There was a reason for the rituals; they let men settle their positions without fighting to the death every single time.
Rancher Brown had caught the byplay between the two younger men too, and snorted softly; with him it was probably that he had nearly seven decades of perspective, and was an old alpha dog who was sensible enough to let the sixty well armed youngsters who followed his banner do his growling and sniffing for him.
“Come on in.”
The breakfast table was still set in the dining room, though it looked as if half a dozen people had already eaten. Mrs. Brown was there, a quiet middle aged blond woman a fair bit younger than the rancher—his first wife had died not long after the Change when some medicine she needed to live ran out. The current Mrs. Brown’s children were there, down at the end of the table, two girls of eight and ten and a boy a couple of years younger than Edain.
The rancher’s wife smiled as the newcomers loaded their plates with flapjacks and huevos rancheros and bacon and sausage and buttered muffins and toast from the lamp-warmed hot plates on the buffet. There was a—small—jar of maple syrup on the table as well. Rudi used it sparingly; the stuff had to be imported from the Willamette, and he suspected that its presence was in honor of the guests in general and of him specifically.
Everything was still good; he murmured the invocation and pitched in. Mrs. Brown smiled at him.
“You always were a good eater, Rudi. It’s a pleasure to see a young man enjoy his food.”
He grinned back at her; after crossing the still-frigid Cascades on foot and living mostly on hardtack and jerky while he did it, he certainly was going to enjoy a meal like this. Ingolf and Edain were putting it away with methodical pleasure too.
“It’s a pleasure for a young man to eat it, too, Aunt Mabel.” Then to the rancher: “I notice Bob isn’t here.”
Brown nodded at the mention of his eldest son, born before the Change.
“The boy’s out getting a horse herd ready to drive east. Saddle-broke, young ’uns four to six. ’Bout a hundred and a bit.”
Then he shook his head. “The boy?” He made a tsk sound and gave a rueful chuckle. “I’m gettin’ old. Bob has a boy of his own who’ll start shavin’ in a year or three.”
Rudi raised a brow. “Taking a herd east? Boise?”
Brown smiled slowly. “Well, maybe. Maybe not, too. General Thurston in Boise is paying pretty good for saddle-broke four-year-olds ...”
“But New Deseret is paying even better?”
“Reckon. Leastways that’s what their man promised; their war with this Prophet fella isn’t going so well. And the Saints generally keep a bargain once they’ve made it. Can’t always say that about Thurston, if he gets a hair up it about how you’re in the way of his restorin’ the US of A, which to his way of thinking means truckling to him.”
A glint of anger showed through Brown’s facade. “And this Prophet bastard out Montana way, he sent a man around not too long ago, tellin’ us not to help Deseret, tellin’ us like we were his hired hands. Talked trash to some of our people in secret, too, preachin’ and tryin’ to set them against their Ranchers.”
And it’s sure Rancher Brown is a bit ticked, if he’s sell ing that many horses, potential breeding mares as well as geldings . . . Rudi thought.
“What did you do?” the young Mackenzie asked, using the plural to mean the leaders of the CORA.
“Told him to stop. When he didn’t . . . well, we give him what he asked for.”
“Which was?” Rudi said, willingly playing straight man to the grim oldster.
“He asked for earth and water. Said it was symbolic, a way of acknowledging we’d take his Prophet for bossman and that everythin’ here would obey him.”
“So you gave him earth and water?”
“Plenty of both down at the bottom of that old well, I’d say. After we dropped him in headfirst.”
Odard laughed outright, and made as if to applaud. Everyone else at least smiled, except Mrs. Brown, who winced a little. Rudi didn’t find it particularly humorous, but he wasn’t unduly shocked either. An ambassador who tried to play politics against his hosts that way for feited protection and could expect to get a spy’s treatment. Brown went on:
“After that, we decided we’d sell New Deseret anything they could pay for. The Saints’ money spends as good as anyone’s; they’re good neighbors from all I hear—better than Boise. If they use what we sell ’em to keep this Prophet busy out Montana way, the more power to them.”
