The Scourge of God

CHAPTER TWELVE

Knowledge waits beneath the snows

As flowers wait the spring

Chance some call such meetings

That bear fate as women bear a child From: The Song of Bear and Raven

Attributed to Fiorbhinn Mackenzie, 1st century CY

"The fever has broken," someone said.

Rudi Mackenzie opened his eyes, conscious of cleanliness and warmth and a faint odor of incense beneath the more familiar hint of woodsmoke… pine of some sort. He was lying in a bed with brown linen sheets and blankets of some lustrous fabric that had the warmth of wool but less weight. Father Ignatius was standing at the foot of his bed, looking less drawn than Rudi remembered and in his dark Benedictine robe; beside him was a shaven-headed man in a saffron-colored wrap that left one shoulder bare, lean and middle-aged and wearing a stethoscope as well. And another man in the same odd dress, but far older-his flat high-cheeked brown face was a mass of wrinkles that nearly swallowed his narrow black eyes when he smiled, which he looked to do often.

The younger shave-head lifted Rudi's head and trickled water into his mouth from a cup with a spout. The young Mackenzie recognized a healer's bedside manner; he felt weak, but clearheaded…

"I'm very hungry," he said, and was a little shocked at how faint his voice was.

When he tried to move the physician clucked at him, and Father Ignatius shook a finger-but he was smiling, obviously in relief. The shooting pain in Rudi's right shoulder was what stopped him; he looked down and saw that it was bandaged, and the wasted arm strapped across his chest. In a few moments another robed attendant came in, younger still than the physician, with jug ears on either side of his shaved white dome of skull and friendly blue eyes.

He carried a steaming bowl and a kettle and a cup on a tray, and Rudi gratefully accepted the smooth warmth of the bean soup. The tea was stranger, with salty butter added to the herbal infusion, but it made a welcome warmth in his belly, and eased aches he hadn't noticed much until they were gone. When it was finished he felt stronger.

"My thanks for your hospitality," he said.

The room came into clearer focus; the walls were plastered fieldstone, he thought, and undoubtedly whitewashed. One bore a colorful circle of abstract designs, a mandala, but none that his folk used. A small tile stove in a corner kept it comfortable.

"Where am I?"

"You are in the Monastery of Chenrezi, in the Valley of the Sun," the old man said. "Or in the old terminology, in the Rocky Mountains of western Wyoming."

His voice had a trace of another accent under the plains-and-mountain English.

"I am Rimpoche… in your language, teacher… here and my name is Tsewang Dorje. You are our guests, and you must rest and grow well, and your sister likewise."

Rudi's brows went up. Ignatius answered: "Mary was seriously injured fighting the Cutter scouts, but she's on the mend now too, God be thanked. They are excellent physicians here, and we are safe from pursuit for now, thanks to her and Ritva. Everyone else is fine, although Edain and the Princess have been haunting your bedside! What you need most now is food and rest."

The physician spoke: "The infusion will help you sleep and lessen pain. You should sleep as much as possible for the next several days."

Rudi nodded. The abbot smiled again and made a gesture of blessing with the palms of his hands pressed together, and everyone left.

"Thank You for the shelter of your wings, Lady," Rudi said into the silence. "And you, Wanderer."

There were glass windows in the side of the room opposite the mandala; double-glazed and aluminum-framed, obviously salvaged. They gave on a courtyard, where flagstones had been swept clear of snow, and a few trees stood in pots. Folk were at exercise there, some monks or nuns of Chenrezi, others more ordinary-looking, though the older ones who gave instruction all had their heads shaved. All wore practical boots and trousers and jackets, and some had helmets and practice armor of boiled and molded leather.

Must be cold out there, Rudi thought; their breath showed in white plumes, and the bright sunlight had that pale look that went with a hard freeze. From the length of the shadows it was in the afternoon.

Some of them were using quarterstaffs, thrusting and sweeping in unison or sparring with a clatter of wood on wood; others practiced with spears, or halberds, or swords much like the Eastern shete, or arcane weapons that looked like bladed hooks on chains, or bows. A half-dozen pairs drilled in unarmed combat, their movements fluid and sure, throwing and grappling and striking. He recognized some of the techniques, but others were strange to him. The focusing shouts-the exhalation from your center-were loud enough to be heard faintly through the thick walls of his sickroom.

Then a bell sounded, not quite like any he'd heard before, like the birth of an age of bronze in the crisp still air. All the shave-heads bowed to their partners and filed out, two by two, their palms pressed together and their heads bowed as they chanted. The sound lulled Rudi as strongly as the herbs in the tea he'd drunk, and he leaned back against the pillow and let his eyelids droop.

"You're not hungry?" Ingolf said, worried; his spoon halted halfway to his mouth.

Mary Havel was prodding her spoon at the turned-wood bowl that held her soup. Even without the bandage covering her left eye there wouldn't have been a problem in telling her from her sister Ritva's blooming health now. She looked pale, paler than winter could account for even in someone so fair, and her face was gaunt, showing the elegant bones beneath. And she moved slowly, with only a shadow of the fluid grace her sister still had.

"What I need is a steak," she said fretfully. "We've been here for weeks, and I'm not a leaf-eating rabbit. I want a roast chicken! Or a rack of BBQ lamb ribs with a honey-mustard glaze! Or pork chops with sauteed onions… or even venison stew, Lady Varda help us!"

"Stop!" her sister Ritva said. "Venison stew is starting to make my mouth water too!"

She and her sister laughed; at the others' looks, Mary went on: "Back in Mithrilwood, it's the staple diet for winter. We Dunedain have a joke; when the sun rises in the east, it's an omen that we shall have venison stew for dinner. I never thought I'd get nostalgic for it!"

Ingolf laughed. Odard did as well; then his eyes narrowed, and he rose and left.

Mary smiled with them, but the tug at her eye wound must have hurt a little and the expression died. She'd been very patient with actual pain while she was really ill, but she wasn't a good convalescent.

"This will do," she said resignedly, and mopped up the last of the soup in her bowl with a heel of the loaf.

They were in the refectory the monastery kept for guests, non-novice students and the sick who were well enough to walk. It was a pleasant room, plain but comfortable, and well heated by the sealed stoves. Some of the older monks preferred to sit on cushions or mats, but the rest used benches and chairs, and nobody expected outsiders to do otherwise.

The food's actually pretty good, Ingolf thought, finishing his own. But yah, I could use some roast pork with crackling.

There was potato soup done with barley and onions, hard white cheese grated on it, warm dark bread and butter, pickled cucumbers, hard-boiled eggs and sauerkraut, and dried apples and berries. The young nun who had served it looked at Mary indignantly.

"Besides imposing a karmic burden, food which requires killing animals is unnecessary," she said loftily. Then: "And if you must, there are places in the town which serve it, when you are better. I admit that it is not wasteful, since we have abundant pasture."

"Prig," Mary muttered to herself as the girl moved away; she was about the Dunedain's own age. "Naeg nedh adel!"

