He smiled. “I always thought you were magical.”
She poked him in the ribs. “Seriously.”
“I am being serious. You can say something and an orc dies. I worked with guys who’d talk into a radio and blow up a building. Or a town. Yours is magic. Well—we’re here.”
Goldenrod shivered.
“Want a hug?” he asked.
“Yes.” She leaned into his arms.
“Come on. I could use a cuddle too.”
Newman led her into the pavilion. Their zipped-together sleeping bags were in a corner, open to air out. A moment sufficed to shed shoes and outer layers.
He laid down on his back. Goldenrod lay over him, head on his chest. His arms went around her, firm, not squeezing. They breathed together for a while.
“I had a horrible thought,” said Goldenrod.
“Oh?”
“When we realized what Belladonna did to us we chased her into the woods.”
“I remember.”
“Later we found out she’d been caught by some orcs and raped. That left her with a parasite that ate her alive from the inside.”
When she didn’t continue Newman said, “Yes.”
“I said ‘I hope the worst thing ever happens to you.’”
Goldenrod’s calm tone now didn’t match his memory of the words. They’d been filled with rage. She’d hurled them like a weapon after Belladonna.
“I think I got my wish.”
She went silent.
Newman thought about it. “It makes sense. I’m not saying you made it happen, just that the theory makes sense.”
“To think that I did that to someone. That’s horrible.”
“Belladonna is responsible for everyone who was killed since we arrived here. Even if all the wounded pull through that’s over twenty people.”
“She deserved to be punished. But I’m not a court. And even if we decided to execute her—eaten alive?” Goldenrod shuddered.
“If a little kid gets hold of a pistol, I mean a kid who’s never been taught safety, doesn’t even know what a trigger is. If that kid kills someone with the pistol, it’s not the kid’s fault. It’s the fault of whoever let him get hold of it.”
He could feel the tension in Goldenrod’s body. She was listening, but hadn’t relaxed. She wasn’t accepting the analogy. Or hadn’t made the connection.
“When Belladonna brought us here she gave a pistol to everyone with any aptitude for magic. You didn’t mean to shoot her. It was an accident. In a sense she shot herself.”
Now she relaxed.
Newman held her. When Goldenrod began to snore he smiled.
***
Newman let the tent flap fall shut behind him as he said, “Good morning, my Lord Autocrat.”
He walked a few paces forward, restraining his hands from locking to his sides. This wasn’t his company commander. His body still ached from the strain of yesterday’s battle but he’d be damned if he’d show it with all those with real injuries about.
“Thank you for coming, Newman. Please, sit. Are you thirsty?” Autocrat Sharpquill wasn’t in his embroidered court robe, just a plain tunic for working in.
“No, thank you, I’m fine.”
Declining refreshments didn’t hurry up whatever this was. The Autocrat sat looking at Newman for as long as it would have taken to find cups and pour tea.
Newman waited him out.
“You’re a hero, you know,” said Sharpquill.
“I didn’t do much,” Newman answered with a grimace.
“Perhaps others did more. They didn’t get your results.”
That didn’t demand an answer.
“People want to acknowledge what you did yesterday.”
“I’m not much for ribbons and such.” There were a few in a box that had only been opened to put the last one in. A box still on Earth, and not missed.
“The Kingdom prefers titles, headpieces, or just bringing people up to be cheered by the whole populace. There’s some as suggested a lordship for you as the traditional first award but that wouldn’t satisfy the crowd.”
“So, what, you want to knight me?” asked Newman.
Sharpquill laughed. “I won’t say you haven’t earned it. But you’re not qualified to fight in armor. That’s the definition of a knight here. If the title went to someone without that qualification—well, I wouldn’t want to deal with the reaction.”
“So what do you have in mind?”
“To make you a baron. You get a fancy hat and are called Your Excellency, but there’s no meetings to go to.”
Newman contemplated this a moment. “Baron. All the barons and baronesses I’ve met were couples.”
“We can certainly elevate you and Lady Goldenrod together. She’s accomplished much.” The Autocrat seemed happy to make a concession.
When Newman didn’t ask for more Master Sharpquill continued, “Given the loss of King Estoc and Queen Camellia, the elevation will be on the authority of King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia.”
He said this with a bit of tension, as if Newman would consider this bad news.
That made a few pieces of camp gossip fall into place. “You don’t want to have a tournament to pick a new crown. Just have the visiting monarchs move over to reigning.”
“Yes. We’re too close to the edge to take time out for a tournament. That duel was bad enough.”
“So when I accept the title from them I’m accepting their legitimacy. And committing my prestige to them.”
“Yes.”
That called for a moment of contemplation. “Okay. I’ve only heard good things about them. We can use all the stability we can get.”
Autocrat Sharpquill let out a long breath. “Thank you. That settles one side of it.”
“I thought we were done.” At least, he’d hoped.
“Oh, we’ve made good progress on my political problems. Found a present for your girlfriend too. But that’s all favors you’re doing for other people. Not anything you want.”
“I don’t want anything,” said Newman.
