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

by Don McQuinn

  Gliding along in her silent indoor slippers, the Abbess reviewed the meeting. All in all, things had gone well. The girl was truly snared. The Baron? The Abbess sneered. A maddened wildcow bull. There was a certain low cunning in the man. Controlling him was a constant problem, but manageable.

  The girl was the key.

  The Abbess lifted a hand to straighten her hair, unconsciously preening. A smug smile twisted the normally severe lips. The Baron mentioned ownership. Jaleeta beholden to Church to protect her secrets; Jaleeta firmly placed in an important house. An excellent prospect. Church Home would look kindly on one who arranged such things.

  On reaching the stairs leading to the main floor of the castle, a minute hesitancy interrupted the Abbess’ self-congratulation. She gripped the railing.

  Throughout the evening, it was clear Jaleeta was distracted about something. Probably a man. Emso was practically in her hand. Leclerc seemed entranced, but he was an alien, and one never knew what to make of one of them. Still, there was no indication either of those two were more than amusements. Who, then?

  Deep in thought, the Abbess descended.

  Jaleeta, seated at the table in her room, sipped the tea that no one else wanted. Tears of Jade’s voice filled her head: “You can never succeed by yourself. Strength rules. Alone, you are doomed.” Until the Baron’s direct declaration about claiming her, Jaleeta thought only of bending men to direct their efforts to her own goals. With that one statement, Ondrat made her realize she needed a male defender. Emso was too set in the old ways. Anyhow, if the Baron won, Emso would be the first of Gan’s friends to die. Louis wouldn’t be far behind Emso on the death list, either, although Louis seemed more like a man who’d retreat, find a place to survive. Such a smart man. Devoted, considerate. Boring. Jaleeta wrinkled her nose.

  There was one. True, he had a woman, and seemed to want no other.

  No man was totally steadfast. Tears of Jade said so, and the old woman knew.

  Jaleeta wound a gleaming black tress around a finger, absently coiled and uncoiled it. She sipped more tea. She needed someone who’d kill Ondrat if necessary. One loyal to Gan, to assure Murdat’s sympathy in case of trouble. A warrior who protected others. A man who needed solace.

  Giggling, Jaleeta muttered aloud, “A passionate fool.”

  Memory called up Lorso. She frowned, distracted. He would come someday. To claim his “escaped” Jaleeta, to assure Gan and Sylah died. Jaleeta wondered once again if Tears of Jade really did the right thing by tricking her son. Old hag. She was safe. Jaleeta was the one in danger. But Lorso could be controlled. If he ever really came. Another passionate fool.

  She remembered waking in the hut to see Nalatan, gleaming in the firelight. Once more, she remembered soft furs, shrouding darkness, embers red on a hearth. Shadowy figures. Skin gleaming with a sliding, fiery sheen.

  Some problems were wonderfully easy.

  Chapter 10

  Sylah rose from the garden bench with the tentative caution of one not completely sure of recovery. Everyone insisted she was coming back with remarkable speed. To her, each day’s sun moved too slowly, brought too little change. The women’s merchant organizations needed her help; food shortages and the common knowledge of oncoming war created a hoarder’s dream. The wives of the Wolves were determined to run honest businesses, and relied on Church to maintain moral order. The Violet Abbess refused to help. Then there was the matter of the Chosens. The alien women were good with them—as good as anyone could hope—but Sylah didn’t know them as well as she felt she should. More, many people still whispered about them.

  There was so much to do, and she was so useless. Each morning, facing the sun, she ended her obligatory religious rites with a private prayer for greater strength.

  She also begged forgiveness for taking life. Her mind knew there was no choice. Her heart mourned. Her role was to repair and protect the living, never considering risk. She felt soiled. Still, she couldn’t find it in herself to wish she’d died in her attempted killer’s place. Confusion was far more troublesome than physical damage.

  The injury brought little pain. Obstinate dizziness refused to go away. She raised a hand to the heavy bandage. Every time she touched it or looked in a mirror, she thought of the loathsome Moonpriest and the white head-wrap he called a turban. Not only that, there were times when the bandages felt heavy as a blanket, seemed determined to tip her over. It embarrassed her to wobble and sway. Even now, anxious eyes followed her movements with near-frightening intensity. Emso and Tate kept their distance. Lanta stood close, an ever-faithful shadow.

