Moongather

by Clayton, Jo;

  “Up here; Dina.” The meie was looking down at her from a hole in the ceiling. She leaned out a little farther and slapped her hand against the wall. “Ladder. Climb it. I need you up here.”

  Dinafar pulled herself up a series of carved slats and emerged into a dusty twilight space between the inner and outer walls, a space wide enough for two men to walk along, side by side. “What’s this?”

  “Part of the defense system.” The meie knelt beside a smaller trap half a pace out from the one they’d come through. She knocked back the heavy iron latch and hauled the plug up, exposing a narrow hole, somewhat broader than her shoulders and about half as wide. Dinafar nodded to herself as she recognized one of the peepholes she’d seen in the overhang. Their purpose became clear when the meie beckoned Dinafar over and pointed. “Look.” The front door was just below. Defenders could take out anyone trying to fool with it.

  The meie unbuckled her weaponbelt and set it aside, unclipped her bow and laid it beside the belt. “I’m going to put things back the way they were. You’ll have to help me up afterwards. Think you can?”

  Dinafar nodded. She looked down at her big hands and nodded again.

  “Good.” The meie dropped lightly in front of the door. She pulled the bars out and wound the chain back through and around them, snapped the padlock home, stepped back a little and looked up. “Stretch out flat up there, then drop me the bow strap, it’s strong enough to hold my weight. Don’t try lifting me; I think I can wiggle up on my own.”

  When Dinafar lowered the strap the little woman leaped, caught hold of it, climbed it hand over hand until she could catch hold of the opening. With a quick flexing of her agile body she was through the opening, sprawled beside Dinafar. Then she was on her feet slapping at her clothing, brushing the grit from her palms. She kicked the plug back in the hole, stepped back as Dinafar slid the latch home.

  Dinafar sat back on her heels. “What now, meie?”

  The meie leaned against the wall, her eyes closed. In the dim light Dinafar couldn’t see her too clearly, but the dark shadows around her eyes and the lines of strain in her face were marked too strongly for Dina to miss. The meie sighed and pushed away from the wall. “I’d like to say sleep, but that’s not a good idea. Bath first, have to be cold water, but that’s all right.” She drew the back of her hand across her eyes. “Clean clothes. You’ll want to get out of that.” Her fingers flicked at the bloodstained tabard. “Hot food washed down with pots and pots of cha.” She yawned, smiled. “Come on, I know a bit about how these holds are laid out. Friend of mine was a Stenda.” The last words were spoken in such a deliberately matter-of-fact way that Dinafar needed no telling who that Stenda was—the other meie, dead and eaten by traxim.

  Bathed and fed and dressed in clean clothes, they sat at a kitchen work-table sharing a comfortable silence in a long pleasant room with a huge fireplace, dark red tiles on the floor, cast-iron and copper pans hanging from pegs on the walls. A steaming cha-pot at her elbow, the meie was repairing a torn rucksack while Dinafar sorted dried fruit and jerked meat into two piles beside small wax-covered cheeses and tins of cha leaves.

  When she was finished she sat back and watched the meie drive the needle through the leather, pulling the stitches tight with quick twists of her hand. “Why do you call that a weaponbelt?” Leaning forward she rubbed her fingers over the series of small pockets. “Salve and soap, needles and thread, anything you happen to need. But no weapons.”

  The meie looked up, smiled. “It carries the sheath for my grace blade.”

  “That’s nothing.”

  “I know.” The little half-smile was back. “Patience a minute.” She examined the rucksack, then tied off her thread and cut away the trailing end with the grace blade. “Finished.” She patted a yawn, smiled drowsily at Dinafar. “Most meien carry swords.” Another yawn. “Maiden bless. Unh. My teachers laughed me out of it, taught me the bow. And to use my head instead of the muscles I haven’t got. Like this morning.”

  “You fell on purpose?” Dinafar opened her eyes wide. “You could have been killed.”

  “That’s the point. You know it; he knew it in his bones and he let that knowledge color his actions, let his anger overwhelm his skill. I had a bit of luck when his leg gave, but I’d have gotten behind him without it and once behind him.…” She spread out her hands. “You see?”

  Dinafar nodded.

