The Sword of the Lady

DUN JUNIPER CASCADE FOOTHILLS, WESTERN OREGON SEPTEMBER 6, CHANGE

The packet of letters was thick; the messenger from Bend had come over the old Santiam Pass, and down to Dun Juniper in the western foothills as fast as relays of horses would carry him. Sutterdown was the logical first stop… but the man was not just a messenger of the Central Oregon Rancher?s Association; he was a retainer of Rancher Brown, an old friend of Juniper Mackenzie. He?d cut across to Dun Juniper, staggered in to lay the saddlebags before her, and then been half carried away to the baths and the guesthouse.

Some of the letters she set aside for forwarding; those from Mary and Ritva Havel, to their mother Signe at the Bearkiller headquarters of Larsdalen, and to the Hiril Dunedain, their commander as Rangers and not so incidentally their aunt Astrid. And of course the sealed report from Father Ignatius to Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski, and Odard Liu?s to his mother and to Sandra Arminger up in Portland. She sighed at that. ?Probably a plea for clemency, poor boy,? she said; the sympathy in her voice was entirely for the young man.

And if ever anyone deserved an ax across their neck, Mary Liu is the one. A spell in the Summerlands, a talking-to from the Mother, better luck next time… She?s never forgotten Eddie Liu?s death, well deserved as it was. Nor will she give over seeking vengeance while she lives, or pouring poison into poor Odard?s ear. He might be something considerable of a man, if he could be kept away from her long enough! ?I doubt Lady Sandra will send Mary Liu to the headsman. Not until Mathilda is safely back in Association territory, and doesn?t need Odard?s help,? her handfasted man Nigel Loring said, in an English accent to the manor born. ?House arrest does seem unusually… indecisive… for Sandra,? Juniper agreed.

Mathilda had done two letters, one to Sandra and one to her, but she laid hers aside to wait until she?d read the missive from her son.

Rudi?s was in two parts. One an armsman?s report to his Clan Chief, succinct and terse. Even in that there were things that raised her brows: someone else might have discounted the dream vision as a delusion born of the wound fever he?d been suffering while they sheltered in that cave against blizzards and foemen. She did not.

So old One-Eye is taking a hand in this as well, eh? Well, my boy is a hero, right enough, and he a collector of such. But he?s not yours yet, Terrible One!

Nor was she surprised to read of the encounters with the Seekers sent from Corwin. Juniper already knew of the Prophet?s reckless abuse of the hidden Powers.

Although, knowing, my skin crawls, that it does. Fools! To meddle so with such things! The Threefold Return will be upon them soon or late with a weight like falling mountains… but how many will be caught in their web of malevolence first?

The other was a son?s to his mother, and it was rambling and warm, and interspersed with tales that brought a smile to her lips, and sketches of places and people done by his anamchara, Mathilda, and his half sisters-Rudi could draw a map that looked like a professional?s, but that was the limit of his draughtsmanship.

So that?s this Abbot Dorje, she thought.

An ageless face, wrinkled and grave, but somehow with a boy?s merriment in the eyes, and a finger raised in half-serious admonishment at the unseen artist. ?I?d like to meet him, sure an? I would,? she said aloud.

Her mother?s West-Irish Gaeltacht lilt was strong in her voice. She?d long since given it full rein; if her folk were determined to imitate it at least they should have a real model from Achill Island rather than the older generation?s vague memories of Hollywood?s idea of how an Irishman sounded. Though to the youngsters, what had started as half a jest among their parents or grandparents was simply the way they spoke. ?And he thinks well of Rudi, which is a mark in his favor.? ?So does this Master Hao,? Nigel said.

That sketch was of a face ageless in a different way, hard and square atop a sinewy neck.?Hmmm. That girl does have a talent for the pencil. There?s a man of his hands, and no mistake, as Sam would say.?

