Excalibur #3: Restoration Page 2

  “Perhaps, Maester, I care more about being loved by myself than I do about being loved by others.” She took a deep breath to steady herself, channeling the effort. The skies began to darken slightly.

  “I would not want you to do anything that would be at odds with your conscience,” said Tapinza. “That is why, as always, I would be happy to serve as your agent in the matter.”

  “My agent.”

  “For a reasonable commission, I would broker your services to the residents of Narrin Province. They would pay handsomely, willingly. Plus, I am greatly respected in these parts, as you know.”

  “Respect and fear are not the same thing.”

  “They are when they need to be. In any event, people would view you in a different light by dint of your association with me. Of course . . . there are other associations that could accord you even greater respect and esteem in the eyes of others. . . .”

  “I have my own eyes, Maester, which serve me quite well. I do not feel a need to concern myself with the eyes of others.” She spoke in a very distant voice, as if Tapinza were no longer there—or, at the very least, of no real consequence to her. The wind was now whipping up in a most satisfactory manner, and small dust devils were already whirring across the plain . . . a sure sign that matters were progressing nicely.

  Tapinza, for his part, didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was much too caught up in his own words, his own vision of things. “We have spoken of this oftentimes before, Rheela, but talk becomes tiresome. It saddens me to see you so stubborn, needlessly inconveniencing yourself. I do not know what is in your eye when you look around you, but allow me to tell you what I see. I see a woman who made an error with some unknown man . . . A woman who came to this province with barely enough money to start her own homestead, a child in her belly, and a talent that could take her so far that it would be beyond her imagination. You have no long-term goal, Rheela. You have no plan, no great vision. I have none of your natural talent or ability, Rheela, but vision I have in abundance. I saw myself in a position of power, and now look at me. I have that power. I was able to reshape myself. Reshape my reality into something that more suited my desires. I can do that for you . . . provide you with a better home, better opportunities for yourself, for Moke. You have no reason not to take advantage of that which I’m offering you.”

  “No reason except that I do not trust you, and therefore would not join you in business . . . and I do not love you, and therefore would not join you in bed. As for what I have to offer the people of Narrin . . . my talents are as much from nature as anything else is. I will not charge them for that with which I was fortunate enough to be blessed. You are correct about one thing, Tapinza. I do have a conscience. It can be something of an annoyance at times, but I have learned to live with it. And if the people of Narrin have to live with it as well . . . then so be it.”

  Tapinza was about to reply when the first crack of thunder startled him. He looked up and around, and noticed the darkening of the skies for the first time. The wind was coming up even more fiercely than before. Then there was a noisy, scraping sound, and Tapinza saw that his sailskipper was starting to roll, the fierce winds having caught up the sails and started propelling the vehicle away. Even as he bolted for it, large droplets of water began to fall from the sky, first individually and then in clusters, and finally in great waves.

  By that point, Tapinza was clutching the sailskipper, having given up any hope of actually managing to steer it. The sail vessel was not designed to handle easily in such fearsome winds. All Tapinza could do now was hang on for the ride. And the winds were more than happy to give him that ride, shoving him back across the plains over which he’d come. As for Rheela, for the first time in quite a while, she felt the urge to laugh without question or restraint. For a moment, all her concerns, her murky future, and the suspicion in which all those who dwelt in the province held her . . . all of that didn’t matter. All she cared about was the glorious moisture falling upon her, and being eagerly soaked up by the living things near her. The flora did not care in the least about her past, or Moke’s father, or anything except what she could provide for them.

  The rain came down even harder, and still she remained outside, allowing it to soak her through.

  “Ma!” came Moke’s voice. She turned to him, standing on the edge of the porch, and gestured for him to come down to her. He vaulted off the edge, ran to her, clasping her hands in his small ones, and they danced with one another in delirious circles of joy as the rain pelted them with moisture and life. The rain would not last long; not even her abilities could completely overcome the tendency toward drought that gripped Narrin Province. But, at the moment, it was enough, and after all this time, Rheela had learned to live for the moment.

  In doing that, she didn’t have to give a moment’s thought to the threat that was implicit in Tapinza’s tone, if not his words. For it was very clear to her that, as far as Tapinza was concerned, if she was not with him, then she was against him. It wasn’t true, but if that was his perception, well, there was nothing she could do about that. And, of course, if he decided that she was against him . . . then he might very well take combative action. She could do nothing about that, either. That was for another moment . . . and she stubbornly refused to budge from the one that she was in.

  She and Moke kicked off their shoes, skidded in the newly formed mud, and continued to dance in the soggy moment that was theirs.

  * * *

  The rain was coming down just as fiercely in the city of Narrin (as opposed to the province), and Maestress Cawfiel was not impressed.

  She watched through her window with disgust as, all through the streets of the small town, people were running about as quickly as they could, turning and somersaulting. Many had already stripped down to their undergarments (and, in the case of a couple of drunken revelers, even less) and were dancing about like mindless heathens. In the meantime, the water collectors were doing their job; the structures were turned up toward the sky, catching as much of the precipitation as possible in their funnels, to be stored for future use. A full fifty had been built over the past year around the perimeter of Narrin, and the town budget called for at least ten more. All of them fed into the underground reservoir from which the residents of Narrin, as well as the farmers in the outlying regions, got their supply of H20.

