Lord of Mountains

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TIMBERLINE LODGE

CROWN FOREST DEMESNE

(FORMERLY NORTH-CENTRAL OREGON)

HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL

(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)

NOVEMBER 6TH, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD

One ritual Sandra had brought over into the modern age was a cocktail hour before dinner; that was not a Society legacy, and the Corvallans had the same habit, so Rudi assumed it was some custom of the ancient world. He hoped it made them feel more at ease as he sipped his-it was in a conical glass on a stem.

This one was a mixture of whiskey, sweetened cream, coffee, anisette and absinthe, served ice-cold; tasty, and with a hidden punch like a war hammer you didn’t see until it hit you on the neck-flare of your helmet. His mother-in-law called it a Moloko Plus, and claimed for some reason that it was appropriate in a time of battle and war. He could see why. A few of these would certainly prime you for violence.

There were about a score and ten of folk attending, though some were swift replacements for those killed or wounded in the Battle of the Horse Heaven Hills; not enough to account for all the communities which now made up Montival, but some of the smaller ones let the Mackenzies or Mount Angel or one of the others they trusted hold a watching brief for them. Standing in the warmth of the towering hearths and chatting as folk nibbled on crackers topped with potted shrimp or pats of spiced goose liver or slivers of smoked salmon and capers was pleasant, but he was sharp-set enough to be pleased when the gong sounded and the musicians struck up a slow march on viol and rebec and hautboy, and he gave Mathilda his arm and led her in in a flash of silk and jewels.

Though the Sword cradled in my other arm is a bit unorthodox, he thought mordantly. Still, I will not let it far from my grasp the now; not when Cutter assassins might crawl out from under the table or drop from the ceiling. It would warn me so, now, or guard me at least. Its usefulness grows. Also its presence is a reminder to the reluctant of what and Who stands behind me, and that They are Montival’s patrons.

Long, colorful tapestries covered other sections of the walls in the great dining hall, done with scenes of the forests and mountains or the hunt, in thread that caught the firelight and lamplight with glints of silk iridescence or with the gleam of gold and silver. Or modeled on dreams from some romaunt where ladies rode unicorns through fields of asphodel, with miniature dragons on their wrists in place of hawks.

His mother was in an arsaid now, the long wrapped tartan skirt and plaid that older Mackenzie women favored for formal occasions. She wore a green shift of fine embroidered linen with lace cuffs beneath it; both were of her own weaving. A headband bearing the Triple Moon was on her brow, confining her greying red hair, and she sat with some folk from Corvallis.

One was Ed Finney, an influential yeoman they knew well from long seasons of guest-friendship stretching back to the terrible years, and Juniper Mackenzie had known his father even before that. There were a few rather lost-looking Faculty types from the city itself, and she was putting them at their ease, something for which she had a gift; they were probably a bit spooked at the neo-feudal splendors all around. Corvallis kept up more of the old ways than most.

To an unhealthy degree, perhaps, he thought. That world is gone. If you try to hold to it, what you hold changes in your hands; its time is over, save as myth and legend. The past has its power, but it must give way to the future, and our memory of the past changes with the needs of the living.

One of the Corvallans was drawn a little apart, looking as if he was accustomed to a train of flunkies rather than a single secretary. He did consult the notes and files she offered rather often, not ostentatiously but as if it were a reflex born of long habit.

It was a good idea to get them all here, where there is an excuse to keep it down to the principals rather than hordes of hangers-on and minor players before whom the leaders must posture, Rudi thought. Hard enough to get a score of folk to agree on something, and them all men and women of power and place used to having their own way. Impossible if it were a hundred, not without taking time we don’t have right now, or without organization beforehand we haven’t had time for yet.

Chancellor Ignatius was keeping himself awake, but only by dint of extraordinary self-discipline. His monk’s tonsure showed occasionally when his head dipped a little, and the face above the plain dark Benedictine robe was gaunt as he gave his monarch a rueful smile; the golden chain of office looked a little incongruous against it. Being Lord Chancellor of a realm only a few months old in the midst of a major war was wearing on him harder than the Quest through frozen wilderness, battle and flight had done.

