The Desert and the Blade
Page 34
“The summons to dinner,” Órlaith said at Reiko’s questioning look. “And sure, there’s many an official banquet I’ve looked forward to far less. Let’s go! Fighting is hungry work, I find. Macmac! Stay, guard!”
Macmaccon stirred and whined as her foot withdrew from beneath his jowls; he hadn’t been willingly out of contact since the battle, and they told her he’d insisted on lying at her feet while she slept, baring teeth and glaring through slitted eyes and growling like millstones at anyone who approached unless accompanied by someone he knew and trusted. That was a little inconvenient . . . but she wasn’t going to turn away such fiercely unconditional love.
There were a number of ways to get from the ground to the interlinked flets, but only the hollow redwood with the stairs inside was navigable for dogs and not all of them could learn to use it; most of the community’s canine dwellers were ground-based, like their horses. And unlike the numerous cats, one of which was peering over the edge of the roof at him with that peculiar indignation its breed reserved for intrusions by strangers in their accustomed space. The Rangers had made an exception for Macmac, though. For her, and because he bore a stitched cut on one shoulder as a mark of honorable battle against the Eaters.
“Hungry work, yes,” Reiko said, sounding pleased with the phrase.
She gave Macmac a slightly dubious look as he laid his head on his broad paws obediently and sighed like a melancholy hairy bellows; her folk used their Akita breed for hunting and guarding, but less often than Órlaith’s father’s Clan and were less likely to dwell close with them as well. They had less to spare for beasts that ate the same foods as men, and things had been harder still in the terrible times just after the Change. There had been years when many of Reiko’s people were fully hungry enough to eat dog-flesh, something many Montivallans considered almost if not quite as disgusting as cannibalism.
“And fighting of the sort we did even more so,” Reiko added, falling in beside the Crown Princess in a rustle of silk, seeming to glide effortlessly, and making a small gesture that brought her retainers in her wake. “It will be pleasant to eat. Though I had heard that the leaders here will not be present?”
“None of the senior ones, they’ve all gone walkabout, as it were,” Órlaith agreed. “Found urgent business elsewhere and put the telescope to the blind eye.”
Reiko blinked at that, and then chuckled as Órlaith explained the story about the legendary English sailor and hero-rogue named Nelson. He’d been a contemporary of the even more famous Lucky Jack whose name voyagers swore by, and featured in the cycle of stories that told his life.
She went on: “Their presence wouldn’t be politic, seeing that I’m here without Mother’s permission . . . though I’ve received no formal order forbidding it, to be sure. Doubtless that frigate bore such, and Edain’s second had a writ with a menacing look about it; but the one sailed away after the Tarshish Queen . . . limped after, rather . . . and the other is in Wolf Hall, and they’ll solemnly discuss it there while we abscond, skipping over the hills like spring lambs and singing a merry song. ’Tis easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
Reiko smiled, and opened her fan to cover her mouth in a gesture that suggested ironic discretion among her folk.
“Your mother is . . . stern,” she said, not altogether disapprovingly.
Stern seemed a good word to describe contemporary Nippon, from what the visitors had let drop; not least what they’d let drop unintentionally, in the assumptions their words and actions revealed. Hiding the who of things was possible, but hiding what you were was near-impossible, even if you tried, which they didn’t.
“She loves her children like a tigress her cubs,” Órlaith said more soberly. “But it’s harder for her to show it free of worry and . . . and a desire to control, to protect us, than it was for my father, who was always more at home with his own heart. Especially when we’re grown, as John and I are the now. I think it may be that her own father died when she was ten, and her mother . . . well, there was love there too, but it was like a running chess match between them as well. And of course when you’re born to rank, your parents’ authority changes but doesn’t decrease when you’re of age.”
Reiko nodded thoughtfully. “Difficult, for a family to be raised at court. I have much to thank my parents for, that they made my life and that of my sisters as . . . as normal as it could be. Perhaps your mother will reconsider her stance when she receives detailed reports?”
