by Eric Flint
“When they come to treat with the People of the Longhouse, Degonwadonti, they will come to the Longhouse itself—to the Council Fire.”
“Which was extinguished.”
“Which has been relit.”
“It means nothing, Elder Sister. Not anymore.”
“That is not true.”
“Of course, it is. I watched when Guyasuta’s messenger came here and tossed down the bundle of broken arrows. The Covenant Chain is broken; the tribes are no longer in the same longhouse. The Council Fire is no more important than . . . ” Molly gestured toward the wisps of smoke rising from cookfires around her. “Than any of these fires.”
“The Council Fire has whatever power we invest in it.”
“So does my home.”
Osha tugged on the sleeves on her shirt and adjusted the headband that held her hair out of her face.
“You are right, Degonwadonti. I cannot compel you to quit this place and come to Onondaga. I can only beseech you to come. And as for the Covenant, the shape and size of the Longhouse has changed over the seasons, and it has changed again. The Cayuga may have gone their own way, and the Seneca as well, but the Covenant will survive. Even if you do not protect the Council Fire, or believe that you can protect it, your presence is a symbol. You may not realize it, but who you are, and what you represent, is known far beyond the low stone wall of your home. We need you, Degonwadonti. Even your young French admirer will tell you that.”
“Olivier is not my admirer, Elder Sister. I do not have time for such things, and I am in mourning.”
“You will have time. And you will not always be in mourning.”
Québec
Montcalm never thought of himself as an especially religious man. He had never failed to be present when required, or requested, but he had spent far more of his time astride a horse, or in court dress attending his king, than on his knees. But since the comet’s fall, and especially since the trip upriver when he had been confronted with the natives’ spirits—the ones who had reappeared in the battle so recently won—he had been more inclined to seek the solace and peace of a church.
It was in the modest Basilica of Notre-Dame where Jean-Félix Récher found him; not kneeling, exactly, but contemplating a large bas-relief on the side of the nave depicting one of the Stations of the Cross.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Ah, Père. No, not at all. I’m just waiting for His Grace. He is at the Governor’s Palace.”
“Is he. I assume Monsieur de Vaudreuil is not happy.”
“We have scarcely spoken since we returned from New York. But I am inclined to agree.”
“The archbishop’s mood seemed more sunny.”
“Once the ceremony was complete, yes. I still think he’s in a state of shock to be asked, particularly since certain bounds were placed on what he might say and do, how the consecration and coronation would be arranged so that everyone was satisfied.”
“Except Monsieur de Vaudreuil.”
“He was not consulted in the matter.”
“I imagine that contributes to his dissatisfaction,” Récher said. “But you have no regrets on that subject.”
“None at all—and certainly none for which I require absolution. As for the archbishop . . . well, perhaps we should let him speak for himself.” Montcalm turned to face Henri-Marie de Pontbriand, who had just come into the nave, and was in the process of handing off his crook and episcopal headgear to an acolyte. He seemed in no hurry to divest himself of his robes of office—whether that was for effect, or to ward off the cold September draft that chilled the building, Montcalm was not sure. When the archbishop came before them, both he and Récher bowed and kissed the episcopal ring.
“Your Grace,” Montcalm said.
“Monsieur. And Father Récher.”
“If Your Grace will excuse me—”
“Yes, by all means. Unless you’d like to stay,” the archbishop said, smiling. “I believe the Marquis and I will simply be making impolite comments about the governor.”
“Your Grace . . . ?”
“Monsieur de Vaudreuil summoned me. If you can imagine it, he summoned me, when we arrived in Québec yesterday. I pled fatigue, of course, and arrived when I pleased. Properly attired, I might add, to make sure he was aware with whom he was dealing.”
“Christ’s Vicar on Earth,” Montcalm said.
“I didn’t try to suggest that, and I trust you will forbear in thus promoting me, Monsieur,” Pontbriand answered. “But likely, eventually, yes. He was having none of it: not the peace with the British, not the king, not the coronation. ‘Not my king,’ he insisted,” the archbishop added, in a tone reminiscent of the governor that almost made Montcalm laugh. “‘And not your king either, Your Grace.’” He seemed quite insistent on that point.”
“You told him that it was Prince—King—Edward’s idea.”
“I did, and that seemed to make little difference. He refuses to recognize the authority you were so willing to delegate, as he put it. I think that if he thought there was a ship to take it home he would have dashed off an indignant letter to Versailles.”
“I know of no ship that travels that route, at least at present,” Montcalm answered. “Or to London either.”
“Or Rome,” the archbishop added.
“When he—or Bigot—could write to the King’s ministers, they had power. Now they will have to come to terms with the world the way it actually is. As for the rest of the habitants . . . I think that they will be glad to have a king again. I think this king will actually care about them as well.”
“Amen,” Father Récher said.
“Amen,” the archbishop agreed. “But a great deal of prayer is ahead of us, I think.”
“Don’t let me keep you from it.”
“You won’t,” the archbishop answered. “I expect you will be praying along with us, Monsieur.”
New York
“Which one?” Absalom asked.
Looking out of the window of her apartment in the boarding house, Minerva smiled. “You would think that a man so bound up with chance would not assume things are simple and straightforward.”
Absalom’s jaws tightened for a moment. “It matters, woman. Which one?”
Her smile stayed in place. “Which ones, you would do better to ask.”
“Dear Lord.” He wiped his face. “I speak of the Christian one. Such a simple god, he is. One son—one only—and something called the Holy Spirit. So, which ones, Minerva? Dare I hope that Nana Buluku is among them?”
Minerva shook her head. “Not she herself. I am hardly so mighty, even now. But if it makes you feel better, I can sense Ayizan stirring within me.”
“Well, that’s something.” Absalom cocked his head a little, giving her a look that was both quizzical and skeptical. “Although you’re not an ancient grandmother—not even a mother—and your skin is brown, not black. I will grant that you are a splendid herbalist.”
The smile left Minerva’s face. “Oya is there also, Absalom. So is Gledi and Musso Koroni. Some others.”
Absalom took a deep breath and glanced at the door, as if contemplating an escape route. But, instead, he came to stand beside her at the window.
The street below was packed with people, this time of day. Almost all of them were black.
“Well,” he said. “At least we won’t need to fear that the white folk will inflict another slaughter upon us.”
Minerva’s face, normally warm and friendly, became grim. “They may begin.” The room was suddenly filled with the image of a great snake, followed by that of a huge woman with wild hair and wild eyes. She held a machete in her hand. “They will not finish.”
Absalom grunted, with a bit of humor. “At least I am not your consort. As I recall the legends, it went badly for some of them.”
That broke the mood. Minerva laughed. “Oh, la! Very badly indeed.”
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