  “The head, Dina, will.…”

  A noisy hammering on the front door accompanied by muffled shouts interrupted her. Lifting from her chair with a swift smooth surge, all the tiredness wiped out of her face, she buckled on her weaponbelt. Then she was out of the kitchen, running through the house to the front hall. Dinafar hurried after her, was just in time to see her vanish through the trap. Dinafar pulled herself up into the walkway. The meie looked up, touched a finger to her lips. She was stretched out on the floor, her head close to the peephole. Moving as quietly as she could, Dinafar stretched herself out on the other side of the hole.

  The hammering stopped. She heard men moving about the court, kicking open the doors to the small houses. Two men came stomping up the steps and rattled the bars. Her heart in her mouth, Dinafar blessed the meie’s cool head. If that door had been open—well she didn’t like to think about that. She heard them moving about, then they stopped close beneath the peephole.

  “What the hell, she ain’ here. Ol’ horny tooth up there say so.”

  “Damn fool. Want to tell the Son you didn’t bother checking out the Hold?”

  “Cai-shit, Cap’n. You know it. I know it. T’lads know it. Meie drownt herself in that hoor-storm t’other night. Ol’ horny he got hisself a bellyache and had hisself a bad dream. What’s Son want with her anyway? Scrawny thing they say; not worth wearin’ down.”

  The other man just grunted.

  Dinafar heard several macai hoots and the scratching of claws on the courtyard paving. The riders stopped by the stairs. “No signa anyone, Cap’n. Couple herders out with t’stock. Saw their tracks. T’other Stendam, they musta gone down to Oras.”

  “What about you, Winuk?”

  “Same. Want we should go get the herders?”

  “Trax up there, he say you’re right. Gegger’s Hold the next over, five mile south.” The men’s groans were heartfelt. “Ever think the Son’s looking down at you now through them eyes?” Dinafar heard a soft slipping sound, a creak of leather, and pictured him waving a hand at the circling bird. The sudden silence brought snorting laughter out of him. “Move it, Seyderim. We got half a day yet.”

  When the noise of their passage faded, the meie pushed herself up until she was kneeling and staring into the dimness beyond Dinafar’s shoulders. “Sankoy,” she whispered. “The Intii hinted at it. Sankoy.”

  “Meie?” Dinafar scanned the drawn face, worried by the hopelessness in it. Maybe she was just tired, but the meie sounded like she was ready to give up. “They didn’t find us.”

  The meie pressed her hands against her eyes, sighed, dropped them onto her thighs. “Those men were the High Teyn’s Berseyders from Sankoy, Dina. Berseyders being run by a Son of the Flame doing the work of a Nor from Oras. Maiden bless, Dina, I didn’t know how big this is, Lybor and her feeble plots, she hasn’t a glimmer …” She rubbed at her eyes, yawned. “Ay-ii, I’m tired.”

  “It’s getting late. Why don’t we spend the night here?”

  The meie sat without answering, one hand draped across her eyes, then she got wearily to her feet. “No. There’s no time. I want to make the Highroad early tomorrow; we need to keep moving as long as there’s light to see by.” She turned and started for the ladder.

  Dinafar chewed on her lip. There was too much she didn’t understand but she knew enough about exhaustion to see that the meie was traveling on will alone. My, I’m not going so good either. She stretched her legs out in front of her, rubbed at her aching knees. It doesn’t make sense, leaving here. She’s let her need blind her understanding as bad as the
Kappra and those guards. I have to make her see.… She climbed down the ladder and hurried after the meie, catching her near the kitchen; she touched her arm and the meie swung around a frown on her small face. Dinafar licked her lips. “It’s only an hour or two lost, meie. How much difference can an hour or two make?”

  The meie’s eyes flashed gold fire as she jerked her arm free, wheeled and stalked away. In the doorway she turned again. “We leave in half an hour. Be ready.”

  Dressed in the clothes the meie had found for her, Dinafar walked slowly into the kitchen, uncertain of the mood she’d find the meie in. The little woman’s back was to the door. She’d taken off the weaponbelt—it lay in a broken circle on the table beside the two stuffed rucksacks. She wore black wool trousers stuffed into her boot tops, a loose white shirt whose sleeves were too long; she was fumbling with the wrist knots, finding this more awkward and difficult than she liked. When she spat out an impatient oath, Dinafar grinned and went to tie the strings for her. The meie smiled wearily. “Thank you, Dina. Sorry I snapped at you.”

