HM01 Moonspeaker

by K. D. Wentworth

  She had a dreamer’s face, he thought, with those high cheekbones and a broad forehead that gave a distinctly Sennay cast to her features, nothing that hinted at a potential for the kind of violence that had erupted up at Tal’ayn. Each winter solstice, he saw similar faces on a few of the new boys who arrived at Shael’donn for training, boys who sometimes couldn’t cope with the harsher realities of life.

  Her arm stirred and he stopped. The head injury did not seem serious, although he couldn’t say for sure since the Light knew that he was no healer. Her almost-white eyelashes fluttered, then she was still again.

  He resumed washing the last of the brown from her face and hands. It had been, he supposed, an effort to disguise her origin, although he couldn’t imagine it would have fooled anyone for two seconds once they’d gotten a good look at her fingers or eyes. Why hadn’t she just cloaked her appearance by shielding?

  Rinsing the cloth, he dabbed carefully at the livid purple bruise across the right cheekbone. Had old Cittar been responsible for that, or had it been the nameless Kashi man Kevisson had seen just before he stole her away?

  Her arm slid across the bed’s homespun coverlet, then she opened white-gold eyes and looked at him without recognition.

  “Sorry.” He continued working on her bruised face in a businesslike manner.

  The light eyes drifted shut, then struggled open again. “Who . . . are you?” Her voice was ragged and hoarse.

  “Kevisson Ekran Monmart.”

  Her hand came up and closed over his wrist. “You’re . . . Kashi,” she said faintly.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve come after me.” Her stare grew defiant. She tried to push his hand away.

  “I’m from Shael’donn.” He shook off her grip and put the cloth back into the basin on the rough bedside table. “You had to know that someone would come.” He settled a faded wool blanket over her. “After what happened, you could hardly expect your father just to let you run away and do nothing about it.”

  “My father is dead!” She pushed the blanket away, attempting to sit up until a hot wave of pain swept through her head and shoulder. Kevisson caught the mental backwash as she swayed, then pushed her firmly back against the pillow.

  “Be still.” He probed the injured shoulder as gently as he could. Light help them both, he thought, if something was broken or out of socket. “Well,” he said after a moment, “that’s what you get for stealing horses, I suppose, but you should live.” He pulled the blanket up again. “We have to leave tomorrow, so get some sleep.” He walked to the door and turned around. Your father is not dead.

  Her drawn expression didn’t change.

  You didn’t kill him.

  She lay unmoving, her pale eyes staring up at the low ceiling.

  “Your father’s not dead,” he said aloud.

  She turned her head to look at him by the door. “What?”

  He realized with a shock that she really hadn’t heard his mental comment. He lifted the door latch. “He survived.”

  Fear and shame welled up in her so strongly that he didn’t even have to read her to feel it. He caught at disturbing images that flashed through her head: her father’s angry, swearing voice . . . bitter arguments . . . a lifeless body sprawled at her feet.

  “You’re just saying that so I’ll go back.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  * * *

  Cale squirmed, trying to find a spot along the mare’s backbone that didn’t dig painfully into his posterior. Riding without a saddle was hell. He turned to Mashal. “No one’s following us. We’d better head on home.”

  “Not tonight.” The big man squinted up at the swollen orange sun hanging low in the afternoon sky. “We’ll ride part of the way back and camp out. Then tomorrow we can sneak into Dorbin and find the girl. Things should quiet down by then.”

  “Dorbin!” Cale sat back on the weary gray mare. “Are you daft? We’ve just ridden for over an hour to get away from there, and we’ve still got to meet up with Eevlina. She’s sure to have our hides for this mess as it is.”

  Mashal scowled at him. “We have to find the girl.”

  Cale reined the mare toward the forest. “Maybe you do, old sod, but I’m going home.”

  Mashal watched him with a grim expression.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Cale said over his shoulder amiably. “Eevlina’ll have your ears for breakfast if you cross her.”

  Then visions of Dorbin crept into his head: hot food, soft beds, dark-eyed, round-breasted women who would claw each other’s eyes out for the company of a real man, rich purses ripe for . . .

  He shook himself. He must be sun-touched, sitting here dreaming with his eyes open. He kicked the mare into a tired trot, then found himself reining her back onto the road.

  Mashal’s colt turned in the direction of Dorbin. Without prompting, Cale’s mare fell in beside him, and the two men rode silently down the dusty road.

  His heart thumping painfully against his ribs, Cale glanced back at the shady spot under the tree, half-expecting to see himself disappearing into the trees. Then he turned back to the man who looked like Mashal.

  There was a curious blankness about the man’s eyes, as though he was there and yet not there. The air seemed to shimmer around his head, and in Mashal’s place sat a tall lean-bodied man with pale, almost colorless eyes and hair the shade of a newly minted gold coin.

  A crooked smile played across the stranger’s thin lips as he glanced across at Cale. “It no longer matters at this point,” he said, “and I’ve already wasted too much energy on you.”

  Cale tried to rein his mare in the opposite direction and ride like a demon for the deep, dark forest.

  His body continued riding on the slow trip back to Dorbin.

