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

by Don McQuinn

  Conway looked into Lanta’s eyes and wondered if she would ever know anything again. Gingerly, he took her finger from the trigger. When the wipe was safely on the ground, he took her in his arms. He spoke, reassuring, consoling. Her eyes remained lifeless as polished stone.

  Tate joined him, stroked Lanta’s brow, trying to erase at least a portion of the unresponsive stare. Failing that, weakening herself, Tate withdrew. The dogs settled against Conway.

  Constellations followed their steady way across the sky while he sat with her in his arms. The fire dwindled, occasionally exploding in an eruption of sparks as one of the Small night guards fueled it.

  Talking past Lanta’s unseeing eyes and unchanging expression, Conway sent his soul searching into the frozen, dissociated figure. Every indication declared that Lanta’s life ended when she saved that of the man she loved. Conway could not accept that. He talked softly, confidently, endlessly. He described the Smalls, how they moved through the darkness like wraiths. He talked to her of the sound of yet another night bird, the one he knew as screech owl, called darksinger by Gan’s people. He spoke of his hopes, his fears.

  Convoluted, complicated emotional barriers fell. In moments he shattered the stone that had confined his heart for so long. He spoke of fools and love. How could he have been so wrong? How could she not understand that his greatest fear was that he might hurt her, and his greatest shame was that he’d done so? Of course it was wrong of him to feel it necessary to prove himself worthy.

  He marshaled argument. He cited example. In the silence that followed his brilliant summary, he reviewed everything he’d said, then whispered to her that, yes, he’d been a total fool.

  He told Lanta of caring, of needing, of wanting. He spoke of the warmth of sharing, of the strength of two who support and stand as one. He promised her the time of trouble between them was past. “We have a new life, just waiting for us. You have to be well; you have to. I can’t be—don’t want to be—anything without you. I love you.”

  Lanta remained rigid, unchanged. But she closed her eyes. Soon Conway did the same. And they slept.

  Chapter 31

  Conway woke to the touch of fingertips brushing his temple. Images of a past life he could barely recall melded with scenes from the night just ended. He didn’t know if he dreamed or remembered.

  His neck hurt. Burned. He thought of fires, of whole cities aflame. He thought of a sword, seeking his jugular. Did either happen? Touch identified bandages at his throat. That was reality.

  In the crepuscular predawn, he looked up to find Lanta’s face just above his. She examined him with a look of stricken wonder, an expression that was at once joyous and full of trepidation. He’d been afraid to open his eyes before. Now he feared he’d break a spell.

  Lanta lowered her hand from his temple, took his chin in her hand. She smiled almost imperceptibly. “Whiskers,” she said. “Does a woman ever get used to them?” She talked to herself, looking deep into Conway’s eyes, still acquainting herself with this wondrous new discovery. “So many new things. A creation to be accomplished. Together.”

  Taking her hands in his own, Conway kissed the palms.

  Her smile was brighter, fuller. Yet Conway sensed pain, knew it was rooted in the death of the nomad the night before. His thoughts raced back over the obstacles he and Lanta had created for themselves and for each other, and he swore to himself that it wouldn’t happen again. He held happiness in his hands, and he was determined to keep it.

  Before he could speak, Lanta said, “I waited for you to wake. I’ve been practicing saying it. Now I can. I love you, Matt Conway.”

  “I love you. I will forever.”

  Lanta rose, the lithe quickness of a startled animal. It was an entirely inappropriate action. She seemed as surprised by it as Conway. She looked down at him with apology. “I have to tend to Tate.” The words were flat, clumsy. “I wanted to tell you, to say I love you. I have to do my duty, though.” She gestured, a limp, aimless movement.

  Conway looked to the east. “You don’t have time. Your sun-greeting prayers.”

  The pain was there again, and gone, the wisp of an insect’s wing. Conway rose, took her shoulders in his hands, forced her to meet his eyes. “You saved my life. You were the only one who could.”

  “I cannot… A Priestess cannot kill. All I was taught… Everything.”

  Hugging her to him, he waited for her sudden sobs to slow. When they were no more than shuddering breaths, he spoke. “I know little of Church, but I know she forgives. Forgive yourself. Church’s will come when you ask.”