Ingolf's eyes went upward and his lips moved slowly; he'd been learning some Sindarin. It was fiendishly complicated, and the only two people in this part of the world who could talk it were right beside him, but he'd kept at it doggedly. It would have helped if they had some books, but the only material they'd brought on the trip was a small-print section of the…

Histories, Ingolf thought. Think of them as the Histories, dammit. Mary takes that seriously.

"There is pain in the…" he began.

Ritva grinned. "Naeg nedh adel: Pain in the ass," she said. Then with concern as Mary pushed the bowl away: "You tired, sis?"

"Bored with being sick," Mary said. "I know I'm a lot better off than Rudi, but it's still a drag. We should be getting going!"

There were windows in the refectory, south-facing ones. It was getting dark already, and would have been even if the winter sun didn't set early. You could just see the powder snow the wind was driving at the glass, until one of the monastery staff went around cranking the shutters closed. Even when that was done the sound of the wind came through the stout log and fieldstone walls.

"This reminds me of winter at home," Ingolf said. "And that means we're not going anywhere for a good long while. You want to get caught in another blizzard?"

"It can be done," Mary said.

"Yah, and so can juggling sharp knives on horseback," Ingolf said. "A couple of hunters on snowshoes or skis, sure. Nine people? With horses? Big horses that need grain feed, some of them? We're lucky we didn't lose more getting here."

"I might as well go back to bed," Mary said with a martyred sigh.

"Something happened, didn't it?" Mathilda asked. "While we were in the cave."

"Well, I came close to dying," Rudi said, mock cheerfully.

Even that was hard when you felt as wretched as he did right now; in the daytime he was merely weak, but after dark like this, before sleep came, there were times when he felt as if the fever were back. An aching in every part of his body, not just the stabbing, itching ache of the healing wounds; as if he were utterly tired and at the same time too uncomfortable to rest. And when the simple comfort of the room was like a prison, wrapping him in tight bands from head to toe like a corpse trussed for the funeral pyre.

And that's when it's a struggle not to snap at people, Rudi thought. Yet it's also when you don't want to be alone. The Mother's blessing on you, anamchara.

Mathilda raised his head with a hand and fed him more of the bitter-sweet herbal tea. The low gutter of the lamp on the bedside table underlit her face, bringing out the strong contours, and highlighting small green flecks in her hazel-brown eyes. The acrid scent and taste of the liquid were comforting, and the heat relaxed him a little as it made its way down to his grateful stomach.

"Your problem is you're used to being Lugh come again," she said severely, when she'd turned back from replacing the kettle on the stove. "And now you're not, for a while."

He rolled his head on the pillow and smiled a little at her. She looked a bit shocked, which meant he wasn't doing it as well as he'd hoped.

"I had a vision, anamchara," he said, and waited for a little, until the herbs took some of the ache away.

"Well, your family is prone to them!" she said, and smoothed a lock of hair back from his forehead.

"While we were in the cave," he said. "I thought I was dead for a moment, and on the trail to the Summerlands with the Dread Lord. Then I met-"

She swallowed and crossed herself when the tale was done.

"It might have been just a dream," she said.

His smile quirked a little. "I doubt it. But it made me realize something. Ignatius planted the thought in me, that night we rescued you, but now I know it's true."

"What?"

His eyes went to the shadowed rafters and planks of the ceiling. "That this journey's end is my own death," he said softly. "I am walking towards a sword indeed; and to take it up is to take up my own mortality. All our perils and struggle just bring the altar and the knife closer."

Matti took his hand. "We're all on a journey towards that," she said stoutly.

He shook his head slightly. "Let's not play with words, you and I, my heart. I'm the Sword of the Lady; my blood is my people's ransom, the price paid for their hearths and their happiness. That's my… fate, my weird. It's a hero's death, to be sure-but I'd rather it wasn't so soon. A hero's life makes a fine song, but the living of it is another thing altogether. It's one thing to risk your death in battle, or a hunt or even climbing a tree… it's another to walk a path with only one ending, every step a pace closer. Most men run from death…"

There was a long silence. Then her hand moved on his forehead again. "You could-"

Another pause. "I could what?" he said. He laughed faintly, and then stopped because it hurt. "Matti, I wish I could run off with you and start a farm somewhere, seeing your face every morning, and die at eighty-six with our grandchildren about us, and in between no worries but the weather and the day's work."

Her hand squeezed his. "Me too, Rudi. Oh, God, how I wish we could!"

"But I can't. My fate… is. All I can control is how I meet it-whether I can make it mean something."

"Your father's did," she said.

Rudi nodded. "But my father didn't believe in fate; he laughed at it and at the gods. He didn't know the story he was in-and I'm thinking that made it easier for him. I must walk the road with my eyes open, and renew my consent to it every moment."

Something splashed on his hand. He turned his head; she was holding his hand between both of hers, tears falling silently. With an effort he freed himself and cupped his palm against her cheek; she turned and kissed the palm.

"Och, darlin', all men are born fey," he said. "It's your part in this I regret even more. For I know now that a long life would be sweet with you, and if you and I are together, it will be to your sorrow."

Mathilda took a long breath. "I don't believe in fate," she said. "We make our own. Well, there's the will of God, but that's not the same thing."

Rudi sighed. I have to tell her, he thought. But I don't have to work to convince her. Honor's not that demanding a mistress.

"Right now the only path you've got to walk is the one marked recover y. Or health! " she said, and he could feel her pushing foreknowledge away.

"Now, that's true, and there's no doubting it." He closed his eyes.

Strange folk, Christians, he thought. Aloud: "Would you mind singing that song for me again?"

She nodded, and began; there was a quaver in her voice at first, but it strengthened into the soft melody:

"Oh, Ladies, bring your flowers fair

Fresh as the morning dew

In virgin white, and through the night

I will make sweet love to you

The petals soon grow soft and fall

Upon which we may rest;

With gentle sigh I'll softly lie

My head upon your breast."

Very quietly, he began to sing along with it, more a suggestion than real sound:

"… And dreams like many wondrous flowers

Will blossom from our sleep

With steady arm, from any harm

My lover I will keep!

Through soft spring days and summer's haze

I will be with you till when

As fall draws near, I disappear till spring has come again!"

He closed his eyes and smiled. "Ah, that was a breath of home. Now tell me of your problems and worries, my heart's friend."

She laughed softly, that gurgling chuckle he'd always liked. Not even the fact that it was her mother's laugh could hide the warmth in it.

" My worst problem is boredom," she said. "I've been sparring-"

This time his sigh was pure sea-green envy. To move again!

"And reading in the library here, and talking with the monks, and sitting with Mary a little-she's recovering fast, now."

"How are the others taking it?"

"Pretty well. Odard…"

Rudi chuckled; as he did, he felt sleep coming over him, fading the world-the low shsshs of snow against the window, the muted howl of the wind, the low friendly rippling sound from the closed stove.

"Odard's not a bad sort," he murmured drowsily. "He's just a bit of an asshole at times."