“See, that’s your superego talking. Or conscience. I like the Freudian terms. Superego, ego, id. You have a muscular superego. Everything you do is for duty or honor. You don’t ask for rewards. You just accept what rewards come to you in due course.”
Newman’s face was still.
“But your id. Your id is a fucking accountant. It measures everything you’ve done. Kept a lot of us from starving. Turned that battle. No, don’t wave it off. I was there. You were at least the feather at the pivot. Now your id is counting all that up. And counting what you’re receiving. And it’s going to get unhappy if they don’t balance. People with unhappy ids do stupid shit. So, Newman Greenhorn, deep down, what reward are you hoping for? Never mind if it’s actually possible. That’s my problem. What do you want?”
The silence stretched out. The Autocrat looked patient. Newman’s gaze wandered the tent, touching on the hanging tapestries, chalked-on slates leaning against tent poles, and sheaves of papers. A closed laptop lay on the table.
“Goldenrod and I, we’d been keeping it calm. Both wanting to move slow. This was going to be our first full weekend together. After all we’ve been through I can’t imagine my life without her. I want to marry her.”
Sharpquill nodded.
“But . . . I don’t want to say, ‘hey, let’s get hitched,’ and leave her thinking I just proposed because we’re stuck here and all the other girls in camp are taken. I want to propose dramatically so she knows I mean it. But I can’t buy a ring here and there’s no safe place for a romantic proposal.”
Newman felt his heart pounding. He took slow breaths to calm himself.
Master Sharpquill was trying to suppress a smirk. “For a place, why not during Court? Pageantry and plenty of witnesses.”
“I can’t interrupt the Court!”
“Who said interrupt? We’ll put it on the agenda.”
“Then it ruins the surprise.”
>
“The only people who need to know it’s on the agenda are Their Majesties and the herald. They’ve kept bigger secrets than that.”
Newman grinned.
“It’s settled then. A fancy ring, and we let you say a few words after you and Goldenrod are elevated.”
“How are you going to find a ring that fits her?”
“I’m not. I’m going to delegate.”
***
“How did it go?” asked Mistress Tightseam as they returned to House Applesmile that afternoon.
Goldenrod sat down hard and said nothing.
Newman took the seat next to her. “I found one of those squirrel-like things. She tried but it didn’t work.”
“Dammit, I said D-I-E a dozen times and the thing just sat on a branch and laughed at me.”
Mistress Tightseam said, “Good. Now you know something you didn’t before. That’s what experiments are for. Finding out what happens.”
“That wasn’t very useful to find out,” muttered Goldenrod.
“Sure it is. You’re learning one of your limits. That’s important.”
Redinkle gave Goldenrod a mug of water. She drained it and handed it back.
“A limit is when I know it won’t work. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t is just random,” said Goldenrod.
“I’m glad to know it’s not automatic,” said Newman. “I was wondering if I’m actually good at hunting or if it was just all the times she said ‘good luck’ when I left.”
That earned him a fist in the ribs. He grinned at her.
Tightseam focused on analyzing the magic. “It worked on the orcs, not on the squirrel. We need to find the possible differences and find experiments to test them. Different locations. Different moods. Whether the target is a threat. Does it only work at home?”
“No. I found the vineroot by the river.”
“Right. So what do the orcs, healing Redinkle, and finding vineroot have in common that the squirrel doesn’t?”
“The orcs and Redinkle’s burn were both scary,” said Newman.
“But the food search wasn’t,” countered Tightseam.
Goldenrod looked up. “No, I was scared. I was putting up a good front but landing here, facing starvation, wondering if someone would steal our food—I was scared all day.”
“Then that’s a new hypothesis—your powers work when you’re scared. How can we test that?”
“I’m thinking.” Goldenrod stood up from the table.
Newman said, “Heights are an easy fear to trigger. We could set up a rappelling line. It feels scary but it’s perfectly safe.”
The campfire burned briskly, providing warmth and light on this cool evening. The cooking rack had been put away after dinner, letting it burn unobstructed.
Goldenrod didn’t answer Newman. She stared at the fire, concentrating on the problem. Redinkle hadn’t been scared when she first started a fire. She was frustrated and angry. Goldenrod focused on the fatigue and tension from the unsuccessful experiment. Added jealousy of Redinkle controlling her powers so easily. Imagined people mocking her for not being able to be useful. Her pulse beat in her ears as her blood pressure climbed. The fire was ignoring her, mocking her magic. She ground her teeth. She wanted to stomp on something. Stomp out the fire, but it was too big.
Goldenrod said, “This fire is out!” as she shoved her hand into the flames.
The fire vanished. Blackened wood sat in a pile. The last wisps of smoke drifted away, no more following them.
Goldenrod fell back, hands clutched to her chest. “Ow ow ow ow.”
Newman’s chair fell over as he rushed to her. “Let me see your hand,” he said, prying it open.
The hand was unharmed.
“Ow. Not hand. Ow. Chest hurts. Ow. Ow. This fire is lit.”
The flames flared up to their previous strength. Newman grabbed Goldenrod and rolled them away from the fire.
“Okay, that’s better.” Goldenrod disentangled herself from her boyfriend and sat up.
“What the hell was that?” demanded Newman, still prone.