Órlaith made a weighing gesture. “What happened here was a powerful argument for our view of things. Yet it’s truly said that you’re ever a babe to the one who bears you, and also that the head is the heart’s servant by nature.”
Behind them Egawa rose from his kneeling position; he’d been gravely considering a hummingbird that had flown in a slow curious circle around his head. Apparently the little creatures didn’t exist in Japan, and the Nihonjin found them endlessly fascinating. The two samurai who were never far from Reiko fell in behind their commander, spears in their hands. Órlaith’s guards for the day were a pair of Rangers in back-and-breast and spired helm, carrying shields and deadly-looking long-hilted curved swords on their shoulders. That spared her battle-weary men-at-arms and the equally exhausted Mackenzie and McClintock clansfolk from a duty that would keep them out of the feast, but she hadn’t bothered to even suggest that the Imperial Guard samurai do likewise.
Heuradys leaned against the balustrade just far enough away to give the two of royal blood a little privacy, while close enough for someone with her reflexes to draw and strike at a threat; she’d managed to find an Associate outfit like John’s, probably from the same source, and though it was a bit large—made for a man, and not a small one—she carried it off with unconscious style, somehow managing to make her entirely practical longsword and dagger look like jewelry rather than killing tools. When Órlaith and Reiko moved she glided in front of them with a slight bow in passing, tucking a rose she’d been toying with over one ear beneath the liripipe of the chaperon hat.
The suspended foot-bridge had a bit of a sway and flex to it, which Órlaith found exhilarating, as she did the steep drop to either side beyond the woven guardrail. That was a matter of how the Powers had made your inner nature; she’d always enjoyed heights and climbing, and ever since she had terrified her parents and nannies running around the towers of castles and scaling the branches of apple-trees as a child, and Heuradys was much the same. They both liked gliders, for that matter, though John excelled them both in that skill. She noticed that Susan Mika seemed quite content to keep her friends on either hand and not look down, despite a proven courage as scrappy and indomitable as a wolverine’s. The Rangers had been raised hereabouts and were casually at home.
More and more joined the procession as they traveled and other bridges linked to this, the path growing broader, and two Rangers went ahead carrying paper lanterns on long bamboo poles. As they passed home-flets families rose from their own tables on the verandahs and bowed gravely with right hand to heart; Órlaith nodded in return, though Nihonjin etiquette required Reiko to glide forward with her eyes trained ahead in a style that made her seem to float. The pleasant burble and trill of Sindarin conversation was musical in the background, and there was distant song and the sound of instruments. Rangers considered skill at both as necessary to life as Mackenzies did, in their rather different way.
The walkway was covered at intervals by arches of woven-willow trellis grown with mats of climbing roses whose blooms had pink leaves and pale centers, their musky scent strong and a scattering of petals lying on the flexing planks where they turned the passageway into a tunnel. It led to what was by far the largest flet; or rather a collection of flets merging their circular forms together, where a clutch of the largest redwoods grew close enough. The carved support-beams below curved into each other like interlacing fingers, and the looping edge of the platform enclosed thousands of square f
eet, punctuated by the trunks that made rough-surfaced reddish-brown pillars eight feet thick at the least.
Most of the surface was occupied by the hall where the Dúnedain of Eryn Muir met for feasts and assembly, song and dance, and where the single warriors without near kin here messed regularly; it was a building with a set of steep and wildly irregular shingled roofs whose rafter-ends were carved into the heads of Golden Eagles. On the balcony around it and in courtyards within were gardens of pathways and benches, edged with wooden planters bearing pruned bushes, blue-blossomed Manzanita, flowers like bright-yellow gumplant and arrangements of colored rocks kept wet and shiny by the frequent mists.