His eyelids fluttered downward. He felt Matti bend to kiss him lightly on the forehead, but her last words faded away.

"Actually, the problem is that he's a lot less of an asshole these days."

Mary rose from the refectory table and wobbled a little. Ingolf stepped in, not reaching for her but putting his steadying presence close enough for her to grab if she had to. The corridor outside was a lot darker and colder than the dining hall; it was a relief to get to the room the two young women shared, which had its own stove. He helped her into bed and pulled up the blankets while Ritva opened the iron door, tossed in a couple of chunks of wood from the basket and then closed it and adjusted the flue. It was an air-tight model based on a pre-Change type, and it could keep the little room at something they all considered good enough-though he'd noticed back home that older people thought that range of temperatures a bit cool for comfort.

There was a heating element on top for boiling water, too. Ritva put the kettle on, and added herbs when it began to jet steam; the willow-bark tea eased the ache and itch of her sister's healing wound.

Time to do my bit, Ingolf thought, and took the lute from a corner and tuned it. And hell, I'm bored.

Winter was the stay-indoors season at home too, but there was always enough to keep the dismals at bay: making things, fixing things, looking after the stock, practicing with arms, some hunting now and then, and the Sheriffs and Farmers visited back and forth, having the leisure and the means for it. Sometimes they'd get sleds and go for a long trip down the frozen river…

And there's making music and telling stories, he thought with a wry smile, and went on aloud: "Like a song?"

Mary smiled and relaxed. "Something from your home," she said.

He started in on one: "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," and then "Northwest Passage." Then he passed the lute to Ritva; she was only passable at playing, but had a fine singing voice, and she did one of the Dunedain songs. He didn't get more than one word in three, but he had to admit that the language was pretty as all hell.

"Tell me more about Readstown," Mary said, when the tune-from something called the Narn i Chin Hurin -was finished.

"Readstown?" Ingolf said, surprised. "Well, it's in the valley of the Kickapoo. The Injuns named it that before white men came there, and it means goes here, then there. That's one twisty river! Just about the right size for a canoe, most of it, but it gets bigger as it goes south and joins the Wisconsin. Sometimes the cliffs close in, and you're between these walls of red sandstone covered with moss, and other places they open out, and the fields go rolling away to the woods and hills and the forests-"

He could see it as he spoke; the flame of autumn on the ridges, the silk of the cornfields yellow with October; the smoke rising from the chimneys of strong stolid yeomen, the smell of the dark, damp turned earth behind the oxen in spring… the ache surprised him, and he was glad to fall silent.

Ritva was reading from the Histories-the Creation of the World, which was more interesting than the Bible version-when Odard came in.

They all looked up at him; a drift of cold air came in with him, and he was wearing his outdoor gear-quilted wool pants and a sheepskin jacket with the fleece turned in, and a hood with a flap that hid most of the face. Snow dripped off him as he triumphantly set the basket he carried on the table at the foot of the bed. It was wrapped in a thick blanket and tied with string; he couldn't get the knots undone and stood blowing on his fingers near the stove while Ingolf picked them free.

"Well, well, well!" the Richlander said, as a savory smell followed the unwrapping; there were a couple of heated bricks in there too, to keep things warm.

His mouth watered. He liked meat too, when he could get it. The Kickapoo was good livestock country, the forests there were thick with game, and he'd been raised a Sheriff's son, after all, in a family who were lords of broad acres and many herds.

"BBQ pork sandwiches," the Portlander nobleman said. " And some fried chicken. And…"

He pulled out four beer bottles, pre-Change glass with modern wood-and-wax plugs.

"Not everybody's a Buddhist around here," he said triumphantly. " And not all the Buddhists are as pure about it as the monks and nuns. There were plenty of them at Ford's Cowboy Khyentse Bar and Grill down in the town."

"You must have been hungry, to go outside in that," Ritva said.

The window vibrated in its frame to illustrate her point, and there were trickles of cold air despite all the thick log walls could do. Odard peeled himself out of his integuments with an effort and then stacked them outside the door-the room was big enough for two beds, but not much more.

"They've got a pathway marked with poles and ropes," he said. "I wouldn't have tried it otherwise; Saint Dismas couldn't find his way through that, and it's getting worse. I'm not going to complain about all the rain in the Black Months back home ever again!"

There were plates in the basket too; they loaded one for Mary, and then dug into the rest themselves. Ingolf took a long drink; the beer went well with the rich spicy sandwich, and he'd missed both-they made a noble brew back home, and Sutterdown, Dun Juniper and Boise had all had maltsters of note. This was different, bitter with something that wasn't hops, but it was definitely beer and welcome after weeks of water and milk.

Mary managed to get one of the sandwiches down-they were little loafs split lengthwise-and a few bites of the chicken as well. The beer on top made her sleepy fairly quickly, and the two men packed up the remainder and stole out into the dim chill of the corridor as her sister tucked her in.

"Thanks, Odard," Ingolf said, and extended his hand.

The Portlander's brows went up, but he took it. "No trouble," he said.

"Hell it wasn't," Ingolf said, grinning. "It's the better part of a mile to the village-and you're not as used to this sort of weather as I am."

He considered the younger man carefully. The slanted blue eyes weren't as guarded as they usually were.

Funny. Most times when you've fought by a man's side and traveled with him, that's when you get to know him. Not with Odard. But this. .. this is a little surprising.

"Let's say I've had plenty of time to think," Odard said, as they walked back towards the male side of the monastery's guest quarters. "And plenty of distance and deeds to get some perspective on things back home."

"Yah," Ingolf said. "I had the same feeling after I left Readstown. It all seemed sort of… small, after a while."

"Did you ever consider going back?" Odard said curiously.

"Nah. I missed it-the place, most of the people-but it wasn't home anymore, after my father died."

"Ah," Odard said; there was nothing mysterious to him about the plight of a younger son, though he wasn't one himself. "I envy you. My father died in the Protector's War, when I was around eight. I don't remember him well."

Ingolf fell silent for a long moment, remembering the way his father had looked towards the end-the haunted set of his eyes, as his memories went back to the time right after the Change. His son didn't remember the terrible years well at all; he'd been around six, and all he could recall was how frightening it had been that the adults were so terrified. Readstown had been a little rural hamlet surrounded by dairy country and mixed farming. They hadn't been hungry… but there had been a fair bit of fighting with starving refugees. His home was just close enough to the cities that they'd have been overrun and eaten out if they hadn't fought, after they'd taken in every soul they could; he remembered his father cursing the Amish around Rockton because they wouldn't help, and the whispers about the raid…

"Mine was… a man who did what had to be done," he said.

Odard's mouth quirked. "So was mine." After a hesitation he said:

"You're sort of… fond of Mary, aren't you?"

"Yah," Ingolf said, his gaze turning inward for a moment. "Didn't realize it, really, until she got hurt." He shrugged. "You were there when Saba died… well, I realized when Mary came back that she could get hurt whether or not we were together."

