She kept hold of his hand; the words got softer despite his best efforts.
"Will," he whispered. The weathered brown face leaned towards him. "You're boss of the Outfit for now. Don't forget that election come January. Listen to Signe and Ken and Eric and Luanne and all, but you're ramrod. Always: thought you should be: back at the start, remember? And you wouldn't take the job."
He nodded and set a hand on Havel's for a moment, where his wife gripped it. "I'll do my best, Mike. Mighty big boots to fill."
"Eric." The blond head so like his wife's bent. "Brother: you always had my back: "
His eyes closed. A moment later he opened them again, watching all of them start. Then it was too much effort to speak; he'd managed all the essential things.
You did pretty good, Marine, he thought, as the bright light faded above. You found Signe and made some great babies with her. You fought that bastard Arminger to a standstill for ten years and then killed him. You got a lot more than you thought you would, when the plane's engines cut out over the Bitterroots.
It all became a tumble of images, and then suddenly his thoughts were clear for an instant:
I was father to the land. I saved my people. I was: King.
"By: earth," he said, more of a movement of the lips than a thing of throat and air. "By: sky: "
Another breath, and it did hurt a little now. The next was harder. The women leaned over him, the mothers of his children. He blinked once more. His own mother, her black braids swinging as she rocked his hurt away. She was singing to him:
"Manabozho saw some ducks
Hey, hey, heya hey
Said 'Come little brothers, sing and dance';
Hey, hey, heya hey-"
Chapter Twenty-Three
Field of the Cloth of Gold, Willamette Valley, Oregon
September 5th, 2008/Change Year 10
J uniper Mackenzie woke with a start. The tent was dark, but dawn had broken outside; Nigel's bedroll was empty, and there was a stale cold smell, slightly fusty, that she associated with war. She scrambled into kilt and shirt, socks and shoes, then buckled and belted her plaid as she stood outside, breathing in freshness and wood smoke and cooking smells. A flight of geese went over high above, the first of the year heading south and sounding their long song.
The memory of sorrow clutched at her, like a hand at her throat as she heard the keening among her people, rising and falling and then rising again into a saw-edged wail of grief, the heavy silence from the orderly rows of the Bear-killer camp, the Latin chanting from the chapel-tent of the warrior monks. Nigel turned and she leaned into him, hugging fiercely.
"He was a brave man," he said. "I've never met a braver."
Her head nodded against the rough surface of his quilted tunic. "He was the father of my son."
Then she took a deep breath, and another, standing and raising her head proudly, accepting the strength of his arm without leaning on it.
"And: he was the given sacrifice that goes consenting; the King who dies that the people may live," she said. "I knew it from the beginning, but I didn't: he always laughed at the myths."
"Even when he stepped into one," Nigel said. "And now he's become legend himself."
He shook himself, and she smiled despite her sadness as she felt him put on practicality like a well-tailored suit, even if it was a little threadbare at the cuffs.
"We heard some fighting from over there last night," he said.
He nodded northward towards the Protectorate's camp: a Protectorate without a Lord Protector, now. Smoke rose over it, more than cookfires could account for.
"And according to the Rangers, a block of about five hundred of them is leaving right now-for the baronies along the Columbia, we think; they're worried about the Free Cities and the Jacks. We may not have to fight that great murdering battle after all."
"And our folk?" she asked, knowing the answer.
"Grieving, but not downhearted. I wouldn't like to face them in a fight now."
"Indeed!" she said. To herself: With Mike's spirit behind the blade and the bow? No, no, and no three times!
They stood in line for porridge and bacon, and ate without tasting. The noise of grief died down, but not the reality of it, as the day dawned blue and dreaming over the golden stubblefields around them. Juniper felt herself moving in a shell of quiet, making herself attend to things-reports from spies, the camp disputes and pettiness that nothing stopped. Less than an hour later, a knight galloped out from the Association's camp with a white pennant snapping on his lance. Waiting with the other hastily assembled leaders Juniper was astonished to see the marks of tears and grief on the man's haughty young face as well, as he sat his curveting horse like one born there.
Well, she chided herself. And if there had never been a one who loved Norman Arminger, the man could not have done so much ill or ruled so long. And now he must account for all his deeds before the Guardians, in the place where Truth stands naked and lies are impossible, and choose his own course to self-forgiveness.
"I am envoy from the Lady Sandra Arminger, Regent of the Portland Protective Association for the Princess Mathilda," he called.
O-ho, it's Regent she is now? Juniper thought with a return of the cold calculation a Chief must be able to pull on like a garment; from the corner of her eye, she saw Signe's valkyr face close like a comely fist. I wonder what the others over there think of that?
"She and her loyal Grand Constable, Count Renfrew of Odell, would come and speak peace with the other rulers gathered here," he went on; was it her imagination that there was a slight stress on loyal? "She and he will come alone, if they have your pledge of armistice and safe-conduct from now until her return."
Eyebrows rose. That was a major concession; it was also a show of strength, that she could come unguarded and with what must be her main supporter along: and also a sign of trust, of sorts. Sandra Arminger had always been a good judge of other people's scruples, even if she didn't have any herself.
Will Hutton spoke, his hard Texan drawl skepticaclass="underline" "Anythin' else, boy?"
The knight's lips grew tighter, but he inclined his head. "Do you speak for this assembly, Lord Hutton?"
"I speak for the Bearkillers, by Mike Havel's last words," he said. "These others are the leaders of free communities. We'll consult."
Even then, the Protectorate knight sneered a little. "The Lady Sandra says that she would speak first with Lady Juniper Mackenzie, Chief of the Clan Mackenzie, and then with your leaders in council."
Signe looked daggers at the Mackenzie chieftain, but Will Hutton smiled. "Wouldn't be tryin' to sow a little distrust here, would she? Sure. There's nothin' she can say to Juney that Juney won't tell us all. We'll meet her at the command pavilion over to there." He pointed. "Whenever you're ready."
"At once."
The knight ducked his head, and wheeled his horse so abruptly that it reared as it turned; then it landed with a puff of dust from among the reaped wheat stems and galloped northward once more.
Well, Juniper thought. Well, well, well!
"Probably best this way," Will Hutton said quietly as they walked towards the big open-sided tent. "We Bearkillers 'r too sore with it now. And Mike died so we wouldn't have to fight that big battle."
"He was the father of my son," Juniper replied, her tone equally quiet. "And I loved him too, Will."
The older man nodded. "Figure so. But you didn't live with him day-in-day-out."
Unwillingly, she nodded: And Mike knew what he was doing when he gave Will the power. Signe would be too blinded by her rage.
Evidently "at once" meant what it said. "Alone" was something else; it included a driver for the light two-wheeled horsecart that Sandra rode in beneath a parasol, and a maidservant on a little rumble seat behind, and a groom to hold Conrad Renfrew's horse. The former consort sat erect and elegant; Renfrew dismounted first, standing at the wheel to hand her down from the vehicle as it bobbed on its springs.