The Golden Princess: A Novel of the Change (Change Series) (12 page)

“I make it less than an hour since they passed,” he said very softly.

The edges of the footprints had just begun to blur a little, soft soil flowing, water seeping into the bottoms.

His voice was gently soft but not a whisper—the sibilants of a whisper carried, if not the meaning of the words. A quiet tone died closer to the source.

“Cousin?” he asked.

“About the same,” Malfind replied, concurring.

He didn’t turn his head towards Faramir, or stop its slow tracking across a hundred and eighty degrees of forest. When the track was made said absolutely nothing about where the
yrch
had gone. They could have left it deliberately as a trap and be hiding half a bowshot from here ready to ambush anyone following them.

“Farther down, Morfind,” he said. “Sweep for signs. I think there may be other bunches.”

Moving through brush in hostile country you split a party of more than ten or a dozen up into a number of small columns moving in parallel
whenever you could. That put them close enough to support each other but far enough apart that your group’s progress didn’t turn into an inchworm crawl and become utterly obvious to anyone looking or listening. At least Dúnedain did, and he was willing to bet whoever had made these tracks did as well. A dozen Eaters was either too many to try and cross Ranger-patrolled country, or too few. Any others would have to cross the little stream too, and the soft ground was where they’d leave evidence.

“Malfind, take my back. Morfind, across.”

She took two strides, leapt, and landed on the other side of the pond near where the rapid fell into it. Faramir walked quickly along his side as she paralleled him, and Malfind walked behind him a little farther with his attention on their surroundings. Morfind was walking a little bent over; Faramir looked up occasionally to scan behind her, and kept his bow ready.

“Here,” she said, in the same soft tones they’d all been using.

They didn’t want to face each other for Sign, not when the brush might spew howling cannibals at them any instant. He knew this ground intimately, but suddenly it
felt
strange and alien, like a dream of Mirkwood.

“Not
yrch
, but not ours,” Morfind amplified.

“Overwatch,” he said again, and she turned to face the woods.

Faramir trotted to the spot opposite her, went down on a knee and looked at the ground again. There were no tracks in the soft dirt, but someone had scratched and furrowed the ground with a branch and then used it to drag leaves and litter over the spot. He gently brushed some of the dead vegetation aside with a finger, and the pattern of water in the scratches became more obvious.

“Covered their tracks,” he said.

He might have missed it altogether if his cousin hadn’t made him examine this spot with extra care, and the stroke with the brush had destroyed detail anyway.

“Malfind, follow.”

He jumped the stream himself; it would only be knee-deep, but there was no point getting your boots and socks wet if you didn’t have to.
Where Morfind had been looking were scuff-marks a little farther from the bank—tracks, but nothing specific, where the ground was dry and covered in dead needles. Conifer forest made for bad tracking ground. That and the shelter of the canyon walls from viewers at a distance were probably why the
yrch
had taken this route.

A little bit closer to the water was a fern just in the right position to sway aside when a shin brushed it and then sway back quickly to hide the resulting footprint. He used the tip of his bow to move it, and beneath was the mark of a boot or shoe. Not any form of footwear he was familiar with, not even the shapeless home-made ones local farmer-settlers often used. It was canoe-shaped, but broader at the front as if the toe of the shoe were upturned. And deep, either a heavy man or one carrying a full load. Armor, perhaps.

“Two parties, traveling southeast about a hundred yards apart, say thirty all told, maybe as many as fifty,” he said. “One Eaters, one some sort of foreigner
and
Eaters. No Haida moccasins that I can see, but there might be some of them as well, they’re supposed to be good woodsmen.”

“Foreigners? And the Eaters didn’t
eat
them?” Morfind said.

“Good point,” her brother said. “That means something odd. Something bad.”

Faramir’s hand went to the signal horn hung at his belt, a bull bison’s horn carven with the story of the Three Hunters In Rohan and with a mouthpiece and reed, the raw material imported from the far-off high plains beyond the mountains. Unfortunately they were still far too distant from the nearest point they could be sure Dúnedain were listening.

“The report said there was only one shipload of Japanese to start with,” he said. “So the only foreigners who could possibly be around here I can think of are the ones who killed the High King.”

He was surprised for a moment at the way his lips curled back from his teeth and flood of hot lust behind it. They said revenge was a dish best served cold, but right now it didn’t feel that way. Hot and steaming seemed more attractive.

“Especially if they’re keeping company with Eaters.”

“But they all died or were . . . oh,” Malfind said.

Faramir nodded. “They were all killed or captured
that we knew of
. I’m point.”

He was the best tracker.

“Malfind, you behind me.”

He wanted that spear nearby if he suddenly ran into anything hostile within arm’s reach.

“Morfind on rear.”

She was the best archer of the three of them, particularly at quick instinctive shots.

“Helms on.”