Odard nodded and set a hand on his shoulder for an instant. " I realized that she might not be there to tease," he said. "The twins and I have been sort-of-friends for a long time. But on this little trip, sort of won't do, will it?"

They turned a corner-the monastery was really a series of buildings along the hillside, some pre-Change, some built since or heavily rebuilt, all linked together with covered walkways. From the thickness of the bracing timbers overhead, most of them got buried deep every winter. This time they nearly ran into Mathilda, probably returning from Rudi's bedside.

"Princess," Odard said, with that funny-looking bow. "How is he?"

"Better," she said, and made herself smile. "But still weak; he's sleeping now. That infection nearly killed him… What's that?"

Ingolf offered the basket. "There's still some of the chicken left," he said.

"Mother of God!" she said, and her hand darted in. "Thass so guudf!" she went on, her mouth full of drumstick.

It was good, Ingolf thought. The batter isn't quite like anything I've tasted before.

"Thanks, Ingolf!" she said after she swallowed.

"Thank Baron Liu," Ingolf said. "He's the one who waded through the snow and back to get it."

Little cold drafts trickled around Ingolf's neck as he said it. The stoutly timbered roof over their head was shingled and then covered in thick sod, but even so you could tell that the storm was building.

"That was good of you, Odard," Mathilda said.

He shrugged. "Mary's appetite needs tempting," he said. "And a very good night, Your Highness."

"You must not overstrain yourself," Dorje said.

"Sure, and I thought you Buddhists were given to disciplining the flesh," Rudi Mackenzie said. "Mind you, I haven't met many. And I'd go mad if I had to lie still any longer, the which would do my healing no good whatsoever or at all. I've enjoyed our talks, but I need to move !"

Dorje smiled as they walked slowly down the swept flagstones, their breath showing in white plumes in the cold dry air. Rudi judged he would have been egg-bald even if the monks here didn't shave their heads, and a little stooped, but even erect he would barely have come to the young Mackenzie's breastbone. There was absolutely nothing frail about him, though; he was comfortable as a lynx in the sheepskin robe and saffron over-robe and sandals despite the chill, and he was obviously suiting his pace to the convalescent's capacities. You could still see the shadow of the strong young mountain peasant in him.

The white Stetson hat had seemed a little odd at first, but by now he was used to it; doubtless it was an offering to the spirits of place.

"Here we teach the Middle Way," Dorje said. "When the Buddha first sought enlightenment he attempted fierce austerities of hunger and pain, but he found they did not aid him. The starving man and the glutton are both slaves to their belly's need; if the glutton is worse, it is because he is self-enslaved."

They came to a bench and Rudi lowered himself carefully to it; the wound in his back had stopped draining and was closing, but it was still sore. He thrust aside worry about the shoulder.

And Fiorbhinn could drub me with a feather duster right now, to be sure, he thought.

The pine-log pillars to their left had little lines and crescents of snow in the irregularities of the polished wood; beyond it was an open court, and in its center the image of a man carrying a white lotus-a wooden carving and none too skillful by Mackenzie standards, but the sincerity of it shone through nonetheless.

The land beyond fell away in terraced slopes to the valley floor below, with bleached barley stubble poking through the snow where the winds had eaten it thin. A frozen river shone like a swordblade in the bright sun, twisting away with a lining of dark willows and leafless cottonwoods. Beyond rose mountains, scattered with pine woods but bare blazing white at their peaks save where the dark rock bones of earth showed through. Smoke rose from a cluster of log cabins and frame houses in the middle distance, and a horseman was riding downward towards them. The snow of the roadway creaked under his horse's hooves, and the clank of a scabbard against a stirrup iron echoed; the whetted steel of his lance-head cast painful-bright blinks.

"I thought Buddhists were pacifists," Rudi said

He took a slow deep breath of air leached of all but the ghosts of scent-a little woodsmoke and pine sap, and a hint of a sharp herbal fragrance-before he went on.

"As a general rule, at least. The which I am not, obviously… though if the world would leave me and mine at peace, sure, I'd oblige them gladly. But if a warrior's presence offends against your faith. .."

"Obviously it does not," Dorje said.

"And I'm afraid that grateful as I am for your help, and your wisdom, you're unlikely to convert me!"

Dorje took the younger man's hand in both of his, turning it over so that the sword calluses showed:

"I have been assured by those wiser than I that a brave man, though he slay, and though he slay his many, is as a god in contrast to the men and women who are restrained from slaying only by cowardice. If the one who will not take life for any reason is higher on the Way than a warrior, then they are lower; just as he who fights for justice and to shield the weak is higher than he who fights for plunder or for pride."

He patted Rudi's hand before he released it. "I do not judge the necessities of your life or the karma you have chosen. But here, at least, you may be at peace for a little time."

It is peaceful here, Rudi mused. It's nice to have time to stop and think for a bit, with all the… external things stripped away!

As he did the sound of a bronze bell came through the cold air, still sounding a little strange; he knew now that it was because it was rung by a log hung beside it in rope slings, rather than by a clapper.

"I was raised to be a warrior, but I've seen enough of war lately that it disgusts me, so. Not so much the fighting, but the… waste of it, the things that are broken that should not be."

"You have chosen a hard path, my son," the monk said. "One that will test your courage; and the risk of pain to yourself and the death of your body are the least of its trials. But be sure, if you have courage it shall certainly be tested; because no quality in this universe goes unused. Walk the Way you have chosen in its fullness; when you have reached its end, you will find that it is the beginning of another path."

"You don't think killing is the worst of sins, then?" he said curiously.

Dorje sighed. "No; but considered rightly, it is… foolish. It is easy to kill. It is equally easy to destroy glass windows. Any fool can do either. Why is it only the wise who perceive that it is wisdom to let live, when even lunatics can sometimes understand that it is better to open a window than to smash the glass? But this world is mired in illusion, which is folly. As followers of the Way, we deplore the taking of life…"

Then he chuckled, slapping his knees. "Including our own! And more important, we deplore greedy or evil men taking the lives of those who look to us for instruction. There are few surviving pacifists in the world twenty-two years after the Change. A desire for peace does not imply submission to those who chose to be violent as their first resort."

He sighed again. "Yet if men were truly wise… Within our valley here, at least, there is little bloodshed."

"You rule here, then?"

Dorje's eyes sought the heights. "We were here-many monks, from many countries-for a… conference, they called it."

His voice turned dry: "If I remember correctly, the subject was to be Buddhism on the World Wide Web, with many learned panels on how the Internet might be used to transmit the Noble Eightfold Path. The hotel here gave us a reduced rate because the season for winter sports was nearly past. Then we experienced the… as one of our hosts put it

… the 'mother of all service interruptions.' "

He chuckled again, though Rudi couldn't see why; but the young clansman knew a man in touch with the Otherworld when he saw one, he who'd grown up in Juniper Mackenzie's household. It took some this way, a bubbling current of joy.

"And the people here turned to you for wisdom after the Change?" Rudi said.