“And we’re heading east, ourselves,” Rudi said. What did Aunt Judy say . . . He remembered, and muttered it: “Gevalt!”
“Figured you were,” Brown said. “Even if your sisters didn’t say much. Well, I got that letter from your mother, and more I don’t need to know.”
He nodded towards the twins, who smiled with identical smugness.
One of them said, “We picked up all the gear we’ll need in Bend, too. A big wagon, tents, extra weapons, and everything else, paid for out of the Dúnedain account at the First National branch there.”
“So if you were to head east with the herd . . .” Brown said delicately. “Well, that would be a help to Bob and the boys, a whole bunch more blades and bows. Comin’ back, that won’t be so hard; they can move faster.”
And we’ll be on our way, Rudi thought. A little rest and a good meal brought the excitement bubbling back and forced down homesickness. On our way to the Atlantic!
“It’s a favor, and that’s a fact,” Rudi said, and leaned over to shake Brown’s hand again, to seal the bargain this time.
After that the Browns tactfully left. Rudi looked around the knot of his relatives and friends and almost-friends and sighed.
“All right, first things first, then,” he said. “You all want to come with me?”
A chorus of nods. Rudi went on:
“We’ll be going a long hard dangerous way, then. Someone has to be in charge, and that one is me. This is not some game; I have to get to this Nantucket place. Ingolf I need for a guide, and because he’s got the expe rience, sure. Everyone else is there to help us get there and back again. All that means I’m in command, and Ingolf is my number two. Do you understand what I’m saying, now?”
“Yah,” Ingolf said. “In rough country, there’s got to be discipline, by God.” A grin. “And besides, you’re young but you learn quick.”
The twins nodded—in chorus. By the Threefold Morrigú, am I going to be able to take having them in my sporran for a whole year? Rudi thought ruefully.
Odard shrugged. “You’re better qualified for it than me,” he said cheerfully. “Ingolf is too. If I’m going to do something this crazy, I want it to work, by Mary and all the saints.”
“Good,” Rudi said, ignoring his own doubts—half the battle was sounding confident. “The next thing to re member is that everyone pitches in. Nobody’s a nobleman on this trip . . . or we all are, whichever. Right?”
Odard’s nod was a little slower still this time; Rudi judged that he hadn’t considered all the implications of Adventure, particularly the part about scrubbing out pots with sand and latrine detail.
“And Odard, your man there isn’t going to do your share of the chores, either.”
The slanted blue eyes blinked at him. “But of course, Rudi.”
* * * *
Castle Todenangst,
Willamette Valley Near Newberg,
Oregon May 6, CY23/2021 A.D.
Juniper Mackenzie spread her hands. “Your message was the first I knew of it, Sandra.”
They weren’t exactly friends, but then they weren’t exactly enemies anymore either, and they had known each other a long time now. She made a gesture.
“By the Ever-Changing One, by the Maiden, the Mother and the Hag, I swear it. May She turn her face and heart from me if I lie. I didn’t even suspect it. Nei ther did Rudi, as far as I know—and he doesn’t lie to me. According to the message John Brown sent me, Rudi was surprised himself when
he showed up at Seffridge Ranch and found Mathilda there, the creature.”
Across the polished malachite of the table, the shoulders of Portland’s ruler slumped a touch.
“I believe you,” she said quietly, and laid her fingers on an open letter. “That’s what Mathilda says . . . and she doesn’t lie to me. I almost wish I didn’t believe you. Then I’d have someone to be angry with. Besides that little idiot herself!”
Her fist tightened on the lustrous green stone. It was a small fist; they were both petite women. The force behind it was nothing to sneer at, though; Tiphaine d’Ath and Conrad Renfrew flanked her on either side, symbols of the power that awaited that subtle mind’s orders.
“And I can’t even send an army to bring her back,” Sandra said bitterly. “It’s too late. Any force big enough would be too slow, and any fast enough would just make her conspicuous without being big enough to protect her.”
Juniper had brought nobody with her except her man Nigel, and that partly because she’d known he would simply refuse to stay behind when she put her head in the lioness’s mouth.