They all reached over their shoulders and put on the light open-faced sallets Dúnedain wore for scouting work when there was a real risk of a fight, simple ridged pots with enough of a flare that they protected the neck but blocked neither sight nor hearing, covered in the same mottled cloth as their cloaks. He worked his with a hand to set it properly and buckled the strap under the chin; the feel of the internal felt pads clamping around the crown, brow, sides and back of his head made him swallow a bit.

“Gwaem,”
he said. “Go!” and led off at a swinging lope.

Now that he knew he
was
following a band, it was much easier, easier than following a running deer though not nearly as obvious as a sounder of boar. He didn’t try to look for specific sign every moment, just for an impression of dislocation, a wrongness in the overall
feeling
of the woods, and every score or so of paces something stood out from the background. A twig broken, a branch bent, ground-cover crushed down, a human hair caught in bark.

With only three Rangers it was a hideous risk to pursue such a large
yrch
band—not to mention the foreigners, the reports had said they were much better armed and organized than either Eaters or even Haida. Leaving an ambush party behind you was one of the standard tactics of a pursuit, and the only way to completely avoid it was to travel so slowly that you couldn’t keep up with the people you were chasing.

They simply didn’t have any choice, though. From the angle that the tracks had cut the path he didn’t think they were headed directly for the
Eryn Muir. They were probably trying to reach the water of the inner Bay where they’d hidden boats. Aluminum canoes lasted like the hills and some Eaters were skilled watermen with them.

Why they were doing this was a complete mystery right now. But that path might well take the
yrch
across hunters or foraging parties . . . which might be a few children gathering herbs and mushrooms with only the sort of guard needed to make sure no bear or tiger got ideas, or a school party being taught plants and terrain and wildlife. He had absolutely no doubt what the
yrch
would do then, whatever their other motives were. And evidently the enemy from over the sea were a hard and cruel tribe as well. There might be Haida pirates with them both, and the northern raiders were slave-takers though not maneaters.

They had to follow the enemy, and they had to get within signal range of the Eryn Muir, whichever came first. He knew what his cousins knew; when they did, he was going to sound that horn.

Whether it brought the
yrch
down on them or not.

Dùthchas of the Clan McClintock

(Formerly northern California and southern Oregon)

High Kingdom of Montival

(Formerly western North America)

May 16th, Change Year 46/2044 AD

“I
t’s always sort of awkward meeting a former lover,” Órlaith murmured quietly, inhaling the scents of pine and cold spring water trickling over moss-grown stone. “Especially when you haven’t told him it’s
former
yet.”

The track still had fragments of old asphalt in it. That showed as gray-white flecks when dapples of light penetrated the swaying branches high overhead. It had been shored up in perilous spots with smooth rocks and logs but mostly it was a forest track now, kept open by hoof and paw as much as shoes or wheels. Up ahead Edain winded a horn, a long low sonorous huuu-huuuu-hurrr sound repeated once and twice and again, which was manners hereabouts—if you didn’t signal and come in by plain sight when you approached a home-place, by McClintock law you could be treated as hostile.

There were still outlaws around here, and until well within living memory there had been the odd Eater band filtering up from the death-zones of old California. The Royal party were expected and so it was a formality, but her father had always been punctilious about respecting local custom. The infinite varieties of which he’d also said was a large part of what made life interesting.

“
Former
lover?” Heuradys said, raising a brow.

Diarmuid Tennart McClintock had his holding near here, and he had been her first man. Five years ago, almost exactly, at a Beltane festival in Dun Juniper, far north of here in the Mackenzie dùthchas. They’d met every once and a while since, and enjoyed each other’s company, in and out of bed.

The Royal party came out into a hillside meadow with only scattered oaks, dropping away towards the river northward. Órlaith blinked in the flood of light after the deep green gloom of the forest of Douglas fir and Jeffrey pine and ponderosas; to east and west mountains lined the horizon, and some of the peaks of the Cascades on her right were still snow-clad. The bright green grass of the mountain spring was thick and starred with blooms: the last blue camas, the flower called farewell-to-spring with its four pink petals, a scattering of orange paintbrush and the purple blossom-balls of ookow nodding on their tall thin stems. It was cropped by a mob of three-score shaggy but bare-legged Icelandic sheep under the guard of a kilted shepherdess with a bow and two collies who ran silently to bunch the flock before they faced the strangers suspiciously, crouched belly-down.

Their mistress waved, but stayed near the ewes and the lambs that stopped their play to huddle close to their dams, pointing upward in explanation.

“Former lover, now, yes. Sure, and something tells me. Not in the mood anyway, of course.”

Órlaith glanced upward herself. A pair of Golden Eagles were turning in the updrafts overhead, their great wings stroking the air like caressing hands. She thought they were the most beautiful of birds, and they were her totem, the spirit she’d found in her dreaming quest. There was no denying they loved lamb, though. Of course, she did herself. Her stomach rumbled slightly at the thought of roast spring lamb with mint, and she suppressed a—totally senseless—stab of guilt at the way the body’s needs went right on even when fathers died.

