Emberverse 08: The Tears of the Sun

by S. M. Stirling

  None of them looked truly miserable; the people in them certainly weren’t underfed, or very ragged, or too smelly. The toft gardens all had abundant vegetables and a few fruit trees; there were chicken coops and the odd pigsty or shed for a milch cow down at their far fence. There were Refugees in Richland who lived worse. The upper part of the town held larger houses as well, from the reeve’s and the bailiff’s up to those of the household knights.

  “Heimat,” Maugis repeated, rolling the word around his mouth to taste it. “I like that. It . . . fits.”

  Since this was a baron’s seat, it also had two or three of the things the ordinary manorial village had one of, bakeries and blacksmith’s shops and some full-time weavers. The blacksmiths had the usual piles of bundled scrap metal around their doors, and they were working too hard to notice their overlord walking by; metal hissed viciously with a vinegary smell and a spearhead was quenched, with a grinding chorus of metal shoved against spinning honing wheels beneath. Most of the other craftsfolk looked about as busy.

  “War wears things out,” Maugis said, nodding at them. “Things and people.”

  “God knows it’s worn holes in me,” Ingolf said ruefully, touching the dent where his nose had been broken.

  Down at the end of the single street were a set of huge barns, long work sheds, a tall windmill and a tangle of corrals. Those were swarmingly busy too.

  “I could turn these mountains into a running sore when the enemy come . . . as they will. Or I could put up a single fight on the plains for honor’s sake, and then just defend the heights, giving a bloody nose to anyone who pokes it in and hoping to deal as best I can with whoever has the victory in the end.”

  “You could do that, my lord,” Ingolf said carefully, as he might to a horse he wasn’t sure might bolt. “But you’d be making it that much less likely we win the war.”

  “Yes,” Maugis said calmly. “And I have obligations to the Count, whose vassal I am. He’s a good man who does his best, and even his father—who was a jumped-up thug with a veneer of courtesy, as my father said—gave us good lordship, mostly, which is as much as a vassal can rightly demand. The question is, can the Count protect me and mine in return for my service if I throw everything into the scales for him? I’m not a household knight who can fight with no thought but to die at his lord’s side. There are more than four thousand people living in this Barony, Lord Vogeler, commons, clerics and gentles alike. They’re my vassals; they look to me for protection in return for their service and obedience, and I have sworn to provide it. For that oath I must account before the very Throne of God.”

  He crossed himself. “Most of the time being a baron is a fine thing, the wealth and power and glory of it. There comes a time to pay for everything, though, if a man’s to be a man indeed and not just a wolf that walks on two legs with his sword for fangs. And only the lesser debts can be paid in cash. These decisions are mine to make here, and that is my burden.”

  “There’s more involved than the Count Palatine,” Ingolf said. “Or Walla Walla and the County of the Eastermark in general.”

  “Yes; there’s his overlord the Lady Regent, and the new Kingdom. Lady Sandra I know a little, and she is very able, she’s led the Association well. But she’s colder than the dark side of the Moon. A ruler must make sacrifices, and balance this loss against that, sometimes ruthlessly; I know that from watching and listening to my father work, and my own experience. But she would sacrifice my barony and its folk without even a moment’s hesitation if it served her aims, as if it were an entry in a ledger or a cutting bar in a hay-reaper. I cannot give fealty to a machine or a mere form of written laws. It must be to a person, someone who respects my honor, who loves it, even if he sends me to death and condemns my lands to the fire for a greater duty’s sake.”

  “She’s not the big boss anymore, Lord Maugis.”

  He stopped and looked at Ingolf Vogeler. “I don’t know Rudi Mackenzie,” he said. “Or Artos the High King. But I do know you, a little, Lord Vogeler. We’ve fought together side by side, and I’ve seen you at work with your own troops. And I flatter myself that though I’m young yet, I’m a fair judge of men. So tell me about Artos. Tell me if he’s a King worth risking all this”—he moved his arm about—“for. Is he a man who loves his vassals’ honor as much as his own? Is he worthy of true fealty, that I can ask my followers to lay down their lives and risk their homes for him?”