The more so as it was composed of contumaciously independent groups many of which had been-literally-at each other’s throats until a few years ago. Rudi suppressed a slight twinge of guilt at what he-and the man’s own iron sense of duty-was doing to his friend. The pile of paper he and Matti had had to wade through themselves was only a tithe of what landed on Ignatius’ head, and all of it life-and-death important to someone.

I’ve sent smiling lads and lasses to their deaths by the thousands already, or crippled them. I’ll use him up if I must; yes, and myself. That I don’t like it means little save to me, for I will do it nonetheless.

One of the Corvallans spoke, in a tone that hid aggression under a show of respect:

“Now that the enemy is defeated, ah, Your Majesty-”

“The enemy isn’t defeated, Professor. They’ve lost a battle, not the war, albeit it was a whacking great battle of unusual size,” Rudi said, a slight dryness to his tone. “’tis the end of the beginning, and perhaps the beginning of the end, but not the end itself, if you take my meaning.”

Professor Tom Turner was a plump and prosperous man in early middle age, dressed in an expensive but understated jacket and trousers with an apricot-colored silk cravat and diamond stickpin. Rudi frowned-

Professor Turner, he suddenly knew; the Sword was hanging from the back of his chair. Chairman of the Faculty of Economics-the Guild Merchant, they’d say in most places. And a banker; in fact, he helped reinvent the trade after the Change, when things had settled down enough. One with his thumb in any number of pies. First National Bank of Corvallis, right enough. And Ignatius says we have to go through him for some of the loans we’re raising, this bond-issue thing. Otherwise it’ll all be done through Portland and Astoria, and that wouldn’t do at all, at all. Especially since those houses are so closely linked to the Regent. Men fear the subtle webs of the Spider of the Silver Tower, and not without reason.

“They’re retreating from our lands,” Turner said.

“That depends on the meaning of our, wouldn’t you say?” Ignatius replied. “They’re retreating towards the old Boise border. If we let them go, there’s nothing to stop them coming back later. I suggest reading the reports on the situation in the occupied CORA territories to illustrate what that would mean.”

“The tyrant of Boise is dead,” Turner pointed out. With a trace of unction: “Slain by our heroic leader.”

“He’s dead. The Prophet is not, and Martin was but the Prophet’s hand-puppet,” Rudi said. “I freed him as much as killing him…and the Prophet will be using another to control his realm. We must not let him consolidate his control there.”

Ignatius nodded: “It is their intentions towards us in the long term which matter, not their immediate capacity to carry those intentions out.”

Turner spread his hands. “Except that the League of Des Moines is attacking them too. We’ve been hearing how rich and powerful they are off in the Midwest; let them have the rest of the fight.”

Ignatius shrugged and went on: “And the High Kingdom claims Boise, New Deseret, Montana, and the lands of the Seven Council Fires of the Lakota tunwan…the Sioux.”

“Well, that’s another matter. Defending ourselves when we’re attacked is one thing. Going out to annex foreign territory is another. I thought the High Kingdom was supposed to establish peace?”

Rudi chuckled; there were more types of fencing than the sort you did with a practice sword in the salle d’armes. His voice was calmly reasonable as he went on:

“Lasting peace, my friend, is not the same as beating off an attack. We’re no longer facing the prospect of being overrun and destroyed, but we’re a very long way indeed from winning the peace and establishing the kingdom securely. Half-done is well begun, but only if you go on to finish the job. Our children will have their own problems; I will not leave them mine as well to solve all over again.”

Ignatius nodded. “In fact, Professor Turner,” he said dryly, “The People and Faculty Senate of Corvallis haven’t formally joined the High Kingdom of Montival at all. Just…acted and talked as if they had.”

Edward Finney grinned; he was a sixtyish man with a farmer’s weathered face and a still-strong body the shape and texture of an oak stump. His family’s knowledge and aid had helped dozens of others set up their own steadings in the years after the Change. They were well-to-do and often chosen to represent their rural district in the city-state’s popular assembly, in which they spoke for the rural interest as a whole. In Corvallan terms that meant he was part of the Faculty of Agriculture. Though without the mystic power of tenure, which meant something like mana in Corvallan dialect, and marked the inner circle of power. Oddly, it was usually restricted to people who studied things rather than the ones who actually did them.