Certainly the ones I've seen are happy with their arrangements, the which would be unlikely if you were a bad man, to be sure. Also I still have some confidence in my judgment, despite Picabo.

"That most of us grew up scratching a living out of highland farms was more useful at first!" Dorje said. "And that hardship was nothing new to us. There were even yaks here! The Ranchers found our help useful, when their machines died, and many of the people here were tourists from the cities, or those who made their livings by serving them, and they were utterly lost. We helped as we could, and one thing led to another."

Rudi nodded. He'd seen before that… unusual folk had often had an advantage after the Change; his mother and her coven and friends not least.

"I have heard a little of your mother, the Juniper Lady," Dorje said. "Before the Change I studied your Old Religion somewhat. It, ah, borrowed much from ours, and from the Hindus in the land where the Way was first preached."

"Meaning Gardner stole your doctrines like a bandit loose in a treasure house," Rudi said cheerfully; Juniper Mackenzie tended to shock her co-religionists with her frank assessment of the origins of their faith. "And from many others!"

Dorje made a tsk sound. "To say that you stole would imply that we owned the truths of the Way!" he said. "But the reverse is the case, if anything. Let the truths that Gautama Buddha first sought go forth and lead those who hear them towards the Buddha nature that all carry within, however they call it."

Rudi nodded; that was enough like his own faith's teaching of many paths to the same goal that he was easy with it. Then he smiled wryly, thinking of things he'd heard from Matti and her countrymen.

"You'll find Christians a little more proprietary about their doctrines, I think."

Dorje laughed. "Your Father Ignatius has been extremely polite," he said. "There is a young man earnest in his search for virtue, I think. Indeed, the greatest threat he will face is his own virtue, lest he become too much in love with it. He and the others have told me much of your journey and its purpose, and its enemies. We here have been troubled by the Cutter cult as well."

He looked up towards the eastern peaks. "That something extraordinary occurred on Nantucket has long been rumored. Fascinating!"

"It's more than that," Rudi said grimly. "The gods are taking a hand in these matters. Ah… I'm not sure how to put that-"

Dorje shrugged, in a manner that showed he'd been raised in the East.

"Are you familiar with the word Bodhisattva? No? These are beings who have achieved enlightenment, and with it great powers, but who from compassion for those still mired in illusion return to help them."

He indicated the statue. "That is an image of Chenrezi, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Who may be viewed as a god, an aspect of the Buddha nature, a personified idea, or a focus for meditation… and all these are true. This"-he pointed to a painting on the wall behind them, of a man with one hand held up in the stop gesture and the other bestowing a blessing-"is Amitabha, the Buddha of Pure Light, who dwells in the West and is of the element of Fire, and assists in overcoming fear."

"Ah… immortal, powerful beings who concern themselves with humanity, and I suppose the other kindreds… animals, the world in general… well, sure, and that sounds a good deal like a god to me!"

Dorje nodded. "We should not split hairs over definitions and forms of words."

Then he chanted, in a high reedy voice:

"If the causes are fully ripened,

Buddhas will appear there and then

In accordance with the needs of the disciples.

The place and the time."

Then he laughed, gleeful as a boy, and clapped his hands together: "But we do split hairs! We do! We split hairs so finely that often there is no hair, only the split! It is… what was the expression

… a professional deformation of monks."

Rudi nodded, gathering his strength. I'm as weak as a child, he thought. Worse! I had energy enough for two as a child, or so they tell me. Now I'm tired just from thinking.

"Then what of devils?" he said aloud. "For I've met… things, forces… on this journey which I'd call by that name, sure."

"Oh, yes," the abbot said.

The glee leached out of his face, and he looked truly old for an instant.

"In the time of the Great Leap, when hunger turned good neighbors into worse than beasts, and later when the Red Guards came to burn our scrolls… then I saw how men could become devils and torment one another. If mere men can do such great evil, how much worse are those with greater powers and insight, when they turn to doing devil's work?"

The black eyes held his, and the monk's voice went on softly:

"And only he who has by hard work conquered the devil in himself knows what a devil is, and what a devil he himself might be, and what an army for the devils' use are those who think that devils are delusion."

"No!" Master Hao said.

Edain wheezed fury at him from the ground where his shoulders had struck. The monk was at least thirty years older than the Mackenzie clansman, but he looked perfectly comfortable in his loose trousers and singlet, and even more comfortable within his skin. Edain and he were both of medium height, but Hao lacked the younger man's thick shoulders and arms; he was like a stripped-down anatomical diagram of a fighting man, with every muscle showing like a flat band of living oak under his ivory-colored skin. It lacked the ruddy-brown tint of the Rimpoche 's face, and there was a subtle difference in the facial structure; Rudi had the impression they came from different countries.

"No, you are fighting from anger!" Hao barked at Edain.

"When I'm trying to kill someone, now wouldn't it be strange if I weren't angry with the bastard?"

Rudi had been doing a slow, gentle series of exercises with a light fighting staff; today was the first he'd been able to do even that. The indoor practice hall was very much like a barn-from the smell, he thought it probably did duty as one from time to time-but the board walls broke the force of the wind, and the dirt floor gave good footing and was passable for falling. His right shoulder twinged again, and he let the end of the quarterstaff fall so that he could lean on it, gripping with his left hand.

"If you wish to defeat your enemy, you must first defeat yourself. Defeat your anger, defeat your hate, defeat your self. Then your moves will be pure… and you will win. Direct your chi energy; it is more important than your fists or your feet. You already have good technique, you are strong and fearless and young, yet this skinny old man can defeat you again and again. Consider this."

"Why didn't you say so, Master Hao? If that's what it takes to boot some head, sure and I'll do it."

He's saying he's so angry he'll overcome anger, Rudi thought. My friend, I think in this case my mother would say your head is not firmly wired to your arse!

Rudi kept quiet, nonetheless; help with throttled rage was precisely what Edain needed. What had happened in Picabo wasn't going to leave him anytime soon, or easily. Instead he began another of the series of exercises; some of them reminded him of Aunt Judy's methods. Patience, patience…

But I too, want to boot some head, he thought, and sighed. And right now, I can't even try!

It was going to be a long winter.

He racked the staff; a man beckoned from the pathway outside.

"The most holy Rimpoche Tsewang Dorje would speak with you," the man said.

His face was schooled to calm, but the censorious blue eyes were obviously rather disapproving that his superior was wasting so much time with this young outland infidel.

Rudi bowed slightly, keeping the smile off his face. He was reminded of a saying of his mother; that a fanatic was a man who did what he knew in his heart the Gods would do… if only They had all the facts of the matter. And it was a pleasure simply to be able to walk properly again. He was breathing a little hard when they ascended a final flight of stairs, but it was infinite relief after his lead-limbed weakness of a few weeks ago.

"Come in, come in!" the old abbot's voice said.