“An experiment,” said Mistress Tightseam. “Executed without any of the planning or review for safety we’d discussed previously.”
“It worked,” said Goldenrod.
“Then why did you fall down?”
“The spell worked. But it wasn’t just a punch. It hurt like a sledgehammer to my chest. Relighting it eased it some.”
Newman looked from her to the fire and back. “Killing an orc, that just takes a slice to a nerve or artery. A small change. Putting out the whole fire all at once—that’s a big change.”
“Finding the vineroot didn’t take any change. Just a bit of steering.” Tightseam paused.
Newman realized Belladonna also just needed a little bit of steering as she ran through the woods.
“What about the healing?” she continued.
Redinkle had her hands over the fire as if she was checking for changes. “It took me a week to heal. She made changes slowly.”
Goldenrod took her seat again. “Then I’ve learned two limits today.”
***
The next day Goldenrod put magic aside to focus on gardening. Her mind was on critter traps as she walked down the lane. When another woman stepped in front of her she absent-mindedly started to go around.
“Lady Goldenrod, I need to say you haven’t been thanked enough for all you’ve done for us.”
“Oh, um. Thank you.” Goldenrod recognized her as Mistress Filigree, one of the master crafters.
“Not nearly enough. May I give you a hug?”
“Uh—all right.”
Goldenrod reflexively reciprocated Filigree’s hug. It was firm but brief. As they parted the craftswoman took both of Goldenrod’s hands in hers.
“My dinner last night was a stew of fish with diced vineroot. All I could think was that without you I’d be having a hungry night, if not starved to death already.”
She emphasized this by interlacing her fingers with Goldenrod’s.
The younger woman, overwhelmed by this unexpected affection, but too polite to rebuff someone whose council she wanted to join, put on a rigid smile.
“But I’m so rude, keeping you from your work. Please forgive my excess of feeling.”
Once released Goldenrod muttered thanks and headed for Master Chisel’s shop. Maybe one of his apprentices would have an idea for traps.
When Goldenrod passed around the corner the head crafter joined Filigree.
“Well?” asked Mistress Seamchecker.
“Left ring finger is five and a half,” said Filigree. “Need any of the others?”
“No, the boy’s a traditionalist. We don’t have any five and a halves though.”
“That, my dear, is what ring stretchers are for,” said Mistress Filigree.
***
The first order of business at Court was Master Sharpquill and other senior officers swearing oaths to King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia as the new monarchs. There was no grumbling. Everyone was in enough shock that the simple changeover was met with relief.
Then the monarchs began inducting people into the newly formed Order of the Partisan. Everyone not an authorized fighter who’d hit an orc with some kind of weapon received a hastily whittled two inch spear with an ornate point to wear.
Goldenrod wasn’t included as magic was not a recognized weapon.
There was some teasing as Lady Foxglove received hers for braining an orc with a frying pan. “It was closest!”
The official fighters received traditional awards of escalating significance. At the end of the sequence four squires were knighted. Only two had their knights with them for the ceremony.
Newman expected to be next but service awards were given out to those who’d helped treat the wounded. Again, at various levels.
“Relax,” whispered Goldenrod. “It’s no big deal. Kneel on the pillow, say the words, get the hats, and we’re done.”
He nodded.
They finally finished investing Lady—now Mistress—Cinnamon into the Council of Organizers to recognize her work setting up a hospital for the battle casualties.
The herald called, “Lady Goldenrod, Newman Greenhorn. Present yourselves to Their Majesties.”
They held hands as they walked up the narrow carpet. Two cushions awaited them in front of King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia. Newman knelt before the King, Goldenrod the Queen.
King Ironhelm was not someone who needed a microphone to be heard by a crowd of hundreds. “In the Kingdom a Baron is a leader. Most Barons have a place and they lead the people in that place. But there are other forms of leadership. To recognize them we have the Barons and Baronesses of the Court. Let us recognize the leadership we have seen.
“Lady Goldenrod, you have shown us how to find the food we needed to survive in ground and water.
“Newman Greenhorn, you’ve led hunters, teaching them woodcraft and survival. But your greatest leadership was when you gathered those who wished to fight the invaders and did not know how. You showed them how. You led them to battle. And at the moment of greatest crisis you tipped the scales.
“It is now Our pleasure to create you Baron and Baroness.”
The herald stepped forward, “Do you, Goldenrod and Newman, swear fealty to King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia; and do you swear that you will obey Their lawful commands, that you will treat courteously with all, whatever their degree or station, until the King depart from His Throne, or death take you, or the world end?”
Together they said, “I so swear.”
The monarchs together recited, “And We swear now Our fealty to you, and swear to you We will protect and defend you with all Our power, until We depart from Our Throne, or death take us, or the world end.”
Hovering ladies in waiting handed coronets to the King and Queen. Queen Dahlia smoothly placed hers on Goldenrod’s head. King Ironhelm reached toward Newman, flinched, and took a step closer. Newman noticed a bandage under the sleeve of the King’s tunic. The coronet landed firmly.
The herald led the populace in three formal huzzahs.
The Lost War Page 20
