Kilted figures approached. Diarmuid Tennart McClintock was the first, with his caterans behind him waving their blades and caterwauling a screeching triumph. He signaled them to silence as he saw what lay before the feet of the living.
His eyes met hers. “Merry meet, Oorlai,” he said gravely. A glance at Reiko. “Majesty. Och, we were later than I could hae liked, though.”
She nodded back to him. “And merry part, to you and yours, Diarmuid my friend. Not too late, which is the thing of importance, eh? War not being calligraphy, and so rarely perfect.”
She lifted her eyes a little at the two tall yellow-haired young men trotting up in Mackenzie kilts.
“And merry meet again, Karl, Mathun, and all of you. My thanks, and a hundred thousand thanks more. The fight was looking ill and grim before your arrows arrived, and never was I gladder to see shaft fly. That I’ll swear to, by all the Gods of our people.”
Behind them was an unmistakable figure. Edain Aylward Mackenzie, Bow-Captain of the High King’s Archers. In green brigandine and tartan kilt, longbow held in the crook of his left arm, square-built and square-faced, with a new gray-shot short beard that must be the result of weeks when shaving was a luxury he couldn’t spare the time for. His eyes were hard and level as he strode up, and his mouth like a steel trap. Behind him was a lanky red-haired woman in Archer gear, and she was smiling thinly as she reached into her sporran and pulled out an envelope impressive with ribbons and red wax seals, if looking a bit battered as well.
That was a Royal writ if Órlaith had ever seen one, and she had. Once she’d read it, or it had been read aloud in her presence . . . then things got very sticky.
I do not have will for this, not now, she knew. There was a hollowness inside her, and a weariness beyond words. But it must be done, none the less, and done now. I will not let you delay me, old Uncle Wolf. I know what’s necessary, and it seems you do not.
Hooves clattered; Edain and his officer glanced around and relaxed. A party of the Dúnedain rode up, with the black-and-silver banner of the Stars and Crowned Tree amongst them fluttering from a slender lance.
Órlaith recognized the two leaders instantly when they pushed back the cheek-pieces of their helms and removed them; tall blond women in their forties, eerily similar save for Mary Vogeler’s eyepatch and scar. The other was her twin sister Ritva Kovalevsky. Faramir and Morfind stood and started to bristle as their mothers—and commanders—drew rein, trying their hardest to be adults instead of just on the cusp of it.
Mary held up her hand without looking at them, but the palm was in their direction and signaling silence.
“Bow-Captain Edain,” she said, looking past Órlaith—carefully not looking at her at all, in fact, or acknowledging her presence. “Good to see you again, my old friend.”
She held his eyes, and glancing back and forth between them Órlaith could see him hesitate and then decide something. Not so long ago the Crown Princess could remember a little resentment at the way her parents and their old comrades from the War and the Quest and the years before could communicate in a sort of code of glances and spare gestures and elliptical phrases. Now she was glad of it. Nobody but one of those blood-bound friends could divert the force of nature who commanded the Archers.
“Aye, Mary, Ritva,” he said a little cautiously. “It’s been too long, sisters of my heart. Though I’m here on the High Queen’s orders.”
Ritva smiled; she’d always been the merrier of the two. “And we seem to meet on battlefields a lot, Edain.”
“Happen that’ll come to pass, if you seek out low and base company,” he said dryly.
Morfind was scowling, which made the scar on her cheek knot; Faramir’s pale brows went up. His eyes darted between his mother and his aunt, and then he leaned over and whispered urgently in his cousin’s ear. Susan Mika slid out of the saddle like an otter dropping into the water and went to stand with them, her face proud and grave.
“It’s important that we meet with Hîr Ingolf and Hîr Kovalevsky to discuss this skirmish,” Mary said, naming the husbands who with them made up the ruling quadrumvirate of Stath Ingolf. “Due to circumstances of which the High Queen has no current information and which would certainly affect her decisions.”