  HAEMAS made herself pick up a plump yellow callyt from the breakfast tray. Her shoulder still ached and her throat closed at the very thought of food, but she resolutely crunched the sweet fruit and tried to make plans to get away from this stranger who meant to take her back.

  The latch lifted and the Searcher slipped in with a shapeless bundle stuffed under one arm. He lifted an eyebrow as he relocked the door from the inside. “Feeling better?”

  The details of the day before were not very clear. For the first time she noticed he was darker than most Kashi. His eyes and hair were an odd shade of golden-brown, and the lines of his lean face straight-edged and set, as though he rarely smiled.

  “Well, you look better.” He pocketed the key, then tossed the bundle at her. “Cleaner too.”

  She flushed to the roots of her once-again pale-gold hair. It hadn’t been her idea to disguise herself with Eevlina’s evil-smelling preparations. She untied the bundle and pulled out a long dark-blue tunic and soft dappled-gray savok-hide breeches.

  He moved to the tiny window with long-strided ease and peered down into the street. “Your prank yesterday, stampeding the animals, has put this town in a very black mood. All I could purchase in the way of riding stock was an ancient ummit and someone will probably steal it too if we don’t hurry.”

  “An ummit?” She looked up from the clothing. “But they stink!”

  “You should have thought of that before you ran off everything on four legs within a two-mile radius.” He turned his back to her. “You’re lucky you don’t have to walk. Now get dressed.”

  Shrugging out of her stained rags, she pulled on the soft jerkin and breeches, enjoying the feel of clean clothes next to her skin. When she finished, he reached under the bed and handed out her black boots. His strange dark-gold eyes studied her as she sat down on the floor to put them on. “You can’t read me at all, can you?”

  Her hand froze on her boot.

  “And you weren’t shielding yesterday either, or even today, for that matter.”

  “That’s none of your business!”
She forced the boot on.

  “Surely a girl of your age knows how.”

  She felt the whisper of his mind against hers. “Stop that!” Her hands trembled as the memories of that terrible night yammered through her head again . . . the still white face at her feet. Why had she done it? She’d never even considered such a thing! Feeling as though she were on the edge of a mountain glacier looking down into icy darkness, she pressed her hands over her eyes. She felt his fingers close around her arm and tried to jerk away.

  “It’s all right.” His voice was low, calming. “Don’t try to think about it now.”

  Her heart racing, she took a ragged breath and tried to make her body stop shaking.

  “Close your eyes and center down.”

  Suddenly a black panic swept over her. She had to get away from this tiny, stifling room in this Light-forsaken town and from this meddling stranger as well as everyone else! She jumped at him, knocking him back against the bed, then clawed at the key in his pocket.

  Kevisson seized her shoulders and shook her. “I said center down, dammit!”

  The torn muscles in her right shoulder burned like fire, making her vision gray around the edges. She went rigid with the pain.

  Bending over, he locked eyes with her. “Clear your mind.”

  The warm golden-brown of his almost chierra eyes held her gaze until her eyes closed and, in spite of the fierce throbbing, she began to shut everything out, blanking each sense in turn, as her old tutor, Yernan, had once taught her.

  When she had finally reached that quiet place in her mind where there was no sound . . . no vision . . . and no pain . . . that peaceful inner stillness, she looked again for the inexplicable link she had found before.

  Still visible and strong, it led to the man beside her.

  * * *

  Rich morning sunlight slanted through the hall windows and a few dust motes spun lazily in the air. The long carpeted hallway smelled of wood polish and glass cleaners. Birtal Senn nodded with satisfaction; he had Senn’ayn servants working around the clock to keep the great House impressively spotless, but it was worth it. He waved aside the chierra guard at the door as he arrived at the Temporal Conclave. He was purposefully late, as usual to make the subtle point as to who was in charge here, both now and on the long-awaited day when they finally achieved success.

  Aaren Killian was waiting for him, his sharp-planed face remote. His pale-amber eyes sought Senn’s. “I want to be the focus today.”

  Senn hesitated. Killian, the youngest of the twelve High Lords, hadn’t been present on that chilling afternoon they’d lost Yjan Alimn last year. He doubted the younger Lord really understood what was at stake. Memories of the boiling dark blueness that had swallowed the screaming youngster still haunted his own dreams, but the prevailing theory among the Conclave was that Yjan had panicked, causing his own death.

  He considered Aaren’s chances. The Killians were strongly Talented, and Aaren in particular was said to be quite gifted. “You know it’s dangerous,” he said noncommittally.

  “That’s my business.” Killian glanced at the closed double doors.

  “Fine.” Senn opened the door and motioned him inside the dimly lit room. The drapes had already been drawn against the outside sunlight to help their concentration. A massive table dominated the room. The members of the Conclave quieted as he closed the door. He counted silently, then bit off a curse. Despite his plea to Shael’donn yesterday, they were going to be one short in the relay, not a good portent for success. Still, those present represented some of the finest Talents in all of the Highlands. “Sit here,” he told Killian, indicating the head of the table.