“Some people, and I won’t name names, like for example Thomas Turner, keep putting off the formal declaration,” he said. “Last time it was because so many of our citizens were away fighting…which is chutzpah, I’d say.”

The guests were seated at an oval table, hollow-centered. It was quite new, and deftly avoided the too-provocative Association habit of dividing upper and lower ranks with a ceremonial salt-cellar. Rudi cast an eye down at it, and Mathilda inclined her head very slightly towards her mother, who in turn waggled her eyebrows even more infinitesimally.

Well, yes, of course I thought of that, it said, as plainly as words.

The staff brought out the first course, also without the flourish of trumpets usual at a banquet in the Protectorate, something he’d always considered a prime example of what his mother considered folderol. It was hot beaten biscuits and butter and bowls of soup made with chicken sausage simmered with wine, broth, garlic, tomatoes, spinach and tortellini. However grand in scale Timberline was basically a hunting lodge and didn’t go in for the fantastic elaboration of court cuisine that you often got in Portland or at Castle Todenangst. Rudi was thankful for that too-in his experience, the pasties in the shape of castles and complex sauces full of spices from oversea were as much a matter of status and appearance as genuine appeal to the taste.

And all that was somewhat wasteful, which made him uneasy, particularly right now; the Mother-of-All wanted you to enjoy Her bounty, but that didn’t mean she would appreciate a spendthrift treatment of the good things won with the toil and sweat of Her children. A wise man didn’t court bad luck, or tiptoe around the borders of hubris.

Everyone made their own small ritual; which in a few cases was none at all, apart from a polite pause while the others finished. Rudi made the Invoking pentagram over his bowl and murmured:

Then he picked up his spoon eagerly; the talk died away for a while. He finished the soup with relish, ate another biscuit, sipped at the glass of dry white wine, and spoke cheerfully:

“Now, we have won a whacking great battle. The enemy’s in retreat; we have to harry them out and pursue them to their home over the mountains and there scour the CUT off the land and bring the folk into the kingdom. They aren’t the enemy, just his dupes and tools, to be rescued as much as fought. To do that, we need different arrangements. We’ve been using an emergency levy of the whole. That won’t do for a long war fought far away. We can’t take that many hands away from the land and workshops forever; we need to trim each contingent to those willing and able to campaign for some time, staring at snowmelt, which means preparations must start now.”

“A standing army,” someone said.

“For now. And it’ll be necessary to make my position a matter of settled law and make sure that everyone contributes as they’re able, now that the most desperate part is past. The burdens must be fairly shared, and seen to be such. Nor can a war be run by a committee. Not well, at least. I will consult and seek advice, but decisions must be made without trying to sit in the middle between everyone’s opinions, and they must be made in good time-by me.”

“Ah…” Turner cleared his throat. “Ah, Your Majesty, there is the problem that Corvallis has always been attached to, ah, the heritage of Republican government…”

“Odd that you should say that,” Sandra Arminger said, delicately patting her lips with a linen napkin, speaking in a clear conversational voice that carried to the whole table without seeming loud. “As I remember it, Professor Turner, just before the Protector’s War-”

What everyone else calls the War of the Eye, Rudi thought, hiding his amusement as he broke another biscuit and spread butter to melt into its steaming interior. Everyone who isn’t an Associate, or at least everyone who lives outside the Protectorate.

His mother-in-law’s glee was even better concealed, but he knew her well enough to see the sheer artist’s pleasure in her bland brown gaze. She had always felt outmaneuvering a political opponent was among the rarest of life’s pleasures; if you could destroy him at the same time, that was the whipped cream on the blueberry tart. Best of all if you could demolish him with his own words. Rudi didn’t share the catlike joy she took in it, but there was no denying the technique was useful or that she was the mistress of it.

Juniper Mackenzie sighed slightly and rolled her eyes even more inconspicuously; she and Sandra had shared the raising of Mathilda and Rudi for more than a decade and cooperated at need as heads of State, but you couldn’t really say they were friends and most certainly not soul-mates. The smooth voice continued:

“- we, that is Norman and I, had a little conference with you in Portland in the ninth Change Year, and you were most willing to consider accepting Chartered City status for Corvallis, within the Association, under my late husband’s protection. Eager, even.”

