The Golden Princess: A Novel of the Change (Change Series) (32 page)

“We’ll need a way to convey messages that doesn’t go through normal channels,” John said.

“And we’re going to need some troops. Not many, not a huge force—the logistics wouldn’t work—but some. People with appropriate skills,
and personally loyal to you, Orrey,” Heuradys added. “If those people the Dúnedain encountered down along the bay
are
heading for the same place, it’ll take more than nine Questers. Even if the number is canonical.”

“I have some ideas along those lines,” Órlaith said.

Then, with a slow thoughtful smile: “And I’m probably going to need a nice Persian cat. Fortunately I know where to get one, and a messenger nobody will question when they’re riding about.”

Eryn Muir

(Former
ly Muir Woods National Monument)

Ithilien/Moon County, Crown Province of Westria

(Formerly Marin and Sonoma Counties, California)

High Kingdom of Montival

(Formerly western North America)

June 25th (Nórui 25th), Change Year (Fifth Age) 46/2044 AD

S
usan Clever Raccoon rode into the center of Eryn Muir on an afternoon in June, and drew rein after she’d looped around a farmer delivering what looked like sacked potatoes piled high in an oxcart. The man in the shapeless undyed linsey-woolsey tunic, floppy canvas hat and battered leather britches gave her an odd look, but she returned it with a smile and nod and his hand stopped unconsciously moving towards the cocked, loaded crossbow resting butt-down in a scabbard beside him. Getting stared at was a stranger’s fate nearly everywhere except a few of the largest cities, and even there a Courier got the hairy eyeball sometimes.

Although just getting ignored was about as common in the really big places, as long as you stuck to the main streets and the places transients stayed. She found
that
sort of creepy and unnatural, far worse than curiosity and stares and suspicion. Most people seldom saw outsiders, after all. In a city like Portland
everyone
was a stranger outside their neighborhoods, which was downright unnatural.

Then she looked around to size up her destination, coming out of the fixed mile-eating focus of her trade and letting it sink in . . .

“Whoa!” she muttered, and the horse sidestepped under her at the conflicting signals. “Sorry, Shine. But . . . whoa!”

There wasn’t much to see at ground level, just a few stone-and-redwood stables and haystacks and such flanking the old road, a pathway now mostly surfaced with natural stream gravel. One looked as if it might be an inn, from the sign carved with a prancing pony and the mix of people sitting at tables outside. It took a moment to realize that the buildings were in fact full-size, and that the people around them weren’t midgets—were nearly all taller than she was, in fact.

The
scale
of the tree-trunks all around had thrown her off. Their bases were more like basalt pillars she’d seen in the Badlands once than trees, more like geology than vegetation. But their surfaces were infinitely more
alive
, a fibrous red-brown like the hide of some monstrous beast. Not a hostile one, but something that might crush you into insignificance if it decided to pick up and walk. Then her head went back and back as her gaze went up and up . . . and up, into a green haze like a dream of walking beneath the Pacific. The early-summer sun baked out scents like spices and sap as the long day drew to a close, warm and green and intensely fresh.

A grin split her high-cheeked bronze face, and she laughed with pure delight. There was awe in the sound as well, though she’d never considered herself more than conventionally reverent. But even she felt the
Wakhán‚ Thán‚ka
sometimes.

More in certain places and times than others; for her it had been strongest during summer lightning storms on the
makol
, watching the clouds build up into forever and come striding over the sky and land with flashes of lightning from horizon to horizon turning the thunderheads into huge caves, gates that reached through to another world. There was something of the same feeling here, though strange and subtle and different.

“Well,
girl
, you wanted to see the world,” she said quietly to herself. “By
Wóhpe
, this sure counts!”

She was tired and hungry, but that was normal working conditions for a Crown Courier.
This
was worth it and more. She’d seen forests all over Montival, ranging from the lodgepole pine of the Black Hills in her own folk’s territory to the sunny oak groves of the Willamette to the tall dark Douglas-fir woods of the Cascades, but . . .

“But nothing like this before, eh?” a voice said down by the head of her horse.