The carved screens that made the outer walls in summertime were mostly folded aside now. The pillars supporting the roof were single forty-foot trunks of richly-grained bigleaf maple, carved into the shapes of the Valar, as Rangers called the Powers who governed and pervaded the world. The rendering in the hard golden wood was lifelike, but done in a slightly eerie elongated style.
Each had two figures facing away from each other, a Lady and her Lord: Órlaith recognized King Manwë and Varda Starkindler, Aulë the Maker and Yavanna the Giver of Fruits, Oromë the Huntsman and Vána of the Flowers, Mandos the Judge and Vairë Fateweaver, Lórien Dreamgiver and gentle Estë the Healer, Tulkas the Strong and Nessa the Dancer. Stark solitary Ulmo of the Waters was to the westward, and Nienna the Merciful at the east.
Around the centermost and largest of the tree-trunks was a circle of screens carved in abstract patterns showing no human face. That was for Eru, the Source Beyond, the ultimate Power behind time and space, Who was also named Ilúvatar the One Unknowable.
Órlaith halted and made the Old Faith’s reverence along with the clansfolk, clapping her palms softly together twice and then bowing with the hands pressed together, thumbs touching her chin and fingers on her brow. The Japanese followed suit with a surprisingly similar gesture, the Christians (all Catholic as far as she knew) crossed themselves, and Deor and Godric and the Mist Hills folk bowed—to Manwë, she noticed, who of the Valar was most like their All-Father.
The vast airy hall within was lit by lanterns hanging from the intricate spiderweb of rafters high above, with pools of light fading into dimness. The tables were set out around the fires that flickered red in bowl-shaped hearths, topped by fire-hoods and chimneys of light aluminum hammered into decorative patterns picked out in gaily-colored enamel. The light of the flames seemed to grow greater as the sun dipped farther behind the western hills and the deep gloom of the forest darkened.
The oldest Ranger present was the physician Ioreth, whom Órlaith had met briefly at Círbann Rómenadrim.
Though I was barely conscious, Órlaith thought as she inclined her head and the Dúnedain made a knee and kissed her extended hand.
“Le Suilon, Ernihle,” the healer said in formal greeting as she rose; the word implied reverence. “Be welcome, Princess.”
The next most senior was a man in his thirties named Bragolon Darby, with his left arm bandaged and hanging in a sling, standing with her. He was lean and weathered, with a scar over his left eyebrow, and the upper joint of his right middle finger was missing.
“Mae l’ovannen, Ernihle,” he said, which meant much the same thing.
“Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn,” she replied: a star shines on the hour of our meeting.
Órlaith hadn’t met him before, but she knew him by name and the sketch in the files she’d looked through before setting out from the north. Below the four founders he was commander of this part of Stath Ingolf, and his formal title was Captain of Eryn Muir. They were apparently a handfasted pair, standing to greet the guests with grave courtesy. Each group of guests was given a bow and a few words, and a young ohtar-apprentice led them to their table.
The courtesy showed again as they bowed to Reiko in the Nihon style, at forty-five degrees with the head bent, though they didn’t attempt the language:
“Be welcome to our hall, Majesty,” Ioreth said.
Baron Godric was an old friend here and had been since the Dúnedain first came to found Stath Ingolf, but Deor was as new to the place as John, and they had a similar look of makers storing up images for later use as they took it all in.
The tables were covered in cloth of unbleached linen, and places were already set, among skillfully woven cedar-withe baskets of long loaves of fresh wheat bread with poppy-seed in their brown crusts, earthenware butter-crocks, bowls of olive oil and olives, others of apricots and figs and oranges, platters of cheeses and elegant glass pitchers of wine and cool spring water with sections of lemon floating in it. Órlaith took her seat and refrained from boorishly tearing off a hunk of bread by an effort of will. It was fresh enough to have the intoxicating smell of the bakery, and was probably still slightly warm.
“Folk of the West,” Bragolon said, raising his voice a little when all had been greeted and the summoning music died away.
