by Don McQuinn
“The time is now. Immediately.”
Ondrat managed one word. His voice cracked on it. “Now?”
Ice claimed the Abbess. She was a clear winter stream, freezing solid. Logic and understanding capped her, protected the racing emotions deeper within her.
Harvester. She would be Harvester.
Ondrat cleared his throat. He repeated “Now?” in a gruff bass.
“Gan is gone, with the apostate Nalatan. Emso is weak. Exhausted. The Black Lightning is disappeared, hopefully dead. Conway and his whore are almost always gone, distributing food. Leclerc is at his farm, too preoccupied to know anything until it’s too late.”
“Gan.” Speaking the name drew color from Ondrat’s flushed features. “He’ll come back. After us.”
“You’ll have his wife and child.”
“Hostages?”
“Let’s say assurances of good behavior.” The Abbess rose, drew her cloak around her. Taking time to be precise, she arranged the hood and its drawstring. Only when ready to step into the cold did she face Ondrat. “Once again, I apologize for my earlier intrusion into the concerns reserved for men. I’m deeply grateful you allow me some consideration in dealing with Church’s grievances.”
Ondrat’s jaw still hung slack when the Abbess disappeared in the dark hallway.
Chapter 9
Conway scanned the forest flanking the narrow trail, thinking how much he must resemble a turtle. The heavy sheepskin hat gave his head a round, indistinct form exactly like Lanta’s smaller version. Also like her, he wore a sheepskin coat over layers of clothing. The finishing touch was the coat collar, which buttoned just under his nose, so only peering eyes were visible.
He wished he felt as invulnerable as the turtle. Instead, he had the sensation of being a fat target. The squeal of leather tack and saddle seemed abnormally loud. The shuffle of the fifteen horses making up the small relief unit took on the irritation of loud laughter. The Wolves maintained perfect trail discipline, not talking, watchful. Still, he had to swallow the urge to turn and warn them to be quiet.
Beside him, Lanta spoke softly. “Did you see something? You’re nervous.”
Pulling aside the collar, he answered, “It’s very difficult being in love with a woman who knows what you’re thinking before you get a chance to say anything.” She laughed quietly, and he went on. “I haven’t seen anything. The dogs are edgy, though. There’s something around, and they’re not happy about it. I think we’re being watched.”
Serious now, Lanta nodded agreement. “I think it’s Smalls.”
“I thought of them. They wouldn’t be down here. They keep to the high ground.”
“I still think it’s them.”
“Why?”
She shrugged, the movement practically absorbed by mounded clothing. “I just do.”
“Well, that settles it, then. What else could it be?”
Lanta’s response was to stick out her tongue and button up her collar, retreating behind it and a great silence.
The small column approached the base of a cliff when Conway spotted something ahead that shouldn’t have been there. He raised a hand, waving it side to side. Wolves trotted off the trail into outward-facing readiness. The senior man rode up quickly. Conway stood in his stirrups, pointing. “Look there. Tracks, coming down off the mountain by that cliff face. They’ve torn up this meadow. Looks pretty well used.”
The young Wolf studied the scene. “Something wrong with them. The tracks, I mean. See?”
Chagrined, Conway saw what the other man meant. Temperature changes had thawed and refrozen the snow cover, obscuring any certain reading, but it was obvious the trail was made by snowshoes. Conway told the Wolf, “Get your troopers into a couple of wedges, in column. The Priestess rides between them. I take point with the dogs. Snowshoes means either Mountain People or Smalls.”
Lanta’s voice was an invisible smirk. “Smalls. I told you.”
The Wolf grinned. Conway said, “I almost hope she’s wrong, just so I don’t have to listen to her brag.”
The Wolf continued to grin as he turned his mount. “If it’s all the same to you, Matt Conway, I hope she’s right. I’ve seen enough of the Mountains to last me. I never saw a Small, though. And I won’t have to listen to her brag, either.”
“Get back to your men.” Conway’s rueful smile covered any bite his tone suggested. Still, for all the lightness, it was a wary, intent group that edged abreast of the cliff.
