"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.