  She hated that look. It always reminded her of the Priestesses who selected the Chosens. They, too, felt love. Concern. And pity. Sylah tried not to see.

  Lanta’s hand fluttered at Sylah’s shoulder, rested where the Peddler’s sword struck. Neatly executed white stitches glared against the plain black of the thick cloak. Sylah insisted on that contrast. Bold thread marked the attempt on the life of a Priestess.

  Emso caught Sylah’s frown. He said, “We’ve talked about it before, Sylah; that sewn-up cloak makes trouble. The Church people close to the Violet Abbess resent it. It frightens all the people who believe in Church to see such plain evidence of dissension. It even bothers Gan. He said so.”

  Straightening, Sylah composed herself. “The thickness of the cloak saved my life. That, and bad aim. People must be constantly reminded that a sacred ban was broken. The Violet Abbess is resentful? She has good reason. Church was profaned.”

  Coloring, Emso said, “They didn’t know you were a Priestess. They were thieves. You were just a victim…”

  “I called out clearly, yet they tried to kill me.”

  “Baron Ondrat said the blow was falling as you spoke. There was no way the second man could stop his swing.” Emso’s square, honest face compressed in a mask of stubbornness.

  Resignation softened Sylah’s voice. “The Baron knows what he saw. I know what I saw. My cloak will forever tell what happened.”

  Any answer Emso intended was overruled by Tate. “Let it go, both of you. Anyhow, Emso, look at her. Except for those little bitty stitches, the only accent the poor woman has is that tiny embroidered rose. I don’t care how holy she is, a woman’s got to have some color somewhere. It’s a rule. You just train your troops. Leave fashion to us. And you, Sylah: Why don’t you give old Emso a break? He’s just trying to keep the peace.”

  Lanta’s high laughter was sharp. “Was there ever peace? Will there ever be?” When she saw the reaction her cynicism created in Tate, the small Seer’s hand flew to her mouth. Immediately, she extended it toward Tate. Too far away to actually make contact, the gesture was clearly apologetic.

  It took a moment for Tate’s smile to break free. It was a weary effort. “I’ve seen little enough peace. It seems we find more reasons for fighting than for not fighting. I’ve never understood it.”

  Emso said, “People have to learn respect. Maybe what happened to Sylah did have something to do with Church. Some fanatic, maybe. That’s not the point. The problem is the society. There’s no respect for anything anymore. People don’t even consider the cost of things they do. If Baron Ondrat hadn’t killed those filthy murderers, all the Three Territories would be without Church help until they were caught and punished.”

  Moving toward the entry of the enclosed garden, Tate said, “Well, you all try to get along without my peace keeping. Now that Sylah’s doing so well, Conway and I are on our way. Tomorrow morning, in fact. I’ve got to get my gear in order.”

  Facing Sylah, Lanta said, “Will you be all right? I want to go with Tate.” Tate waited, curious.

  Sylah made a face, exasperated. “Say what you mean. That’s the whole problem: You want to go see Conway, but what you say is you want to go with Tate. You and Matt love each other, but you say anything else to avoid that one simple phrase. It’s killing you and it’s driving all of us crazy.”

  After a blushing glance at an equally non
plussed Emso, Lanta said, “I want to tell him, Sylah. I did, once…” The sentence slid off into dejection.

  Heartily brusque, Tate said, “What we need is a plan to break that bad horse Conway to harness. Not that he deserves you, but Sylah’s right. He’s been happy and single long enough. We’re going to stop that. It’s the right thing to do.”

  For a moment Lanta stared, open mouthed. Then, her blush practically incandescent, she burst out laughing. Emso simply stood as if clubbed. When Lanta recovered, she moved to Tate’s side. “You’re terrible,” she said, more laughter denying the accusation. Sobering slightly, she went on. “Don’t you take anything seriously?”

  “I take everything seriously. I just don’t let it get a hold on me. But that’s me, not you. What we’ve got to do here is make Matt understand what’s troubling you. He wants to. He just doesn’t know how.” The sound of their voices dwindled. Tate’s arm draped over Lanta’s shoulder as they walked away.

