The page blushed painfully as only an eleven-year-old boy could do, and buffed away the marks with a chamois. He stood back after a moment; his younger brother Diomede knelt and wiped down her greaves and the steel cover of her riding boots. Unconsciously Lioncel's hands clenched in admiration as he stared at the slender form of steel and black leather he'd helped arm, her pale eyes nearly the color of the burnished metal.
That all showed to better advantage because of the tailor's-style three-valve wall mirror. The rest of the room was mostly bare and lined with sheets of salvaged marble and shelves bearing spare parts, polish and tools. Empty armor racks like skeletal mannequins showed where her field kit had been packed up. The room had a rich clean odor halfway between metallic and that of a saddler's shop.
Maintaining a chevalier's armor was something pages worked on, under the supervision of squires, as part of the noble career path. The two boys walked around her with anxious eyes and ready cloths, to see if anything needed touching up, from gorget to the golden rowel spurs of knighthood.
"Now make your devoir to your lady mother. And then go and tell my lords the commanders that I'll be along shortly," she said, picking up her gauntlets. "Lioncel, take the helmet for me. Diomede, my sword belt."
They did, glowing with pride and pacing side by side, making a pretty picture in their dark liveries and brimless caps, one black-haired and the other almost as white-blond as Tiphaine herself.
Nice kids, she thought. Even if they are males.
Tiphaine had never had the slightest impulse to reproduce, even via turkey baster; Delia was enthusiastic about children, though, enough to use that venerable pre-Change technology. And the proforma marriage to de Stafford had served to ennoble her as well as to make her offspring respectable.
" I'll do this part," she said.
She stood, a little awkwardly in her seventh month and the maternity version of the long-skirted cotte-hardi; the pregnancy had fleshed her delicate brunette prettiness out a bit, too. Tiphaine bowed her head for the flat, round black hat with its roll about the brim, and then stood as Delia arranged it on the Grand Constable's straight blond hair, twitching the broad tail to fall down past a steel-clad shoulder. A small livery badge at the front bore the d'Ath arms, quartered with Sandra Arminger's.
"And this," Delia said.
She unwound a long silk scarf from her headdress-a tall pointy thing with a passing resemblance to a brimless version of a witch's hat Which is ironic, Tiphaine thought.
– and looped it around the Grand Constable's neck, tucking the ends beneath the mail collar. Tiphaine fell to one knee for an instant, took her hand and kissed it; their goodbyes had to be private.
And since I ended up in this Paleo-Catholic feudal wet dream of Norman's, that's the way it's going to stay, dammit…
"Come back safe," Delia said, fighting to smile.
"With my lady-love's favor to hearten me, how can I fail?" she said whimsically.
Her hand touched the silk. For a single moment, as their eyes met, the neo-chivalry didn't seem silly at all.
"And if you start dallying with any pretty cowgirls, it'll choke you," Delia said, smiling through eyes shining with tears. "I've enchanted it… and I'm a witch, you know."
They both smiled; Delia actually was a witch, albeit closeted in that respect as well. While the Old Religion wasn't illegal in the Protectorate anymore, it wasn't anything you advertised if you were a member of the nobility, either.
"Never, my sweet," Tiphaine replied over her shoulder as she turned to go. "I don't like the smell of the rancid butter they use as face cream out East."
Signe Havel noticed that Chuck Barstow, First Armsman of the Clan Mackenzie, was humming under his breath as they walked towards the banner of the Dunedain Rangers-protocol said the commanders of all the allied contingents should be there for this. Technically she should have been riding out from the castle with the other heads of state, but damned if she'd spend even one night beneath the same roof as the widow and partner-in-crime of her husband's killer.
And since Mike killed Norman Arminger too, I don't think Sandra Arminger feels very hospitable where I'm concerned, either. Though she'd hide it faultlessly.
