The Sunrise Lands

  “You’ll do, boy. You’ll do,” he said over his shoulder, and trotted away.

  * * * *

  “Wow,” Rebecca said, looking at him wide-eyed. “That’s . . . that’s some dream!”

  “Yes,” Edain said moodily, prodding at the fire with a stick. “I get to meet the Father of Wolves, and he’s like my dad on a bad day. Bollocks.”

  She suppressed a chuckle and turned to Rudi. “And you’re a Raven, you say? Was it a dream for you?”

  Silence fell; she seemed to sense it after a moment, looking from Rudi to Edain and then to Mathilda’s slight trace of well-concealed fear.

  “No,” Rudi said softly, looking inward at his memories. “Raven . . . Raven came for me when I was still young. And not in a dream; He came to me by the light of common day.”

  They all looked up when Ingolf walked back into the circle of firelight; a tension broke that Rudi hadn’t no ticed until it was gone. The older man looked grimly satisfied, and Bob Brown was with him.

  “Bingo,” he said, crouching down to put himself on the same level as the others. “Thought I’d find something like this.”

  The big easterner had a shete in one hand and a medallion on a leather thong in the other.

  “CUT,” he said, holding out the blade.

  It showed a rayed sun etched into the blade near the hilt. Then he offered the medallion on the palm of one callused hand.

  “And CUT.”

  Mathilda straightened up with a sigh and leaned forward to look; Rudi did likewise. The medallion was marked with the same symbol, in silver and gold on a turquoise background. Rudi took it and tilted it towards the firelight; the workmanship was excellent, with the slivers of semiprecious stone skillfully joined with hair-fine seams, and the surface of the metals rippled and polished.

  “The CUT hand these medals out to ranchers and bossmen who give the Prophet earth and water,” Ingolf said grimly.

  Bob Brown grunted.“Wondered how them Rovers got such nice blades. They don’t have a smith to bless them selves with—who’d work for ’em out here in Lower-ass end Township of Crotch-scratch County if he could get a bunk at a decent ranch, or in a town like Bend? They don’t have enough to buy much gear honestly, either. My father will want to know about this.”

  Bishop Nystrup came up. “Do you mind if I join you, gentlemen . . . and ladies?” he said.

  “Sure, and you’re always welcome at our fire,” Rudi said gently.

  The older man was looking ill, as well he might with half the party he’d led west dead or hurt. One of the lat ter was apparently his son, as well; Rudi had the impression his daughter wouldn’t be helping out with his work in normal times. The bishop took the medallion in turn and sighed.

  “Even here?” he murmured.

  “Yeah, even here, Bishop,” Ingolf said.

  Rudi leaned forward and made his voice firm yet friendly as his mother had taught him, pouring strength into it: “And even here, you’ll find that you have more friends than you thought. This Prophet has a gift for the making of enemies. He’s made foes of my folk, and we’d barely heard of him before his murderers came on our land, the creature.”

  “Ours too,” Mathilda said decisively.

  Odard nodded agreement. “Those, ah”—he stopped and glanced at Father Ignatius—“bad, wicked, depraved people are going to pay for my new poleyns, one way or another.”

  “And the Dúnedain have a quarrel with him as well,” the twins said, in chorus.

  For once that unanimity seemed unintentional, and they looked at each other with exasperated expressions—identical ones. Then Ritva went on:

  “Fighting the current Dark Lord is standard op erating procedure, for us. Dyel! They’re like cock roaches—squash one and another one scuttles out of the baseboards.”

  The Mormon bishop tried to smile. “I thank you, my friends. But nine young people, however valiant and skilled . . .”

  Rudi grinned, a charming expression. “Bishop Nys trup, I think you’ll find we’re more than a clutch of young wanderers.”

  His brows went up.

  Father Ignatius cleared his throat. “Yes, they are,” he said. “Or rather they’re a very wellborn and influential group of young wanderers.”

  Odard preened, slightly but unmistakably. Mathilda shot him a warning glance, then another at Rudi with a question in it, and nodded soberly.

  “I’m . . . heir to an influential position in the Portland Protective Association,” she said carefully.