  “I can’t be a Priestess. I can’t call myself a Healer, wear the robes. It’s not allowed. Even if I’m forgiven, I have to leave my abbey.”

  “Abbey and Church left you long ago. It was Sister Mother’s ally who meant to kill all of us. What about Sylah? She didn’t give up everything. Look, Church’s present rulers are responsible for hundreds of deaths. That’s why Church is split, why women like you and Sylah are going to build a new Church. Let those corrupt old women say what they will. You’re beyond them. They can’t hurt you.”

  Lanta shook her head. “You spoke the heart of it. Can I forgive myself?”

  Solemn, he held her at arm’s length. “I’m asking you to forgive yourself. I’m begging you. Give me reason to care that you saved my life. You’re the only one who can. Help me.”

  “I want to. I need to think.”

  Conway’s smile turned rueful. “Always a dangerous proposition. But I guess it can’t be avoided. While you’re thinking, however, remember; I’m thinking about our marriage in Ola. As soon as we get there.”

  Blushing, suddenly more shy than troubled, Lanta slipped out of his grasp. She went to Tate with a quicker step than was really necessary.

  A faint noise behind Conway drew his attention. Tinillit smiled apology. Once more, Conway marked the distance between them. The two exchanged greetings and small talk. Conway took the opportunity to study the Small’s spear-blowgun. He was surprised to realize it wasn’t simply a length of hollow cane. Instead, it reminded him of pictures from an old book he’d seen before his world destroyed itself. Men made fishing rods in that manner once, the book said. They split the finest cane and shaved it to precise thickness and shape. Then they glued it back together, creating a slender, tapering artifact that combined great strength, light weight, and flexibility.

  Conway’s mind drew up another memory; driving a freeway along a riverbank, watching miles of closely supervised fishermen, practically shoulder to shoulder. Rods flashed endlessly in the bright sunshine as they worked to catch one of the handful of fish left in the stream. Game Monitors, linked by radio, ranged their assigned length of the human chain, keeping count, as well as order. Fights over tangled lines were common. Riots sometimes erupted among dissatisfied sportsmen when the permitted catch was exhausted and further fishing suspended. He’d always found it ironic that fines levied on poachers and those who trespassed in Controlled Access Nature Preserves contributed so much to financially support what little was left of sport fishing.

  Tinillit was saying, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Conway felt his face warm. He spoke with embarrassed, choppy words. “I’m fine. Just thinking.” He jerked his chin at Tinillit’s blowgun and extended a hand. “I’ve never seen a weapon like that. Can I look at it?”

  Tinillit looked very uncomfortable. He didn’t move, yet Conway had the distinct feeling the man retreated. Tinillit said, “I must explain some things about Smalls. When you return to Ola you can explain to Gan Moondark.”

  Lowering his rejected hand, Conway tried to hide his offense. Coldness marred his voice, regardless. “What is it you want me to tell him?”

  More disturbed than ever, Tinillit hurried on. “Please, don’t be angry. We know of your ways. We only want you to know of ours.” He pointed at the wooden food bowls where Lanta and Tate sat side by side. “Didn’t you wonder that no one reclaimed those? You no
ticed we don’t get close to you; I saw it in your face. You think we insult. Would we risk our lives for people we want to anger?”

  Grudgingly, Conway conceded. “I guess not.”

  Lowering the point of the spear-blowgun to the ground, Tinillit went on. “To all people there is a Siah. Ours came when we lived where the forest joins the sea, far to the south. We were without enemies, without war. Strangers came, though. From the see and from the land to the north and south. Many, many Smalls were killed. The rest were driven like deer. We traveled into strange lands, not knowing where the godkills and radzones waited for us. Sickness came. Always, we fled. Our Siah died. We were children, lost without our father.”

  Pausing, Tinillit looked off into the mountains. When he continued, he was stronger. “Our Siah taught us to worship correctly. We look to the sun, bringer of light and warmth. The symbol of the One Who Is Two wakes the world to the One in All. It is so with your people?”

