“What do you think she will do, Father?” Ignatius said. “I have little knowledge of her beyond matters of public record and a few meetings.”
“She will, I think, find some way to accompany him.”
“With respect . . . I cannot see her mother allowing that!”
“Neither can I,” Dmwoski said dryly.
The unspoken and teach your grandmother to suck eggs made the young man flush, but the Abbot smiled to lessen the sting and went on: “Nevertheless, she will try. She may or may not succeed. We cannot in good conscience abet her possible defiance of the regent; it would be politically suicidal as well. But we can . . .”
“. . . help her if she succeeds in it,” Ignatius said.
“Just so. She is a most loyal daughter of Holy Mother Church, in an independent and occasionally self-willed manner,” Dmwoski said.
“Well, she is a princess, born to rule, not an apprentice dairymaid,” Ignatius said.
Dmwoski nodded. Wryly, to himself: And to you, my son, a “princess born to rule” is the most natural thing in the world, whereas I must every now and then remind myself that such things do again walk the world . . . the Changed world . . . even if gryphons and unicorns do not.
Aloud he went on: “Considering her parentage, we have been blessed indeed that she earnestly seeks the good. Hence she is likely to accept our help, if events take the turn that I expect.”
“But her contacts are primarily with her confessor, and the hierarchy in the Association dioceses, are they not, Father? I assume we are keeping this hypothesis secret from them?”
“Yes. It is necessary. Working through the regular hierarchy in the Association territories is an unaccept able security risk in this matter. They are too intimately involved with the Protectorate’s secular governance. Frankly, I would be afraid of the Lady Regent’s learning too much if we consulted in that direction. Nor do they have any man of your particular abilities.”
“And the princess does not share the prejudice so many Association nobles have against our Order,” Ignatius said, nodding thoughtfully.
“Precisely, brother. If anything, she favors us—from appreciation of our work, and also from reasons of policy as a counterbalance to the Dominicans. Many of whom regret the ending of the schism and the disbanding of Antipope Leo’s inquisition.”
Ignatius had lost his doubts; his mind was working quickly behind an impassive face. Dmwoski nodded.
“We must consult others of our brothers, speak at length, and pray for guidance. But I think, my son, that your first step on this journey will be towards Portland.”
* * * *
Flying M Baronial Hunting Preserve,
Coast Range Foothills
Portland Protective Association,
Oregon
January 30, CY22/2021 A.D.
This is a bit different from our last hunting party, back last Samhain, Rudi thought.
He inhaled deeply. All he could smell was the damp snow, and the deep sweet pungency of conifer forest. The sun was a little west of noon and well south, which made him squint as he watched the edge of the woods ahead, where the snowy natural meadow narrowed down to a point between two steep hills.
The twins weren’t with them; they didn’t like visiting Association territory, for which he couldn’t blame them, and they’d gone off to stay with Hiril Astrid at Stardell Hall. Mathilda was the only woman in the half dozen actual hunters, though there were a few young ladies-in waiting and a middle aged chaperone back at the lodge. Everyone else was a young male Associate, a nobleman; then there were the beaters ahead of them on the other side of this stretch of forest.
Rudi held up his right hand. The others came to a halt, spread out across the field where sun-cured grass stuck through the snow in beige-upon-white. Especially after Mathilda hissed at them about hunt discipline.
The Flying M was in a valley that wound up from the Willamette near Yamhill into the Coast Range ahead and to the west. They’d come farther where the tall for est of Douglas fir and hemlocks closed in with a tangle of steep forested ridges, rippling around them in tall dark green ranks. The branches were heavy with the white of the recent snowfall and the Alaskan air mass was still over the valley, keeping the air well below freezing.
The wind was cold in his face, and the sound of the hounds was a musical belling at least a half a mile farther on—though sound was tricky among woods and hills, particularly after snow. A hundred yards behind them the horses were starting to snort and plunge in the hands of the grooms. Epona bugled her challenge to the scent of predator drifting in from the west.
“He’s coming,” he said, softly but clearly.