  Ingolf stood rooted to the spot. Hell, how do I answer that? he thought desperately. OK, I know Rudi pretty damned good. We were together through two really stressful years and a lot of . . . wait a minute.

  “Lord Maugis,” he said. “I could tell you what I think of Rudi . . . the High King . . . but that would just be words. My opinion at most. Let me tell you what I’ve seen him do, these last two years and more, since I rode into Sutterdown with the Prophet’s men on my tracks. Words are cheap, but a man is what he does.”

  When Ingolf finished, he found his throat unexpectedly dry. And the sun was much lower, low enough to make him blink in surprise. They were sitting on a stone horse-trough with a spigot above it. He turned it on, and drank a double handful of the cold mineral-tasting water, shaking out his hands afterwards. The air sucked the moisture out of his beard in moments, but it was a little cooler now.

  Lord Maugis stood looking westward for a long moment, his left hand on his sword-hilt. When he turned he bowed.

  “My lord de Stafford said that all the barons of the County Palatine were summoned to a conference in Walla Walla by the Count, to consider our strategy in this war. If we could be spared from our domains. I think that I can be, now.”

  A bell began ringing; the big one in the church, going a slow deep: bong . . . bong . . . bong . . . a dozen times.

  “And it is time to return to the square,” he said.

  They did. The bustle there was still going on, by the light of steel baskets of burning pinewood that lofted trails of sparks like little scarlet-yellow stars. The fire in the clouds westward was dying down, and the sky over the mountains was dark blue, a few first true stars showing. The moon was nearly full, shedding a silvery light almost as bright as the fires. And a timber podium had been set up in front of the manor gates, a simple thing that would raise a few people to about head-height over the pavement. The ground sloped away from there; it would give everyone in the square a view.

  More and more people summoned by the bells were pouring in, until the area was packed. Lady Helissent and her mother came out, and her children. Her glance crossed that of her husband; he nodded to her. Ingolf could see something pass between them, knowledge and decision; Helissent’s eyes closed for an instant, and then she took a deep breath and opened them and smiled bravely at the father of her children.

  “If you would accompany me, Lord Vogeler, and your good lady?” Maugis chuckled at the look on the older man’s face. “No, I’m not asking you to speak, just to . . . be present.”

  The local priest went up the stairs first in his vestments, and intoned a prayer. Nearly everyone crossed themselves and kissed their crucifixes, then joined in the last part of it:

  “. . . Dignum et iustum est. Amen.”

  Then the lord of Tucannon and his family and guests climbed up. Looking down, Ingolf saw a sea of faces, and at first was conscious mainly of the eyes. The gaudy haughtiness of the knights and their families and households were in the first row, shading backward into the shaggy dun mass of the commons, straw hats and kerchiefs and shock-headed children. There were a scattering of Richlanders and Sioux; even a few of the Boiseans were there, officers who’d given their paroles. Captain Woburn was one of them, his face impassive. The crackle of the fire-baskets ran beneath the sough of breathing.

  Almost-silence fell as Lord Maugis stepped forward; then a bow swept through the crowd. The soldiers behind the podium came to attention, thumping their spearbutts and the metal-edged points of their four-foot shields down on the paving blocks. Maugis doffed his hat wit
h a flutter of liripipe and returned the bow, not so deeply but a definite gesture.

  “My people,” he said. “My brothers and sisters—for any who fights beside me for this our home I call my brother—we are here tonight to celebrate and to mourn. We fought and beat those who threatened our land, our homes and our families—”

  The crowd burst into a long rolling cheer, calling the baron’s name. Maugis stopped for an instant; Ingolf could see him blinking in surprise. Beside him Mary murmured very quietly, but pitching it to carry to his ear: “I sort of like our host.”

  Ingolf nodded; he saw her point.

  “—and that we celebrate. We mourn the loss of fathers, brothers, husbands. We pray that God will receive their souls, who died bravely fighting for the right.”