“Yo! Conway!”
Conway recognized Tate’s voice instantly. So did the dogs. They dropped to hiding positions. Tails wagged, nevertheless. Conway looked to the base of the cliff to see Tate on horseback, edging out of a dense fir thicket. She was a good fifty yards away, he estimated, on ground higher than the meadow. He waved, and she returned it.
Advancing at a slow walk, she called out, “You’re too bunched up. One good Marine with a dozen eggs would turn you all into an omelet. Can’t I teach you people anything?”
“Nothing about how to greet a friend, that’s for sure. We were admiring your backs. Who’s with you?”
“No one, now. They’re back up in the high country.”
“Smalls?”
Even at distance, her grin dazzled. “That’s how I knew to intercept you here. They watched you ride in with the supplies, let me know your route back to Ola.”
She was close enough to eliminate shouting then, and Lanta spoke up. “You waited for us? Why?”
“We’ll talk about it. First, how were things in Ola when you left?”
Conway was direct. “Nalatan came in, but he went back out with Gan, Donnacee. Big trouble down on the river. Slavers. Gan asked him. There wasn’t much Nalatan could say.”
Tate’s smile wavered, but it held. She went to Lanta first, exchanging hugs, then to Conway. After embracing him, she pulled back. “I told Gan to keep Nalatan close if he needed him. I shouldn’t be surprised that he asked him to help on this chore. But I am. Is Gan trying to keep him out of Ola? This whole thing was a mess, going in. It’s beginning to smell really bad. I’m asking you two to help me. That’s not easy for me.”
Conway said, “A lot of people know you’re in one place and your husband’s in another. Of course there’s talk. You want us to repeat all that garbage? I told you what I know. I won’t tell you what I don’t know.”
The dull silence of the snow-heavy valley eventually forced a response from Tate. She startled Conway with a sharp, false smile and an offhanded manner so artificial it made his throat catch. “We’ll sort it all out, me and Nalatan. For now, I want you to send this detail on into Ola. Be my guests this evening. We’ll go home tomorrow morning.”
Lanta blinked. “Stay here? Why? Is it safe?”
“No Mountains or raiders. Can’t be sure about animals.” Tate’s good humor was partially returned. Something was amusing her.
Conway addressed that fact. “You’ve got something up your sleeve. What is it?”
“Later, after the troops are gone.” She winked broadly. “Secret stuff, buddy. You won’t believe it.”
He laughed. “Donnacee, you’re unbelievable. Okay, I’ll pass the word.”
While the puzzled Wolves drew away down the valley, Tate regaled her friends with stories of the Smalls. The loneliness of her stay with them was clear, but so was her appreciation of their hospitality and ingenuity. “There are families now, whole communities. They’re surviving this winter on dried food, several varieties of pemmican, frozen game. They’ll need valley land for farms.”
Conway was grim. “Between the Kwa and this killer winter, there’s plenty of available cropland. The Smalls will be welcome.”
Not long after that, Tate flashed a smile full of conspiracy and accomplishment. “You wait here,” she said. “Promise you’ll stay right here until I come back. It’ll be a while, so no cheating.”
So sworn, Conway and Lanta waited. Curiosity grew to uncertainty, then concern. Conway was pacing irritabl
y, muttering about taking the dogs to hunt for her when the shrill whistle swelled across the wilderness. Momentarily confused, Conway and Lanta searched in all directions. It was the dogs, craning up, that directed their gaze to Tate. She waved from high atop a cliff face that stood bare and broken against the more gradual flanking slopes with their dark forest.
Lanta was nervous. “I wish she’d step back from that edge.” Then, “Oh, good. She did. What can she be doing up there?”
Conway’s answer was choked off by the appearance of a large, bluish-gray triangle. It edged forward, limned against the black-and-green of trunks and branches. The object trembled, then grew with astonishing rapidity.
Billowing, arrowhead sleek, the thing plunged off the edge.
The whistle shrilled, triumphant. Tate’s voice followed, a paean of delight, excitement, life.