  Dinafar grimaced. “You know what I think, meie.”

  “I know.” The meie slipped her arms into a boy’s vest, settled the heavy russet cloth down over her body. “If the stakes weren’t quite so high, you’d be right.” With a grimace of distaste she fitted a boy’s leather cap over her head, tucking in her sorrel curls.

  Dinafar looked at her, started to speak, then pressed her lips together.

  Orange laughter danced momentarily in the meie’s eyes. “Green skin,” she said. “Makes a joke of any disguise, doesn’t it?”

  “Well.…” Dinafar looked down at the red tiles. “Anyone seeing you, meie, has to know you.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dina. Before we reach the Highroad I take care of that detail too.” She touched the bow that lay beside the sacks, sighed and shook her head. “This too. I’ll have to leave it somewhere.” She stroked her hand along the smooth curve of the upper limb. “Perhaps I can come back for it sometime.” She took the bow and arrow case and dropped them onto the pile of blankets and ground-sheets. “Everything’s ready. We’d better get out before the caretakers come in.”

  “What about that?” Dinafar pointed to a waxy button in the center of the table.

  The meie grimaced. “Tarr.” She went slowly to the table and picked up the grey-green bud. “You’re right, Dina.” Dropping into a chair, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I’d fall off if I tried riding.” Her voice slurred with her fatigue. “My teachers wanted me to study herbs and be a heal-woman, they said I had a talent for it. I didn’t want to, it was too close to … never mind. Have you heard of the Biserica heal-women, Dina?”

  Dinafar sat on the front edge of a chair, wondering if she was expected to answer; if she kept very still the meie might talk herself to sleep. She looked up, met the drowsy orange-gold gaze. “No, meie. But we didn’t get much outside news in the village.”

  The meie’s eyelids dropped again; her short slim fingers played idly with the grey-green bud. “South of the mijloc there’s an island chain; barren rocks most of them, but the largest has a spring and lots and lots of little scraggly bushes.” Dinafar could barely make out the words they were so blurred and slow. She smiled to herself, suppressed the smile when she saw the meie looking at her.

  “Think you’re smart, don’t you. Won’t work, my girl.” The meie yawned, then fumbled the bud into her mouth. She chewed a moment, swallowed, shut her eyes. “Every spring those bushes produce these tasty little buds.” Her mouth twisted into a wry half-smile. “Addictive and dangerous. But.…” She straightened, her eyes brightening, color returning to her pale face. “But, my tricky young friend, for the next five hours, I’ll have my strength back.” She stood. “Let’s go. Get yourself an armful and follow me.”

  THE CHILD: 7

  Seven days passed, slow and painful days for Serroi. She sat in the center of her bed staring at the walls until she could stand looking at them no longer, went out of her cell into the court, wandered aimlessly about, touching the bars of the empty cages, staring into the sky, going round and round, looking for something, she didn’t know what, empty and aching. She touched the door to the court, stroked her fingers over the cold metal surface. She wanted … she wanted … she wanted the magic mirror and her book scrolls. She wanted to sit with the Noris and feel his hands caressing her hair. Yet—if he touched her, she would knock his hand away and run from him, she knew that. She wanted things to be the way they were—and they could never again be the way they were.

  The hands came back on the morning after the battle, bringing hot food to her cell. She felt no hunger, sat staring at the steaming food. After a while she forced the first mouthful down. Hunger returned; she ate everything they brought.

  Except for bringing her food, they left her alone those seven days. On the eighth day, they came back, hustled her to the cell, cleaned her hair—not with the bucket, cold water, harsh soap, but with a scented cream they worked into her hair then rubbed gently out with soft white towels, working with infinite patience until her hair was falling about her shoulders, bright and clean, coiling into masses of fleecy curls with red sparks in the brown. They brushed her hair until it gleamed and coiled in soft curls about her scowling face. She let them work because there was no way to stop them, though she sat staring at the floor unhappy and angry. There was only one reason they would bother so with her. “I won’t go to him,” she whispered. “I won’t.” Tears in her eyes, she tried to pull away from the hands, but they wouldn’t let her go.