She sipped demurely at her wine. “I have the notes of the conversation in my files, as a matter of fact.”

When Sandra Arminger mentioned my files, strong men blanched, and for good reason; perhaps the fabled mystic Internet of pre-Change times had been more thorough…and then again, perhaps not.

“That’s a misrepresentation of my position at the time!”

She went on, with a little cat smile of amused malice:

“Including a signed letter from you to that effect. Paper and ink are so inconveniently lasting, aren’t they?”

Turner wilted a little as glares shot at him from up and down the table. However much enthusiasm there was for the High Kingdom, everyone remembered the wars against the Association and the desperate fear they’d bred in the old days, not to mention those who’d lost kin and friends. Sandra had slipped the knife in at the most opportune moment, too; early enough to discredit him with many of the others, but late enough that the shock of it would be vivid for the next little while.

She could have used it to blackmail him out of opposition beforehand…but then again, that wouldn’t have been as effective in the long run. The problem with coercing an enemy into acting like a friend was that it didn’t stick longer than it took them to find wiggle room. Putting your boot on his neck did solve the problem for good and all, rather more often.

Of course, it’s far from the most final of Sandra’s solutions. She’s fond of that When a man causes you a problem, remember, no man, no problem maxim. I most surely do not altogether like this public flaying of even such a man as this; but then, I don’t like putting men to the sword on the field of battle either, and something like that is the alternative. Should Sandra be powerless against her enemies just because she hasn’t my reach or weight of arm? She’s spent the last twenty-five years ruling men of violence, wrapping them in nets of wit and wile they can’t cleave with cold steel.

Mathilda leaned close and murmured in his ear:

“And she’s even making use of the way everyone else felt about the Association then without it injuring her position now. Go Mom!”

Turner cleared his throat, ignoring the mutter of quiet conversation around him:

“Lady Sandra, I was always interested in seizing any chance of peace,” he said with a creditable attempt at dignity. “Unfortunately, your late husband was not a man with whom any real accommodation could be reached. I found that out to my regret. But I’m not ashamed that I tried to find a way to a negotiated settlement.”

Not bad, Rudi thought. Or to put it another way, you thought Norman was going to win the war that was obviously coming then and wanted to be on the winning side. You’re too clever to try any such thing with the CUT, though, having seen what their word’s worth. It won’t hurt to make everyone think you might do just that.

He went on aloud: “I hope you’re not suggesting we negotiate with the Prophet Sethaz, Professor.”

“Well…no, Your Majesty,” the Corvallan merchant prince said. “But we’ve already made great sacrifices in this war. Next year’s crop will be light even if the weather’s perfect.”

There were concerned nods at that; it was a valid point. Far too many strong young hands and backs had been under arms when they should have been plowing and sowing the fall wheat and barley, and far too many teams of oxen and horses had been hauling supplies or catapults instead of plows or reapers. And parts of the kingdom had been fought over instead of cultivated, including many of the richest grainlands north of the Columbia, which hadn’t been planted at all. The herds had suffered, too-all the politics in the world couldn’t make cattle and sheep breed or grow faster.

Nobody who’d grown up since the Change took the land’s yield for granted. Those who’d lived through it…well, he’d known some of them who couldn’t help compulsively hoarding pieces of bread in odd places until they went hard and moldy. Less extreme cases of obsession with food were too common to note.

“Sure, and we’ll survive without famine, or even much dearth, if we all pull together,” Rudi said, smiling. His face went stark an instant. “As I’ve promised many who’ve suffered most, we will all help. Montival is a great and wide land, and much of it hasn’t been harmed.”

“Our allies…the strong allies who Your Majesty has so brilliantly brought to our side…surely they can take more of the burden now…” Turner said.

Eric Larsson and Signe Havel, the Bearkiller leaders, made identical grunts of derision; the near-unison wasn’t surprising, considering they were fraternal twins. Eric actually coughed a little biscuit into his second bowl of soup. He rapped on the table with the steel fist that had replaced his left hand after it was smashed by a Cutter war hammer fighting east of the mountains during the Pendleton campaign, a big scar-faced blond man in his early forties, with a look of ageless strength.