  The reservoir had, in recent years, dropped lower and lower, to the point where there had been discussion as to whether Narrin could possibly survive. But then had come Rheela, and everything had been different.

  However, the Maestress knew better than anyone that different was not always better. She continued to watch out her window, did Maestress Cawfiel, until she could endure it no longer. She bolted out the front door and into the street. Her feet sunk partway into the mud, and as she slogged her way through there was a distinct thwuk noise every time she managed to pull a foot out.

  The revelers did not see her at first, but then someone noticed, and, very quickly, the word spread. Maestress Cawfiel was not one to mindlessly join in the celebrations of others. That was neither her place nor her function. So the celebrants knew that if the Maestress had entered the street in the midst of the cavorting, it was certainly not for the purpose of endorsing it, or even—heaven forbid—joining in.

  She did not speak immediately. Instead, she just stood there, not even trying to move her feet anymore, because to do so was clumsy and not particularly dignified. She waited, for she had more patience than did anyone else in the city. (“City” might have been something of a misnomer, since Narrin had exactly one main street, and she was standing on it. The street itself was no more paved than any other part of Narrin Province; none of the buildings were higher than two stories, and were—for the most part—rather ramshackle. The place ran about two miles from end to end. In short, impressive it was most definitely not. But it was the only thing resembling civilization for miles around, so the inhabitants thought of it as a city, and there wa
s none around to gainsay them.)

  The patience of Maestress Cawfiel came as a result of her age, and that she had likewise in abundance. The Maestress was said to be older than dirt, and considering the amount of dirt they had in Narrin, that was pretty damned old. She was half a head shorter than the shortest adult in town, and yet, through the sheer force of her personality, she loomed large over it all. Her skin was so light as to be almost translucent, a sign of how rarely she came outside. The rain plastered her short, sensible green hair to the sides of her face, and water dribbled into her eyes, but she made no move to wipe it away. Instead, she just continued to stare, her head swiveling back and forth on her scrawny neck like the top of a short conning tower.

  Bit by bit, the noises of celebration ceased, until all attention was focused on her. Once it had reached that point, she afforded a glance upward and smirked to herself. Just as she had expected . . . the clouds were already beginning to dissipate.

  “Look at yourselves,” she said in disgust.

  Many of them could not bring themselves to do so, but a few of them did. Whether they were truly appalled at their sodden condition didn’t really matter. If the Maestress felt they had reason to be, then they were.

  “Look,” she repeated. “Dancing about in the rain. Gallivanting around like imbeciles. Giving her exactly what she wants: your dependence.”

  There was some uneasiness among the erstwhile revelers, and then a man stepped forward. He was an older gentleman, and Cawfiel knew him instantly, of course. He was, after all, Praestor Milos, the town’s political leader. Duly elected for ten years in a row. Everyone was more than happy with the job he was doing, which didn’t surprise Cawfiel in the least. Praestor Milos excelled, above all, at being beloved. But even Milos knew enough to stay out of Cawfiel’s way if matters became truly difficult. He was, after all, concerned with their political life and the survival of their bodies. It was Cawfiel who had to attend to the survival and growth of their morality. Of the two, she had by far the harder job, and she never missed an opportunity to let Milos know it.

  “Maestress,” Milos said, making a visible effort to choose each word carefully. “The people are merely celebrating. Celebration is good for the soul . . . is it not?”

  “Not when that celebration stems from obvious efforts to corrupt morality,” shot back Cawfiel. “And we all aware of the immorality that poisons the woman called Rheela.”

  “We don’t know for certain that Rheela was responsible for this rain,” said Milos. It was an unconvincing statement, and everyone there knew it. No rain had been sighted, no storm fronts had been moving in of their own accord. Any storm that was this abrupt, and this encompassing, almost had to originate with Rheela, whether the Praestor wanted to admit it or not.

  “Do not waste my time with such foolish comments,” replied Cawfiel. She surveyed the people once more, looking with unveiled disgust at the sheer bits of clothing that were sticking, drenched, to their bodies. “Look at you. Look at you! You should be ashamed. Ashamed, I tell you! I see these sorts of displays, and I wonder about the future of our people. I wonder where it will all lead.” The rain had tapered off to almost nothing. “I am a Maestress, by birthright, by training, by tradition. Am I to stand by and watch you make fools of yourselves, in celebration of a woman who is not entitled to such worship? To any worship? You know the evil of her . . . you all do. There is a darkness about her, which you are all willing to overlook because it suits you to do so. Her and that . . . that child of hers. And her powers that can only come from darkness.”

  “How do we know?” The question had come from someone in the crowd, but it wasn’t clear who.