Grins of excitement to match his own ran up the line, breath coming heavier and puffing white in the chill air. The villagers in the first manor east of here said the tiger was a big male, and it had taken several sheep and a cow; they were terrified that it would be a child next.
That might be simply fear talking. The old man-eaters who’d escaped or been released right after the Change had died out by now, though the memory of them re mained vivid. As humans grew scarce and better armed, stalking natural prey like deer and elk and feral cattle and swine in the burgeoning wilderness became a wiser strategy for their descendants. Those who learned, lived.
Still, nobody wanted to take chances. To a tiger a human looked temptingly edible, just about the size of a deer, and winter was their hungry season too. You had to teach them to avoid men and their homes....
There was a deep stillness, the snow-hush drinking sound, with their own breath as loud as the quiet creaking of boughs under their white burden. He was in Portlander outdoor dress, quilted jacket and stout wool breeches and fur-lined leather boots, his feet only a little cold, but he’d kept his own yew longbow rather than the crossbow they favored.
The shaft on the string had a hunting broadhead, a razor-edged triangle whose ultimate origin had been a stainless-steel spoon. Mathilda was armed Clan style too—she’d grown up using longbows part of the year—and the rest carried hunting crossbows with spring steel prods, the wicked four bladed heads of the bolts glittering when the intermittent sun broke through the clouds. Everyone had a hunting spear too, with a broad razor edged head and a crosspiece below that, standing upright with the buttspikes driven into the ground.
Crack-crack-crackle . . .
He caught that, and Odard, and Mathilda, then the others. That was the sound of frozen snow laden brush breaking under heavy paws as the great cat moved quickly; Rudi’s consciousness focused down to a diamond point, everything growing crisp and clear and slow. Then a call, as the king predator realized there were men in front of it as well as behind.
A moaning mhgh . . . mhgh . . . mhgh, building to what wasn’t quite a roar, then a deep guttural snarling sound of anger and fear: ouuurrrh . . . ouuurrrrh . . .
Mathilda spoke: “He’s going to break cover! Rudi and I have first shot!”
The tiger eeled through the brush at the edge of the clearing with a delicacy astonishing in an animal that weighed as much as a pony, and stood looking at them from two hundred yards away.
“Big ’un,” Lord Chaka Jones said exultantly, his chocolate-brown face alight with pleasure. “Damned big. Siberian, and pure or nearly.”
He was right; it was a six year old male in its prime, with its shaggy winter coat a pale yellow-white between the black stripes.
“Ten feet without the tail,” Rudi agreed. “Six hundred pounds, easy, maybe seven hundred.”
Seeing them it snarled, a sharp racking sound, bar ing teeth like ivory dirks, ears laid back and golden eyes blazing, tail held stiff and low, twitching slightly at the end. A white puff of breath obscured its head for an in stant. It half turned as if to go back in the woods, but the sound and scent of the hounds brought it around again. The great head went back and forth, looking at the six humans, and then it began to pace forward in a half crouch, belly almost touching the snow.
“Remember, the
se things can jump thirty paces in a single bound,” Odard Liu said.
“Yes, teacher,” one of the others grumbled.
At first the tiger moved step by step, placing each foot carefully, just like a housecat stalking a ball of yarn. Then it began a rocking trot . . .and suddenly it was coming at a flat-out gallop, a series of amazing bounds with a puff of snow shooting from under its rear feet every time it took off and then again when it landed, seeming to float in long gravity-defying arcs.
“You first, Matti,” Rudi called.
He bent his bow nonetheless, the yew limbs flexing back into a shallow curve as he drew Mackenzie-style past the angle of his jaw, eyes locked on the white patch on the big cat’s chest.
Snap.
The sound of the string hitting Mathilda’s bracer was sharp and crisp. The arrow blurred out in a smooth shallow arc, and it met the tiger’s latest leap at its peak. The elastic grace turned to a squalling tumble; the tiger landed whirling, trying to bite the thing that had hurt it, and he could see the peacock feather fletching of her shaft against its rear flank. That would kill it . . . but not quickly.