Then Chuck began to sing, very softly indeed beneath the crowd-noise, his eyes on the splendors of Castle Todenangst and the feudal state of the party riding out through the gates amid caracoling horses and the snap of lance-pennants:
"Em Eye Cee, Kay Eee Wy, Em Oh You Ess Eee…"
He was a lean sinewy man in his early fifties, with thinning sandy hair and long muscular legs showing beneath his kilt, and he'd been around thirty when the Change struck. It took Eric Larsson and his sister a bit longer to recognize the tune; the Bearkiller leaders had been only eighteen then, forty now. Eric coughed into a fist like an oak maul encased in a steel gauntlet to conceal his initial bellow of laughter, the plates of his composite armor rattling, and Signe shot them both a scandalized look.
Well, yes, it does all have a touch of Disney, but this isn't the moment!
And that castle wasn't a fantasy for children made of plaster and lath; the walls were very real mass-concrete many yards thick, and the towers held murder machines and flame throwers and lots of completely serious soldiers with spears and swords meant for use, not show. If you had the men-at-arms, you got to decide what constituted reality.
Eric grinned, a piratical expression with his Vandyke beard and yellow locks flowing to his armored shoulders. A golden hoop earring glittered in his right ear.
"Says the man in a kilt and a feathered bonnet," he said to the Mackenzie Armsman. "Not to mention a golden torc."
Chuck snorted. "Hey, the torc's just our equivalent of a wedding ring, nowadays. And I was doing this stuff"-his fingers tapped the hilt of his sword-"when I was eighteen."
"Geezer! So was I, but by then it was real life, not fantasy," Eric said cheerfully.
"Says the man whose younger sister thinks she's the greatgranddaughter of Aragorn son of Arathorn and Arwen Undomiel," Chuck shot back.
"It's not quite that bad; she just thinks she's their remote descendant," Signe said. "Anyway, we Larssons do come from a very ancient line of sand and gravel magnates in the eastern part of Middle-earth."
"I thought your folks made their money off wheat and timber here in Oregon," Chuck said. "Back about a hundred years pre-Change."
"Yeah, but before then we farmed sand and broke our plows on rocks in Smaland for Freya-knows-how-many thousands of years."
Eric inclined the ostrich-feather plumes of his dress helmet towards the Dunedain banner for an instant.
"Chuck, did I ever tell you the one I made up for Astrid, back before the Change?"
He whispered; they were getting closer, even with the general hubbub.
"No, Eric, I don't think you did. But feel free."
As softly, Eric went on:
"Ho, Tom Bombadil!
Tom Bumboydildo!"
" Shut up," Signe said, suppressing an unwilling smile. "Besides, you need to dance and click your heels with that simpering look and the daisy stuck up your nose, for the full effect."
The Bearkiller banner was borne by Bill Larsson, Eric's eldest son; he was nearly as tall as his father, with hair of brown curls and a skin the color of lightly toasted wheat bread and just this year the brand of an A-lister between his brows. He exchanged a look with Mike Havel Jr.; the fourteen-year-old rolled his eyes slightly despite the tight discipline of the Outfit his father had founded. They were both obviously wondering what the hell their elders were talking about. Chuck's foster son Oak carried the Clan's moon-and-antlers flag; he was thirty-one, and about as bewildered.
Changelings, Signe Havel thought, with fond exasperation.
And a stab of pain. Even that slight tilt to Mike's head and the habit of raising a single eyebrow was so like his father…
They fell in beside Astrid and the others. And she's being the Noble, Stern, Wise, Grave, Kindly Leader, Signe thought a
s she took in her younger sister's pose. Well, she can carry it off with style. A bull-goose loony she may be, but she's still a Larsson.
Astrid exchanged a single regal nod as Sandra Arminger approached; they were both sovereigns. Cardinal-Archbishop Maxwell raised his crosier and signed the air in blessing; Juniper Mackenzie did the same with her staff topped with the Triple Moon-she was in a formal arsaid today, and jeweled belt and headband with the sign of the Crescent Moon on her brow. The others made brief greeting, but this was a military occasion, strictly speaking.
Then Tiphaine went down on both knees before her sovereign. She drew her longsword, kissed the cross the hilt made, and then raised the blade on the palms of her gloved hands.
"My liege, my sword is yours, and all my faith and obedience, under God."
Sandra took it-a little awkwardly, since she was petite and had never been a warrior of any sort. She turned to Astrid and extended the blade.