There was neither liking nor respect in the glance he gave Turner. The Outfit had always resented the way the city-state used them as a buffer during the wars against the Association and then skimped on help as well. They’d been founded by Mike Havel, who was Rudi’s blood-father, common knowledge though never officially acknowledged. Havel had been honest, and not a man of blood by his own choice, but iron-willed and at need a very hard man indeed. From his example the Bearkillers had inherited a ferocious straightforwardness to the way they approached the world. It was something which made them very good friends…as long as you were faithful in return.

“Yeah, right. Professor-” Eric made it a term of contempt “- you may have noticed our High King managed to persuade the Iowans and the others to march into Montana, fight the CUT and then to just fucking go home. Rather than deciding, hey, don’t we deserve some of this territory for our trouble?”

“The CUT helped there,” Rudi said mildly. “What with their killing the bossman of Iowa and encouraging a revolt in Des Moines. Matti managed the politics of it, sure and she did; and she made a good friend of Anthony Heasleroad’s wife.”

“Kate needed help and appreciated it,” Mathilda said modestly. “Besides, they’ve got their own internal disputes in the Midwest and a lot of the Iowan nobility…Farmers and Sheriffs, they call them…don’t want their central government to have the sort of power a bigger standing army would mean, so they’d just as soon keep Iowa within its borders after the war. It’s not as if they’re short of land-they’ve got far more good black earth than they can cultivate. All that was obvious once I’d investigated a little and talked to the principals. The way we worked it they could say they wanted a clean exit strategy because they were altruistic.”

Her mother beamed pride at her and made a little silent delighted clapping motion. Rudi winced slightly at the sight. He admired Mathilda’s political talents-and relied on them-but her mother…

There are people whose approval fills you with disquiet.

Eric nodded agreement, but went on: “We leave them to do all the heavy lifting from now on, and remember they haven’t seen us do any fighting at all, and how long do you think they’ll stick to that unless they do see it? They’re helping us fight this war, but it’s our war. We’re the ones the CUT invaded. It won’t stay our war if we don’t follow up with an invasion of the enemy’s heartland.”

“And if it isn’t our war, we don’t get to shape the peace,” Signe said.

Rick Three Bears was glaring too. “And the Seven Council Fires were promised the protection of Montival when we agreed to join the kingdom,” he said. “You know, we Lakota get sort of antsy when you white-eyes break treaties. Leaving us with our asses swinging in the breeze out on the makol-the high plains-would bring what you might call some bad memories to mind. We agreed to fight with the League of Des Moines and let them base forces in our territory and fix up the railroads because we were promised we wouldn’t be left alone to face them afterwards. We’re relying on you to help us against them after the Cutters are out of the way. To fight with us against the Farmers from the square states, if it’s ever necessary.”

“God forbid,” Sandra Arminger said unctuously, and crossed herself with ostentatious piety. “But in that event, the Association will of course be behind the High King to the last lance and the last rose noble coin. We place our resources unquestioningly at His Majesty’s disposal for the remainder of this war and for the establishment of the kingdom.”

There were winces up and down the table. Nobody wanted the Protectorate to have a hammerlock on the new kingdom. It had too much land, wealth and power for anyone else’s peace of mind as it was.

“So do we,” Juniper Mackenzie said. “Sure, and isn’t this the fulfillment of the vision I had when I held Rudi over the altar in my Nemed and gave him the name of Artos? The Clan stands by the Lady’s Sword, who guards Her sacred wood and Her law.”

“Us too,” Eric said.

Signe nodded-not enthusiastically, as she’d never liked him much, but with grim determination.

“And the Order of the Shield of St. Benedict,” Ignatius said. “In this I speak for the Abbot-Bishop.”

More winces; the Mackenzies and the Bearkillers and the warrior-monks had been the core of the resistance to Norman Arminger. If you threw them in with the Protectorate, they completely outweighed everyone else put together. The other Corvallans were glaring at Turner now, for isolating them.

“No treaties will be broken,” Rudi said decisively. “Nor will any other promises I’ve given; to the New Deseret men who are still fighting, for example, or to those of the Thurston family and their followers who’ve come over to us and fought by our side at great and constant risk. I’ve given my word on that, and bound it to the line of my blood by the Sword of the Lady.”