The sanctum was… the phrase that sprang to Rudi's mind was pleasantly bare, even to eyes accustomed to the flamboyant Mackenzie style. There were scrolls on a rack against one wall, and books on another, and an image of a Bodhisattva in a niche. A low desk and a mat were the only other furniture, except for a compact metal heating unit and a cushion obviously there for Rudi's convenience. The old man bustled about pouring tea for his guest; Rudi had come to actually like it with the salty yak-butter added. And it certainly helped keep you warm in this upland winter, where your body burned fuel as a bonfire burned wood.

"Thank you for spending so much of your time with me," he said, when Dorje had seated himself again. "Though frankly, there's little I can do but talk at the present!"

Dorje gestured at his own body. "When you reach my age, my son, you will find that talking and thinking are the pleasures that do not fade… although silence is still greater, and more lasting. As for the time"-he shrugged-"there is little pressing business until spring. If the gods have given us time to pursue wisdom, it is prudent to use it. Refusing such a gift brings no fortune."

Rudi nodded, collecting his thoughts. "Teacher-"

Dorje held up a hand: "Please. You can teach someone how to grow barley-I have done so. Wisdom is another matter. Concerning that nothing can be taught, although the learner easily can be assisted to discover what is in himself. Other than which there is no knowledge of importance, except this: that what is in himself, is everywhere."

Rudi grinned with a trace of impudence and quoted from the Charge of the Goddess:

"For if that which you seek, you find not within yourself, you will never find it without. For behold: I have been with you from the Beginning, and I am that which is attained at the end of desire."

Dorje laughed delightedly. "Yes, a… how shall I put it… borrowing."

"Or could it be that all who make wheels, make them round," Rudi said, and they shared the joke. Then he sobered: "But someone… Someone… has been teaching the masters of the CUT, I think."

"Yes," the Rimpoche said soberly. "And they are become the most knowledgeable fools on all the earth. A certain poet-and he was no fool-bade men take the cash and let the credit go. I find this good advice, albeit difficult to follow. Nevertheless, it is easier than what those men attempt who seek the aid of Malevolence. They try to take the cash and let the debt go, and that is utterly impossible; for as we sow, we reap. Men who sell their souls invariably make a very bad bargain."

Rudi shivered a little, remembering the eyes and the dead hands squeezing his throat.

"I've had more to do with the gods since I started this trip than ever before in my life, but I know less than I did when I started out! The more I'm told, the less I understand!"

"And knowing that, you know more than you did," Dorje said. "There is a saying of my people: that around the virgin daughter of a king are guardian walls, and before the walls are fierce men. So is it wonderful that God should cause His secrets to be guarded by ferocity, and that of many kinds?"

"The other side seems to get more help!" Rudi said, baffled. "Not that I'd take that aid if it were offered on a golden plate. Why would anyone do that to themselves?"

Dorje made that expressive shrug. "Why do men steal, and violate, and kill when no need drives them? And the lusts of the body are as nothing to the unmastered cravings of the mind. Subdue the body, and still the lusts of the spirit may consume you like fire. Death pursues life. Is there anything without its opposite? Can light exist without shadow? So, I tell you that when you seek to do the will of the gods, and help men rise through the cycles, your very inmost thoughts awaken hosts of enemies that otherwise had slept. As sound awakens echoes, so the pursuit of wisdom awakens the devil's guard."

"As above, so below," Rudi said, and his face went grim. "I have to fight them, then. But… how, that's the question!"

"I cannot advise you on matters of statecraft; not beyond this valley and its surroundings, at least. But I do say that if you are in league with gods to learn life and to live it you shall not only find enemies. You shall find help unexpectedly, from strangers who, it may be, know not why. Has this not already been the case?"

Hmmm, Rudi thought. That it has. Sort of an equal and opposite thing.

"And I have my friends," Rudi said; which was a comfort. "It's a lonely thing, having so much depend on you."

Dorje's chuckle was dry. "My son, when you have come to a decision between right and wrong, then act, not waiting on approval. If you do right it will add no virtue to the right that friends gave their assent beforehand. Be your own judge. But commit no trespass, remembering that where another's liberty begins your own inevitably meets its boundary."

"Can't we help each other, then?" Rudi said.

"Oh, most certainly! But though you strive in friendship, be that friendship as ennobling as the gods' good will, I tell you that each must enter one by one. But of the three, faith, hope and friendship, the last is not least. To him who truly seeks the Middle Way, the Middle Way will open. One step forward is enough."

"Then I'd like to ask your help," Rudi said. "For my comrade Ingolf. He was a prisoner of the Cutters for a long while, and I think they… did things to him. To his mind. Things that leave him vulnerable."

"Ah," Dorje said, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me more. With this, we may be of assistance."

"Father…"

"Yes, my child?" Ignatius said, controlling his breathing and suppressing a stab of irritation.

He bowed to the monk with whom he'd been sparring and returned the practice sword to the wall. Edain was trying another fall with the instructor in unarmed combat-who was extremely good-and Odard, Ingolf, the twins and Fred Thurston were taking turns at sword-and-buckler. He judged his own condition clinically; he was fully recovered in strength and flexibility from their time in the mountains, but still a little behind in endurance. It would be hard to build that again while the snow kept them inside.

And I am still disturbed in spirit by the things which we saw with the Cutters, he knew. I must think and pray and meditate. But a soul in need is always a priest's task.

He sat on a bench, and Mathilda joined him. "I've been reading in their library here," she said. "And… it's a bit odd."

"What is?"

"It's odd how much of it seems, well, similar to what the Church teaches. Not the devas and whatevers and layers of being and Western Paradises and everything, but the stuff you're supposed to do, and what's good and bad."

"No, it's not odd at all," Ignatius said. "It's only to be expected. Why do you think our pagan friends"-he nodded towards them-"speak of their god as dying and reborn, and renewing the land with his blood?"

"Well, that's just a pagan myth!"

"Exactly. But the Passion and Resurrection of Our Lord are also myths."

At her shocked look, he went on: "But they are true myths. Myths that have become history; not in some timeless land of legends, but in a particular place and a specific time."

"Then why should people like the Mackenzies or the Buddhists get the… the same answers as we do from something that was real?"

"Because those events are so real that they cast their shadow forward and backwards through all time, whenever men think of these matters at all. Even if they are mired in ignorance, they will see.. . fragments of the Truth, as men imprisoned in a cave see shadows cast by the sun. Likewise, all men derive their moral intuitions from God; how not? There is no other source, just as there is no other way to make a wheel than to make it round. In Scripture, He tells us directly what He wishes of us… but simply by being, by being His children in His world, we hear a whisper of the logos, the divine Word."

He saw her frown thoughtfully. "That makes sense," she said, then smiled; it made her strong-boned face beautiful for a second. "Thank you, Father."

"I can't take the credit for the thought, but if the words reach you, my child, then I'm doing my job."

He sighed. "I find this place both strange and familiar. It is interesting, and it makes me long for Mt. Angel. Marvelous are the works of God-"

"-but none so marvelous as humankind," Mathilda finished. "Thanks, Father. I'd better get back to Rudi now. He overdoes it if he's not watched."