Then it screamed and charged, belly to the ground now, broad paws churning a mist of snow that glittered in the sunlight.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
He shot twice, Matti once, in the next six seconds. All three arrows struck; her last buried itself to the fletching right in the V at the base of the beast’s throat. And still it came on with a roaring coughing growl, blood smearing the snow now as it tensed for the last leap.
Then it collapsed, the fierce grace turning to tumbling limpness, flopping not five feet from Mathilda’s boots.
“Streak, ’ware streak!” Odard shouted frantically, try ing to get into position to take a shot without chancing hitting a human.
Rudi pivoted automatically. He saw blurred yellow-and-black, a second tiger just taking off for the final killing bound, its huge paws spread with the claws ready to grip and the mouth gaping for the bite to the neck. He shot once and threw himself forward under the leap, snatching his spear as he went by. That meant landing in an ungainly heap, and the ashwood shaft cracked him painfully on the knee. Rudi forced himself into a shoul der spring, coming to his feet and whirling at the same time.
The tiger landed where he’d been, then turned in a whirling spray of snow and blood and slaver, screaming its challenge. It came up on its hind feet; his arrow had struck it low in the belly, but the wound wasn’t crip pling or a quick kill. Now it hunched and drove for him. Massive paws slapped forward with the claws out like giant fishhooks in a left-right-left-right that melded into a single slamming blur of movement, each blow strong enough to crack bone or disembowel.
He screamed a snarl back at it, giving ground but jabbing fiercely at its face, short quick stabs to keep it distracted and make it rear and expose the vulnerable underside. One blow landed on the broad spearhead, numbing his hands but splitting the paw against the razor edge as well. The cat screamed again, recoiling from the pain.
“Haro!”
Mathilda drove her spear into the beast’s side with a meaty thump, the blade sinking between two ribs until the crossbar stopped it. A second later, Chaka’s hit it a little farther back, with all the burly black nobleman’s two hundred pounds lunging behind it.
Rudi poised for a stroke of his own, but the blaze in the animal’s sun-colored eyes went out. It moaned, dropped to the snow and bit savagely at the whiteness with red pouring out between its fangs, then went limp.
Rudi paused, panting and grinning. The three who’d made the kill spent a minute thumping one another on the back and asking if anyone had been hurt.
“Not a scratch,” Rudi boasted.
“No?” Chaka said, wiping sweat off his face. “Then how come you’re bleeding?”
“I am?” Rudi said, then felt the sting.
A probing finger found a tiny patch of skin gone from the outermost tip of his nose, flicked off by a claw. Just a little closer and his whole face would have gone the same way . . .
He shrugged off a complex shudder and cleaned his spear by jabbing it repeatedly into the snow and the wet earth beneath it, then wiping it down. The air was full of the smell of blood and the rank tomcat musk of the tigers, and their own sweat. His longbow’s string had snapped, probably cut by the spearhead, but it was fine otherwise and he slid it back into the carrying loops beside his quiver; there were arrows to retrieve as well.
Then he stooped, leaning on the spear, and touched a finger to the blood, mingling it with his own on thumb and forefinger and touching it to his forehead.
“Go in peace to the Summerlands and hunt beneath the forever trees, brave warriors,” he said quietly. “We honor the fight you made; speak well of us to the Guard ians, and be reborn through the Cauldron of She who is Mother to us all.”
Then to the woods: “Lord Cernunnos, Horned Master of the Beasts, witness that we kill from need and not from wantonness, to protect our farms and our folk; knowing that for us also the hour of the Hunter comes at last. And to Your black wing host, Lady Morrigú, I dedicate the harvest of this field.”
A few of the Protectorate nobles crossed themselves or touched their crucifixes in alarm as he invoked the Powers—though this time not, he noted, Mathilda or Odard. Rudi suspected some of them were giving thanks that Matti hadn’t been hurt for reasons other than love of their princess; he wouldn’t have liked to have to ac count for an injury to the Lady Regent himself. Then ev eryone was smiling and exclaiming over the size of the tigers and the rareness of finding a streak—a group—of young males together. Usually one would drive all others out of his territory, even his siblings.
“They might as well be our nobles,” Matti said dryly.
