The Tears of the Sun (61 page)

“I agree with you,
roquen
,” Alleyne said. To Dorje, in English: “Certainly you won't slow us down more than a two-year-old, sir.”

Another of the Sun Valley folk leaned forward. He had an Eastern face too, but of a different stamp than Dorje's, smoother and the color of pale ivory, and he was about a generation younger, in a lean fit middle-age where every visible muscle showed like an anatomical diagram beneath the skin. He was clad in a set of lamellar armor linked with cords, a dao saber at his belt and a bowcase and quiver beside him.

“This is Master Hao,” Dorje said. “He will make the practical arrangements. He is one of our brotherhood who has sought Enlightenment through the development of certain skills of mind and body.”

Eilir Signed, and Ritva translated automatically: “You don't look much like my idea of a Buddhist monk, Master Hao.”

She smiled when she Signed it. Hao didn't, but there was a knowledgeable respect in the glances he gave all the Dúnedain, and in the ones that returned. Ritva's muscles twinged as she recalled the months they'd spent in the Valley of the Sun; to let Mary and Rudi heal from their wounds, but they'd all trained under Master Hao and his acolytes as well. It had been . . .

Somewhat rigorous,
she thought.
And the Pacific Ocean is somewhat large, rather wet and a bit salty.

“Mine was a different path along the Way than the Rimpoche's,” Hao said.

Dorje chuckled. “Many different schools came to that convention on
Buddhism on the World Wide Web
. This has made life more . . . interesting . . . since, after the Change converted our hotel into a monastery.”

Hao snorted. “I must remain with the army, of course,” he said.

Well, alae, duh,
Ritva thought.
You're the commander, Mr. Shaolin.

“However, we have a very large selection of horses and gear,” he went on. “You may of course take your pick.”

Ian gave an almost inaudible whimper, and she elbowed him discreetly.

Another relay race on horseback,
she agreed. Then:
It's going to be hard on Cecile and the girls. And Juliet. Good thing we'll have liniment and some experienced fieldmasseurs, like me and Aunt Eilir. We can rig a carrier cradle for Lawrence Jr., but he's not going to be a happy camper after a while either, poor little guy.

Alleyne brought out a map. “We're here,” he said, pointing to a spot near Winnemucca. “We need to get here.”

His finger came down on Ashland, in the Rogue River Valley south of the Willamette.

“The rail line was cleared and repaired that far three years ago, just before the war started. We can catch pedal cars from there, and then be anywhere on the rail net quickly, with a maximum priority to clear the track.”

Hao looked, intent. “Your route?”

He traced it. “Dúnedain explorers have covered most of this area south of Ashland, from a bit west of here to the ocean and down into California, and this should be the least troublesome—the distance is about three hundred miles as the crow flies. About seventy to a hundred more as we'll be traveling, mostly along the old Route 140, but in summer and with plenty of horses, I wouldn't say it's too hard. A bit strenuous, perhaps. Seventy to a hundred miles a day.”

Ian unconsciously rubbed at his buttocks. Ritva nodded, but then she looked at the face of the Lord of the Folk of the West. Something like this was
just
what he needed right now.

“Oh, by Saint Bernadette, that's awful!” Yseult Liu said, at the end of the story of the escape from Boise.

The Thurston girls looked at her solemnly, as they rolled the bandages and she contemplated their story of treachery and exile. They had a table to themselves in the city guildhall; apart from that, they were all doing pretty much the same work, making neat bundles of the clean linen. Nearly all the workers were women, but there was everything from gentlewomen to laborers' daughters here, supervised by the experts from the Sisters of Compassion. It was hot and stuffy despite the size of the room and the high ceiling and the tall open windows, and her hands felt a little sore from the frequent dips into disinfectant.

The bandages went onto wheeled trays that others pushed around, taken off to the ones who'd sterilize them in autoclaves, seal and label them and then pack them for shipment to the warehouses where they awaited the need.

Soon,
Yseult thought with a slight shiver.
The Grand Constable is already fighting in the east. It's getting closer. Huon will be there soon.

“Uh . . . yeah,” Shawonda said. “The Cutters
are
awful. They . . . they sort of
warp
things around them. Like contagious miserable badness. It's scary!”

Yseult nodded vigorously, though she didn't add the thoughts about demonic influences that naturally occurred to her. She wasn't under any illusions about why it had been
suggested
that she take the Thurston daughters under her wing. It was a first installment on her future status as lady-in-waiting to the High Queen, even if she still wore her oblate's robe and worked at a medical task.

A whistle sounded. “Shift change!” the guildmistress of the weavers who was overseeing the whole affair called.

Everyone rose and filed out; Shawonda blew out her cheeks in relief as they went into the courtyard. The walls on either side gave shade, along with tall cottonwoods, and there was a garden—at least, a fountain in the center and several banks of flowers in raised beds between gravel walkway. The building was new since the Change; there hadn't been anything in the little town suitable for meetings of craft and merchant guilds and the Lord Mayor and Council of Aldermen and the Confraternities.

The Crown had subsidized it, as part of the Regent's
Compassionate Feudalization
program. She'd heard the High Queen sigh over that term; then she'd acknowledged that it was perfectly sensible to give people positive incentives to act the way you wanted them to. Hence the three stories of stuccoed ferroconcrete gothic tracery around them, with the arched gateway that gave out onto the main square. They all drank from the cool water that sprang down in streams from the central spindle of the fountain and shook out their hands, laughing.