  He crossed himself. “Holy Mary—”

  The crowd murmured with him, like wind through trees: “—mother of God, pray for us, now and at the hour of our deaths.”

  Maugis waited again. “I wish that I could say that this was the last battle we must fight. But it was not. The enemy is numerous and strong. He will come again, and we must fight, for he comes to kill our loved ones, to take the land that feeds our children, and to destroy our holy faith. The way will be hard, and many of us may fall. Pray to God and to our patron St. Joan for the strength to endure all that we must suffer and do.”

  Well, that’s telling it straight, Ingolf thought. Hope he knows his audience.

  Into the silence Maugis continued: “But we do not fight this fight alone! Not only all the Association, but all of the High Kingdom of Montival is fighting this war with us. Our High King, Artos, leads them; and he bears the Sword that was forged in Heaven and given to him by the Lady of Stars, the Queen of Heaven herself! If God is with us, who can prevail against us? Artos and Montival!”

  The cry was unfamiliar, but the crowd took it up willingly; stories of Artos and the Sword had been circulating for a while now, even in out-of-the-way spots like this. Many of the faces looking up were exalted and rapt now.

  “And we have strong allies. You see some of them among us now. More are marching against the enemy from north and east. A cheer, my people, for the allies come from far away to risk their lives beside us!”

  Maugis laid a hand on Ingolf’s shoulder for a moment, and the Richlander fought down an impulse to fidget and blush at the roar of acclaim.

  “Already a great army gathers at Walla Walla, many thousands strong and led by the Grand Constable of the Association, and by our own Count Felipe, who is my overlord as I am yours. He has called me there to consult with him.”

  This time the silence had an edge to it. Maugis lifted his hands again.

  “In the short time I shall be gone, I name my own good wife, the well-loved Lady Helissent, as deputy in my place. To assist her, our allies will remain here until I return in a few days. Give her your loyal service, your strong arms and wise counsel, as you have to me.”

  There were more cheers. Mary’s lips moved close to his ear: “Pointing out his wife and children are staying right here,” she said. “That was a smart move.”

  When the sound died down, Maugis’ arm went to the trestle tables. “And now let us feast and dance, my brothers and sisters. Whatever storms come, let us remember this day, and that we are one, and that one with the strength of many. Here, and in lands we have never seen.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE WILD LANDS

  (FORMERLY HUMBOLDT-TOIYABE NATIONAL FOREST,

  NORTHWESTERN NEVADA)

  HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL

  (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)

  AUGUST 14, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD

  Ritva shivered. Ian put an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into it gratefully as the dry wind flicked around them, its hooting the only sound besides the spitting crackle of the torch, its scent heavy with the smell of the cut pine logs. Astrid Loring-Larsson looked inhumanly peaceful as she rested on the pyre, hands clasped on the hilt of her sword. Though they were yards away, the downslope put her on their eye-level.

  The crossbow bolt was gone, and they’d found a spring of good water here at the edge of the wooded mountains that stretched north and west during their day’s labors. The body had been washed and dressed again in the war-gear and then wrapped to the shoulders in her dark cloak; the long white-gold hair lay over her shoulders, stirring in the breeze beneath a thick wreath of crimson columbine whose blossoms attracted a hummingbird of iridescent green. There was a vulnerable look to the moon-pale face that Ritva didn’t recall seeing before, like a shy wild child lost in dreams.

  She shivered again.

  “What is it?” Ian repeated, whispering next to her ear.

  She wasn’t crying anymore; he knew it wasn’t just grief.

  “It was what she said at the end,” Ritva said.

  “I didn’t understand it,” Ian said.

  And he’d been well back in the gondola when Astrid died in her husband’s arms, with Eilir’s tears falling on her face and John Hordle wringing great paws that suddenly looked so helpless. He didn’t understand the Noble Tongue all that well either yet, of course, and Astrid had been gasping.

  “It was . . .” Ritva thought. “She was hurting a lot and she said good-bye to us all and told Alleyne to teach the children she’d loved them and hadn’t wanted to leave while they were still so young, and then . . . I thought she was gone and she opened her eyes and said: Like silver glass . . . green shores . . . the gulls . . . a white tower . . . home, home, at last . . .