"Thanks for the help, Fred. It's mad I'd go, gibbering and running into the woods waving my arms and crowing like a rooster, if I didn't get away from the women for a while. Well-meaning darlings that they are, my sisters and Mathilda both, the blessings of the Mother upon them."

Frederick Thurston nodded and took a sip of the chicory. He'd grown up calling it coffee, just like everyone else in the interior, though traders from the coast reached Boise a bit more often than they did this far into the Rockies, and the real bean wasn't to be had at Ford's Khyentse Cowboy Bar and Grill for any price.

Right now it was crowded here; Ranchers in from the long valley round about, farmers from the foothills, militiamen in from patrolling on skis, enough to combine with the big fieldstone fireplace to make it comfortably warm. The air was thick with the scents of frying potatoes and grilling meat, of rawhide boots drying by the fire and sheepskin coats steaming on their pegs by the door and beer and fruit-brandy, and someone had put a cup of it in front of an image in a niche he supposed must be Khyentse.

The owner paused by their table: "Everything OK?" he said.

"Mr. Ford, it's like a breath of home, so it is," Rudi said with that easy charm Fred envied. "The monastery is a splendid place, sure, but-"

The innkeeper grinned. "And I make my living off the 'but,' " he said, and passed on.

He was a lean gray man who must have been striking once, and the staff in stables and kitchen were mostly his children and grandchildren; Fred remembered someone saying the owner had built the place with his own hands.

It sort of reminds me of the time I managed to get away and do that bar crawl with that guard corporal, Jerry, he thought reminiscently-it had been just after his sixteenth birthday.

God, I thought Mom was going to have a cow! Particularly when she heard about the girls. I'm glad Dad didn't ream the guy out too badly.

His father had looked like he was halfway between being angry and laughing, fighting to keep the grin off his face as the course of the evening's dissipation was revealed, right down to the women's underwear found in their possession.

Not that his father had been one to coddle the children He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, almost gasping as he saw that final glimpse again, Martin bending over Dad and No! he thought. I can't go on reliving that! I'm headed the other way and Martin can keep.

Instead he reached for his cup. Something clinked, and he saw Rudi Mackenzie pouring from a silver flask into it; he upended the oblong shape and shook the last drops free.

"There, that's the last of the Dun Juniper brandy. My friend Terry Martins Mackenzie makes it, and well he learned the art from his father, who was a brewmaster and distiller of note."

"Hey, I can't take the last of it!" Fred said.

"It's Yule, or nearly, the which is close to my birthday. The season for gifts-and you look as if you need it more than I."

The brown-skinned young man sipped. It did mellow the harsh taste of the toasted chicory root, even more than the cream he'd laced it with.

"Yeah, you don't look like you're going to fold up and blow away anymore," he said.

Though you still look like shit, frankly, he added to himself. Or like a ghost of yourself.

He had trouble connecting the figure before him with the blood-spattered warrior who'd gone striding through the Cutter camp to rescue his friends like a God of War with men dead and crippled in his wake. Rudi Mackenzie was still far too thin, the flesh tight on his strong bones, and there were lines of strain around his blue-green eyes that hadn't been there before. Only the thick red-gold hair that fell to his shoulders was as it had been before. That and his smile.

"I'm feeling much better," the Mackenzie tanist said, with a flash of white teeth. "Which is to say, as if I'm only at death's door, not halfway through the Gate, screaming as my fingernails tear out while I grip the posts, sure."

"How's the shoulder?" Fred asked.

He'd be most concerned with his sword arm, in the other's place. "I'm practicing more sword work with my left hand," Rudi said matter-of-factly.

Then he shrugged at Fred's wince. "It's not so bad; I'm ambidextrous anyway."

"Really?"

"Nearly. Slightly. It's important to keep a positive attitude, my mother always told me."

They shared a chuckle, and Rudi went on: "And the strength is coming back, slowly; I'll have enough in the right arm for shield work, and enough control. It's the range of motion I'm having problems with, though the exercises the monks have me doing help."

"They've certainly got some good weapons instructors here," Fred said. "I've been learning a lot… and I had the best trainers in Boise."

He shook his head. "Sort of odd to think of Buddhists having a military school."

"Well, a lot of the followers of the Old Religion also had qualms about war training back before the Change, from what the oldsters say at times. But the survivors didn't," Rudi said. "From what the Rimpoche 's told me, there were monks of half a dozen different schools here when the day came, and some of them had always walked the Warrior's Way."

Fred frowned. "You know, it's odd… but in a way, Abbot Dorje reminds me of my father. Which is odd because they're nothing at all alike-Dad went to church sometimes, but he was never religious, really."

A waitress turned up with their food; a loaf of brown bread, butter, a platter of plump aromatic sausages hot and steaming and sputtering juices from cracks in their skins, beets with herbs, cabbage, some strong-tasting boiled green that looked like spinach but wasn't, glistening slices of pan-fried potatoes. Weather like this gave you an appetite; he spooned some mustard onto the side of his plate, butter onto the cabbage, and dug in. Rudi did likewise, eating more slowly, as if he had to decide to take each mouthful.

"Well, they're both men who gave everything to what they did-and gave everything to their people," the clansman said after a moment. "Sure, and the Rimpoche reminds me of my mother, but that's a more obvious comparison."

"Dad talked about a government of laws and not of men a lot," Frederick said. "But you know… I've been thinking as we travel, it means a lot what sort of men you have ruling. If they're the wrong people, no matter how good the laws are, they don't do much."

Rudi nodded. "Though good laws can restrain a bad ruler, somewhat, depending of course on the customs of the folk and the badness of the man.

"Or woman," he added after a moment, obviously thinking of someone and just as obviously not wanting to say who.

Mathilda's mother, Fred thought. Who frightens everyone. Even Dad was cautious about her-everyone wanted him to fight Portland over the Palouse, but he agreed to split it with her. But Mathilda's wonderful!

He blushed, and had the uncomfortable feeling that Rudi had followed his thoughts and was amused by them.

Hell, friends have a right to laugh at each other. We've fought side by side, and we are friends. And we've got stuff in common, too. We grew up around rulers. That's something that most of us in this bunch have, and it's… different… to have people who really understand around.

The waitress came back with two mugs of hot cider, pungent with something that smelled of berries. She put Rudi's down and gave him a motherly pat. The glance she gave Fred was anything but; he blushed and reached for some of the bread to mop his plate and ignored her disappointed sigh.

"If you're called to rule, you just have to do the best you can," Rudi said.

"But you need something to guide you," Fred said earnestly, the woman's smile as forgotten as the hunk of barley bread in his hand. "You need… something more than just finding money to pay the soldiers and keep the irrigation canals going and patrols to catch bandits."

"That you do," Rudi said. "Men are ruled by the visions inside their heads as much as by swords or castles or tax gatherers. Sure, and those laws your father mentioned, if they're to be anything at all it's a dream in the hearts of men, not just words on a page."