There was a long thoughtful pause at that; even Turner gave the crystal pommel behind Rudi’s shoulder a considering look. The second course came, a hearty dish of horseradish-crusted roasted venison, with seasoned grilled potatoes, late asparagus and a winter salad of pickled vegetables, accompanied by warm breads. Rudi took a bite of the meat, chewed with enjoyment, and waited; you should never interrupt an enemy when they were making a mistake.

“Keeping large armies in the field will cause a lot of hardship,” Turner went on doggedly after a moment. “If the enemy can’t defeat us, it’s not so…so urgent any more.”

He wouldn’t have accomplished all he has if he wasn’t stubborn, Rudi thought. I can use this man to the kingdom’s good; he’s very able, not to mention very rich and very influential with his equivalents elsewhere. I just have to make it plain that it’s to his advantage to help me and very much the opposite if he sets his will against mine. I don’t have to like him, or he me; I’m a warrior and he’s a merchant and that quarrel is as old as wolf and dog. When you have to move manure, you use a dungfork.

The banker continued: “We’ve all made sacrifices-”

“Oh, yeah,” Eric drawled.

Signe elbowed him in the ribs. “Corvallis has made sacrifices,” she said. “If their Sixth Regiment hadn’t held at the Horse Heaven Hills…we wouldn’t be here. Unless we were forting up. We had to win that battle; our army would have come apart, and every contingent would have gone home to make a last stand if we’d lost.”

“That’s true,” Rudi agreed. “They stood, and died where they stood. I couldn’t give them any help for far too long. They bought me time, the which on a battlefield is a gift more precious than rubies. Bought it with their blood and lives. I’m going to have We Stood embroidered on their standard. And presented by Peter Jones, if he lives.”

Edward Finney laughed again, without mirth; several of his kin had carried pikes or crossbows with that regiment. “Yeah, Corvallis has made sacrifices. One of my sons-in-law took an arrow through the throat there. That’s three young kids without a father. But that sacrifices doesn’t include all of us in Corvallis, if you know what I mean.”

Turner flushed. “My children aren’t of service age. I’ve financed two whole battalions’ worth of equipment out of my own pocket besides paying my taxes, and taken in and employed hundreds of refugees from the Bend country!” he said.

“Putting them to work in those factories you have interests in, you mean,” Finney said. “The ones you were always bitching about being short of labor for in peacetime.”

“You have refugees working on your farm!”

Another grunt of sour laughter from the landsman. He began to count on his fingers:

“Yeah. I’ve got…let’s see…three nursing mothers and their babies, six kids under twelve and their moms, two amputees, and a guy who’s older than I am and still has screaming nightmares about the Change and isn’t too tightly wrapped when he’s awake either…wets himself sometimes…and the rest of their families are all away fighting. Anyone who can walk can tend one of those water-powered spinning machines you’ve got filling those fat government contracts, Turner; no wonder you’re not anxious to get the enemy out of Bend so they can go back to their ranches! Farming isn’t like that. My refugees aren’t even doing enough work to meet the cost of their food; they can’t, even though they push themselves hard. My sons-and a daughter-are with the army and I’m back on the farm trying to make bricks without straw and Gert’s milking cows again until she has to put her hands in bowls of ice water for an hour before she can sleep, which I doubt your wife is.”

“My wife is chief accountant for the First National Bank,” Turner said huffily. “First National is crucial to the war effort.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that makes her wake up crying when she turns over. So I want to get this war finished. Finished as quickly as can be while doing it right. And we need to put it on record that we’re part of the kingdom. Which, now that Rudi…that Artos the High King just beat the Cutters, is going to be pretty damn popular back home, Turner.”

“I’m sure everyone will make their fair contribution,” Rudi said, and added to himself: Provided they have no choice, some of them.

“But,” he went on, “deciding such matters is for Montival as a whole; and I myself am the symbol and agent of that unity, together with the Queen. Hence we need an acknowledgment of what the High King’s rights and duties are; and a ceremony of acknowledgment. Of allegiance.”

That produced a lot of talking. Most of it was positive, but unfortunately positive in a dozen separate ways. Everyone had his own ideas of what a coronation ceremony entailed, which was precisely what he and his closest advisors had anticipated. He cleared his throat.

“Brothers, sisters, I obviously can’t satisfy you all! And sure, satisfying one of you would offend others-if I were to have the Cardinal-Archbishop of Portland crown me as the sole ceremony…I don’t think Corvallis would enjoy it.”

“We have separation of Church and State in Corvallis,” Turner said, and Finney nodded solemn agreement. “They do in Bend, too, and a couple of other places.”

“Your Majesty, I’m afraid that’s doubly true of the United States…of Boise,” Fredrick Thurston said, making a concession; most of that country would have added of America, for all that it ruled only a chunk of old Idaho and a few bits adjacent. “The whole concept of hereditary monarchy is going to be a tough sell without getting religion into the mix. Any hint of an establishment of religion would be a gift to…to the present regime.”

Meaning, your late elder brother’s henchmen, Rudi thought compassionately. He tried to kill you too, and then to blame you for your father’s death. His closest followers cannot turn back, not when they went along with that. And they’ve probably discovered that their bargain with the Prophet was the sort of deal a house-cat makes with a coyote.

The tall, dark young man spoke politely but firmly. Rudi and he were good friends-they’d gone all the way to the Atlantic together and back after his father’s murder. He’d always been brave as you could wish in a fight, but the High King was glad to see that the last traces of youthful diffidence had faded. Being head of a taut little army of twenty thousand men rather than a refugee living by charity was adding powerfully to his self-confidence.

“The Clan wouldn’t approve either, boyo!” Juniper Mackenzie said, grinning. “And we don’t have separation of covenstead and anything whatsoever.”

“You have to have a Catholic coronation ceremony, Rudi,” Mathilda said, her brows knotted in thought. “I don’t think there’s any alternative there.”

“Indeed, and I wouldn’t deny it,” Rudi said cheerfully. “I’ve no objection at all.”

He thought Ignatius winced slightly. Applying the holy oil to the brow of a pagan King was going to stretch his faith’s standards a little, though it wouldn’t be the first time. His Church had a very long history and had learned the value of patience a very long time ago.

I feel some sympathy, my friend, he thought. But only some!

From the way the other man’s shrewd dark eyes looked at him under a raised brow, he thought the cleric understood him perfectly. They’d been in each other’s company for years now and in circumstances that revealed the soul. He went on more seriously:

“So since I can’t choose one, I’ll choose all,” Rudi said, which had everyone blinking at him, except those who’d been in on it. “After the war I’ll made the rounds and go through everyone’s chosen ceremony. Religious, secular or a mix, just as they please. For each land…each little homeland of the heart; and in those I will be the suppliant, the suitor courting favor from the spirits of place and their folk. Which in some places, Boise for one, may be more like making a treaty.”

“Well…that will take a while,” someone said.

“Arra, I’ll need to get to know every district and they me, anyway,” Rudi said. “But for the present we need one ceremony that is for the whole of Montival and an acknowledgment of the same when it’s over. And that ceremony is between the High King and Queen and the realm as a whole.”

Turner remained silent, which Rudi deliberately took for assent, nodding as if pleased…which he was, more or less. The Grand Constable of the PPA mopped her plate of the last of the juices of the rare venison, ate the heel of bread, poured herself more of the red Pinot Noir-it was from her own estates, Montinore Manor to be precise-and spoke:

“Whereupon you can get back to the real business at hand. Your Majesty. They lost three, four to our one at the Horse Heaven Hills, and it was even worse for them during the pursuit, but they can afford it better. And the League of Des Moines isn’t going to get much farther out on the High Plains until snowmelt. The weather there…”

“Ah, you farmers are all wussies,” Rick Three Bears said.

Rudi grinned at her. He liked Tiphaine d’Ath, very much as you might a tiger that you were sure was on your side; she’d been a big part of his training in the arts of war, from handling a sword to deploying a regiment. But though very able, she was also very…

Focused, he thought. Tightly focused on one set of problems, which is a good thing for a specialist, but a ruler can’t afford too much of it. I have the Sword of the Lady, but chopping folk up is not the universal answer to the problems of kingcraft, essential though it may be at times.

“A King is more than a war-leader, needful though that is,” Rudi Mackenzie said. “You could do that as well as I.”