Yseult exchanged curtsies with others of those streaming out of the workroom; going first and sinking deeper to ladies of higher rank, returning those of her inferiors, and nodding and smiling instead when it was a non-Associate woman. The Thurstons looked on, a little puzzled at the ritual of precedence; she thought that Shawonda at least sensed that she was seeing the steps of a dance she didn't know.

Janie spoke as they walked back towards the castle; that took them along the town square, which was nearly packed, slowing their walk as they dodged around clumps of soldiers and clerks and clerics, craftsmen and peasants and laborers.

“You look a little like your brother,” the younger Thurston girl said. “I liked him a lot. He made me laugh and he was so . . . so
elegant
.”

The children's trousers attracted some eyes, but there were enough folk from outside the Association present that it would pass even in this little backland quasi-city—she could see three Mackenzie kilts and a couple of Bearkiller outfits at a glance, plus someone who was probably from Corvallis. There were political reasons for them not to wholly adopt Association ways.

Her oblate's robe was plain, but it got more deference and effort to let them through than an escort of crossbowmen might have, though she still had to navigate carefully around porters and the preoccupied. It took her a moment before she realized that Janie meant Odard, not Huon; time dulled grief, and it had been months now since she learned of his death.

“And he was so handsome,” Shawonda nodded, her eyes looking a little dreamy for a moment. “Not as handsome as Rudi . . . I mean the High King . . . but really cool. He had such beautiful manners, he made you feel
special.
”

The elder Thurston girl had a round face; she wasn't overweight, a little gaunt if anything, but that seemed to be the way her bones went. Her sister was much prettier and she thought always would be, though still a child rather than a maiden.

And they're the sisters of a ruler, of course, so it won't matter that much for them,
Yseult thought.
They're both clever, which is more important.

“Thank you,” Yseult said. “He was a gallant knight and a good man and a wonderful brother . . . except when he was being a jerk; you know how brothers are sometimes.”

They both nodded, and she went on: “He saved our family after . . . well, after what my mother did.”

“Like our brother Martin,” Shawonda said bitterly.

Janie took her hand consolingly. “It's good to see Fred again, though, isn't it?”

“Yes!”

They passed a knot of men-at-arms drinking outside a tavern that had spilled out to encroach on the way with trestle tables; they ignored the girls, sitting with their arming doublets half unlaced and intent on the tail end of a song:

And then the tune turned to a shout as fists pounded hard enough to make the tankards and baskets of bread jump:

The castle gate was even more crowded than the town; they barely crept in along the chained-off pedestrian edge of the drawbridge, but the squire who commanded the guard knew her face.

“My lady Liu,” he said, thumping fist to breastplate and bowing his head. Then he turned and called, “Make way for the Lady Liu and her guests! In the High Queen's name!”

Nobody recognized the Thurstons yet, and it was uncertain how they fit into the Table of Ranks anyway; Yseult had decided that they were princesses, but wasn't going to insist on full state just now. The soldiers thumped the butts of their guisarmes as well, then used the shafts to open a lane for them, and Yseult nodded in reply. Another sign that she was being eased into her new status; and that she was shining in the light of Huon's reflected glory. It was certainly more agreeable that being a pariah under suspicion, but . . .

“It's good of you to volunteer to work so soon after such a terrible journey,” she said, as they climbed the spiral staircase of the donjon tower. “Everyone is putting state aside and doing what they can.”

Their mother and sister-in-law were off making appearances where they told the truth about what Martin Thurston did, which was why she'd been set to shepherd and chaperone the girls. It had already started producing results that the High Queen was pleased with. None of them were getting much rest; the girls were still moving a bit stiffly, even after being able to rest on the railcars for the last two days of their headlong trip from the Wild Lands. The troubadours were already fitting it into the songs.

Shawonda groaned and made as if to rub herself rather indelicately. “Those Dúnedain are made of
iron
,” she said.

“They're very hardy warriors,” Yseult agreed; she didn't add anything about their morals or, for most of them, their religion.

“They're cool,” Janie added. “I want to be one! Don't you, Shawonda?”

Shawonda looked a little troubled. “I've always loved the books, the Histories they call them. It was like being
in
the books to travel with the Dúnedain. But . . . and I don't know if I want to be a soldier. It was wonderful what the
Hiril
Astrid did, but . . .”

She shuddered. “The fight was so horrible. And I saw her die. It was awful, and she did it to save little Lawrence, or even
Juliet
, and it was so brave but . . . terrible.”

Be fair about the Rangers,
Yseult told herself.
Some of them are good Catholics. Besides which, that
was
a glorious and knightly deed that Lady Astrid did, the rescue and the way she put herself in the way of the bolt. We all die soon or late, but Lady Astrid's name will live while honor's praise is sung, and God loves those who imitate Christ by sacrifice, even if they don't know Him. I will pray for her; surely she's in Purgatory.

“Well, they're not
all
knights-errant,” Yseult said aloud.

She'd had a few romantic dreams about Mithrilwood herself; most girls did, for a little while at least, and some young noblemen. The old grudges had died away over her lifetime.

“There aren't any Ranger peasants,” she went on. “But they have . . . oh, troubadours, bards they call them, and armorers, and healers, and craftsfolk. And they own ranches, and hunt and do forestry, and have houses in towns, and things like that, so some of them look after their properties.”

They came to the chambers that had been turned over to the Thurston family; the set above were for Juliet Thurston and her son. She'd noticed how strained relations still were between Mrs. Thurston and her daughter-in-law, largely smoothed over by the grandson. That this suite was theirs alone was a mark of favor given how crowded Castle Goldendale was, even if it did mean the two girls were sleeping on truckle beds in this sitting room.