He sighed and watched the sway of their waitress' hips as she took the empty tray back to the kitchens.

"Not even the Foam-Born Cyprian with a rope tied to it, not right now, ochone, the sorrow and the pity," he murmured to himself, and then turned his eyes back to Fred. "A king is not just a war leader, or a head clerk. He's also a priest, he is; a priest of those Mysteries his people reverence, whatever they call them. And his lady a priestess."

The late dawn of Christmas Eve came bright and cold after a week of storms. Father Ignatius stopped at the top of the ridge and looked down over the roofs of the Chenrezi Monastery, the town below, the mist of driven snow that swirled along the surface of the frozen lake at the mountain's foot, and the distant ruins of a pre-Change settlement. The sky was bleakly clear from the mountain fangs eastward to those behind him; the one gilded with bright sunrise until he had to squint into them, the other still turning from night dark to ruddy pink, but otherwise bone white against cobalt blue.

So simple, so elegant, so… pure, Ignatius thought, inhaling air that smelled of nothing but itself and a little pine.

God is the greatest of artists! How good of Him to give us this world, and the chance to imitate Him by bettering it.

Wryly: If only we did not mar it, and ourselves, so often!

Then the sun rose a little more, and the light was like diamond on the fresh snow, with only a hint of green from the pine trees ahead. He climbed steadily towards them, eyes wide as the crystals sparkled and flew free to glitter in plumes from the branches. His head felt a little light-he'd been fasting for the past day or two, and had taken only a little bread and milk this morning. The light powder was knee-deep, but he had good stout laced boots lined with fleece, and quilted trousers of local make.

After a moment he found the place he wanted, a little clearing with a view down the mountainside and a convenient stump where a lodgepole pine had been pushed over by some storm. Snow hid the trunk, but the splintered base was thigh-high. He drew his sword and drove the point downward into the wood, so that the cross-hilt shape stood black against the sun, and looped his rosary and crucifix about it so that the cross clinked against the steel.

Then he knelt and began to pray, hands folded before him. The familiar words and gestures quieted his mind-which was one of their purposes. Some corner of his mind remembered what Abbot Dmwoski had said to the novices of his class once:

Silent prayer is the highest form. But God gives us a set of steps for a reason-and you must tread every one of them to reach the heights. Better to stay on a step where you can keep your footing until you are ready, than climb too fast and fall. The Adversary can corrupt even prayer, if your pride gives him an opening.

"High is heaven, and holy," he murmured at last, his eyes on the mountain peaks and dazzled by the sun. "Lord, I seek to do Your will. Have I chosen rightly? Subdue my rebellious heart, Lord, which is full of fear and murmuring. I hear rumors of war in the West, of a great battle where my brothers of the Order defended Your Church and Your people from the minions of the Adversary. I have seen diabolism abroad in the land. Where does my duty truly lie? Free me of doubt, I beg. Make me Your instrument!"

Silence stretched like a plucked harp string, and the light poured down the mountains opposite like wine. He stopped the straining of his mind, seeking only to listen.

"Do not fear, brave miles of Christ," a soft voice said, a woman's voice, quiet but with an undertone like a chorus of trumpets. "For He is ever with you."

A shadow fell across him as the one who'd spoken approached, lit by the rising sun. He blinked his eyes in surprise as they adjusted; he'd come here for solitude, and if anyone else was near he would have expected a woodsman or a ski patrol. Then he could see her. It was a woman of…

I cannot say if she is young or old, or simply ageless, he thought, his mouth going dry. No "Who are you?" he whispered.

She was dressed in a simple belted robe of undyed wool, honestly made but the sort of homespun a peasant's wife would wear, or a village craftsman's, and her hands were work-worn. A long blue mantle rested across her head and shoulders, thrown over one shoulder to frame her features and the waving black hair. The face beneath it was olive-skinned, with a firm curve of nose and great dark eyes that reminded him of the Byzantine mosaics Abbot Dmwoski loved; a Jewish face, kindly and wise and a little sad. Her feet pressed the snow in sandals of goatskin, and a breath of warmer air came with her-air scented with lavender and thyme, a hint of sunny, dusty hillsides and hamlet fires of olive twigs and vine clippings.

"Under my father's roof, they called me the wished-for child. Miriam, in the tongue of my people."

Then he met her eyes, and cried out, throwing up a hand.

So bright, so bright! Like fire!

Like staring into the heart of some great star, burning in the vastness of space, like the sudden shock of being plunged into its furnace heart and transmuted as elements combined and died. Yet there was no pain in it, only a warmth that penetrated to every atom of his being, as if all that he was shone with it. The Light was knowledge; of his self, that showed him every mistake and sin and ignoble failing that had gone into him… yet the light was still there, and had always been, would always be.

And yet she was the peasant woman he had seen, arms stretched a little toward him with the callused palms of her hands upturned.

"Do not be afraid, Karl Bergfried," she said again, using his baptismal name, and the tenderness in her voice was as overwhelming as the light. "You who have been Father in the spirit to my Son's children."

"Lady," he choked, the hand he had put between them slowly dropping to clasp his other, caught between terror and a rush of joy that was like all his homecomings at once, together with what he'd felt when he first raised the Host as a priest. "Lady-"

I am awake, he thought. I am more awake than I have ever been.

Every particle of snow, every roughness of bark or breath of air upon his skin seemed to glow. Time passed in a drumbeat of seconds, sounding as if its hooves would shake loose the mountains and break the sky, as if the stuff of existence itself creaked at the strain.

I am more myself than ever before, but I am faded to a shadow and the world is an image cast upon silver glass!

"Lady of Sorrows, Queen of Angels," he said, and tears ran down his cheeks, startlingly cold against the flushed skin. "I am not worthy-a miracle-"

Her lips curved. "And yet my Son's blood was shed for you, child of Eve," she said, the smile taking away the chiding. "And have you not been the instrument of miracle, the earthly bread and wine becoming His blood and flesh in your hands? Have you not granted forgiveness in His name?"

Ignatius nodded. "What must I do?" he whispered.

"You will be tested beyond what you can bear, unless you throw yourself upon Him and His love. In them is strength beyond all the deceits and wickedness you have seen; strength to put them behind you."

"Do I do right to follow the Princess?" he said.

"To whom did you promise obedience, under God?"

"To the head of my Order, and through him to the princes of the Church and the Holy Father."

The blue-mantled head nodded. "Humanity has suffered the fire from the sky, a punishment greater than the Deluge," she said. "But even in the Father's anger there is always mercy. And my Son is thrifty; He uses what is to hand. The young woman your earthly superior entrusted to your care also serves His purposes; guard her then in the trials she will face, with sword and counsel of the world and of the Spirit. In service to her you serve me, and through me the Most High. You shall be my knight, Karl Bergfried!"

She rested one hand on the cross-hilt of his sword; the other reached out and touched him gently on the brow, and the universe dissolved in song.

TheScourgeofGod