  At Conway’s nod, Tinillit continued. “Our people sought the sun. From high in the mountains, we saw it before any. Warmth reached us before any. When the winter came and stole the light and heat, our suffering was to purge our sins. We know this, because in spring the One in All brings the good weather back. So we live as we do. In forest, in mountains.”

  “And you avoid contact with other people.”

  Tinillit beamed. “You understand. Still, we are changing. Before we were like the marmot. We hid from every danger, considered winter a protection. Now we think more like the bear. We den through the winter, but it’s not wise to disturb us. We won’t be as we were before. We protect ourselves. But there is penalty. That’s why I came to you. Everything that happened here is unhealthy. To be men again, we must cleanse ourselves. Because we want to live in peace in the Three Territories, we offer you our cleansing. If you would be welcome among us, that would be a first step. It will heal you.”

  Lanta rejoined Conway at that point. He indicated her. “How does your cleansing affect Lanta? Remember, she’s Church. Does the ceremony intrude on her beliefs in any way? What about Tate?”

  “Excellent questions. The cleansing isn’t religious. It requires belief, but not religion. What sort of wounds does the Black Lightning one have?”

  “Her hands; you see the bandages. Mostly, though, she’s sick.”

  Tinillit practically leaped away. His hands flew in a three-sign. From the corner of his eye, Conway saw movement. Smalls advanced, slowly, uncertainly.

  Karda and Mikka materialized beside Conway. Mikka whined. Conway looked down, amazed. It was a sound he couldn’t recollect hearing from her before. Either unaware of his look, or too intent to change her focus, she remained fixed on Tinillit.

  Tinillit found words “Sick? Unseens?”

  Lanta answered, “Not disease. More like poison. The cave you heard Fox speak of is evil. Tate’s sickness is from there, and can claim no one else.”

  Conway’s muttered “Of course!” went ignored by Tinillit. The Small stared at Lanta. “You swear this, Priestess? By Church?”

  “I swear by all the knowledge I have. I won’t swear by Church, because this is nothing I’ve ever seen before. But Conway was affected and is better. Tate is recovering. You see me, unaffected. It’s nothing for you to fear. And both of my friends are injured. If you know healing that I don’t have, I ask you to use it.”

  “We’ll talk.” Clutching his spear-blowgun in a white-knuckled hand, Tinillit spun away to join his tribesmen. Conway called the dogs and retreated to join Lanta and Tate. The animals fidgeted strangely.

  The argument among the Smalls was fierce. Tate said, “Looks like I messed things up pretty good.”

  Hunkering down beside her, Conway picked up a twig, chewed on an end. “Mold,” he said and Tate shot him a look that clearly questioned his sanity.

  Repeating the word, Conway expanded on it. “It used to happen where we lived before.” Keeping his back to Lanta, he rolled his eyes for Tate. Her head move in an almost-imperceptible nod. He continued. “All that dampness, so much inorganic material. When it was attacked by molds and mildew and whatnot, it decomposed into some really exotic pollutants. We were doing a lot of heavy breathing in a literally toxic atmosphere.”

  Lanta said, “You use words I don’t understand. Is this how they describe things that are evil in your land?”

  “Exactly,” Tate answered. Her concentration remained on Conway. “We didn’t want to tell you, but there was lots of evil in there. If Moonpriest had gotten control of it, life would’ve been just about impossible for the rest of us.”

  “You were even more brave than I thought.” Lanta came forward to wrap Conway’s arm in her own. She hugged it, looking down at Tate. Conway said, “You sound a lot better, Donnacee. Look better, too. You making some sort of rally?”

  “What d’you mean, rally? I was just coasting for a while, letting you do some work for a change.” She struggled upright. The gaping slit in the back of her jacket reminded them all of the horror of the previous night. In a moment, Lanta produced needle and thread. She was almost finished sewing when Tinillit’s call interrupted. He gestured for the trio to come to him.

  Lanta whispered to her companions, “Be careful. They’re afraid. Angry.”

  “You can tell that?” Tate was dubious.

  “No mistake. Their posture; they’re unsure if they should run or attack. Tinillit most of all. See how his feet are spread, the knees bent? His head’s back, pupils of his eyes wide. He’s almost…” She searched for a word. “Desperate.”