  “And then she died,” Ritva whispered after a moment. “One by one they go, the heroes, the legends.”

  The surviving crew folk of the dirigible were grouped at a little distance, the ones not too badly injured to stand. Major Hanks spoke a command and they came to attention, their hands following his to a salute. Behind them the burnt wreckage of the Curtis LeMay was smeared across a scrubby hillside, parts of the brush it had set afire still smoldering though the tall plume had dispersed over the course of the day. The Thurstons stood nearer, but Cecile and her daughters were a little apart from Juliet; and they stood on the side of her that put her son between them. The boy was sobbing from the swirl of emotions around them, but he was too tired to be loud about it.

  The Dúnedain were closer still, and Ritva was near the leaders; she was Astrid’s niece, after all. Alleyne had invited Juliet into the party, since it was to save her or perhaps her son that his wife had lunged forward, but there had been an icy politeness to it, and she had declined in a half-heard murmur.

  “Farewell, beloved,” Alleyne said, his eyes locked on the body. “Wait for me, until my work here is finished.”

  Farewell, anamchara, sister of my soul, Eilir’s fingers said. The threads of our lives are spun together forever.

  Together they stepped forward, their hands on the torch. The pine logs were stacked crisscross in six layers, and the gaps between them had been stuffed with branches and needles and bone-white fallen timber. The wind from the north was still brisk, even though the storm had blown itself out. The kindling caught with an eager rick-rick-rick sound, and then the whole pyre seemed to explode into a pillar of flame and smoke that rose and bent away from them towards the southwest. The summer-dry sap-rich wood burned with a dragon’s hissing roar, almost instantly hot enough to turn bone to dust. Ritva felt her eyes water and brushed at them again.

  Eilir was crying once more as they backed away, weeping quietly, her tears trickling down past a silent sorrow; she and Astrid had met in the first year of the Change, and sworn the anamchara oath not long after. They had spent a generation together. John Hordle wept as well, with the harsh jerky sound of a man unaccustomed to it. Alleyne’s handsome face looked as if it were carved from ivory; his lips moved silently in words she couldn’t make out for a moment, and then he bowed his head.

  One thing’s changed, Ritva knew suddenly.

  Uncle Alleyne had never taken some things about the Rangers altogether seriou
sly, though he’d been scrupulously polite and never made a fuss even as he gave all his considerable skill and ability to their affairs. The Dúnedain had already been refounded by Astrid and Eilir when he arrived fifteen years ago with his father and John, though not long before that. Now . . .

  Now he’ll live her dream, she realized. And he’ll do it perfectly. For her.

  They waited silently until the logs collapsed inward and the roar of the fire died down to a crackle that would last all night. Then he raised his head and gave the note. Ritva joined in on the beat, and every one of the Dúnedain as well. Eilir swayed to the rhythm, her hands dancing:

  “A Elbereth Gilthoniel

  silivren penna míriel . . .”

  When they were finished, Ritva whispered again to herself: “Thy starlight on the Western Seas.”

  Then she shook herself. You had to be able to put things aside and go on. They were in a dangerous wilderness and there was a great deal to do. The ashes would be carried home in Astrid’s helm, and by her long-standing will be scattered in Mithrilwood by the falls whose beauty she’d loved, but that was her husband’s work and her anamchara’s. Caught in the storm’s giant fist they had hopelessly overshot their rendezvous south of Boise, where helpers were supposed to be waiting.

  They knew in a general sense where they were; it wasn’t all that far from where the Quest had passed through going east two years ago, just before they ran into General-President Thurston the elder’s column. They could locate themselves on a map as soon as they hit a marked roadway or abandoned town. What they weren’t likely to find was people, or any of the things people would have with them.

  Ian Kovalevsky looked around. “Looks a bit like the Rockies, only lower,” he said.

  Ritva snorted. “That’s because it is the Rockies, more or less, sweetie,” she said.