She looked down and saw a middle-aged woman in Dúnedain garb, jerkin of dark gray doeskin with the white Tree and Stars and Crown embroidered on it, soft boots, and loose shirt and trousers of a green much like the flat needles of the giant trees high above. She was slim and slightly tired-looking, with short curling brown hair and a black-leather satchel held by a band over one shoulder. That had a silver rune on it like a capital X with vertical bars framing it on either side. When Susan leaned over to shake the offered hand the other’s grip was dry and firm but didn’t have a warrior’s calluses. With a hand over her heart, she bowed and spoke:

“
Mae govannen
; well-met. I’m Ioreth Taconi, the
nesteleth
 . . . healer, doctor, here.” More formally: “Of Stath Ingolf and the Folk of the West.”

“You’re right, I’ve never seen nothing like
this
before!” the Lakota courier said. “I’m Rider Susan Mika.”

Susan swung down, landing lightly; she was tired, but she’d known far worse. This didn’t even come
close
to what you felt like after a long day up on the
makol
in February, coming back to a collection of
ger
in the dark, the cold seeping into your very bones until even the sight of warmth and light and the smell of food left you indifferent and numb. As if you were doomed to ride on forever, never quite reaching the corral, and didn’t even
care
anymore.

“Yes, I was told to expect you. That would be . . . Rider Susan Clever Raccoon, wouldn’t it, in the Common Tongue?”

“Yeah,” Susan said, mildly pleased that the Dúnedain woman had taken the trouble to check. “Of the Lakota
tunwan
and the Oglála folk, ma’am, originally, now of the High King’s Household and the Crown Courier Corps.”

The Lakota had retaken a fair chunk of their old territory after the Change, and the Seven Council Fires in the person of her grandfather Red Leaf had been among the first to swear allegiance to the new High Kingdom of Montival during the war against the Prophet—the Church Universal and Triumphant’s stamping-grounds had been just west of them, something nobody in their right mind thought tolerable. Under the Great Charter they were the Guardians of the Eastern Door, and while mostly nomads who followed their herds and hunted buffalo they tended to be homebodies when it came to leaving their own ranges. She thought she might be the first of her nation to be seen here since the Change, something that made her smile more broadly for a moment.

A teenage boy dressed like the woman came up and bowed slightly to Susan with his hand over his heart.

“Mae govannen, rochon,”
the youngster said grinning broadly; he had reddish hair to his shoulders and freckles.

Susan knew enough to translate the greeting as:
well-met, rider
.

“Han‚ kolá,”
she said.

Which was polite for a woman greeting a friendly male stranger, and she held up her right arm with the palm out. She’d have said
hi
and held it out for a shake if the boy had used English . . . what the Dúnedain called the Common Tongue, and which was English with pretensions in her opinion.

The doctor and the kid—

Well, younger teenager,
she conceded.
Looks about thirteen.

—spoke for a moment in the liquid elegance of Sindarin, which sounded odd with at least one involuntary pubescent squeak thrown in. Susan thought she caught the word for
horses
, and was sure the boy blushed when his voice betrayed him. A little reluctantly she handed over her reins and the leading string for her two remounts, then threw her bowcase over one shoulder, unhooked the shete scabbard from the front of her saddle and reached for her bags.

“I can send the saddlebags up with your roll and the pack, my lady,” the boy said unexpectedly, bowing again. “No need to carry them.”

I think he’s shy and hiding it,
she thought, which made her a little more sympathetic.

“OK . . .”

“Fingaerion’s on stable duty,” Ioreth said.

“It’s no trouble at all,” the boy went on. “These are really nice horses, my lady. They look like they could go forever.”

He fed her mount an apple from a pocket, which Shine accepted with dignified eagerness; it had been a long day for her remuda too. Then he ran a gentle hand down the mare’s neck, eased forward, felt her legs and got her left forehoof up and examined it. Even for a Lakota, Susan was fond of horses; that was part of what had gotten her in trouble at home in the first place. She recognized a kindred spirit, and an expert hand.

“Look like they could use a rest, though . . . say two days, and then light exercise? Re-shoe them then?” he said.

She gave him a look that plainly intimated she wasn’t going to have her mounts reshod by someone whose voice hadn’t finished breaking, and he went on:

“Don’t worry, my lady, I’m not the farrier! I just help her out.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she said, reassured. “I’ll come visit ’em later. Air the saddle and tack, though, please.”

“Clean, soap, and air. And I’ll go over the seams, too, my lady,” he nodded and led the animals off. “I’ll ring the bell for your kit.”

Whatever the hell that means,
she thought.

He tentatively stroked the buffalo-robe bedroll strapped to the back of the saddle as he went, as if he’d never seen one before. He might not have. The
Pty Oyate
, the Buffalo People, numbered in the millions once more out on the high plains after nearly half a century of careful management, but the Lakota
tunwan
limited the number of hides outsiders could buy. That kept them moderately expensive, especially since they were also in demand as high-quality power-belting for machinery.