"My Grand Constable's sword I tender to you, Lady Astrid of the Dunedain Rangers, in token of your command of this army."
She had a high voice, but trained to carry by a generation of public events. Tiphaine rose and then went down on one knee facing Astrid-the lesser salute to a ruler not her own, and done with liquid grace despite the sixty pounds of armor. Astrid's eyes met hers for a moment; then the Ranger leader swung the sword with casual expertise in a shimmering arc that ended with it presented to Tiphaine hilt-first.
The Grand Constable took the blade and sheathed it without glancing down. "Lady Astrid, at my ruler's order I tender you my obedience and faith so long as this alliance shall last; so help me God."
She extended her hands, palm pressed to palm, and Astrid took them between her own:
"Grand Constable d'Ath, so long as this alliance shall last, I acknowledge you as second-in-command of this army, and in my absence or if I should fall, its commander. So witness the Lord Manwe and the Lady Varda, and the One Who is above all."
Signe's eyes went a little wider. That hadn't been on the agenda! Sandra's expression mirrored her own, under a control that couldn't be called iron because it was far too supple.
Now, that was a smart political move, little sister, Signe thought grudgingly. And you did it despite the fact that you hate Tiphaine as much as I do Sandra… and unlike Sandra, Tiphaine hates you right back. She's not nearly as emotionless as you'd think, underneath that Icy Elegant Killer Dyke facade.
The Association contingent raised a cheer, hammering their weapons on their shields and shouting out, "Lady d'Ath! Lady d'Ath!" The sound grew as the news spread to those out of earshot; the harsh male chorus echoed back from the walls of the castle, and frightened skeins of wildfowl into flight from the Willamette behind them, rising like black beaded strings into the cloudless sky.
It sounded a lot like Lady Death, which was Tiphaine's nickname in Portland's domains.
The cheer gradually swept down the ranks, since it wouldn't do to leave the Protectorate troops on their own. Each group joined in its own fashion-you could tell the banshee shrieks of the Mackenzies as soon as they came in, or the Bearkiller growl of Ooo-rah. And the warrior Benedictines of the Order of the Shield sang a few stanzas of a military hymn instead of just yelling:
"Kyrie Eleison, down the road we all must follow-"
The other leaders made their variations on the same speech as Sandra, and the commanders of the forces they'd contributed did homage to Astrid; Eric was grave as he went to one knee and put his hands between hers-Signe had been half afraid that he'd absently call their younger sibling sis or peanut. As the affair wound up Sandra looked aside.
"Isn't that your son, Lady Signe? He's the living image of his father these days."
"Yes," Signe said brusquely. "He is."
And I have him and his four sisters, Signe thought, and knew Sandra was thinking it as well. While your precious singleton Mathilda is off East of the mountains in the Goddess-knows-what peril. I don't wish Rudi any ill… not anymore, and I love Ritva and Mary even if they're difficult and prickly. But your daughter, on the other hand, is all you've got…
"A handsome lad, but then, his father was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, in an extremely masculine way. In fact young Mike looks a great deal like Rudi. With less red in the hair, of course," Sandra went on politely.
Ouch, Signe thought.
It was true, too; Mike had been Rudi's blood-father. That brief encounter with Juniper Mackenzie had been before they were married, but…
Don't try to get into a meaner-than-thou contrast with the Spider of the Silver Tower, she reminded herself.
"He'll be going East with your brother?" Sandra went on.
"Yes," Signe said. "He's a military apprentice now, and among the best of his year."
And this isn't a time when a ruler can keep himself safe, she thought. I don't wish Rudi ill, but my son will have his own heritage. And to do that, he has to have experience and to gain it in front of the other warriors.
"Ah, yes, that Spartan-style thing you Bearkillers have," Sandra said smoothly, looking at her out of the corners of her brown eyes. "I pray that every mother's child shall return safely."
It isn't a time like that, Signe thought, controlling her glare. But, oh, how I wish it was!
"Hey, hey, laddie-o
Paint your face and string your bow!"