When he opened his mouth she added, before he could speak:
“Over at Tham en-Araf. Where they were planning to return directly once the pursuit they are leading right now is completed and for which your help, Bow-Captain, and that of your Archers is badly needed. All four of us really want you to come and confer, Edain.”
Tham en-Araf was Wolf Hall in English, in the Valley of the Moon on the western slopes of the Mayacamas Mountains to the east between here and Napa—though the Dúnedain called them the Ered Luin these days, which name was by report gradually prevailing due to absolute stubbornness. Wolf Hall had been rebuilt on the foundation-ruins of a mansion that had burned before the Change; the name was ancient too, though modern-sounding to a Montivallan ear. The Vogelers dwelt there when their duties didn’t call them into the field, as the Kovalevskies did at Eryn Muir, and a settlement of Rangers had grown up around it in the last generation. Living scattered as was their fashion, but cultivating vineyards and groves there as well as their more usual occupations.
And it was two days’ travel away, if you didn’t push yourself and risk breaking your horses’ wind, at the other side of Stath Ingolf’s territory.
“As there is absolutely no reason to stay here,” Mary went on.
Ritva took it up: “We won’t be back to Eryn Muir for at least three days.”
“By then things will be cleaned up here,” Mary finished.
Órlaith mentally translated that: we didn’t see you, we’re going away, be gone by the time we get back and we’ll deal with the High Queen and everything can be tied up long enough in messages that take weeks to go back and forth. Edain looked rebellious for a moment—he did represent the Crown, after all.
On the other hand, so do I in a manner of speaking, Órlaith thought. So do I.
She rested the Sword’s point in the dirt at her feet, and her crossed palms on the crystal pommel. That was a statement. She carefully said no word aloud, and looked away, though it was hard not to throw herself into the arms of her father’s blood-brother and closest friend and her uncle-by-choice, even if it meant a wallop on the backside.
Many believed that the weapon from beyond the world could not be used in a way that the Ones who protected Montival forbade, and her bearing it here was a powerful argument that They approved of what she’d done. On the other hand, Their thoughts and reasons were not those of human kind.
“Aye, Mary, Ritva,” Edain said after a moment, sighing. His mouth relaxed a little. “Does my heart good to hear you finishing each other’s sentences like that. Fair takes me back, that it does indeed.”
“You’ll come?” Ritva asked; her face was calm, but Órlaith thought there was a pleading in her eyes.
“Aye. Aye, that might be best. For surely the Powers are at work here, not mere maneater savages and pirates, nor mere foemen of any sort. We learned back in the time of the Quest that it was best to listen when They spoke, hard though it might be.”
Órlaith translated that as well: he’d do his bit to convince the High Queen that her position made it necessary to let her children do this, hard though that might be . . . and that he’d let his sons do likewise.
He turned and barked at the High King’s Archers. “Well, you heard the lady. We’ve more fighting to do this day, and then we’re off to Wolf Hall to consult with the leaders of the Dúnedain hereabouts.”
His second-in-command’s wary blue eyes narrowed and he gave her a slight crisp shake of the head. She rolled them upward and then closed them in what seemed a mute appeal, put the hand that held the writ to her brow, then nodded and tucked it back into her sporran. She wasn’t protected from th
e High Queen’s anger by childhood friendship, nor was she one of the Questers who’d crossed a continent with Rudi Mackenzie and Mathilda Arminger and shared the dangers and the glory. Several of the rank-and-file were openly gaping; she stepped close to them and hissed something inaudible, and they stiffened into a parade rest. Edain went on, his eyes following a bird swooping from tree to tree.
“Though if there was something to see here . . . if my halfwit balls-for-brains elder sons were here for instance . . . I would be inclined to clout them across the ear for their insolence, so. Leaving the receipt for me to pay indeed!”
Edain Aylward Mackenzie could still move very quickly when he wanted to. A hard thock sound rang twice, and his two tall sons were rubbing the sides of their heads and looking like sheepish six-year-olds caught absconding with apple tarts cooling on a windowsill rather than tried fighting-men. He was grinning as he shouldered his bow and led his command away.