Da would have laughed at her, and said
Leave the guilt to the Christians, poor spalpeens . . .

“He’ll understand that,” Heuradys said. “And if he didn’t, his leman would explain what his dense male sensibilities couldn’t grasp. Caitlin’s a girl with her wits about her. He should get off his backside and marry her.”

Órlaith smiled a little; it helped to think about someone else. “Speaking of backsides, I’ll be just as glad to get mine out of the saddle for a day or so.”

They’d been winding through densely forested mountains for days, and not taking any more time than they must, gobbling trail-rations and falling into instant sleep every night. Her own retainers and escorts had borne up well, though the knights and men-at-arms had left their tall coursers behind to be brought on in easy stages when they passed the courier station at the north end of the Central Valley near White Mountain. Everyone was on hardy sure-footed rounceys now, and the gear and supplies on pack-mules. Except the High King’s Archers, who’d left their mounts and just trotted afoot up hill and down dale at a pace that could have killed the horses and even the mules if Edain hadn’t taken pity and ordered a rest now and then.

“You look more tired than I’d have expected,” Heuradys said. “You’re sleeping well enough . . . something else?”

Órlaith suppressed a stab of irritation. Heuradys was concerned as a friend, and moreover it was her
job
, as Órlaith’s liege-knight.

As much as possible they’d followed the King’s Way—what the ancient world had called the I-5. Those works were proof of the awesome powers of the old Americans, who’d carved the bones of earth as if it were a Tillamook cheese. But half a century of wind and water, snow and frost and earthquake and the slow inexorable grip of growing roots had shown that the Mother was stronger still. A lot of the journey had been on rough trails. The light cavalry scouts were nervous; most of them were from the dry open ranching country of the interior beyond the mountains and found all this forest oppressive. Usually Órlaith loved being in the woods, but . . .

“Bad dreams,” she said quietly. “Not . . . not about Da. In fact, when I dream about him it’s happy. I keep getting this . . . I’m not sure. I don’t
remember much of it, but there’s something to do with a desert. Not one I remember from the waking world, but it’s desperately important in the dream. And then there’s this castle . . . odd-looking castle, distorted . . . and eight heads . . .”

Heuradys frowned. “Well, you remember
something
.”

“A little more each time, actually.” Órlaith grimaced. “Probably it’s not important.”

Heuradys’ shrug was non-committal. They both knew that dreams
could
mean something, particularly the dreams of a monarch. Which didn’t mean they necessarily would; she’d dreamt of her first dog for years after the poor beast took his final illness, and all it had meant was that she missed him and had had to put him out of pain herself.

She shifted her attention to their guests. The Nihonjin were keeping up; they were reasonable riders if not expert by her standards, and they were as hardy and uncomplaining as any Scout or Dúnedain Ranger.

“Though I get the impression that they’re not used to trips this long,” Heuradys said when she mentioned it. “They looked a bit stunned when I told them how many weeks we’d been on the road, and how long it will take to get back to civilization. Then wrote notes to check they hadn’t misunderstood. Twice.”

“Which makes sense, to be sure,” Órlaith replied.

“Why?”

“All the islands of Japan together are barely the size of Westria Province, and they only live on the smaller ones the now. Just starting on resettling the rest, from what they’ve let drop. At that, there are more folk alive there than anyone I know who considered the matter thought they’d have. At the Change they had four times the numbers of old California packed into the same space, and the flat land fit for tillage a smaller proportion—and look what California was like.”

Heuradys shivered. “It’s a miracle anyone’s left in Japan but Eaters.”

“The geography helped. Islands are easy to defend, so, and there’s a mort of tiny and not-so-tiny ones about the place there, with nobbut a few fishers and farmers on them when the Change came. Britain was the
same, with Wight and Mona and the rest, from what I hear. Still, I’ve no doubt it took luck and hard fighting and careful organization. They’re not used to living any place else, though. Little islands like pimples on the sea’s broad backside.”

“Ah,” Heuradys said, then with a chuckle: “A day’s travel at most and then you hit salt water and have to take a boat. Hard to imagine. Sort of like being locked in Little Ease in Todenangst, actually.”

Órlaith winced slightly even as she made a gesture of agreement at the metaphor; Heuradys
was
an Associate noble, and even now they tended to be a little . . .

. . .
hard-edged,
she decided.

Little Ease was a dungeon cell under the Onyx Tower at Castle Todenangst up in the Protectorate, carefully designed to make it impossible to stand, sit or lie comfortably in the chill damp blackness. Designed by her maternal grandfather Norman Arminger, the first Lord Protector, in fact, in imitation of one his hero William the Bastard had built into the Tower of London. Though he’d outdone the Conqueror in many respects, as warlord and builder both. There were times she’d wished she could have met him, but mostly she was glad he’d died in battle more than a decade before her birth.