Lanta’s attempted scream broke free as a strangled rasp. She threw herself at Conway, staggering him, clasping him as if that contact were all that was left of reality.
Conway embraced Lanta without taking his eyes from the swallowlike grace of the hang glider. The descending flight was a series of cautious arcs across the cliff face. In the stillness of winter-silence the For cloth ruffled confidence. Taut rigging contributed a harsh whisper.
Tate shouted at her transfixed audience. “What d’you think, Matt? Lanta? Is this something?” In her exuberance, she lost concentration. A wing dipped, and an unscheduled swoop sent her voice caroling upward on the last syllable. She was back in command immediately, however, and wild laughter rang exhilaration.
Lanta found her voice. “Come down! You’ll be killed! Donnacee, come down. Please.”
Conway threw back his head, laughed as loud as Tate. He shouted at her. “You’re a genius. A marvel. You’re going to break your damnfool neck.”
Her landing pass swept her over Conway and Lanta almost close enough to touch. She was laughing again, exultant, vibrant. The dogs crouched and growled. Conway rose on tiptoe, stretching almost enough to make contact. Lanta continued to cling to him, but now her expression was tempered by relief. She watched, awed, as Tate lowered her feet, stumbling to a sprawling, falling stop in a snowy welter.
Tate was free of her rigging when they arrived. Conway swept her off the ground in a whirling, shouting bear hug. As soon as he put her down, Lanta piled in, scolding, laughing, so excited her words were an incomprehensible froth. The dogs, infected by the hilarity, galloped around the trio, barking, tumbling each other. At Conway’s call, they came to him, flopping down in the snow, tongues lolling, every panting breath a puffed cloud.
Calming, Conway inspected the hang glider. He stroked the frame, puzzling, and Tate explained, “Remember those Small blowgun-spear things? Split bamboo, Man. I asked them to make me some big pieces. Laminated. They use animal glue. Stinks like fury, but it holds.”
“I can tell it holds,” Conway interrupted dryly, shaking his head.
Unperturbed, Tate went on. “You know this For material. Can’t tear the stuff with a team of horses, I swear. It seemed like a good idea, so I tried it.”
Lanta said, “That’s what you’ve been up to, living out here? Without a Healer anywhere? What if you fell?”
“I started slow. Easy slopes, soft snow to fall in.” Tate shifted her attention back to Conway. “I can’t get over how easy it was, Matt. It all just fell in place. That’s why I never said anything to you; I figured I’d make a fool of myself, and I didn’t want you knowing how badly I failed.”
“Well, you can forget failure. Wait till everyone else sees it. What a sensation that’s going to be.”
Abruptly, Tate contradicted him. “No one’s going to see. Not yet. I’ve thought about it, Matt, and I want you and Lanta’s word you won’t say a thing.”
“What? Why not? With this we—”
“We can what?” Tate faced him, lips tight, eyes narrowed. “Once I leave the ground, I pretty much go where the wind and gravity send me. From the walls of Ola I don’t have enough altitude to even crash with class. We have to keep this a secret until we can use it to good effect. If I can make one, so can Moonpriest. That’s why I asked you to send those troops on ahead, why the Smalls scouted out this valley.”
Conway rubbed his jaw, looked longingly at the hang glider.
Tate moved to Lanta, draped her arm across the smaller woman’s shoulder. She continued to address Conway. “Think about this, too. We’re already considered witches, or close to it. The first time we’re seen flying, we’re branded. No matter how many people we train to do the same thing, we’ll be the ones who brought this witch’s tool to our friends. If you think people call names now because of the secret of the Door, or because of Leclerc’s developments, wait until they learn we can fly.”
From the corner of his eye, Conway caught Lanta’s surreptitious three-sign. He answered Tate, “We can’t just let something like this go, though.”
“Absolutely. When we use it, we do it where we can win big. Big enough to offset the fear that comes with it.”