  Sylah smiled to herself at the two heads, conspiratorially close. Lanta was too smart to think of a man as a trophy. Her problem was that she failed to think of herself as having value.

  Chuckling sounds from Emso brought her out of her contemplation. He was looking after the departed women. Seeing Sylah turn toward him, he said, “Looks like poor Conway’s a goner. A man might be smart enough to dodge one woman, but two? He’s finished.”

  The laughter was real, but when he faced Sylah, a quick hint of something different swept across his features. It was too fast for her to categorize. Emso went on. “Lanta was worrying about peace. Seems she ought to be worrying about the war men and women fight all the time.”

  “You don’t have a wife, do you, Emso? No children?”

  His face was suddenly so devoid of expression Sylah would have sworn he was schooled in Church’s techniques of control. “Had one. She died. Sister raised our children.” Sylah accepted that there would be no further information.

  “I hope you find someone else,” she said. “You’re a good man. Most women would be proud to have such a fine husband.”

  “At my age? You think so?”

  The unexpected, eager queries caught Sylah completely off guard. She scrambled for a response. “Well, I… Of course. That’s absurd. You’re not old.”

  “Yes I am.” He shook his head, looking at the ground. “Seen too much, done too many things. You heard Tate call me ‘old Emso.’ Anyhow, it’s like she said about Conway; I’ve been alone too long. It wouldn’t be fair to ask a woman to put up with me.”

  Soft laughter brought Emso’s head up with a jerk. Embarrassed anger narrowed his eyes. Sylah said, “Women put up with men all the time, Emso. It’s the way things are, like the forest putting up with lightning and the mountains putting up with storms. You’re full of noise and mess, but we love you, no matter. We know how to find the person behind the uproar and we care for him.”

  Emso smiled rueful acknowledgment. “A woman’d have to be willing to work hard to see a good man inside this beat-up hide.”

  “Nonsense. You’re a wise, warm man, whether you want to admit it or not. Many men resent me because I mean to be as free as they are. That doesn’t mean I don’t like the sense of protection and security that comes from having a strong man at my side. I think I can be brave, but I know I could be a lot braver if Clas were here.”

  “You think so? Someone younger might want to have someone like me around?”

  “Will you stop asking silly questions? The Three Territories are full of such women.”

  Emso was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was with a sidelong, corner-of-the mouth manner. “I’m sorry Clas can’t be here. Have you heard anything? About the plague, I mean?”

  “There was a Messenger two days ago. Clas said only that the disease is less damaging than it was. No details. And the tribe is wintering farther north and west this year.”

  “He gave a reason for that?” Emso failed miserably at nonchalance.

  “Windband. Moonpriest.” One word was a curse, the other a condemnation. Sylah raised her arm, pointing east. Her sleeve fell back revealing the massive gold bracelet. “Church must show them the right path. Vengeance is not the way.”

  Emso’s eyes bulged, as if he watched a spell being cast. Unnoticed by Sylah, deep in her own thoughts, he surreptitiously reached to draw his forefingers across his eyes. As a male, Emso’s secret two-sign solicited the protection of the One Who Is Two, denied to women. That One was son and sun, redeemer, bringer of warmth and life.

  Had Sylah seen the sudden gesture, she would have realized a treasured friend saw in her such a danger that he must call on his most powerful spiritual resource for protection.

  Self-conscious about her moment of melodrama, Sylah turned slowly to face Emso once again, smiling shyly. “I just felt I wanted to reach out, to make Moonpriest know my thoughts never leave him. He is the worst of the anti-Church.”

  Emso swallowed hard. “Conway, Tate—all the aliens—they say he was a good man, once.” Nervous feet seemed anxious to take him elsewhere.

  Sylah was looking east again. “He was. Before he was injured. It might have been better if I’d let him die.”

  “You did heal him, then?” Emso leaned heavily on “did,” burned it with accusation.

  Preoccupied, Sylah merely nodded. Sweat beaded on Emso’s lip, denying the chill wind swirling about the enclosed garden area. Sylah said, “I’ve grown into a weakling. The first smell of frost in the air and I need a hot bath and a fire. Will you walk me back to my quarters?”

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather go to the healing house? Are you all right?” Emso had her by the elbow.