He spoke in English with the soft Dúnedain accent—probably using what they called the Common Tongue out of courtesy to the outsiders present. The term had a double meaning; that it was the commonest language in Montival, and that it was . . . well . . . rather common.
“Tonight we are honored by the presence of allies and neighbors like Baron Godric Godulfson, but also by great lords; the heir to our own High Kingdom of Montival, bearing with her the Sword of the Lady, and Her Imperial Majesty of Dai-Nippon, Montival’s ally in this war that is upon us against the Dark Power. They and the warriors who accompany them have ventured upon a Quest to far lands, in the most desolate and perilous of wilderness. They seek a lost and storied treasure, a thing of power for long ages, an heirloom of the Yamato House. One whose loss or finding may shape the fate of Middle-earth for an Age to come, for good or ill.”
There was a hush made of indrawn breath and watching eyes. This speaks to their very souls, Órlaith thought. Ioreth whispered to him and he added:
“Though in another sense they’re not here at all; our own Lords Ingolf and Ian, and the Ladies of the Rangers of Stath Ingolf, can’t see them. Perhaps they’re wearing a Ring!”
The tension dissolved in laughter. Young adults made up the most of the audience, what the Rangers called ohtar or squire-apprentices, and those just old enough to be ranked as roquen, knight-warriors.
Mostly they looked cheerful, even those with bandaged hurts; they’d just won a victory that would be famous in the sort of epic tales the Dúnedain loved, taken revenge on an enemy they loathed for past injuries down their kin, and they were part of events that would be more famous still. The cost hadn’t been too great either, and these were a warrior folk. Not exactly fierce lovers of battle like some, but they prided themselves on their willingness to pay the price of guarding the peace of others.
“So we will not question them—”
A declarative statement, but nobody could doubt it was an order as he glared for a moment.
“—nor seek to make them speak more than they wish, for secrets are part of such affairs. We’ve fought and shed our blood by their sides; two of our own will join them when they depart.”
Heads turned to look at Faramir and his cousin Morfind, with curiosity and envy mixed. Her face set, and his fair skin had a fiery blush despite its tan, of which he seemed miserably conscious. Órlaith sympathized; they were nearly three years younger than she, and she could remember vividly the period when everything seemed hideously embarrassing.
“As our ancestors fought the Dark Lord while the Ringbearer sought Mount Doom, we will fight this war that they may fulfill their Quest. And this night we’ll give them a feast to send them on their way that they may remember with joy in hard and bitter places!”
Or remember with bitter sadness as we stare at some piece of weevil-seething hardtack or moldy jerky or suck on a rock forbye there’s no water, Órlaith thought, and inclined her head graciously.
Ioreth spoke the blessing for all them. Dúnedain only uttered it aloud on great occasions, though she could see many moving their lips to the words, and a whisper like a faint soughing breeze accompanied it:
“To Númenor that was, and beyond to Elvenhome that is, and to That which is beyond Elvenhome and will ever be.”
The rest stood as well and remained respectfully silent until it was finished, as was fitting when you were a guest in another’s house and on their heart-land. Nobody here was such a fool or boor as to offend against a host’s sacred things. The Catholic minority among the Rangers murmured their own grace and crossed themselves as they sat; to them the Valar were angelic beings and Eru Ilúvatar another, more ancient name for the creator-God the Bible spoke of. She noticed with amusement how Sir Droyn at the high table and the rest of her Associates at their separate seating relaxed a little as they did likewise, reassured that everything about them wasn’t altogether pagan and of the Otherworld. There weren’t many Rangers in the Association lands, where the Church dominated so thoroughly.
Poor dears, how their eyes would go wide at Dun Juniper! Órlaith thought affectionately. Especially at the Beltane festival, with the pole and the bowers and the Green Man prancing through waggling his whapping-stick and all the lasses trying to touch it for luck!
She signed her plate—a very handsome blue and white chinaware with a motto in Tengwar around the rim—with the Invoking pentagram of the Old Faith and murmured: