The High King of Montival

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CROWSNEST PASS

BORDER, DOMINION OF DRUMHELLER /HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL

(FORMERLY BORDER OF ALBERTA AND BRITISH COLUMBIA)

JUNE 7, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD

“Home,” Mathilda breathed.

“Home,” Artos said, then laughed and shouted: “Home,”

He stood in the stirrups, and Epona reared beneath him. The Sword flashed free-

Shock.

The moment stretched, and he saw.

Mounted warriors fought on a grassy plain that rolled upward towards forested mountains, their swords glinting in the bright sunlight. A white road lined with poplars smoked dust as a long train of wagons passed, leaving the powder heavy on the fresh green leaves of the trees and the yellowing grain behind. A couple made love in a haymow beneath the roof of a barn whose rafters were carved in sinuous running knotwork. A big dog and a five-year-old wearing nothing but a kilt and his own gold curls stamped and romped gleefully along the edge of a pond and ducks avalanched into the sky. A man with silvery stubble on his cheeks crouched in a dark stinking alley and clutched a bottle, whispering a name as he sobbed and rocked. A woman squinted as she leaned into the tiller of a gaff-rigged fishing boat; dolphins broached from the whitecapped waves around her as she called sharply: Haul away and sheet her home! A smith took a piece from the coals between his tongs and considered its white-red glow as he reached for his hammer. A tiger woke in a den on the slopes of a snow-topped mountain and lifted its head from huge paws, yawning, stretching until its claws slid free, its red tongue curling over ivory daggers. .

“Rudi, where were you?” Mathilda asked, her face anxious.

He looked at the blade and smiled at her; he blinked against what he recognized with astonishment were tears.

“I was. . everywhere. Everywhere in this land of ours, Matti, acushla, and I was the folk and the trees and the beasts and the land itself. Oh, and it’s beautiful, our Montival, a land fit for Gods and giants and heroes!”

“I hope we can make it a good land to live in,” she said soberly, still darting a cautious glance at the Sword. “For just plain people.”

“It’s not all bad, what the Sword does,” he said gently. “And we shall do just that, so.”

Then he laughed again as he sheathed it. “And right now, we’re riding up to Castle Corbec. We’re home, Matti, the two of us, and summer is coming, and the harvest of our hopes.”

Mountains lifted all around them, thickly forested with lodgepole pine and Douglas fir and clumps of aspen. Hills rolled down to the road bright with green grass, and a cool wind blew from the naked granite teeth of the heights, clean and scented with conifer-sap; snow glittered on the higher peaks. In the near distance a herd of elk took fright and leapt over the remains of a ruined fence, heading higher into the hills. Then they came over a rise, and the border fort was before them.

To the right of the roadway was a long blue lake that lapped against cliffs northward, and to the left the land rose rapidly. Ahead the highway crossed an arm of the water on a pre-Change bridge at one narrow spot where the flood turned emerald-green. Castle Corbec reared on a hill just before it, faced in hard pale mountain stone over its concrete and baring fangs of crenellation at heaven with water on two sides and a moat around; southward a waterfall brawled down a mountainside, thread-tiny in the distance.

“Looking as if it had been there forever and not just fifteen years, so it does,” he said.

Twin round towers with pointed roofs flanked the gatehouse, and flying from the spike atop one was. .

“Arra, that’s even quicker work,” Artos said.

It was the green-silver-blue flag of Montival, the crowned mountain and the Sword, in pride of place above the other banners.

“That’s my mom,” Mathilda said proudly. “Bet you there’s thousands more like it all over the kingdom now, and not just in Association territory.”

“The kingdom. It’s starting to seem real to me, and there’s no escaping it. We dreamed a new name for a new country, and by the time we return everyone’s accepted it!”

“They were afraid,” she said, with the cool certainty that made you remember she was her mother’s daughter. “And frightened people grasp at things. They’re more ready to change.”

He looked back. The troops followed in a long column twisting eastward and downslope; lanceheads and spears glittered, and bright banners flew, but most of the colors were dark-leather, oiled gray mail, green or gray cloth or undyed linsey-woolsey, only here or there a glimpse of scarlet and blue and gold. Edain rose with a clod of earth crumbling between his fingers, and Garbh sniffed curiously at it. Most of his close companions were looking upward at the banners as well.

“It’s not just like riding up the lane to Dun Fairfax in the Clan’s territory,” Edain said, grinning. “But then again, it’s not entirely unlike, either, is it not, Chief? Though I’d give a good deal to see my family now, that I would.”

“Not entirely unlike, no. And I suspect there’s a few gathered to welcome us.”

A party was waiting for him under a pavilion not far from the gates. His breath came quicker as they approached, and he turned aside from the main road. A quick twitch of two fingers brought Mark Vogeler to his side.

“My compliments to Colonel Vogeler and Inspector. .”

No, he’s promoted in time of war, when his redcoats become warriors rather than keepers of the peace.

“. . General Rollins, I should say. The men are to camp on the open ground before the castle gates and picket the horses by the lake; there’s firewood and hearths prepared and food and fodder will be sent out. We’re expected.”

“Yessir!”

The young man had acquired a scar on his chin in the fight at the Anchor Bar Seven, but still had that reckless smile. He thundered away, and for a moment Artos could be Rudi Mackenzie again. He pressed his legs to Epona’s flanks, and she wheeled and went up the little lane with gravel spurting from beneath her hooves, his plaid fluttering in the wind. Yes, a slight figure with gray-streaked red hair dressed in saffron-dyed long tunic and wrapped arsaid. The Lady Regent near her, and many another.

Epona reared again, and he laughed joyously. Then he slid to the ground. .

And the whole assembly went to their knees. He stopped, shocked. Mathilda was beside him, and he could hear the chiding in her voice as she murmured, though it was warm and fond:

“You’re the High King, Rudi! What did you expect, a slap on the back and a mug of ale?”

“Rise, my friends,” he said.

They did, and his blue-green-gray eyes met his mother’s tearbrimming leaf-green ones.

She looks older, he thought. More than two years older. Then: Anwyn’s hounds take protocol!

With a roar he snatched her up as she rose, whirling her slight weight around and up in a circle.

“Mo ghaol, mo ghradh, is m’ fheudail thu, mo mhacan alainn ceutach thu! ” she called, between laughter and sobs. “My love, my dear, my treasure, my fair and beautiful son! Cead mile failte! A hundred thousand welcomes, my son!”

A few looked shocked at the informality when he’d put her down and kissed her on the forehead; more were smiling at him.

“My friends,” he called, his arm around her shoulders. “I’ve returned. We have returned; and there’s much to do, a war to win, a kingdom to forge. But for a brief while, let us be men and women who’ve returned to their kin after long absence and even more worry and care. Yet one thing first.”

He squeezed his mother’s shoulders and released her, then turned to Mathilda. Their eyes locked, and he went down on one knee. Her hands went between his.

“Mathilda, we can have the great ceremonies later and the grand occasions. But will you wed me, heart of my heart, anamchara, and be my love and my other self, and I yours? This very day, on the soil of our own land, and with our good friend and comrade Father Ignatius to speak the words for us and our kin and friends to witness?”

“Yes!”

That did not surprise him, though he could feel his heart leap at it.

Behind her, though, Sandra Arminger put her hands to her face and wept tears of relief and joy, and that shocked him even in his moment of happiness. He’d known her since he was ten, and he didn’t think she’d ever made such a public display of emotion in all that time.

Sam Aylward looked at his son for a long silent moment as the nobles passed by towards the castle drawbridge; the square face that was so much like his, older now by more than two years but still so young, so young. .

Full-grown now, though, the Englishman thought. Got a few scars there, and on his ’ands, that I can see. Twenty-one, by God! Just a hair taller nor me; and a hair thinner, maybe, the very last of the puppyfat gone. Looks ’ard enough to spit bullets; looks like I did when I yomped me way to Mt. Tumblehome. And if I were meeting him for the first time, knowing nothing, I’ d say to meself: Samkin, be careful with this one, for he wouldn’t start a fight but he might be the one to end it.

The younger Aylward had his Scots bonnet in his hand; he started to twist it between his fingers, and then forced himself to stop, took a deep breath and spoke:

“Well, Da. . well, I’m back.”

Samkin Aylward reached out and rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing a little. Garbh butted her head under his other hand, and he ruffled her ears absently.

“That you are; your mother sends her love, and your sisters, and they’ll be glad to see you when you can be spared. And you’ve gone a long way to get back ’ere, eh?”

He nodded a little, looking at the taut quick strength of his son that made him feel every one of his sixty-six years.

“You’ll do, lad. You’ll do.”

They exchanged a quick fierce embrace. He turned his eyes to the tall honey-haired girl who walked beside Edain.

Bit of all right, that. Looks strong for her weight, too; this one’s seen the elephant. And sensible, I’d say from first impressions. No nonsense there.

She met his eyes with respect but pridefully, blue eyes searching pale gray. He let his slight smile grow to a grin.

“You’d be Asgerd Karlsdottir, then, lass?”

“Yes, Master Aylward.”

“Welcome to the Aylward Asylum for Bedlam Boys, then. It’s the women who keep the wits.”

She hesitated, then seemed to realize what he meant and ducked her head in acknowledgment.

“What does the collar mean?” she said after an instant.

“This?” He touched the thin torc of twisted gold around his neck; he was so used to it that he didn’t notice it unless reminded. “That Oi’m handfasted. . married, most say. Could Oi see that bow?”

Surprised, she handed it over. He drew it-about eighty pounds, very respectable for a woman and more than he was really comfortable with himself these days-and looked down the length of it before he returned it to her. It was very much as he’d have done it, if he was working with hickory rather than yew; that was a good second-best for a bowyer, tough and springy.

“Well, all the time Oi spent teaching this gurt gallybagger wasn’t wasted. No, not wasted at all. Come on, lad.”

He led them a little south, well past the road leading to the castle gate. A tented camp lay by the water’s side amid scattered pines, looking across the emerald lake to the rock and scree of the mountainside; little three-man tents, grouped in threes themselves around common campfires, with each set of three in a triangle to make nine in all. Racks of bicycles were propped near them, and some light carts rigged so that they could be pulled by two horses or fitted with a frame for four bicycles. Kilted figures sat working on their gear and talking, or stood to shoot at man-shaped targets of folded straw mats and poles scattered out several hundred yards eastward. Arrowheads flashed in the afternoon sunlight, and the pale blur of gray-goose feathers.

“Mackenzies!” Edain said happily.

“Yus,” his father replied. “The High King’s Archers. All volunteers, mostly young, and a wild lot. But good shots and good at fieldcraft, every one of them, and at least fair with a blade.”

“Who’s in charge of?em?” Edain asked wistfully. “I’m bullyragging the ones the chief. . the High King. . picked up along the way. Fast learners and hard fighters, but not bowmen born like us.”

“This lot’re under Aylward the Archer,” he said casually, then laughed at the younger man’s double take. “Yes, you. Oi’m not ’im, not anymore, so that leaves you, which stands to reason.”

He nodded down towards the camp. “Think you can ’andle ’em?”

Edain’s gray eyes narrowed, and his mouth drew into a line as he thought for a moment and then nodded slowly.

“Sure and I can,” he said; his accent had acquired more of Rudi Mackenzie’s lilt in the past two years. “I don’t see why not. There’s been a good deal of news about the place, concerning our little walk in the woods, I’d be thinking?”

“News whenever a letter made it ’ome. And songs, stories and tales, each one wilder than the last and more each passing month,” his father replied. “And while they’re mostly about Rudi and the Princess, you’re mentioned in many. Young Fiorbhinn’s been making a few of them!”

His mouth quirked and Edain chuckled; Lady Juniper’s youngest had all her mother’s music and magic, but not nearly as much hard-learned common sense as yet.

Mind, in wartime people need dreams more than ever.

“Ah, well, that will all help, a wee bit,” Edain said shrewdly, nodding. “And I’ll just tuck the Southsiders and Norrheimers who swore to the High King in with ’em, too; they’ve had a chance to get to know me, and they’ll want everyone else following orders as well.”

Sam Aylward hid a sudden fierce surge of pride. A thousand years of farmers and fighters, he thought. And this one’s an Aylward with the best of them.

Asgerd caught his eye and glanced away swiftly, hiding a smile herself; he had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d read his mind.

No, no fool she. And best not to let the lad get too cocky, he thought, and went on aloud:

“You’ll be glad to ’ear Eithne’s not among them. She’s handfasted to Artan Jackson over to Dun Carmody. .”

“Artan the leatherworker? Big fella, missing half his left ear, Elk sept?”

“Roit. And she’s just delivered of twins.”

Edain blew out his cheeks in a soundless whoosh of relief. Asgerd cocked an eye at him, and he shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

“You’d be an odd young man if you hadn’t been interested in women before you met me,” she said dryly. “But now that you have. .”

“And there’s a fair number ’ere you ’ave met.” He put two fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. “Oi! Dickie! Front and center!”

“Me brother,” Edain said aside to Asgerd. “Three years younger than me, three years and a bit. . by Maponos of the Youths, he’ll be near eighteen now! Eighteen come this Lughnasadh!”

“Time doesn’t stop while you’re on a journey,” Asgerd agreed.

Then she glanced eastward. Sam thought she was thinking of her home, clear the other side of the continent, and one she’d probably never see again.

“Fetch the rest, lass,” Edain said to Asgerd. “Best they meet their new comrades. You can make Dick’s acquaintance later.” A grin: “Though I’d wish you to meet Ma and the sisters before me lout of a brother!”

She nodded and trotted off. A man came bounding up the low slope, moving with a springy elastic step despite the weight of brigantine, sword and dirk and buckler, slung longbow and the war-quiver of forty-eight arrows and knocked down swine-feather over his shoulder. The green leather surface of the torso-armor carried the new arms of Montival’s High King, the crowned mountain and Sword, rather than the Moon and Antlers of the Clan Mackenzie.

The face above the mail collar was high-cheeked and snub-nosed, blue-eyed and pale apart from the half that was summer freckles; his long hair was rust-colored, falling down his back in a queue bound with a spare bowstring, and a sparse scattering of lighter hairs showed he was trying to grow a mustache and failing miserably. An enormous grin showed square white teeth. He was lanky, but an inch or so above Edain’s five-nine, and his chest and arms showed the effects of thousands of hours of practice with the bow since the age of six as well as a countryman’s labors.

“Edain!” he shouted. “A hundred thousand welcomes, brother!”

“Dick!” Edain called back. “This pup’s grown teeth, by the Gods!”

They fell on each other in what was half an embrace and half a bearlike wrestling match; Garbh growled dubiously, then caught the younger man’s scent, froze as her memory worked, and began leaping about happily herself. It ended with Dick’s head clasped under Edain’s left arm while his right rubbed knuckles vigorously on his brother’s head until they were both roaring with laughter.

“Ah, Dick, it’s good to see you again, by each and every one of Them, from the Lord and Lady down to the house-hob,” Edain gasped, releasing him.

“And you too, even if you were the bloody noogie champion of Dun Fairfax.”

Then Edain went on more soberly: “So, it’s the High King’s sworn man you’d be?”

“What else, for an Aylward?” Dick said.

“What else indeed,” Edain said.

He stepped forward and embraced him once more. “That’s from your brother, then.”

Then he cuffed the younger man across the side of the head, a clap of calloused hand on bone.

“Ow! Boggarts bugger you, what was that for?” Dick said, rubbing at his ear; the blow hadn’t been enough to really hurt, but it hadn’t been a love-pat either.

“That was from your bow-captain; the bow-captain of the High King’s Archers. Found your sept totem yet, Dick?”

“Wolf, of course. Came to me plain as daylight while I slept in the forest. Sounded like Da, that he did.”

“He did for me too, but it’s a bit of a surprise, it is. I was thinkin’ it would be Coyote, or maybe Raven or Fox.”

Edain pointed his index finger in his brother’s face. “I know how you love your daft jokes, Dickie. But this is serious business, so we’ll not be havin’ any of that. I’ve thrashed you before, and I can do it again if you need your face put in the midden. Understood? You’re a grown man now, and I’ll be treating you as such.”

The younger Aylward brother straightened pridefully. “Understood, bow-captain!”

“Good. Fall them all in, then.”

He grinned again, slapped his fist to his brigandine and bounded off.

Sam spoke casually: “Would you loike me to tell ’em you’re in charge?”

“By Lugh of the Many Skills, no, Da!” Edain said briskly. “How could I ever get a fair grip on them then? They have to learn to listen to me.”

His father nodded, hiding his smile once more. Then the younger man went on, looking over his shoulder.

“Ah, good.”

A column of troops came trotting up forty strong with a jingle and clank of gear, Asgerd at their head. He ran an experienced eye over them. About two-thirds were dressed and equipped in the Clan’s style, brigandine and bow and shortsword and buckler, right down to the kilts. Far more of them were dark-skinned than you’d find in a Mackenzie dun, but any single one of them could have been dropped in without exciting much comment. Most of the Clan or their parents had started out as farm and small-town folk in western Oregon, but a fair scattering had come from the cities and a few from everywhere under the sun.

Including England! Sam thought wryly. Those would be the Southsiders he spoke of.

The rest were in trousers and jackets, with bigger round shields slung over their quivers and longer swords at their belts; a few had axes across their backs, carried in loops beside their quivers.

Must be that place in Maine where they’re all fair mad for the Viking bit, Sam mused, then felt his kilt brush his knees. Well, who am Oi to speak, so to speak, eh?

One huge man with a forked braided beard carried a gruesome ax-warhammer combination, and looked able to use it. A big thickset woman with extremely cold dark eyes nodded to Sam Aylward in mutual recognition, and he pursed his lips at the way she moved. Built like a brick on legs but very fast with it; fast and heavy was rare and dangerous.

“Follow me,” Edain said curtly.

And they do, no arguing, Sam thought as he strolled in their wake. Oi did a proper man’s work raising this’un, bugger me blind if Oi didn’t!

The hundred and twenty Mackenzie archers had turned out and were waiting-not standing at any rigid attention, many leaning on their unstrung bow staves, but in good order. About a quarter were women, and a good half hadn’t been in the First Levy when his son left that April day two years ago, and few of them were older than Edain. He nodded to a few friends, and then stood before them with his thumbs hooked into his sword belt. He spoke in a carrying voice, not shouting and not excited, but hard and clear.

“I am Edain Aylward Mackenzie, called Aylward the Archer; the totem of my sept is Wolf.”

Then, suddenly punching his fist skyward: “Hail to Artos, High King of Montival. Hail, Artos! Artos and Montival!”

A moment’s surprised silence, then a roar from every throat; to his surprise Sam found himself shouting too:

“Artos! Artos!”

When silence had fallen again, Edain went on: “So you’d be the High King’s sworn archers?”

“Aye!” someone shouted, and the others took it up.

“Then I’m to command you. For three reasons, each good and sufficient: I can outshoot any of you, I’ve more time in the High King’s fighting tail than any of you. . and third’s the charm, the High King wishes it so. Any questions?”

Silence, and he went on: “These behind me have been with the High King longer than you, as well. With him through battle and ambush and long hard journeying. That makes them your comrades, and you’ll all be treating each other as such. We’re all going to be like brothers and sisters or I will kick your arse so hard your teeth will march out like Bearkiller pikemen on parade. Is all that clear, mo seanfhaiseanta bithiunaigh fein?”

“Aye!” his very own old-fashioned cutthroats replied.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Aye!”

“Better. Now here’s your first orders. There’s to be a handfasting this night-”

Ignatius looked around the Sacristia of Castle Corbec’s church, the vesting room behind the altar. He smiled a little at the familiar scents of wax candles and the metal and cloth of the cruets, ciborium, chalice, paten, the altar linens, the vessels of the Holy Oils; they were like old friends, greeting him after long absence. Candlelight glittered on the golden thread of the vestments waiting on their T-shaped stands. Then he stood as Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski entered the room.

“Most Reverend Father,” he said, bowing to kiss the older man’s ring, then standing at the Order of the Shield’s version of parade rest. “I give thanks to God that we meet again.”

The words were conventional, and his face remained calm, but he could not keep all emotion out of the tone.

“At ease. I also thank God,” Dmwoski said, and after a slight pause: “My son.”

They both looked down for a moment in silent prayer, their hands folded in the sleeves of their habits.

“Or perhaps I should say my lord Chancellor,” the older man said, with a slight smile.

Ignatius felt himself flushing a little. “My acceptance of the office was of course conditional on your approval, Most Reverend Father.”

Dmwoski chuckled. “Which you have.”

“I confess. . I am not altogether sure that I should have accepted. Apart from doubts as to my capacity, we are enjoined to avoid the near occasions of sin. This will be a post of great power, and hence, of great temptation.”

The Abbot-Bishop shrugged. “You swore poverty, chastity, and obedience; my command is that you accept this position, which means that it fulfills obedience rather than violating it. Even the Cardinal-Archbishop in Portland agrees that having a cleric in such a post will be most advantageous to the Church. I do not think that you will be tempted by riches, or that chastity will become harder for you in a high office. Power, though-power itself can be a temptation. But then again, so can anything else in this fallen world.”

Ignatius bowed his head. “I can only try my best and throw myself on God’s loving mercy,” he said quietly.

“And He has blessed you, my son. You have brilliantly fulfilled the mission I assigned to you so long ago,” Dmwoski said warmly. “I have made many errors in my life, but that, I think, was not one of them. I do not doubt that you will fulfill future missions as well.”

His square face was more lined than Ignatius remembered, and his fringe of white hair would never need to be tonsured again. He’d begun to stoop a little, noticeable in a frame that had always had a soldierly erectness, but the eyes were still very shrewd, calm and blue and penetrating beneath the tufted eyebrows.

“Fulfilled it and more besides,” he went on. “Our brethren have been greatly heartened by your reports in this time of war and trial.”

The older man shook his head slowly and turned to look at Ignatius’ sword, hung on the rack beside the door. It was of fine steel but plain and in an equally plain black-leather scabbard, an Order-issue cross-hilted longsword a little under a yard in the blade, with the Raven and Cross on the fishtail pommel. The elder cleric reached one hand out and almost touched the double-lobe grip.

“I have seen our High King’s Sword,” Dmwoski said. “And it is, mmmm, most impressive. Terrifying, even. But this. . she touched it?”

“Yes, Father. The hilt, and my forehead. And. . it was cold, the air was thin there on the mountain above the high white valley, and there was light, so much light, and. . no, it is impossible to describe completely. Words themselves break and crumble beneath the strain.”

Dmwoski nodded and sank to his knees before the cross-shape, taking his crucifix between his hands and bowing his head. Ignatius followed suit, remembering the feeling of being illuminated.

“It was astonishing,” he said softly after a moment. “I saw myself more clearly at that instant than ever before in my life, and the weight and stain of sin and error I saw in me and woven through me should have been enough to break my mind. Yet there was a. . how can I say it. . such a tenderness in her regard, a fire within her greater than suns, which yet warmed and comforted while it burned, as if it flamed away the dross but left me unharmed. I knew my own failings, and wept for the shame of it. But I saw what she saw in me as well. I saw what I could be, what God had made and meant me to be, and knew what I must strive to be every hour of my life thereafter.”

Dmwoski surprised him by chuckling. “Brother of the Order, have I ever told you why I am so glad to be a son of the Church, rather than a Protestant? Or a Jew or Muslim, for that matter.”

“Ah. . because ours are the true doctrines in accordance with the truths set out in Scripture, by the magisterium of the Church, and by reason? And of course that ours are the forms of worship most pleasing to God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost?” Ignatius said.

It wasn’t a question which had ever occurred to him. Perhaps because I was a man grown, albeit a young man, before I ever really spoke at length with anyone who was not a follower of Holy Mother Church? Things were otherwise before the Change.

“Of course,” the Abbot-Bishop said. “But the reason I find most comforting is that we have the bright legions of the Saints and the mercy of the Blessed Virgin to intercede for us before the terrible majesty of the Godhead.”

“It was. . terrible enough, Father. Not frightening in the way a physical danger might be, of course, but terrible as a storm or a sunset is. To see a soul that was human, so very human, but truly filled with the divine Light, freed from sin and soaring to heights I could not imagine or grasp.”

“You have been granted a very great honor, my son,” Dmwoski said meditatively. “One such as few men have known. Yet as you say, a frightening one as well. The higher a man rises, the lower he can fall. The Adversary himself was once closest of all created things to God, and so closest to Him in knowledge and power and virtue.”

“I can only strive to be worthy,” Ignatius said; the words were grave, but he felt himself smile at the memory of that mixture of awe and joy. “Worthy to be the Knight of the Immaculata.”

“Inspiring that a knight-brother of the Shield of St. Benedict was chosen,” Dmwoski said. “And especially to the younger members of our Order. Their faith was strong before, but it burns now. Which is of course the purpose of miracles; they show a possibility.”

“And my report of the events on Nantucket?” Ignatius added. “I have eagerly awaited your thoughts on the matter, Most Reverend Father. It was far less. . straightforward is not the correct word, but I confess I am at a loss for a better one.”

Dmwoski sighed ruefully. “Now there, my son, you have touched on mysteries too deep for this hard head of mine. Reports have been dispatched to the Curia in Badia and I have requested that they be brought to the immediate attention of the Holy Father and the Church’s most learned theologians. But to be granted the experience of the Beatific Vision as well as a call to her service from the very Mother of God. . it is almost excessive!”

“A glimpse of the Beatific Vision, yes. Or as much of it as my limited perceptions could grasp; a. . a metaphor, perhaps. But…” Ignatius said, and signed himself, then touched his fingers to his forehead. “But you were most definitely the voice I heard and the person I saw. Yet. . you assured me that you were still alive; that what I beheld was not bound by Time, for it was already partly in Eternity. Most Reverend Father, I assure you it is beyond my comprehension as well.”

“How could it not be beyond our comprehension?” Dmwoski laughed. “Are we not servants and celebrants of a Mystery? I confess to both fear and longing at your description; but those are the emotions that the contemplation of Eternity is supposed to arouse. Only when it is achieved can joy be unmixed, and as I grow closer to the end of my days the longing grows stronger. Yet I have work to do first; and hopefully a long life of effort and struggle awaits you, Brother.”

“And there is the matter of the marriage,” Ignatius said, as they signed themselves, rose and sat on the hard wooden stools. “I am troubled by that as well. Torn between joy and doubt.”

He smiled. “And it is so good to have someone to turn to, someone older and wiser than I to share my thoughts and advise me! If I had to say what most comforted me about being part of the body of the Church, Father, it is that I need not always face these matters alone. If the service of God is perfect freedom, then the service of His Church is a great comfort.”

Dmwoski’s brows went up. “The marriage has been long contemplated. Contemplated since they were children, I suspect, by their mothers. At the very least since the end of the War of the Eye, possibly earlier.”

“Most Reverend Father, the Immaculata herself entrusted the Princess to my care. And I have come to feel for her as a person, as I might a beloved younger sister; I have learned to admire her intelligence, her courage, her earnest desire to do right, and her devotion to Holy Church. Not to mention her cheerfulness through all our trials and dangers and-harder for one of her birth-the hardships and inconveniences.”

Dmwoski nodded. “A remarkable young woman. But why do you feel the marriage is questionable? She has no vocation for the life of a religious; and therefore she should marry. Even as a private citizen, much less a monarch with the fate of a dynasty in her blood. We are not all called to make the same sacrifices or to carry the same Cross.”

“But. . no, you are right. Though she is very devout. My principal concern as her confessor and spiritual counselor has been to warn her against the danger of scrupulosity.”

Dmwoski chuckled. “I am not surprised. That is the besetting temptation of pious youngsters, and pious young women in particular. That her duties will lie in the secular sphere should help her guard against it. Yet her destiny is a throne; and so she must marry for reasons of state, and there is only one obvious choice. The High King-”

“Yes, our High King is a fine man, one worthy of her, as few could be. A man of almost intimidating qualities, in fact: a true hero, but no man of blood by his own choice either, not hungry for power in itself, and a good and loyal friend as well. And I think God has made him His instrument against the Cutters. Also the two of them love each other deeply. But he is pagan.”

A grave inclination of the head. “Do you think marriage to him will shake her faith?” Dmwoski said. “For that would indeed be reason to oppose it, regardless of consequence.”

Ignatius paused. “No. . no, not that. She loves him, but she loves God with equal passion.”

“Then I do not think we need fear excessively. Mixed marriages are permissible under canon law, and have been for some time, my son-unlike some ordinances of the late pre-Change era, those were not rescinded by the Third Council.”

“If she is blessed with children, which God grant-”

“We must insist that they be taught the Faith, certainly.”

“His Majesty has agreed to that. You can guess his reservations, I think.”

“That his unspoken intent is that they be exposed to his faith as well, and decide for themselves when they come of age whether to follow the Church’s teachings or the so-called Old Religion? That would accord with Mackenzie custom. They are tolerant, if anything tolerant to a fault.”

“Yes. He remarked, in fact, that his mother had been raised a Catholic, and laughed good-naturedly at my silence. It is important to remember that his physical talents are matched by a very keen mind, Father.”

Dmwoski spread gnarled, battered hands. “I do not think we can legitimately object, then. Particularly when this marriage is so essential to the defense of the Church against the CUT’s heresy and diabolism. Remember to take a long perspective on these matters, my son; we are bidden to be as wise as serpents and as gentle as doves.”

“Yet the Immaculata called me a miles of Christ, Most Reverend Father.”

Dmwoski chuckled indulgently. “And a soldier of Christ must learn His virtues as well! You are still a young man, and the desire to beat down opposition to God’s will with hammer blows burns hot in you. Yet Holy Mother Church has won many battles by persistence, by endurance, by humility and above all by patience. She is wise with years, and knows how to bide her time.”

“My heart tells me that much good will come from this union, yet. . perhaps much of the good will take generations to unfold. Well, we serve the Church Militant, not the Church Triumphant. Not yet.”

He smiled wryly as he went on: “I think that it will also make the two people concerned very happy indeed. I feared that would cloud my judgment, Father, for they are both very dear to me.”

“Then you are once more privileged, my son, for you will be able to give them deep and abiding joy through your service as a priest in sanctifying their union.”

“God is good,” Ignatius said, crossing himself again.

Dmwoski laughed wholeheartedly at the slightly dubious tone.

“Yes, He is!” he said, and shook an admonishing finger. “So you need not fear He is. . ah. . setting you up. Lugh might; but Lugh is a fable.”

Ignatius flushed and nodded. “I have been much among pagans, Father.”

“And now you will marry one to a Catholic princess!” Dmwoski said, smiling. More soberly: “May I help you with your vestments?”

“I would be honored.”

Ignatius drew a deep breath and took the amice from the elderly cleric’s hands. He donned it, and murmured:

“Place, O Lord, on my head the helmet of Salvation, that so armed I may resist the assaults of the Adversary-”

“And to think I wanted something quiet and private,” Artos grumbled. “I thought we could have it here, so remote and peaceful. .”

Matti smiled, but there was a quaver in her voice. “Nothing we do can ever be very private,” she said. “The nearest I ever got to private was Dun Juniper. . and that wasn’t very.”

Their mothers had swung into operation almost the moment he’d spoken and Mathilda answered. They’d even found time to have the inner walls of the keep garlanded with fir boughs and bright wildflowers; the high castle ramparts left a soft shadowed darkness amid the scent of pine, but dozens of torches cast a ruddy light, and the sun painted the high snowpeaks a like crimson. There was a fair crowd, as well; his stepfather, Sir Nigel, was here, and Eric Larsson of the Bearkillers, and at least one or two from most of the other realms that made up the new-minted Montival. Even a McClintock from the far south, looking a bit hairy and disheveled in the Great Kilt they affected. At least that meant the enemy had been held short of the Columbia Gorge; from what he’d heard they were trying to hammer it down and cut Montival in two.

“Rudi, let’s enjoy this? Please?” Mathilda asked.

He took a deep breath, then grinned. “Acushla, how could I not?”

Now he stood in his best kilt and Montrose jacket, with lace at his throat and cuffs; Sandra had had a white-cream-and-pearl cotehardie ready for her daughter. . which didn’t surprise him at all. A crown of meadowsweet whose flowers matched it encircled her cascade of unbound brown hair, its delicate almond scent strong. Castle Corbec was a major border fortress, and the chapel could seat several hundred. It was finished in the same pale rock as the exterior, but the walls were a lacy framework for the glowing stained-glass windows. The inner keep courtyard where it stood was paved in the same stone; its confines were handsome but rather bare apart from the church and the afternoon’s improvised additions, since this was a Crown fortress garrisoned by the Regent’s troops, not a fief with a resident lord and his family.

Sir Nigel Loring came up; he was in the same high-festival Mackenzie costume as Artos, small and trim and alert in his early seven-ties. His eyes were blue and a little watery-legacy of a battle injury before the Change-and his voice had the softly clipped gentry accents he’d learned from the grandmother who’d raised him after he’d been orphaned in infancy. She’d been born well over a century ago, and had been a debutante when Edward VII held Britain’s throne. Artos’ mind felt jittery, as if it was skipping from thought to thought like a drop of oil on a griddle; some part of it wondered what that stern dame would have thought if she could have seen her grandson now, and thought for a moment of how her grandmother had seen Napoleon depart for Elba.

Only three lifetimes. And now the fire-and-steel wonders of those centuries have risen and vanished in their turn and once more the world moves to the pace of the horse and the plowman.

“Mathilda, you look absolutely ravishing,” Sir Nigel said, bowing over her hand with courtly grace. “This is all improvised, but your mother thinks it would be appropriate if I gave you away. I hope you concur, because you certainly have the last word in the matter.”

“I’d love that, Sir Nigel,” she said warmly; they’d gotten along well during her stays at Dun Juniper in the years after the War of the Eye. “You’ve always been like a second father to me. And now you will be one.”

“Stepfather-in-law, at least, my dear girl,” he said. “And it will be good practice for the state ceremonies later. Though Maude and Fiorbhinn will never forgive you for marrying without them present.”

Which was true in a sense, Artos knew; both his mother’s children with Sir Nigel would be livid.

Though they’ll forgive me, and they love Mathilda dearly. Who could not? Well, some, but they show their lack of taste and wit thereby.

“We’ll be having at least two other wedding ceremonies, Father,” Artos said.

“Affirmations and commemorations,” Mathilda said. “This is the marriage.”

Artos nodded, though to Mackenzie sensibilities that was a distinction without a difference. Clan custom and law held that it was the public declaration of intent and then living together that made a handfasting; the ceremonies simply bore witness to it and asked blessings and luck of the Powers on the new family. He knew Christians thought that the ceremony was the marriage, though.

“One at Dun Juniper, and one at Castle Todenangst. And Eilir is here, at least,” he said aloud.

“I can assure that that will make things worse with your younger sisters, not better, my boy,” he said dryly. “And now take yourself off to the church to await your fate in fear and trembling, and you, young lady, go to your bridesmaids-they’re either that, or a troop of light cavalry, and a most formidable one.”

Artos took a deep breath, squeezed Mathilda’s hand, and did so. Edain was deep in talk with the under-captains of the King’s Archers, and flashed him a smile and a thumbs-up as he passed. The rest were busy sprucing up their gear; most of them had flowers tucked behind their ears.

They have something planned, then.

That worried him a little, thinking of some of the high jinks that went on at a Mackenzie handfasting.

But Edain’s a steady man. He’ll keep them in hand.

A crowd of male friends came with him to the church gates: Ingolf, Fred, Bjarni, a half dozen more including those he hadn’t seen since he left; Alleyne Loring and John Hordle of the Dunedain for starters. Michael Havel Jr. was there from Larsdalen-though not, he noted, his mother, Signe.

“Mike!” Artos said, grinning as they exchanged a hand-to-forearm grip.

The younger man had grown a good deal since Artos had last seen him, several months before he left for Nantucket; he was past seventeen now, and nearly Artos’height. And their family resemblance was much stronger. That was most apparent in the face, a high-cheeked, square-jawed handsomeness that they’d taken from the Bear Lord, their common father. Signe’s heritage showed in the corn-yellow hair and bright blue eyes. He’d acquired a couple of scars on his face and hands since the questers left too. Then Artos saw the small burn-mark between the other’s brows, made with the touch of a red-hot iron; it was the mark of the A-list, the Bearkiller equivalent of knighthood, and nobody got it for any reason whatsoever except proved merit.

“You’re young for that, boyo!” he said admiringly.

“Ah-” he said, flushing. Then he rallied: “Well, you got yours from Raven when you were only ten!”

His cousin Will Larsson grinned beside him; they were of an age and height, but the son of Signe’s brother had skin the color of light rye toast. He also had the A-list brand.

“We got the combat exemption,” he said proudly. “Fighting at Pendleton, we got caught up in a complete ratfuck during the retreat.”

“And fought like heroes, I have no doubt.”

“Everyone was a hero there. Unfortunately so were the enemy!”

Artos did a few quick introductions. The men who’d stayed in Montival looked curiously at the questers, and met the same regard. Artos smiled to himself at the quick careful appraisals that went back and forth, and the nods of cautious respect.

Eric Larsson of the Bearkillers was among them, Signe Havel’s twin brother and her war-commander; a big scarred blond man in formal Bearkiller denim, a brown so dark it was almost black. He was called Steel-Fist these days. Seeing the gleaming prosthethic where his left hand had been was a vivid reminder that life had gone on here too in the last years. . and that a lot of it had been war. Right now he grinned and nudged Artos with an elbow; he could tell the Bearkiller was bursting with military news and plans, but he’d put them aside for the moment. His son Will whispered in his ear, and then they both grinned at Artos.

“You’re looking a little peaked all of a sudden, Your Majesty,” Eric said, amused. “Pale and interesting and elfin. Or maybe just so goddamned frightened you’re about to puke.”

“Perish the thought! Artos the First is unmoved. But Rudi Mackenzie, now. .” He put his hand to his stomach. “Right now he’s feeling nervous, and that’s a fact. I’ve walked towards a shield-wall full of spears and angry strangers with less apprehension.”

“Your dad said the same thing when he and Signe got hitched. Of course, he was marrying Signe, which was enough to frighten the shit out of anyone, even then before she became such a goddamned sh e — drago n.”

Artos laughed: “A fluttering in the gut, perhaps a little wobbling in the knees. Hard to imagine Mike Havel feeling such, but I certainly do!”

They all nodded; the married men among them with rueful understanding. Eric’s good hand slipped inside his jacket with its black-on-black braid-work and snarling red bear’s-head badge. It came out with a silver flask that gave off a welcome flowery scent when he twisted off the cap. Artos took a quick swig, and then another; sweet fire ran down his throat. It was Larsdalen brandy, and well aged in oak.

“Arra, those grapes did not die in vain,” he said. “Many thanks. Too much of this is weakness, but a little can be strength.”

“And that’s our cue,” Ingolf said, as organ music pealed out.

It came through tall doors whose wooden panels were carved with a rather gruesome depiction of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian, in which the archers looked suspiciously like Mackenzies; it had probably been done before the War of the Eye. They all racked their swords in the vestibule just inside it, and Eric’s son looked curiously at the Sword, whistling softly under his breath.

It’s odd how reactions vary, Artos thought. It makes some fear, gives others exaltation, and then again some can only see a sword. . at least when it’s sheathed and I’m not holding it.

“You don’t mind letting it out of your sight?” he asked Artos, frowning a little.

“I do, Bill,” he replied to the dark young man. “But because it makes me nervous to be without it, so; that’s a side effect of the thing. Not for any fear of what might happen to it; a little fear of what might happen to anyone who tried to touch it, rather.”

Within, the church was a little like being inside a jewelbox, with the evening sun sparkling through the great arches and rondels of stained glass, and the candles high above twinkling in rings of stars amid drifts of blue incense-smoke. The Catholics touched their fingers to the holy water and signed themselves with the Cross, and the women covered their heads as well; Artos and the others of the Old Religion made a reverence towards the altar, and the great Rood on the wall behind. Another, and deeper, to the blue-robed figure of the Virgin in the side chapel; she was shown crowned, with the form of a dove hovering above her head in a burst of radiance. The painting was a little stiff, partly because the limner had been trying for a fourteenth-century style, and more so because this was a remote provincial keep far from the Regent’s art schools.

But there’s Power there, Artos thought. I can feel it, as real as I might in a nemed. Sure it is that They have many faces. All the shapes the Divine shows us are true; and none are all the Truth.

His stomach fluttered again as he took his place at the head of the main aisle of the church, just below the steps to the altar and the carved waist-high wooden screen. The rest of his party took their seats, save for his groomsmen, Ingolf and Fred, at his elbow.

“It’s really happening,” he muttered under his breath. “Sure and I wanted it so badly for so long, and now I’m restraining an impulse to show a pair of heels and run screaming into the mountains looking for a cave to hide in, resident bears or no.”

There was a little cold sweat on his forehead all of a sudden. Fred and Ingolf were close behind him, which was some comfort. His mother was in the front pew, which was more. She caught his eye, then slowly and deliberately winked. He thought her hand moved under a fold of her arsaid; either in the Invoking pentagram, or a simple thumbs-up.

And suddenly I feel better. By the Ever-Changing One, but it’s good to be home and among my kin once more!

“Time,” Ingolf whispered; he’d been raised Catholic and was familiar with the service.

Father Ignatius came out of the Sacristia, bright in his white and gold and crimson vestments, and the folk in the pews rose to their feet. The organ thundered again, and Artos turned to watch Mathilda pace through the door, with Mary and Virginia garlanded as her bridesmaids and matrons of honor. She put her arm through Sir Nigel’s and continued up the stretch of red carpet, smiling gravely, holding her bouquet in gloved hands. A light gauze veil covered her flower-circled hair and shadowed her face.

She is so beautiful, Artos thought. Enough to make a man ache, and not just in the obvious places.

Not conventionally pretty; her features were bold and a little irregular and her face long-she took after her father in looks, as in her height. But there was a glow to her that went beyond mere youth and health, and her light brown eyes were wells where thoughts moved like golden-scaled fish in the depths. He saw himself reflected in them, and knew she saw herself in his.

And though we have known each other so long, my breath comes fast at the sight of her. With a cool shock: The Goddess is here, here and now. So Maiden becomes Mother, and the Son becomes the Lover. We too are part of all that is.

The music died, and they took the steps to the altar. Ignatius smiled at them; Artos almost thought that he winked a little too. Then he raised his hands and spoke:

“ ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in Paradise. .’”

The words and gestures went on. At last Ignatius took Artos’ right hand in his own, and Mathilda’s from Sir Nigel’s, and laid them in each other’s. He felt the strong slim calloused fingers of her sword-hand grip his as his smiling stepfather stepped back to join his mother.

“Say after me: I, Rudi Artos Mackenzie-” the priest began, and Artos echoed him.

“. . and thereunto I plight thee my troth,” he finished, his strong clear voice filling the church.

Mathilda’s answered it: “I, Mathilda Christine Arminger, take thee, Rudi Artos Mackenzie, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to be bonny and buxom at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”

For a moment Artos knew sickening fear; the whole matter of the rings was suddenly gone from his mind, as if it had stuttered and missed a step. Then Ingolf and Mary each stepped forward with the golden bands on small satin cushions. Ignatius extended his hands over them and raised his voice:

“Bless these Rings, O merciful Lord, that those who wear them, that give and receive them, may be ever faithful to one another, remain in Your peace, and live and grow old together in Your love, under their own vine and fig tree, and seeing their children’s children. Amen.”

The priest’s voice was strong and well-trained, but for a long moment Artos lost the thread of it, simply looking into her smile. Then she squeezed his hand again, and he heard:

“. . thereto have given and pledged their troth each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce therefore that they be Man and Wife together, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

He took a long deep breath of delight, hearing Ignatius add under his breath: “Bless you, my children.”

“Wife,” he said softly to Mathilda.

“Husband,” she replied.

“It’s not a formal part of a Catholic ceremony,” Ignatius said, “but you may kiss the bride.”

He lifted the veil and did. Her lips were soft and sweet, but the arms that went around him were strong. The scent of her mingled with the flowers in her hair and made him dizzy, as if the great stone mass of the church were tilting slowly.

“And there is a time and place for everything, my son!” Ignatius said, with suppressed laughter in his voice.

Mathilda was flushed and laughing herself as she drew away. Mary stepped closer, elegant in Dunedain formal black and piratical with her eye patch, and handed Mathilda the bouquet.

“Give everyone a chance to get out, so you can throw it, Matti,” she said. Then she smiled. “Sister.”

Mathilda blinked in surprise. “We are now, aren’t we?” she said, delight still bubbling in her voice.

The great doors spread wide, and they walked towards them. Mathilda’s eyes went wide as well, as the pipers of the High King’s Archers sounded off on either side of the portals; the sound was stunning-huge, magnified by the high walls that surrounded the keep of Castle Corbec, and the superb acoustics of the church.

“Edain, I’m going to skin you!” Artos muttered.

Then he saw his mother grinning, and knew the Archer hadn’t been alone in it. These weren’t the sweet uilleann instruments usually played at a handfasting either, since nobody had thought to bring those from the Clan’s territory in a time of battle and tumult; they were the piob mhor, the great war-pipes, and from the sudden rattling roar beneath the savage drone someone had dragged a Lambeg along as well. The ranks of the High King’s Archers stood without, with their bows raised to make an arch.

At least they’re not playing “The Ravens’ Pibroch” or “Hecate’s Wolves Their Howl,” he thought; it was a march, his own mother’s “My Heart Sees Green Hills in the Mist.”

There was no choice but to pace forward to the stately rhythm. Mathilda’s hand tightened on his, and he could see she was fighting not to smile. Then as they crossed the threshold-someone had the minimal tact to wait until they were off the consecrated ground-Mary snatched a besom from a girl behind her and laid it before them with a sweeping gesture.

Oh, well, Artos thought, and caught Mathilda up in his arms.

“Over the broom and into new life!” his clansfolk shouted, as he stepped over it.

He kissed Mathilda again, and then the Mackenzies stormed forward, cheering. The men among them grabbed him and tossed him up and bore him overhead on their upthrust arms, and the women did likewise for Mathilda. Then they began to dance, two lines curling around each other deosil and tuathal to the music of pipe and drum, faster and faster until both the newlyweds were tossing and whirling like boats on a stormy sea. At last they stopped, threw both upward with a great shout, and then set them on their feet. The pair staggered together, arms around each other’s shoulders.

“Well, at least they didn’t strip us naked, carry us upstairs and throw us into bed,” Artos said in Mathilda’s ear.

She blushed-exactly that wasn’t uncommon at a Clan wedding-and they straightened as the bagpipes fell silent.

Voices rang out instead, and somewhere a flute, both high and sweet. He recognized his mother’s soprano, still effortless on the higher notes, and then saw his nearest kin standing about her, with his elder half sister Eilir swaying and Signing the lyrics as the others sang:

Juniper herself brought him the plate with the fruitcake, though Sandra was beside her.

“Made with my own hands,” the Mackenzie chieftainness said.

“I threw in some currants,” Sandra added. “Really, it’s all right, dear. I checked; this isn’t a pagan rite. Well, no more than Christmas. And it will make the Mackenzies happy.”

“I’m not worried,” Mathilda said. “I’m-” She checked and cuffed at her eyes. “I’m almost crying, and I don’t know why.”

Artos pulled the sgian dubh out of his knee-hose and cut the round cake. There was another cheer as he and Mathilda each fed the other a bite. He leaned close in the course of it.

“Only a little longer to wait.”

“Rudi…” she said two hours later.

“Yes, my darling one?”

“I. . um, could you leave the Sword outside?”

“I can deny you nothing.”

The castellan of Corbec had given up his private quarters in the South Tower with every evidence of willingness at the bridal feast.

Mind you, with Sandra here so would I, in his position!

Those quarters were a suite of rooms just below the machicolations of the tower. Edain and a squad of his King’s Archers were a floor below, and had cheerfully promised to pitch anyone who came up the spiral staircase right back down again, or out an arrow-slit and into the lake. The stairs gave directly onto a semicircular space, and the doors leading to the individual rooms opened off that. Artos drew the Sword-

Shock.

Gentle this time, distant, like a chiming of bells and the scent of mulled wine.

— and thrust it into the floor before the entrance to the sleeping quarters. The surface was granite tiles on concrete beams, but the blade sank in a double handspan and stood quivering.

“I think that will ensure us all the privacy we need,” he said.

“You’re showing off!”

“To be sure. And when better?”

Corbec was at nearly five thousand feet, and the nights were chill. A crackling pine-scented fire was burning in a big tiled hearth in the bedchamber, and it was pleasantly warm, smelling of blossoms and clean linen. There were wildflowers on the tables and headboards and in the arched windows, pale yellow and bright gold, blue and purple and crimson-saxifrage, mountain jasmine and penstemon and more. Artos could sense Mathilda’s nervousness, and he crossed to the table and poured them both a glass of white wine from the bottle that rested in its silver ewer full of snow.

“Anamchara mine, we’ve waited this long, a little more won’t hurt. It’s not as if we had to show a bloody sheet!”

She surprised him by laughing. “Oh, we couldn’t.” At his raised brow: “I’ve been riding astride all my life, Rudi! Mom asked the doctor and she said it was all gone by the time I was thirteen.”

He joined in the chuckle. “But you are nervous, my darling. I can tell, you know!”

“I’m-”

She sat down, looked at her hands, spoke in a small voice. “I’m afraid I won’t be any, ummm, any good at this, Rudi. And I really want to be.”

Artos sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the sleek brown hair over her ear. “Now, acushla, I’m going to betray one of the Men’s Mysteries to you.”

She made a small inquiring noise, and he went on: “And that mystery is that while for a woman it can be good or bad, well. . for a man, unless he’s ill or very drunk, it can only be good or better. So let’s start with good, and get better with practice, shall we? Years and years of practice!”

She laughed and punched his shoulder, and suddenly they were kissing. .