Lanta squeezed Conway’s arm. He glanced down, and she said, “Donnacee’s right. If you use this… this thing and defeat an enemy, many will say you’re magic. They’ll fear you, but be glad you’re on their side. If you just show it to them, the way Donnacee showed us, they’ll be frightened and confused; they may run away. If you use it in battle and lose, friend and foe alike will call you witch. You and everyone known to you will be destroyed.”
Bitterness warped Conway’s grin, made it cruel. “So we’ll be forgiven and loved if we win people’s battles for them, and cursed if we lose.”
Lanta took Tate’s hand in hers. “Church’s Healers have lived with that knowledge since the beginning. Warriors know it in their hearts always. It’s time you admitted it to yourself, Matt Conway.”
“It shouldn’t be that way for you. You only help others.”
“I do what I believe is right. That’s enough to create an army of enemies. Anyhow, I say Tate’s right. We say nothing about… What is that thing, Donnacee?” Brisk, Lanta faced the hang glider squarely, pointed an unflinching finger.
“I call it a hang glider.” Out of Lanta’s line of vision, Tate rolled her eyes for Conway’s benefit, then added, for Lanta, “And you’re a champion. Want to see how it comes apart for carrying?”
Absently, Conway joined in, too disturbed to be properly impressed by the intricate bindings and flexible strength of the device. With the suspense and initial excitement of Donnacee’s revelation over, he found himself unable to reconcile lying to her. It was inescapable that she hear the rumor of Nalatan’s involvement with Jaleeta. Tate would reject them, as did anyone who knew him.
But she’d hear them. The pain would be excruciating. Such wounds infected easily.
Chapter 10
Steady rain pelted the trio as they broke free of the trees for their first glimpse of Ola. Behind Tate, a packhorse carried the dismantled hang glider in a long tube.
In unspoken accord, the riders stopped, looking at the distant city.
Lanta said, “I think I like it better this way, uncertain, gray against gray. The outlines of the buildings are all misted soft. It looks as if it might disappear. Maybe nature wants to absorb all that strict stone and mortar, the way it did the godkills.”
Tate and Conway exchanged glances, each trying to hide hurt at their profane knowledge of how unimaginably greater cities died. Tate answered Lanta, “The rain does change the way things look. I used to think it was just grim, but it has its own beauty. It’s not flagrant; you have to look for it.”
While the two women chatted amiably about subtle color and the effect of flat, universal light, Conway tried to concentrate on the effect of warming weather on mobility. The snow was gone now, but streams and rivers were rising. Lowlands would flood. After a while, the waters would recede.
Moonpriest would come.
Conway caught himself remembering Windband. He remembered eyes watering and nostrils
smarting, assaulted by the stink of homes burning, of death pyres. Far, far back in his mind, he heard the war cries, the screams. His mouth went dry. Not dry enough to kill the taste of battle, of smoke, of fear, of air redolent with blood.
Shaking his head, Conway dislodged those images, only to confront something much more immediate, something he genuinely dreaded as much as facing any enemy.
Tate knew as much about hurt as any other fighter. What was coming was worse. It was the obscene pain of known, but unproven, snickering behind one’s back. It was the smiling face that sneered when it thought it was unobserved, the polite voice that sought darkness or an intervening wall before it dared express its true character.
“Tate, we’ve got to talk.” Both women faced him, his tone bringing alarm to Lanta, but a twisted, anticipatory knowing to Tate. Conway glanced at Lanta, caught her silent plea. He said, “I’m not letting her ride into that mess unready.”
Tate said, “This is about Nalatan, isn’t it? Is he all right? Is he hurt?” Voice and manner made lies of the questions, made it known that she feared something deeper, more damaging, than physical injury.
Conway stalled, swinging his horse around so he faced Tate, his knee almost touching hers. It didn’t use enough time. Nothing would. He said, “When he rode out without any explanation, some people wondered about it. Some made up stories to suit their own standards.”
“Stories?” Her interruption stopped him. He met her eyes, but her focus wasn’t for him. He felt her gaze grind through him, reach for the distant city, seeking. There was hatred in the look, lethal, and Conway shivered, not knowing exactly what its target was. She altered her question. “Or story? How many versions?”