  The younger Lord’s eyes reflected the mellow lamp light and transformed it into amber ice. He took his seat and tented his long fingers. Senn frowned and reached for the carved, velvet-lined box holding the set of seven specially attuned ilsera crystals. If Killian managed to be the one to finally open the timeways, Killian’ayn would gain prestige and Aaren Killian could make a serious bid to be the next Council Head, a position which Senn meant for himself.

  It was so damnably unfair. He’d tried operating the focus five meetings ago and simply stopped breathing during his attempt to channel the massive amounts of raw energy. If the Senn’ayn Healer hadn’t been in attendance, he would have died. Now, neither of his sons would agree to take the risk. His hands curled into fists, wishing he dared try again, but he was too old, too far past the peak of his Talent. Somewhere in the Highlands, though, there had to be a perfect focus, possessing both the strength and resilience of youth and sufficient training to employ it. Sooner or later through by trial and error, he would discover who it was, and then all of time would lie before them like a ripe field of grain, just waiting to be harvested.

  He opened the box and arranged the crystals in an oblong circle. He had aligned this set himself, after much experimentation, and, even in their present quiescent state, he could hear their faint hum in his mind. A murmur of appreciation rippled down the table and he understood how his fellow Kashi felt. The ilsera crystals had been given to his kind long ago by the Old People, the natives of this world, for traveling from place to place, but in each generation there had been a few who claimed to have glimpsed other times in the journey through the gray betweenness, always on the other side of a realm of scintillating blue light. There had to be a way to break through and put this phenomena to some practical use.

  He nodded at the circle of expectant eyes and leaned back in his chair, centering down, preparing to help power the focus. One by one, each man in turn opened his shields and attuned his mind to the vibrational signature emitted by the crystals attuned to this frequency. It was not only difficult, but painful, like the screech of fingernails across glass. Senn ground his teeth and strained to match it. So much prestige was at stake, so much glory, he would not accept failure, not again!

  Killian stiffened as the power was directed to him. A hint of blue light glimmered around the crystals. Sweat beaded on Killian’s brow. He spread his fingers on the table and set his jaw as the level increased, then increased again. Senn felt the jump as each man braided his energy into the power relay. He watched Killian with slitted eyes and fought to hold his concentration, fought to make his dream happen this time.

  The blueness brightened into a wheel of dancing, twisting sapphire lines that trailed off in every direction into infinity. Killian lurched to his feet, his face fierce with pain and effort. Then the lines darkened and hung low over the table, became a roiling midnight-blue mass. The walls trembled. Over on the sideboard, a dozen glass tumblers burst into shards. A grinding force seized Senn, shook him as a hound shakes a skivit and threw him to the floor.

  The windows shattered behind the drapes and he felt the braided skeins of power abruptly spin apart. The dark blue mass above the table faded. His ribs hurt with the effort of breathing as he pulled himself up from the floor. Aaren Killian sprawled at his feet, his hands clutching his head, his skin pallid and clammy, his chest barely moving.

  A dozen shocked faces stared at him from around the room, some bleeding from shards of glass. He sank into his chair as someone wrenched open the door and sent the servant for the resident Healer.

  Disappointment burned through him, bitter as gall. Not this time, then, but soon, he promised himself. He would keep trying until he found the proper focus and then he would control time itself.

  * * *

  The grove still rippled with the near-brush of disrupted time. Summerstone huddled beside the nexus pool, her body ringing with the pain and shock.

  Windsign drifted above the ground, doubled over, her slim arms clasped around her smooth head, her large eyes staring. That was very . . . close.

  Each time they grow stronger. Summerstone dissipated her mass slightly and let the air cradle her, warm and gentle, soothing. We must make them understand before it is too late.
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br />   The males will never hear us. Gray streaked Windsign’s green face, outlined her dark eyes. If the shadowfoot had brought the small one, she might have spoken for us, but it is too late for that now too.

  Perhaps not. Summerstone reached for the mind of the small one who had come down the mountain. She saw buildings of stone and lifeless wood, felt the presence of many quiet-minded creatures. She has left the forest, but is not too far away. I will send the shadowfoot again.

  He failed before.

  Because he cannot make her understand why she must come. This time we will follow, and when he has brought her close enough, we will sing her the rest of the way. She will be our sister and make them listen.

  * * *

  Kevisson took a firmer grip on the girl’s thin arm as they descended the narrow, winding stair down into the inn’s bustling common room. He’d enlarged his own shields to include her, since, for whatever reason, she simply wasn’t able to do it on her own.

  The room was filled with grumbling tradesmen, tinkers, and herders. Cynnalee Kochigian glanced up from her serving tray, and her plain, work-worn face broke into a relieved smile. “The lass do look a mite improved.”

  “Yes, Mistress Kochigian.” Kevisson held out a hexagonal silver coin. “The night’s sleep and your cooking did wonders.”

  “Oh, no, sir!” The innkeeper wrung her hands in her patched apron and backed away, lowering her eyes. “I couldn’t possibly take so much, not . . .” She hesitated, glancing at the girl. “Not when it were mostly Cittar’s fault, like.”

  Kevisson pressed the coin into her chapped palm. “Nonsense, Mistress Kochigian. Cittar is not even a member of your family. I insist.”