Then with a little wonder, and a finger stroking meditatively across the white of his neat mustache: ?Who?d have thought that a Buddhist monastery would end up ruling a lost valley in the wilds of Wyoming? Even if they were having a conference in a hotel there when the Change struck.?

Juniper grinned a little impishly; it made the laughter lines beside her leaf green eyes suddenly stand out. There were many; she was his junior by more than a decade, but still fifty-four herself this year, and there was nearly as much gray as fox-red now in the hair that fell to her shoulders. There had still been a little yellow in his white mustache when they met, and for that matter some hair on a head now egg bald. ?And who?d have thought that a clan of Celts such as ours-? she began. ?Pseudo-Celts, darling, inspired by your charisma.? ?-would spring up in Oregon? And the most of it was their idea, not mine, the spalpeens!? ?I understand you did say they?d have to live like a Clan, as it was in the old days,? Nigel observed; that had been nearly a decade before he arrived. ?I just meant we?d have to pull together! The trappings…?

She shrugged helplessly.?In any case, stranger things have happened.? ?You converting me, for example,? Nigel pointed out.

She snorted.?You?re as polite to the Lord and Lady as you were to the Church of England-and not one bit more!?

He smiled and spread hands a little spotted with age.?Whatever you say, my dear.? ?And it was whatever you say, Padre, to the parson, too, eh?? ?Whatever you say, my dear,? he replied.?But I assure you my courtesy to the regimental chaplain did not extend quite so far as it does with you.?

They both chuckled. Then her face grew grave again. ?It?s the longest we?ve ever been apart, my boy and I,? Juniper Mackenzie said.?Rudi left April sixteenth of last year. Sixteen months almost to the day.? ?And now we know where he?s been, old girl,? Sir Nigel Loring said, putting his hand over hers. ?And that he was wounded near to death! And the arrows were cursed, from the description.? ?Infected, at least. And we know that he?s recovered and well,? he went on relentlessly.

She turned her hand and they linked fingers. The midday meal was just cleared away, and the two of them were sitting on the dais at the head of the long trestles while those on kitchen duty cleared away the last of it and took up the tables themselves. A lingering smell of it-cold minced mutton pie, salads, steamed cauliflower, cheese and breads and biscuits-remained, and the acrid scent of her rosehip tea. From the outside came the clatter of looms, the rising-falling hum of spinning wheels, the whirr of treadle-driven sewing machines and the rattling clang of a smith?s hammer, the neigh of a horse. All the sounds of a working day mixed with talk and laughter and snatches of song, or now and then voices raised in argument.

Though they were at war still the land must be tilled, meals cooked, animals cared for, and tools made.

And weapons, she sighed to herself, remembering Rudi dancing with the blade on the practice field, terrible and beautiful as Lugh come again in splendor and in wrath. To be sure. That we can?t avoid.

Afternoon sunlight poured in through the windows along the verandah, shafts of it picking out the bright painted carving that ran riot over the smoothed log walls of the Great Hall?s interior, vines and leaves and faces from myth and story; the signs of the Quarters were higher, under the rafters nearly fifteen feet above.

The altar over the hearth on the northern wall held her household?s images of the Lord and Lady as Brigid with her flame and sheaf, and Lugh with his spear and sun disk; Nigel had made those himself when he was courting her, back during the Protector?s War. When he was fresh from England he?d surprised her by how handy he was at all a countryman?s tasks and trades, not just the deadly skills he?d mastered in the SAS and the Blues and Royals and after the Change.

Now she looked into the blue eyes in the weathered face that loved hers line for line, and smiled back. ?I?ll grant that it?s a mercy to learn my son has been wounded after he?s recovered. This Chenrezi place seems a good one to heal, and to learn.?

Her mouth quirked in a smile as she looked at that letter. It was signed Rimpoche Tsewang Dorje, and she murmured some of it aloud: ?I have spoken often with your son in these months of winter, Juniper Lady, and found in him much strength of mind and body, some wisdom and astonishingly little vanity. We have become friends, he and