“No, I couldn’t,” d’Ath said flatly. “I’m a better than competent general, but you have a gift for it-the way both of us do for the sword-in-hand. And I can lead professionals because they respect my record and I frighten them, but you can spend five minutes with a bunch of levied peasants fresh from the plow who’ve just been handed their first pikes and are scared out of their wits, and they’ll be ready to storm Olympus. And they’ll expect to win, which they may very well do because they expect it.”

“Perhaps,” Rudi said, though he was uncomfortably certain she was more-or-less right.

It wasn’t a power he was altogether happy with, though he used it.

“War is only part of a King’s trade. And he’s more than an administrator, too,” he added to Chancellor Ignatius.

“That he is,” Juniper Mackenzie said. “For the King is the land and-”

She found herself speaking in unison with Ignatius, her words interweaving, more like a counterpoint than an interruption as he said:

“Just so, Your Majesty. Kingship is a sacred thing, from the day when David danced before the Tabernacle of the Lord, a thing which links-”

The Witch-Queen of the Mackenzies and the priestly Knight-Brother of the Order of the Shield of St. Benedict stopped and looked at each other, and Rudi threw back his head and laughed. After a moment they both joined in, and the others more gradually, though Ignatius did shake a reproving finger at Juniper and then at her son. The pages who were serving the royal party and their guests stayed solemnly intent on their duty, but Rudi thought a few of them were mildly shocked.

Ignatius inclined his head towards Juniper. “I defer to the Mackenzie. I’m not a man of eloquence, and far too tired to try right now.”

Juniper smiled abstractedly at him and then went on when the laughter had passed, frowning, her leaf-green eyes intent:

“A King is a symbol, one that unites us all when we believe in it and makes us part of the same story, part of each other’s story. And by us I’m not speaking merely of the human beings walking about at any particular moment, for we but borrow the Earth for a little while, by permission and in trust. There’s the living land itself, its memories and tales in layer upon layer around every rock and stream and trail, the ghosts that haunt it and the beasts and birds and plants and trees that share it with us, with rights of their own, and the larger meaning of the Powers, however we name Them.”

“My mother is right,” Rudi said decisively. “There’s a part of the kingship that is between me and the land itself and those Powers that ward it. That’s…more of a thing for me and my Lady. The folk, all our peoples, are there, but through us. One family to stand for all families bound by history and blood.”

“Under God,” Ignatius said, politely but firmly.

“And did I say otherwise?” Juniper said in a guileless tone.

Mathilda swallowed a little uneasily, and their hands met and gripped beneath the tablecloth. That did touch a little on her faith, to which she was devoted.

But if putting it in another form of words helps her, well, I’ve no objection to that. We’re more…flexible about such things, we of the Old Religion.

“What are you grinning about?” she said quietly as the table dissolved into a more general conversation.

“I was thinking of something our good Chancellor said once; that debating theology with a Mackenzie was like trying to cut fog with a sword.”

Mathilda snorted and freed her hand to poke him in the ribs, though also under the cover of the cloth. The plates were cleared and the desserts brought in, pastries, glazed fruit-tarts, ice cream with hazelnuts, liqueurs and coffee.

“I’ll sleep on it,” he said. “Perhaps it will come to me.”

Four hours later he sat up gasping. Mathilda gave a muffled protest and then wholly woke herself. She crouched, watching him in the half-darkness of the room; the windows glowed with moonlight on snow, and there was a tiny yellow glimmer from the night-light.

“What a dream,” he whispered, sinking back and making his big scarred fist relax on the sheet. “My oath, what a dream!”

Mathilda wiggled until she could lay her undamaged left cheek on his shoulder.

“What was it about?” she asked softly; he could feel the slight warmth of her breath on his skin.

“I…can’t remember,” he realized suddenly. “No! I can, a little! I know where we must go.”

“Where?” she said; he could feel her stiffen.

“The lake,” he said. “Lost Lake.”

“There?” she said dubiously. “Well, it’s not too far, even with snow…but why Lost Lake?”

“Because it isn’t lost, but hidden,” Rudi said, the knowledge filling his mind like moonlit ice. “Not Lost Lake, really.”

“What is it, then?”

“E-e-kwahl-a-mat-yam-lshk,” he murmured. “Lake at the Heart of Mountains. The hidden Heart of Montival to be.”