And sure, she might have believed a written message. But coming here makes it certain.
“I’m worried for Rudi, too,” the Mackenzie chieftain said gently. “Worried sick. And I love Mathilda as if she were my own. If it’s any consolation, I fear for her as well.”
Sandra’s brown eyes met her green. “He isn’t your only child.”
Juniper’s brows went up. “Sandra, do you think that I would mourn Rudi less because I have Eilir and Maude and Fiorbhinn? That they’re . . .” She hunted for a word. “Spares?”
“No,” Sandra said softly. “But your whole life wouldn’t be a waste if you lost him. Mathilda is the one thing I can be entirely proud of. What have I worked for, if not for her?”
Then she shook herself and put on briskness. “What can we do?”
Juniper nodded respectfully. “Not a great deal, except keep this as quiet as possible. But news will get out, es pecially now. Mathilda . . . I’m afraid Mathilda has made this considerably more dangerous. She is conspicuous all by herself, and even more so when she’s not here, if you take my meaning. People are used to Rudi disappearing about his own business for a while, and Dun Juniper is more out of the way to start with.”
“We will keep it as quiet as we can,” Sandra said. “And there’s something else we can do.”
At Juniper’s inquiring look, she went on: “Get ready for the war.”
Juniper nodded soberly, then looked east. “And pray for our children, Sandra,” she said. “We can do that, too.”
Chapter Thirteen
Southeastern Oregon
May 14, CY23/2021 A.D.
Rudi Mackenzie opened his eyes and poked his head out into the dry chill. The sun threw a crimson band along the eastern horizon even before it rose. A rim of purple rose above that; stars faded there, but they still glittered in a frosted band towards the west. The camp was stirring. He made himself swing out of his sleeping bag, despite the cold rime on its glazed leather covering. Quickly he pulled out the coat and boots he’d stuffed down in it, and drew his plaid around his shoulders blanket-wise. From what he’d heard, this country east of Picture Rock Pass got very hot indeed in summer. But it was nearly five thousand feet up here; winter hit hard too, and relinquished its hold reluctantly.
Once he had the boots and sheepskin jacket on, the twins and Edain joined him, and one of the cowboys who was a dedicant. They crossed their arms and bowed heads to the sun as it rose over the eastern horizon, turning the crimson band to gold. Then they raised their hands with palms to the sky and chanted together:
Rising with the Sun
Spirits of Air
My soul follows Hawk on the ghost of the wind
I find my voice and speak truth;
All-Father, wise Lord
All Mother, gentle and strong
Guide me and guard me this day and all days
By Your grace, with harm to none;
Blessed be!
He smiled as he spoke the familiar words. Partly that was because they were familiar, and always brought a feeling of comforting contact with the Powers. More of it was the sight of the vast land opening out to the east ward, rolling like the waves of some great frozen sea or rising here and there into a flat-topped mesa. Sagebrush covered it, silvery gray and coated with hoarfrost; the crystals sparkled for a single instant as the sun cleared the far ridges, turning the whole expanse to a field of diamonds.
Thank You for this, he added within himself in the moment of silence that followed.
Beside him Edain sighed and murmured, “Now that’s the Spirit of Air, and no mistake.”
The twins nodded, and they all glanced at one an other, brought back to the light of common day. Over a little way Father Ignatius and Mathilda and their core ligionists—who included Ingolf and a half dozen of the Seffridge Ranch folk—were finishing their own morning devotions:
Queen of heaven, rejoice, alleluia.
For He whom you did merit to bear, alleluia . . .
Greasewood crackled as the fires were stoked up, and the companionable smells of scorched frying pan and sizzling bacon filled the air.
The party from the Willamette ate together, a little apart from the rancher’s men. It was Odard’s turn to cook breakfast, though Rudi had put the flat iron pot with the biscuit dough into the ashes when he finished his turn on watch late last night. The tops were nicely brown when he wrapped a corner of his plaid around his hand—it was a useful garment—and lifted the lid.
