil-tongued snip.