  When the hands were gone, she ran out into the court. She would have bathed in mud but the battle fire had burned the courtyard clean. Yelling in anger, she ran about the court, found handfuls of ash where straw had been laid down in the cages. She rubbed the ash into her shining hair, feeling a flare of triumph, a flare that quickly faded into her former restless unhappiness.

  On the ninth day her boots were gone when she woke. In their place were dainty silk slippers. She caught them up and threw them across the room. They bounced unharmed from the wall and fell to the floor with soft plops. She banged the door open, kicked the slippers out into the court, ran out after them and stood glaring up at the tower. “I won’t,” she screamed. After trying to pull a slipper apart with her hands, she hung it on the door’s latch. Hanging onto the slipper, she lifted her feet and swung about until the silk ripped. She fell, bruising herself, fell again until the shoes were tattered fragments. She gathered them up and threw them into the center of the court. “I won’t,” she shouted. Later, the hands came, collected the fragments and cleaned her hair again.

  On the tenth day her clothing was gone, even though she’d bundled trousers, tunic and belt under her and slept on them. On the hook where she usually hung her clothing was a white robe made of a soft clinging wool finer than anything she’d seen before. She crawled out of bed, touched it, hated it, reluctantly loved it. A cold emptiness inside her, she used the latchhook to shred the soft fabric. When she was finished she sat naked and defiant on the bed, her hands closed into fists on her skinny thighs. “I won’t go to him. I don’t want to go to him. I don’t. Maiden help me, I don’t.”

  The hands came, took the tatters away, brought food, then began working on her body. They rubbed creams into the rough spots and bruises, washed her, cleaned her, polished her as they would a badly used piece of fine furniture. They brushed her hair, brought another robe, more slippers from her feet, forced her to let herself be dressed. As soon as they were gone, she tore the clothing off, carried it into the center of the court, brought handfuls of ash and turned the water on full force. She rubbed the ash into the wet soft material and left the sopping mess by the tap and went back to sit naked and filthy on her bed.

  On the eleventh day the hands washed her and creamed her skin, dressed her again. When she tried to rip off the robe, they slapped her hands away, held her wrists when she struggled. All morning she sat in the middle of her
neatly made bed, glowering at nothing. When the hands brought her midday meal, she managed to upset the cha pot over herself. The hot liquid scalded her but she ignored the pain.

  There was a pause in the activity of the hands as if they sighed impatiently. Then they cleared up the debris, brushed her rather roughly and left. She kicked off the dainty slippers so violently that they bounced off the wall. Ignoring the cling of the soggy robe, she ran out into the court, made a face at the keep, then climbed up the cages, swung over the protruding roof, scrambling frantically for a moment on the splintery shingles, then sat in the middle of the gentle slope to catch her breath. The Nor-battle had damaged the shingles and the supporting beams so the roof creaked under her slight weight whenever she moved.

  She looked at the scattered pieces of dead wood she’d hauled up here almost a year ago. When the roof shifted slightly with a shift of her weight, she realized she could not build her pyramids again. She frowned over her shoulder at the wall, the brown-black stone glistening in the sunlight, shivered, turned to glare at the tower. If I give in even a little, he’ll swallow me. I won’t let him … won’t … She tugged her robe over her knees. Something to hook over the wall … rope? Wall cap is too smooth? What?

  Underneath her attempts to think out an escape, the refrain went on and on. I can’t. I can’t. I dare not. I can’t. Like a blood-drum the beat went on. I can’t. I can’t.

  A rope … something to catch … that bit of branch. She crawled about the pile of debris. A branch like a fishhook as big as she was shoved up against the wall; she tugged at it, trying to break it. To her satisfaction she found the seasoned wood almost as tough as the stone in the walls. She glanced back at the tower. “I’ll beat you yet, Ser Noris. You wait.”

  For three days after that, the hands didn’t come; Serroi wondered if she was being left to starve or simply being punished. She didn’t allow herself to think about him, just concentrated on her preparations for escape. She tore sheets into strips and braided them into a rope, working new strips in until she had twenty feet of line. When she tied off the end, she pulled and twisted the rope, testing the length for weak spots. As soon as she was satisfied with it, she coiled it over her shoulder and stepped out into the court, rubbing at aching eyes. The shadow was deep in the courtyard, the sun floating just above the western wall. She drank from the tap, stretched and groaned, then walked to the cages.