She’d known and admired and loved her mother’s mother, Sandra Arminger, who’d died of natural causes when Órlaith was in her early teens. But under a smoothly amiable, cultured exterior
she’d
had a cold ruthlessness that could make you blink in astonishment, or horror, when it did peek out.

Like a razor in a ripe fig,
she thought.

Órlaith had just started realizing it before her Nonni’s final illness. Common story had it that the ancients had been rather soft, but that certainly didn’t apply to the ones who’d survived the Change Year. Doubly so to the ones who’d come to power then, for the most part.

And according to all the stories, Grandfather Norman made Nonni Sandra at her worst look like a loving auntie with a tray of cookies always in her hands. Da called him a bold bad man and said it was fortunate for his reputation he died when he did,
when he talked about him at all. Mom rarely does mention him aloud; I think she loved him, but then she was only ten when he died and it wasn’t until long afterwards anyone talked truthfully to her about his deeds.

Her mother was Lady Protector now—it was a separate title from the High Kingship, specific to the Association territories, and she’d been that rare thing, an only child, and hence sole heir. She didn’t use Little Ease nearly as much as Nonni Sandra had, or the prerogative Court called Star Chamber that met in secret to send people there. . . .

Perhaps when John becomes Lord Protector he can abolish it. It’s convenient, sometimes . . . but that’s just the point, it’s
too
convenient. What’s that old saying Grandmother Juniper likes? “Boys throw stones at frogs in jest, but the frogs die in earnest.” It’s so easy to break things . . . break people . . . if you’re a monarch.

“I notice you haven’t been pushing our guests much for information,” Heuradys said thoughtfully, looking over her shoulder. They’d clumped together where the road came out of the forest, looking down over the vast tumbled stretch of hill country ahead that vanished into blue distance. “Not even about how they ended up here on the other side of the Pacific.”

Órlaith nodded. “Yes, and that’s no accident. They’ve been honest”—she touched the hilt of the Sword—“but a little close-mouthed about some things. Sure, and in their position, alone among strangers, even friendly strangers, I would be too until I had my feet beneath me. And until I knew what and who were where and what.”

“No hurry, I suppose,” Heuradys said. “But eventually . . .”

“Yes, we need to know the details. But they’re here and they won’t be leaving any time soon, so.”

Heuradys raised her brows. “Not interested in getting a ship from Portland straight back home?”

Órlaith smiled through her weariness; there wasn’t a real question there, despite the way it had been phrased. She
had
been raised at Court, and so had her friend.

“I think some of them would like nothing better. But not Reiko; she has something she wants to
do
here, wants very badly. Let their trust in
us ripen. And let them see something of our land. It’s very strange to them, the size being not the least of it but by no means all, either.”

Montival was big—well over a million square miles, counting the wild lands—and many of the inhabited portions were widely scattered clumps separated by stretches empty of human-kind even now. It might well be the largest single realm on earth, though with well under five million people not nearly the most populous. That was almost surely distant Hinduraj, which might have ten times that number, and its storied, fabled capital of Sambalpur was the greatest of all cities now. People and the work of their hands were the wealth and strength of any kingdom, but she sincerely hoped Montival never had
that
many.

Both the young women had traveled with the peripatetic Royal court for many years, by horse and carriage and railway and ship, traversing thousands of miles, from the edges of glaciers to the fringes of the lowland deserts. Órlaith’s parents had made a point of spending some time anywhere there was a significant clump of people, to let them see the High King and Queen in person; monarchy
was
a personal thing, the living breathing persons of the Royal kin, not some bloodless bureaucratic abstraction of laws and regulations. Traveling about gave the rulers perspective too, and it also meant you met plenty of dwellers who did
not
travel much. Most common folk never went more than a few days’ travel from where they were born unless war called or disaster struck.

The valley below was cradled in heights rising blue-green all about, in a sky where the distant snowpeaks seemed to float disembodied on the horizon under the noonday sun. Wildfowl rose like a twisting spiral of air and smoke from the water, and the first faint trace of the scents of damp turned earth and burning fir-wood hinted at men’s dwellings. It was a new note in the intense green freshness of the springtime forests, a benediction of that purity rather than a violation.

Reiko brought her horse up by theirs and paused to look east and west along the stretch of river. The far faint rumble of fast water over rock reached their ears from the willows and ash that grew in dense thickets along the shore. Below, field and pasture and orchard made a subtle
patchwork of shades of green and textures of growth. It was an island amid the wilderness. A gust of wind scattered a last swath of white blossom from pear trees like distant white mist, and trailed smoke from a scattering of chimneys set in roofs of flower-bright turf.