  Sylah smiled thanks, patted his steadying hand. “What a friend you are.” Her expression turned sly, teasing. “This is the man who thinks no woman would be interested in him. Silly. If you have a fault, warrior, it’s that your loyalty’s so strong it makes the rest of us feel inadequate. And every one of us hopes you’ll never change.”

  Bloodred color exploded across his face. Sylah leaned against him, using his sustaining strength to lessen light-headedness. She longed to tell him how comforting it was to have a forthright friend, one she could even disagree with violently, yet never doubt. She wanted to confide in him about the War Healer and the message in the night-shrouded market. But what would she tell him? The secret of the Peddlers? Never. Or that she’d been betrayed, and had no idea who to blame? That would only involve and endanger him.

  They were at the abbey then. Although she knew the swift move necessary would bring on a dizzy headache, she whirled and kissed him on the cheek before he could object.

  Inside, leaning against the cool stone, she smiled through the expected pounding hurt, treasuring his blushing, spluttering reaction. Such a fine man. Such fun to tease.

  Chapter 11

  Jaleeta fell against Leclerc so hard he exclaimed surprise and hurt. She spun, forcing him backward, almost tumbling the two of them. Her face was bright with concern. “Oh, did I hurt you, Louis? I’m so sorry. I twisted my ankle.” She pressed him against the stone wall of the castle. Her weight rested heavily in his arms.

  Suddenly, she glanced around nervously. Stepping back, her look up at Louis tantalized, a seductive merriment. “If we’re not careful, people will think we’re misbehaving.”

  “I wouldn’t care. If it were true.”

  Jaleeta swatted at him playfully, then bent to massage her ankle. The move gave her the opportunity to peer around the corner of the stone wall. Emso was still leading the bandaged Sylah in the opposite direction, away from the garden. Jaleeta relaxed. The last thing she wanted just now was a confrontation between Emso and Leclerc. Straightening, she pretended to test the ankle. “It’s not really hurt. It startled me, more than anything.”

  “Startled you?” Leclerc laughed. “I thought the dreaded Skan were coming over the walls, or something.”

  “Don’t joke about them. You don’t know. Gan was lucky when he blu
ffed them into leaving. They’ll find out how weak he was. They’ll spend stormtime telling themselves they were cheated and shamed. When they come, the Three Territories will know the smell of death.”

  “You’ll be protected. You have my word.”

  Jaleeta turned away, head down. “You’re nice, Louis. No one should promise to hold off the Skan, though. Please, if they win, if it looks like they’re going to capture me…”

  “Stop it.” Leclerc forced her to face him. When she continued to look at the ground, he lifted her chin. For a moment he savored the beauty he held, then said, “The Skan won’t get near you. Nor Windband.”

  Stepping away, Jaleeta resumed their course toward the enclosed garden, pulling Leclerc with her. “You make me feel better. When you reassure me, I even feel stronger myself.”

  They were entering the small garden by then. Fall’s iron touch was evident. Gardeners had trimmed out everything but the hardier plants. Instead of denuding the beds, however, they left selected specimens to go to seed. The result was a shadow garden, a place that suggested the loss of summer and a new cycle’s beginning. Stark seed-bearing stalks contrasted with the permanent enamel green of ivy festooning the walls. The crystal gladness of the waterfall and pool clashed with bare-limbed shrubs.

  Twirling, Jaleeta spread her red-orange skirt in waves of flame around her. Shining black boots sparkled across the close cropped grass. She threw back her hood, the white doeskin interior cradling rowdy black hair that fought to escape and dance in the pale, filtered light straining through newly arrived cloud cover.

  Laughing delight, Leclerc said, “You’re wonderful. A moment ago you were frightened. Before that, you thought your ankle was sprained. Now here you are, dancing. I never know what to expect from you.”

  Dancing close to him, then away, she bent and curved and swayed, taunted with her eyes, with full lips burnished red by cold. “Expect the unexpected. It’s how I stayed alive. It’s how I’ll live my life. Jaleeta must live.” She stopped abruptly. Her skirt snapped to a stop, settled primly back down to her ankles. She pulled up her hood. When she faced him, she inspected his features with demand that took him aback. As swiftly as it came, that mood was gone, and she was ebullient again. “I’m going to be happy. Why shouldn’t I be? You promised me everything would be all right.”