“I might be inclined to do some clouting myself, but of course there’s nobody here,” Mary Vogeler said, still looking up into the branches. “Possibly there was someone, but we missed them. Completely.”
“Nobody at all,” her sister agreed gravely as she turned her horse.
Then she leaned over and tweaked an ear sharply as she passed; her son yelped in surprise and twitched.
The impulse to smile left Órlaith quickly. “Bring Luanne,” she said, looking up the hill. “We have things to do.”
• • •
“Farewell, knight of the Association and the High Kingdom,” she said, bending to kiss Sir Aleaume de Grimmond’s forehead. “May your Mother of God fold you in her blue mantle, and the gates of Heaven open for your valiant soul.”
The dead of their band were laid side by side now; the Japanese fallen were at a little distance among their own. Both numbered a half-dozen each. Aleaume’s face was very pale, and looked younger than it had in life, settling into an inhuman peace as the early-evening breeze moved a lock of his russet hair on his brow. The death-wound had been under the armpit where the armor was thin mail even in a full suit of plate, and across into the upper lungs. But gentle hands had withdrawn the weapon, wiped his face clean of the blood his mouth had sprayed in the last convulsion, and laid him on his back with his sword naked on his breast and his gauntleted hands crossed on the hilt. His legs were crossed at the ankles as well—so would his effigy be on the tomb in the church of his family’s home manor at Grimmond-on-the-Wold on Barony Tucannon. It would portray him as he was now, in full armor, and that posture marked a nobleman who’d fallen in battle, as civil garb and heels resting on a lion or hunting-hound spoke of peaceful death at home. The holy oil of Catholic last rites glistened on his eyelids.
Droyn looked up at her. He wasn’t weeping, because in the north-realm that was accounted disgraceful in public for men of full years, but his eyes shone wet and there was a catch in his voice as he spoke:
“My Lady . . . he had become like an elder brother to me. I couldn’t reach—it was too far—”
She put a hand to his shoulder. “He was your brother in arms, and none are closer,” she said gently. “Only fate and the will of the Powers decided who should fall. You will carry his shield and his sword to his family, and tell them of how he died. But for now we have work to do.”
Her voice rang louder as she stepped back and drew the Sword. That caught the attention even of the doctors and their helpers for an instant; several of the Ranger healers were at work, and they had horse-litters waiting for wounded who’d been stabilized enough to be moved.
“On your knees, squire Droyn de Molalla of House Jones,” she said, and Droyn fell to both with a clank of armor, looking a little startled.
The tone she used was solemn; this was a legal act, and required witnesses.
“This man is of full years, though young, of good birth, and skillful and courteous in those arts and graces which are becoming to gentlefolk. He has served House Artos as page and esquire-at-arms, and this day has proven valiant and fearless in battle, facing death without flinching in obedience to his oaths. For his valiance and loyalty I am therefore minded to dub him knight; which is my right as his liege-lady, as scion of House Artos, and as one who herself wears the golden spurs and belt of knighthood. Do any here dispute my right, or know of an impediment in this man? If so speak now, or hold your peace thereafter, for you may be called to court under oath as witnesses of this ceremony.”
Nobody did, though the silence was broken by stifled groans from the hurt. Droyn’s eyes grew wider as it came home to him that she was using the Sword of the Lady for this; it was a rare honor, and one that would be spoken of all his life and by his descendants after him for as long as the chronicles were read.
“I dub thee knight,” she said, and the flat of the blade rang on his armored shoulder as she struck; the sound was more like a great crystal bell than the usual clank of metal.
“I dub thee knight,” she repeated as she flipped it to strike the other side, and then sheathed it.
“Receive the collée,” she said, as she pulled off her right gauntlet.
That was a slap on both cheeks, delivered forehand and backhand, and she gave it in the full old style her mother’s parents had brought back, a hard smacking buffet both ways that rocked his head on his neck. This was a rite for warriors, one that belonged in places where the iron smell of blood hung heavy. Droyn was solemn as he drew his own sword and presented it across his palms, but almost exalted now rather than on the edge of tears. Órlaith held it up and kissed the cross the hilt made before returning it.