Juniper Mackenzie waved as she passed by the campfire where they were roaring out the old marching song to a skirl of pipes and a hammer of drums. The air in the Mackenzie encampment beneath Castle Todenangst was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and grilling food and the incidental odors that even a cleanly folk couldn't avoid, as the sun fell westward behind the towers in a blaze of black and golden clouds above the Coast Range. It had been a warm afternoon, perfect for the speeches and rites; she and Judy Barstow were still in their robes of ceremony as High Priestesses and carrying their staffs.
"This is how it starts," she said sadly.
"Hopefully, it will be over soon, at least this first phase," her handfasted man, Nigel, said beside her. "Though I hesitate to say Home before Christmas… or Yule. That prediction hasn't got a happy history."
"Wars are always easier to start than end," Juniper agreed, and sighed. "Sure, and you can start them yourself, but the other side must agree for the dance to stop. And their outcomes are never certain. If it weren't for all that, and the waste and pain and grief and sorrow and general wicked black ugliness, it's a splendid and glorious thing war would be."
"Hey, hey, lassie-o
Plant the stake and face the foe!
What use the lance and the golden rowel
As their faces turn white at the Clan's wolf-howl?"
She winced slightly; that was a song from the War of the Eye, and not too tactful now considering the time, place and circumstance. Though there were Protectorate folk mingling among the Mackenzies. One dark young squire was even dancing to the beat of the war-chant-the golden bells on his shoes twinkling in the air as he did what the old world would have called a breakdance and clansfolk no older clapped and cheered him on.
"They're all so young," she said despairingly.
"You asked for volunteers," Chuck Barstow said with infuriating reasonableness, and his wife Judy nodded. "So you get the young ones who don't have kids and crofts depending on them."
"They weren't born yet when the Change came."
"Or near as no matter. Even Oak"-his foster son-"doesn't remember the old world much, and he was… what, nine, when we found that school bus on the way here?" A shrug. "It's all easier for the Changelings."
Judy Barstow silently reached over and put a hand on her shoulder; Juniper covered it with her own for an instant, grateful for her oldest friend's presence.
Only a scattering of the warriors were old enough to have fought in the War of the Eye, mostly the bow-captains, and they were quieter. The two couples passed another fire where the youngsters were kneeling in pairs, touching up the savage patterns swirling a
cross their faces and bodies and limbs in soot black and leaf green, henna crimson and saffron gold.
" That's a bit early," Chuck said dryly. "They're going to run out of war-paint before there's any fighting, if they keep that up every day."
One tall girl among them suddenly sprang up and snatched a sword free, whirling naked into a battle dance around the fire with the sharp steel flashing. Her painted face contorted as she leapt and lunged, her eyes blank and exalted as they stared beyond the Veil, graceful and deadly as the cougar whose catamount shriek she gave. Her blade-mates joined her, screaming out the calls of their totem beasts, their bare feet stamping the measure as they invited those spirits to take possession on the road to battle.
Juniper shivered slightly, watching the snarling faces and the steel that flashed bloodred in the light of the dying sun.
"Oh Powers of Earth and Sky, what is it that you've brought back, to run wild once more upon the ridge of the world?" she said softly. "You know, I don't understand the younger generation. I love them, but even Rudi… we were never as strange to our parents."
"I don't think so," Judy said dryly; her old friend had always had that gift of bringing her back to earth. "But they and we didn't have the Change between us. You'd have to skip back quite a few more generations to get that, eh? Go far enough back, and we'd be the odd ones, not the Changelings."
"They… they accept things in a way we didn't," Juniper said.
Her companions all nodded.
"They speak English, but they don't speak our language. When they say 'time' or 'death' or 'rebirth,' it means something different from the way we used the words," Judy said.
Death… how many of these happy youngsters will lie stark and dead in a month's time, all their fierceness and beauty gone too soon? Juniper thought. And rebirth, yes, but death comes first, and we are right to fear it, for it is dreadful to pass through the dark gate, even if you know what waits beyond.
They walked beyond the fires and the encampment, into the woods that lay along the river, parkland kept as a pleasaunce for the castle-dwellers of noble rank, a pretty amendment of nature. Far eastward the tiny perfect white cone of Mt. Hood caught the dying sun for an instant, flushing pink and then fading away as the first stars appeared.
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