  “How do we know her powers come from darkness?” The Maestress could scarcely believe the question, since the answer was so clear. “Isn’t it obvious? We are, all of us in this town, Kolk’rfearing, good people. If beings such as us were meant to have such powers . . . why wouldn’t right-thinking, upstanding, morally straight people be given them? Why not me? Or the Praestor, with whom I may have my share of disagreements, but who still seems to me a good and right-thinking man when all is said and done.”

  “High praise indeed, Maestress,” said Milos, bowing deeply. Water dripped off the top of his head when he bowed, and, self-consciously, he brushed it away.

  “Isn’t it obvious,” she continued, “that the very fact that she has this ability and we do not means that it is inherently evil?”

  There were murmurs of acquiescence. There was certainly no denying that logic.

  “Do not,” the Maestress continued, “let yourselves be caught up in her obvious chicanery.” Her voice turned soft and sympathetic. “I know how difficult it is. I know how tempting it is to embrace the convenient. My lips know the same thirst, my throat the same parched sensation as your own. If we suffer, we suffer together. But we should not allow the temptations of one woman sway us into thinking, even for a moment, that Kolk’r above would support such . . . such abominations. And have you not considered the fact that, since Rheela came here, the rainfall has been even less than usual? Who is to say that she herself is not causing the extreme conditions? After all, if she is capable of bringing us rain . . . why is it so difficult to believe that she can also deprive us of it? I tell you that if you continue to embrace that which she provides you, it will end in death and destruction for this entire town.”

  As the rain tapered off and her words sunk in, the citizens clearly began to feel some degree of embarrassment. They covered themselves, picking up fallen pieces of clothing now caked with mud.

  “Go to your homes,” said Cawfiel. “Get cleaned up. Go about your business.”

  “And forget any of this happened,” added the Praestor.

  But to his obvious surprise, Cawfiel immediately countermanded him. “No. Do not forget this. Not even for a moment. Burn this into your memories for all time, as firsthand evidence of how those wielding powers of darkness can convince anyone—no matter how pure and good-hearted—to revel in evil. Only by remembering the mistakes of the past can you avoid them in the future.”

  There were nods and grunts of affirmation, and the people of Narrin headed for their homes. The Maestress did not move but, instead, simply stood there and watched them go. She knew them. She knew them all too well. Oh, they would make noises of repentance and claim that they felt badly for what had transpired. But the truth was that they were willing to tolerate Rheela, and this was just the latest evidence of that forbearance. At the times that Rheela came into town, some would look away or give her a wide berth. But there were others who greeted her civilly, if stiffly. And no one gave the slightest thought to forcing her to pack up her farm and get out of the Province. The Maestress knew exactly why that was. Despite whatever claims to the contrary they might make, the people had grown horribly dependent upon her in a depressingly short amount of time. Cawfiel felt as if she had let her people down on that score. And she knew that the time would come when she would have to do something about it.

  She had simply not yet made up her mind precisely what that something would be. But when she did . . . that would definitely be the last that anyone heard of the weather witch who called herself Rheela.

  “Pathetic little witch,” she murmured. “Who could possibly help you now?”

  SHELBY

  “. . . MACKENZIE CALHOUN.”

  Elizabeth Paula Shelby, newly installed commander of the Exeter, looked up while maintaining a carefully neutral expression. “Pardon?” she said slowly.

  The woman seated across the desk from her had come extremely highly recommended. Slim, bordering on diminutive, she nevertheless possessed an air of quiet authority. Her hair was long but knotted in an efficient bun, and her chin came to a point that was perpetually upthrust ever so slightly, as if she was leading with it.

  “Mackenzie Calhoun,” she repeated. “I was asking what he was really like. If everything people said about him was true.”

  Shelby had been studying he
r file on the computer screen, but now she turned it away on its pivot and looked squarely at the woman she was interviewing. “Tell me, Commander Garbeck . . . do you think my views on Mackenzie Calhoun are remotely relevant to this interview?”

  “No, Captain,” Commander Alexandra Garbeck acknowledged easily. “However, since you’re going to be appointing me as your first officer, I did not feel it would be a breach of protocol if I inquired about the man. He was . . . a most interesting study.”

  “He was more than a study, Commander,” said Shelby, choosing her words as if they were live hand grenades. “He was a fine man and a fine officer. And, frankly, I find your utter confidence over receiving this post to be—premature, shall we say?”

  “That may be,” Garbeck replied. “But I look at it this way, Captain. If I am, indeed, made your first officer, as I am hoping will be the case, then my confidence is not misplaced. If, on the other hand, I am wrong, then this is the only opportunity I will have to see you. Given that circumstance, does it not make sense to strike while the opportunity presents itself? I wish to learn more about Captain Calhoun . . . and, in particular, the circumstances involving the destruction of the Excalibur.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are gaps,” she said flatly. “I’ve read the transcripts of the hearings, the discussions . . . and there seem to be things missing. I don’t know if that’s the case because certain things are inexplicable, or because the people conducting the hearing didn’t think to ask the right questions. Plus, Captain, I am hoping to lead a long and successful career in Starfleet. If something occurred that was preventable, I want to know how to prevent it, so that my ship and crew does not fall victim to the same fate.”