“Take this sword, Sir Droyn de Molalla, knight of the High Kingdom of Montival. Draw it to uphold the Crown, Holy Church, your own honor and your oaths to your liege, and to protect the weak as chivalry demands,” she said, in the form used for Christians.
“I will, my lady and my liege. Before God and the Virgin and St. Michael, I swear.”
“Then rise a knight! And I will be the first to welcome you to the worshipful company of that most honorable estate.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and exchanged the ritual kiss on both cheeks; she might be his liege and heir to the Throne, but at moments like these all knights were equals, a kinship that knew no other rank and crossed all boundaries of faith and homeland. John and Heuradys stepped forward to do likewise, since they bore the golden spurs too. Evrouin and the other Associates bowed low.
“And now we’ve got to . . .” she began, sheathing the Sword.
Then she fell to her own knees, and toppled onto her side and then her back. Blackness flowed in like warm honey, and she smiled at the anxious faces of her friends above her; Reiko put a hand to her forehead to check for sudden fever.
A barking in the background and the curse of someone snatching for a collar and reconsidering at a snap, and a greathound was anxiously nuzzling her and looking for a hurt to lick better with sorrow and joy struggling on its gruesome barrel-sized face.
Órlaith reached for the Sword, fumbled its sheathed length onto her chest and wrapped her arms around it. She would have smiled at the way Macmaccon’s eyes held the same expression of worry as her friends of human kind, but suddenly that was too much effort.
“Just . . . need . . . sleep . . .” she said; and did.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ERYN MUIR
(FORMERLY MUIR WOODS NATIONAL MONUMENT)
CROWN PROVINCE OF WESTRIA
(FORMERLY CALIFORNIA)
HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL
(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)
JULY/FUMIZUKI/CERWETH 15TH
CHANGE YEAR 46/FIFTH AGE 46/SHOHEI 1/2044 AD
Órlaith leaned on the balustrade before her and looked out across Eryn Muir, her hands on the flat polished claro walnut surface of the railing, feeling its dark smoothness. The redwoods towered all around them here, rising straight as candles two h
undred feet and more, seeming to reach the sky even though this flet and its guesthouse was itself ten times the height of a tall man in the air. Your eyes had trouble adjusting and it could make you dizzy when you realized that yes, they were trees and yes, they really were so huge. The lordly forest stretched for miles along the little creek that you could just hear burbling over brown stones far beneath, and up the sides of the low hills to east and west, until the sight faded and blurred into an umber shadow where beams of light slanting in from the westward were like golden spears edged with an explosion of green.
Reiko was standing beside her, and suddenly chuckled softly. The Crown Princess turned her head and raised a brow, absently reaching down and ruffling the ears of Macmaccon as he raised his muzzle from her feet. The Nihonjin woman touched the hilt of the katana thrust through her sash as she spoke:
“A thought I had yesterday, as our ship sailed under the great bridge and into the Bay,” she said. “Of what my father’s sword Kotegiri . . . my sword now . . . had seen since Masamune forged it so long ago, how it had witness . . . witnessed so much of the history of my people. The words that came to me were: Tranquility like rice bowing before the sickle, and deeds like skies full of storm.”
She was wearing an Homongi, a semi-formal walking-out woman’s kimono, ultimately a gift from Lady Delia’s collection at Montinore, though one of her samurai had brought the garment in his emergency pack and had been scolded for it.
And sure, discipline must be maintained. On the other hand, it’s a bit of a charming gesture. At times these Nihonjin seem businesslike beyond the bounds of humanity, but things like that remind you that they’re not so altogether and always.
The fabric was a shimmering pale blue silk; an elongated pattern of autumn foliage in brown and white and orange wrapped around the lower hem and then the back of the right sleeve and shoulder, and the front of the left. Órlaith had done the complex hair-knots she sported herself, under Reiko’s direction and with Heuradys’ advice and assistance.
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