A convinced virgin-until-marriage and my two half sisters, Rudi thought. It's a merry time I'm going to have on this trip! Think about anything but sex, Rudi… think of ice and vinegar.
He did, out of curiosity: an image slid spontaneously into his mind-one of a girl he knew named Niamh, naked, blond, lying on a bed and smiling as she raised a glass of iced vinegar and slowly licked the rim…
Oh, by Priapus Himself, I'm twenty-two, how am I to think of anything else? Rudi thought, tugging at the bottom edge of his arming doublet.
Then the image flashed back; this time it was Matti. That was even more disturbing. She wasn't conventionally beautiful, her face more strong-boned and handsome, but he could imagine how those brown eyes would light, and her breath catch as he kissed the hollow at the base of her throat and…
She was laughing at his joke, her head thrown back, that laugh with a gurgling chuckle in it. He gritted his teeth. It looked like he'd have to learn to mortify the flesh, Christian or no.
"Now, if you want weird, try the Dunedain," he said teasingly. "Living in trees and talking that fancy language-"
"I heard that!" Mary-or Ritva-called from a few yards back. "You're just jealous 'cause our traditions are really old! And only some of us live in trees."
"You do," Rudi pointed out.
"It's a flet. And very comfortable in all weathers, and private. And bearproof."
"You want to hear something really weird?" Frederick said, and waved a hand around: "This place used to be what they called a national monument. Dad was always going on about how we had to preserve them for the future."
Afraid he'll offend if he joins in the chaffing, Rudi thought; you had to be really familiar with people to share the game of playful insults. But yes, he's lonely, I'd judge. And of course he's parted from all his family, his mother and his sisters.
Rudi looked around at the arid desolation; the only reason they'd come this way was to throw off possible pursuit, and because they might as well use up fodder too bulky to carry far now that they'd abandoned the wagon.
"Well, there's something to be said for every part of Their world," he said.
The thought of harvest in the fields of home pierced his breast, and the reapers dancing in the Queen Sheaf to the squeal of pipes and rattle of bodhrans, whirling with corn poppies woven in their hair.. .
"And the forest is sacred to the Horned Lord, of course, and very comely. But this is the sort of place only the Mother could love, I'd say."
Rudi was a little relieved when Ingolf spoke; the big man had been nearly silent for too long now:
"Yah, I noticed that sort of thing back home-and all the way East and West, from one side of the continent to the other. You'd see these National Monument signs, and it's never anything that could have been good fields, or orchards or anything. Mind you, the woods can be real pretty-the maples turn colors back in Richland that I'd ride a day to see-and sometimes it's something really impressive, like this mountain carved into faces in the Sioux country, but most of these National Monuments, it's just damn ugly wilderness, rocks and stuff."
"I think they valued wilderness more, then, because there was so little of it and so much settled land," Ignatius said thoughtfully. "Strange…"
"We can all agree on one thing," Mathilda said decisively. "People who grew up before the Change are… weird!"
Everyone laughed agreement; Rudi nodded himself. Even his mother was strange that way sometimes, and you'd run into it like a brick wall you couldn't see.
Mary or Ritva came trotting back from a forward scout. Ritva, he decided as she reined in.
"Water a couple of miles northwest," she said. Her face was grim. "But there's complications."
There were about two dozen of the Mormons at the desolate little spring, refugees twice over, the first time from the Prophet's invasion of New Deseret and now from the United States of Boise. They'd picked their spot well, a declivity at the base of a tall north-facing cliff with a bit of an overhang, and with good water bubbling in a crack in the rock. It ran downhill before vanishing into the coarse black volcanic sand, and that produced a bit of greenery, which their horses needed and were busy stripping. Rudi gave the people a quick appraising glance.
They had tinder stacked and a couple of big camp-kettles next to it, but no fire going. About eight were women; nobody was under eighteen or older than early middle age. They all seemed to have at least one horse, but the mounts looked hard done by, and some of the people were wounded. And they all had a sword and bow or crossbow and a shield, marked with Deseret's golden bee on a blue background. A few had mail-shirts, or armor of sheet-steel plates hammered to fit and riveted onto leather jackets, both painted a greenish gray sage color.
And the place doesn't stink, Rudi thought; there was only a slight natural smell of horses, leather, and sweat and smoke soaked into woolen clothing. Which with twenty-odd people is a good sign. They're taking care of things, tired as they are.
Edain waved as he recognized a girl named Rebecca Nystrup-her father had bought Rancher Brown's horses for Deseret's army, back.. .
Well, well. That was in May, and doesn't it seem the longest time?
Edain had been quite taken with her, for which Rudi didn't blame him, the girl being well beyond comely and near his age. He'd have been tempted in that direction himself, under other circumstances. And she'd been friendly to Edain, in a very proper way. The young Mackenzie's smile died as he took in the grimness of the little party. Rudi nodded politely to the girl but spent his attention on the rest of her land-folk.
"Colonel Donald Nystrup, 2nd Cavalry, Army of the Republic of New Deseret," their apparent leader said, a man in his thirties with light streaks in his brown beard and utter weariness in his blue eyes.
"Rudi Mackenzie," the clansman replied, swinging down from his saddle and shaking hands. "You're kin to Bishop Nystrup, I'd be saying from the looks of you. Not his son?"
"Bishop Nystrup was my uncle, and Rebecca's my cousin," he said. "But close enough."
Rudi sighed mentally as he looked at the fugitives and noted the was. Bishop Nystrup had been a conscientious man who did his very best for his people, in the brief time Rudi had known him. The sigh also had a little regret that the refugees were going to consume most of the food that he'd expected to feed his party through the next couple of weeks.
Threefold return, remember, he thought. If we have to pull our belts tighter for a few days, it won't kill us.
"It's coming on for sundown," he said. "Shall we make camp together, and perhaps make some stone soup?"
Nystrup looked puzzled for a moment-evidently the story wasn't as common among his people as it was with Mackenzies-and then his shoulders slumped very slightly as he recognized the invitation to share supplies.
"That would be a Chris-ah-kindly deed," he said. "We took what we could, but it wasn't all that much, and we lost the rest of our food in a skirmish two days ago."
Ingolf came up. "You took horses and weapons," he said, giving the group the same once-over Rudi had. "That's the essentials, you betcha. You can get food if you have to, with a bow or a shete in your hand."
Nystrup glanced at him. "I'm a soldier, but I'm not inclined to play bandit," he said, bristling a little.
Ingolf shrugged; the two men were of an age, in their late twenties, but the Easterner looked older just then.
"I was a soldier in a lot of places, straight-leg," he said; for a moment his dark blue eyes seemed lost in memory. "And I can tell you that sometimes the difference is sort of abstract. If you're planning to keep fighting the Prophet-"