Everyone in their group crowded around to get their share. They had fresh butter—the ranch folk had a cou ple of milch cows along with them. They were scrawny looking by Willamette Valley standards, and didn’t give much milk, but they did produce enough for the ingenious little wheel-powered barrel churn in their chuck wagon to work. Odard added passable hash browns, beans that had also cooked overnight with some dried onion, and bacon. As they settled down around the fire Bob Brown came over and squatted on his heels.
The rancher’s son was taller than his father, a lanky man in his thirties with hair somewhere between brown and sandy and dark blue eyes, holding a tin mug of the chicory-root brew people east of the mountains insisted on calling coffee; it smelled delicious and tasted vile, in Rudi’s opinion. Bob accepted a biscuit and bit into it appreciatively.
“Not bad,” he said. Then he looked at Rudi and shrugged a little. “And you were right: all your friends here are good enough to stand a watch.”
Ingolf shrugged. “Only natural for you to want to see what we could do before you relied on us,” he said.
Rudi shrugged in turn and finished the last piece of his bacon, fighting down a slight resentment; he’d come close to quarreling with Bob Brown about it, before Vogeler stepped in.
He’s right . . . they were both right, he thought. Just be cause I knew doesn’t mean he knew, and it’s not some thing you take chances on. I should have realized that right away and not gotten my back up over it. All right, Mackenzie, make a note.
Aloud he went on: “It makes the math easier anyway. Glad you’re happy with our performance.”
Bob stirred his sugar and cream-laced chicory with a twig, sipped at it and gave Rudi a shrewd slanticular glance before he squinted out at the plain to the east. His eyes had more lines beside them than a man of his age from the Willamette, a face that spent a lot of time looking into dry winds full of grit and alkali dust.
“I’m not what you’d call real joyful about anything right now,” he said. “This is the last of the CORA ranches we’re riding over now—and the rancher here doesn’t use this pasture much; too many rustlers, even when there’s water.”
He pointed his chin towards the small creek and pond at the base of the rise they had camped on. The horse herd was around its edge now, switching their tails and drinking, and it looked pretty and pastoral. There were even a few Russian olive trees trailing branches over the wat
er. The little waterway filled only seasonally, and the water had a slight but unpleasant soapy taste. It was drinkable . . . sort of. You could wash in it, if you didn’t mind an itchy film on your skin afterwards. They all had; it was likely to be the last opportunity for a while.
Bob went on: “Folks east of here, the Rovers, the best you can say is that there aren’t many of them. Well, that and that they fight one another a lot. What else you can say is they’re mighty poor, and they’re thieves and cut throats. Taking a hundred twenty prime head of horses through is like waving a lamb chop in front of a hungry kai-ote. It’s like to take the chop and your hand too—and be gone before you’ve really noticed.”
It took a moment for Rudi to realize that the rancher’s son meant coyote. He’d always rather liked the clever little song dogs, but he could see his point—they did go after sheep, and they’d be a much bigger problem out here than they were in Mackenzie territory.
“Why are the people here out-of the-ordinary dan gerous?” Odard said curiously. “Aren’t they ranchers like you?”
Bob bridled at that, like a Bearkiller A-lister mistaken for an Association baron by someone from too far away to know the difference.
Mary—or Ritva—cut in hastily: “Water,” she said. “There just isn’t much dry season water here you can get at without deep pumps. No hay either, so you can’t keep more stock than the winter pastures will support. We Dúnedain have had problems escorting caravans around here—but most trade with the east goes up the Columbia and Snake, or right across on the old Highway 20 through Burns, well north of this part. It’s worse here.”
Bob nodded. “We CORA folk bounced back fast, but they kept on going down a lot longer ’round here before they hit bottom, what with their pumps and such gone. Mostly they don’t even have homeplaces anymore; they just follow their herds from one patch of grazing to an other and pray there’s water. Roving around, that’s why we call ’em Rovers.”
Unexpectedly, Father Ignatius spoke.
“My Order has had some missions out here, bringing windmill pumps and doctors. Not with any great success. The . . . wandering bands . . . are still very bitter. Not entirely without reason. Nobody shared much with them in the bad years. What they really want now is weapons.”
The Sunrise Lands Page 34
