Astrid exchanged a single regal nod as Sandra Arminger approached; they were both sovereigns. Cardinal-Archbishop Maxwell raised his crosier and signed the air in blessing; Juniper Mackenzie did the same with her staff topped with the Triple Moon-she was in a formal arsaid today, and jeweled belt and headband with the sign of the Crescent Moon on her brow. The others made brief greeting, but this was a military occasion, strictly speaking.
Then Tiphaine went down on both knees before her sovereign. She drew her longsword, kissed the cross the hilt made, and then raised the blade on the palms of her gloved hands.
"My liege, my sword is yours, and all my faith and obedience, under God."
Sandra took it-a little awkwardly, since she was petite and had never been a warrior of any sort. She turned to Astrid and extended the blade.
"My Grand Constable's sword I tender to you, Lady Astrid of the Dunedain Rangers, in token of your command of this army."
She had a high voice, but trained to carry by a generation of public events. Tiphaine rose and then went down on one knee facing Astrid-the lesser salute to a ruler not her own, and done with liquid grace despite the sixty pounds of armor. Astrid's eyes met hers for a moment; then the Ranger leader swung the sword with casual expertise in a shimmering arc that ended with it presented to Tiphaine hilt-first.
The Grand Constable took the blade and sheathed it without glancing down. "Lady Astrid, at my ruler's order I tender you my obedience and faith so long as this alliance shall last; so help me God."
She extended her hands, palm pressed to palm, and Astrid took them between her own:
"Grand Constable d'Ath, so long as this alliance shall last, I acknowledge you as second-in-command of this army, and in my absence or if I should fall, its commander. So witness the Lord Manwe and the Lady Varda, and the One Who is above all."
Signe's eyes went a little wider. That hadn't been on the agenda! Sandra's expression mirrored her own, under a control that couldn't be called iron because it was far too supple.
Now, that was a smart political move, little sister, Signe thought grudgingly. And you did it despite the fact that you hate Tiphaine as much as I do Sandra… and unlike Sandra, Tiphaine hates you right back. She's not nearly as emotionless as you'd think, underneath that Icy Elegant Killer Dyke facade.
The Association contingent raised a cheer, hammering their weapons on their shields and shouting out, "Lady d'Ath! Lady d'Ath!" The sound grew as the news spread to those out of earshot; the harsh male chorus echoed back from the walls of the castle, and frightened skeins of wildfowl into flight from the Willamette behind them, rising like black beaded strings into the cloudless sky.
It sounded a lot like Lady Death, which was Tiphaine's nickname in Portland's domains.
The cheer gradually swept down the ranks, since it wouldn't do to leave the Protectorate troops on their own. Each group joined in its own fashion-you could tell the banshee shrieks of the Mackenzies as soon as they came in, or the Bearkiller growl of Ooo-rah. And the warrior Benedictines of the Order of the Shield sang a few stanzas of a military hymn instead of just yelling:
"Kyrie Eleison, down the road we all must follow-"
The other leaders made their variations on the same speech as Sandra, and the commanders of the forces they'd contributed did homage to Astrid; Eric was grave as he went to one knee and put his hands between hers-Signe had been half afraid that he'd absently call their younger sibling sis or peanut. As the affair wound up Sandra looked aside.
"Isn't that your son, Lady Signe? He's the living image of his father these days."
"Yes," Signe said brusquely. "He is."
And I have him and his four sisters, Signe thought, and knew Sandra was thinking it as well. While your precious singleton Mathilda is off East of the mountains in the Goddess-knows-what peril. I don't wish Rudi any ill… not anymore, and I love Ritva and Mary even if they're difficult and prickly. But your daughter, on the other hand, is all you've got…
"A handsome lad, but then, his father was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, in an extremely masculine way. In fact young Mike looks a great deal like Rudi. With less red in the hair, of course," Sandra went on politely.
Ouch, Signe thought.
It was true, too; Mike had been Rudi's blood-father. That brief encounter with Juniper Mackenzie had been before they were married, but…
Don't try to get into a meaner-than-thou contrast with the Spider of the Silver Tower, she reminded herself.
"He'll be going East with your brother?" Sandra went on.
"Yes," Signe said. "He's a military apprentice now, and among the best of his year."
And this isn't a time when a ruler can keep himself safe, she thought. I don't wish Rudi ill, but my son will have his own heritage. And to do that, he has to have experience and to gain it in front of the other warriors.
"Ah, yes, that Spartan-style thing you Bearkillers have," Sandra said smoothly, looking at her out of the corners of her brown eyes. "I pray that every mother's child shall return safely."
It isn't a time like that, Signe thought, controlling her glare. But, oh, how I wish it was!
"Hey, hey, laddie-o
Paint your face and string your bow!"
Juniper Mackenzie waved as she passed by the campfire where they were roaring out the old marching song to a skirl of pipes and a hammer of drums. The air in the Mackenzie encampment beneath Castle Todenangst was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and grilling food and the incidental odors that even a cleanly folk couldn't avoid, as the sun fell westward behind the towers in a blaze of black and golden clouds above the Coast Range. It had been a warm afternoon, perfect for the speeches and rites; she and Judy Barstow were still in their robes of ceremony as High Priestesses and carrying their staffs.
"This is how it starts," she said sadly.
"Hopefully, it will be over soon, at least this first phase," her handfasted man, Nigel, said beside her. "Though I hesitate to say Home before Christmas… or Yule. That prediction hasn't got a happy history."
"Wars are always easier to start than end," Juniper agreed, and sighed. "Sure, and you can start them yourself, but the other side must agree for the dance to stop. And their outcomes are never certain. If it weren't for all that, and the waste and pain and grief and sorrow and general wicked black ugliness, it's a splendid and glorious thing war would be."
"Hey, hey, lassie-o
Plant the stake and face the foe!
What use the lance and the golden rowel
As their faces turn white at the Clan's wolf-howl?"
She winced slightly; that was a song from the War of the Eye, and not too tactful now considering the time, place and circumstance. Though there were Protectorate folk mingling among the Mackenzies. One dark young squire was even dancing to the beat of the war-chant-the golden bells on his shoes twinkling in the air as he did what the old world would have called a breakdance and clansfolk no older clapped and cheered him on.
"They're all so young," she said despairingly.
"You asked for volunteers," Chuck Barstow said with infuriating reasonableness, and his wife Judy nodded. "So you get the young ones who don't have kids and crofts depending on them."
"They weren't born yet when the Change came."
"Or near as no matter. Even Oak"-his foster son-"doesn't remember the old world much, and he was… what, nine, when we found that school bus on the way here?" A shrug. "It's all easier for the Changelings."
Judy Barstow silently reached over and put a hand on her shoulder; Juniper covered it with her own for an instant, grateful for her oldest friend's presence.