  The Small leader raised a hand to stop their advance. Conway tried to edge in front of Lanta, but she resisted, forcing him to be satisfied with merely crowding close. The anxious dogs panted loudly next to Conway. He said, “We want no trouble. If your men fear sickness from us, they’re mistaken. We’ll leave peaceably, if that’s what you want.”

  Tinillit used his spear-blowgun to gesture. “We want peace, Matt Conway. It’s why we left the lands of our ancestors, came into this dangerous place. We want to make a home among friends and allies. We are a people who trust no others, avoid all others. If we had dared come closer when you were on the top of the cave mountain, if we had known the Tate one had sickness, we would have fled.”

  Lanta assumed the role of spokesperson. “It’s wise to avoid the ill. Healing is the work of Healers. But you said you had medicine of your own. I believe you. I can feel it.”

  A subdued mutter like the ruffling of heavy wings passed through the Smalls. There was the sound of surprise in it. Conway tensed. Uneasy men, surprised, was a bad combination.

  Tinillit inclined forward, ever so slightly. “Exactly what do you feel, Priestess? Tell us.”

  She folded her hands in front of her. A thin frown scored her forehead. “Distrust. Fear. Anger. I think some feel that we lied to you, or tricked you. That’s wrong. However, what I feel most is hope. Even those who are most angered hope they are mistaken. Let’s concentrate on hope and help, then.”

  Slowly, taking breath between her teeth in a long, pained inhalation, Tate raised her hands. The dirty, stained bandages were like beacons, pointed at the overcast sky. “More Windband may come seeking us. There are Mountain People moving back into the Enemy Mountains from the north. Violet Priestess Lanta has done all in her power to make my hands better. If you can help me, I need you. Your power.”

  The last word reignited the earlier debate. Ignoring the trio, the Smalls turned to each other. Men shook weapons, gesticulated. Tinillit’s sharp whistle stilled them. He addressed his men firmly. “The Priestess senses the minding. If we are to have friends, we must be friends. We will bring them into the cleansing.” Another mumble started. He stopped it with a look. “They will receive, not join in. Maybe one day we can accept others in the cleansing. Not yet. They aren’t ready.” Turning to the trio, he said, “Sit here, by the fire. Face the sun. No weapons. No words. No movement. If you wish, keep the dogs with you, but they must not move.”

 
Conway saw the glisten of sweat on Tinillit’s upper lip. He looked into the Small’s unblinking intensity. Then, inexplicably, Conway was relaxed. He didn’t know what was going to happen, and he was a bit concerned about that, but content he was doing the right thing.

  The three non-Smalls seated themselves. Guards trotted into the forest. The dogs sprawled next to Conway. Karda looked to his master, tongue out, mouth open as if grinning in knowing expectation. Then he flopped over on his side.

  At first, Conway didn’t know what was making the persistent new sound. Thin and taut, it seemed too penetrating to be a percussion instrument. Much like Tinillit’s earlier speech, the quick rhythm seemed ventriloquial, with no specific origin. Looking around for it, Conway almost missed the way the Smalls parted, opening a lane through the middle of the group.

  Two men, each holding a cone-shaped drum under one arm, danced up that aisle. They wore shapeless black robes, more like bags than clothes, and small black caps. White cloth hung from the edge of the caps. Fine enough to permit vision from inside, the white material completely cloaked face and neck. The simple costume altered the shuffling, swaying figures to not-human obscurities. Leaden forest light further softened the men’s outlines.

  By snapping their fingers against the drum, rather than using arm or wrist, they gave the impression that the quarrelsome bark of the instrument was independent of the musicians. Tinillit played his flute. The song was sad, lonely. Melody drifted plaintively through the metal snappishness of the drums.

  The dancers moved to the drum rhythm with short, chopping steps. Lithe body action reflected the softer melody. On reaching the fire site, the two dancers separated to circle it in opposite directions. One by one, Small warriors drifted away from the group, falling in trail of one or the other of the costumed dance leaders. The pace quickened. The flute sang as softly as before.