Everyone laughed at that. Chaka unstoppered a chased silver flask and they all took a sip of the brandy as the foresters and varlets came up to skin the kills. Odard took out a tape measure and sized them both.
“Nine feet six inches and nine feet eleven inches, nose-tip to base of the spine,” he said, and stood back to let the servants do their work.
“Not a record, but close,” Chaka added. “That’s a day not wasted!”
One of the foresters grinned up at Rudi as they turned the animals on their backs to begin the flaying; he was an older man in his thirties, a little gray in the close-cropped yellow hair.
“I’ve never seen a man move so fast, my lord,” he said. “That was a good piece of work, keeping the tabby in play with the spear. You saved yourself a bad mauling there, maybe your life, and perhaps saved a couple of others as well.”
Rudi nodded thanks and handed him the flask; he’d never liked being called lord or having people wait on him hand and foot—Juniper Mackenzie had always done her share of the chores, and seen that he was raised the same way. The forester looked surprised, then took a quick swallow and handed it back, with a gasp of thanks; it was good brandy. Rudi drank again and returned the flask to Chaka, then puffed out a cloud of white breath.
“I was just barely fast enough,” he said.
“That tiger had reflexes like a cat!” Odard said.
Rudi groaned. “Too close for comfort!”
“Let’s get back to the lodge,” Mathilda said. “It looks like more snow, to me.”
Rudi cocked an eye skyward. It had been cold all day; now the temperature was falling again, and the wind was from the north. The tall firs swayed with it, send ing showers of fine white crystals from the last day’s fall down, and whipping up a ground mist. Snow rarely lay more than a few days in the valley flats, but this was a little higher; it might stick as long as a week here, in a cold winter. He swung into the saddle with the others and they headed back along their own trail; everyone started an old hunting song with a fierce bouncy tune, “The Eye of the Tiger.”
“A good hunt,” Chaka said again when they’d finished. “Nothing like it on a winter’s day.”
Rudi nodded agreement. “It is one way to liven up the Black Months,
and it needs doing. Though it’s more fun still if you stalk them alone or with one or two oth ers. The best way is to use a blind over a water hole or a game trail.”
Mathilda smiled quietly; a couple of the others probably thought he was putting it on.
“Oh, come on.” One of Odard’s friends, a knight named Drogo de Gaston. “I know you Mackenzies are supposed to be hardy and all that, but that’s going a bit far, isn’t it?”
Rudi grinned. “Well, we don’t have as many tigers down in our part of the valley,” he said. “Also all our crofters have longbows, and know how to use them.”
That brought more good-natured chaffing, for all that some of these young men had lost fathers under the Mackenzie arrowstorm in the War of the Eye.
Soon the hills swung back, and they were at the lodge. The Flying M had been a place for country pleasures long before the Change, and it was built in rustic style of notched logs. Smoke whipped almost horizontally from fieldstone chimneys as they pulled up before the veranda of a long low main building; there were some detached cabins for the staff, plus stables and paddocks, and an airstrip with a ramp and catapult arrangement that was used to launch gliders in the summertime. Rudi found it homelike, and flying was one of life’s great pleasures, right up there with sex—his blood father had been a pilot by trade, and had been aloft on the day the engines stopped.
Dinner was roast venison they’d killed two days earlier, and a lot of fun—though he suspected it would have been a good deal rowdier if Matti weren’t present, and the making of assignations with the servant girls was reasonably discreet under her eye. Rudi refrained entirely.
Though why she minds when she doesn’t want to sleep with me herself, I don’t understand, he thought. Strange folk, Christians.
When the cake had been demolished, they had the luxury of real coffee. That was still rare and very expensive, since it had to be shipped in from Hawaii or South America, through seas that were often stormy and which held more pirates every year—his mother refused to serve it, except at feasts where everyone could have some. He was cautious about it, because he wanted to be able to sleep tonight. The same trade had brought in the oranges and dates and figs that went around with the sweet dessert wine.The liqueur was from the valley’s own vineyards but also an import to the Protectorate, from Mount Angel and done Trockenbeerenauslese style.