And no foreigner hunted on Lakota land except the most honored guests. Her folk regarded horse theft as an amusing rough-and-tumble sport and didn’t grudge anyone else who accepted the risks trying to turn the tables, but they took buffalo poaching
seriously
.

“Seems to know what he’s doing, ma’am,” Susan said with approval. “Polite, too.”

“We’re a bit shorthanded here right now, nearly all our warriors out patrolling, but I try to see that my son learns his lessons properly,” the doctor said, and chuckled at her double-take. “You’re exotic twice over to Fingaerion, you know. Lakota
and
a Crown Courier. He’ll be peacocking in front of his friends for months because of this.”

Dang, I suppose what
exotic
means depends on where you’re standing when you point and say it,
she thought.

Before she’d left the
makol
it had never occurred to her that anyone would regard her people as exotic and strange. They were just people who lived the way people lived.

And
I
thought Crown Couriers were exotic and romantic until I was one. Still do, come to that.

Susan’s smile died. “I’m here to see Faramir Kovalevsky and Morfind Vogeler,” she said.

And I want to do it without attracting too much official attention, so it’s likely best they’re all busy here.

“I’ve got dispatches,” she went on aloud. “Ah . . . the Crown Princess wanted to know their condition, though, too. She was concerned about the injuries of her cousins, from the reports. And . . . she was upset about Malfind’s death.”

“So are we,” Ioreth said grimly. “So I gathered from the message from
Hîr
Ingolf. Looks like we’re finally going to get the backup we need.”

Susan nodded. “But my messages to Faramir and Morfind . . . from what I understand, they’re personal. And the Princess really wants to know how things are going with them.”

Ioreth frowned, obviously marshaling her professional side. “Besides quite severe general battering, they both had concussions—his worse than hers.”

Susan nodded; being knocked out was no joke. Sometimes you never did get completely better. One of her cousins back home had blinding headaches every week and forgot things all the time because he’d gotten kicked in the head by a mean stallion.

“And she had a nasty cut to the face from an axe, though it’s healing well. Fortunately even Faramir’s headaches have tapered off and I can’t
detect any long-term injury. They’re both fit for full duty, if that’s what you mean and if it’s absolutely necessary,” she said. “But they’re both rather young—ah—”

Susan nodded. “So’m I, ma’am,” she said. Dryly: “I’d noticed that myself, sorta.”

It was the Dúnedain’s turn to do a double-take, and she waggled a reproving finger and gave a snort before she went on.

“And I was frankly a bit worried about them, about possible long-term trauma. That was why I delayed putting them back on the active roster as long as I could.”

She sighed and went on: “I’ll take you to them. Activity is probably what they need, now. Can I give you a hand with your gear?”

“Thanks, but I can manage,” Susan said, shouldering her bow, bowcase, quiver and shete.

She was a smallish young woman, but wiry and enduring, and she prided herself on handling everything she could personally. Often enough there was nobody else to depend on, when she was out in the parts of the High Kingdom that didn’t have heliograph nets or railroads or even mail service. She’d slept in snowdrifts and lost remounts to tigers and been treed by grizzlies, exchanged long-distance arrows with bandits more than once, and it had come to at least a show of blades in rough places now and then. Knowing you’d be well avenged was comforting, but she preferred to keep it on a theoretical basis and make sure others respected the High King’s badge herself. Mostly that was a matter of being visibly ready for trouble, though not someone who was looking to start it. A lot of Couriers were more pushy, but then a lot of Couriers were guys, little ones, with little-guy problems.

“Here’s the lift then,” Ioreth said. “I’ll show you the ropes.” An impish smile. “Literally, I’m afraid. Heights don’t bother you, I hope?”

“No,” Susan replied, and it was true.

Well, not much.

The lift rested on a low fieldstone base approached by a ramp. The vehicle itself was a circle made of two cross-lapping sets of planks with a pillar in the center, its rim surrounded by a chest-high wall of thin woven
laths. It swayed a little as they opened the door and entered. Susan’s eyes went up again. The supports for the breastwork were structural ribs as well, and they curved in to join the pillar well above their heads. A cable ran straight through the central column; she realized it was probably fixed in the stone base. A barrel-like arrangement stood out from the wood, with a crank-handle on either side.