  “And I am a knight-brother of the Order of the Sword of Saint Benedict. You may have heard of us,” Father Ignatius added.

  Rudi drew a deep breath. Sometimes you had to take a risk. “My name is Rudi . . . Artos . . . Mackenzie,” he said. “And this is—”

  * * * *

  “What was it that you wished to say?” Father Ignatius said.

  The it is very late was left unspoken. Mathilda swallowed.

  “I’d like to confess, Father,” she said.

  “Now?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Ignatius looked at her. “There is always time for a soul in distress,” he said. “Come then.”

  He led them to a campfire a little way from the oth ers. Mathilda sat down on one side, hugging her knees. The Benedictine priest sank and sat cross-legged on the other.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “When was your last confession?”

  “Four weeks ago, in Castle Todenangst, with Father Donnelly. Just before Mass.”

  “Then you have not been neglecting the sacraments, but it is time.”

  “I want you to communicate me, Father, if you would.”

  Mathilda Arminger kept her eyes from the half-seen figure across the campfire from her in the darkness, wishing she had the screen of her familiar confessional booth between them. She waited in awkward silence; at least, it felt awkward on her side, and at first. Then it began to feel peaceful, with the crackling of the flames and the slow upward drift of sparks. When he spoke, it was as if the moment had unfolded itself.

  “What are your sins, my child?”

  “I killed a man today. Possibly three but certainly at least one. I mean . . . it was war, and self defense, and they were attacking people who’d never done them harm and I had to stop them or they’d do worse . . . but I did it. I ended a life and felt it run down my sword. Perhaps I sent a soul to damnation, and anyway there’s a family grieving for him—perhaps children with no fa ther. And he probably thought that he was doing what he had to do.”

  “Yes,” Father Ignatius said, nodding.

  His voice was . . . not quite casual, but normal and friendly, without the hieratic tone that some priests had on occasions such as this.

  “Do you regret it?” he went on.

  “Well, I’m not sure. I think . . . what’s bothering me is that I regret it for my sake rather than his. I mean, it had to be done—but I wish I didn’t have to do it. If I want something to be done, shouldn’t I be willing to do it with my own hands? But it makes me feel . . . sort of dirty. I keep seeing his face.”

  “Good,” the priest said. “Taking life can never be wholly blameless, even if it is the least of possible evils we must choose between. That it is ever necessary is a sign of the burden of sin that we bear, that this whole fallen world bears. If you live, you will one day be re quired to weigh lives and deal out death in judgment, as surely as you did today with steel.”

  “I know, Father. That’s part of what’s bothering me now.”

  “It should. But don’t become too focused on your own subjective feelings; that is the temptation of a sensitive soul, and it turns self examination to self-indulgence, to scrupulosity. A sin is wrong not because it makes you feel bad—though it should—but because it is wrong.”

  “What can I do to feel clean again?”

  “You can do nothing, but God can, if you let Him. Remember always that God so loved the world—so loved you, not th
e princess but Mathilda Arminger, the young woman who exists here in this place at this time—that

  He gave His only begotten son to suffer and shed His blood and die for you; and for exactly this, to lift the weight of sin from your soul. Turn your thoughts to Him, to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and He will take away your burden.”

  Mathilda felt herself smile. “Thank you, Father. That helps.”

  “Good. As your penance, say the Five Sorrowful Mys teries. As you do, also fix your mind on the men you slew, and remember also that Our Lord died for them. And remember that He blessed the centurion, knowing what that man’s work would be.”

  A moment’s pause, and Ignatius went on. “And the other thing that troubles you, my child?”

  Mathilda started, then gripped her will in both hands and went on: “It’s Rudi.”

  That calm waiting silence went on again. A coyote howled in the distance.

  At last she said, “I’ve been having . . . well, impure thoughts about him. Fairly often. It’s happened before, but never like this, not just in passing.”

  “Ah.” This time the hint of a smile. “And have you welcomed these thoughts?”

  “Well . . .” Mathilda forced herself not to wriggle.

  It’s better and worse than Father Donnelly. Father Ignatius is young enough to understand. And he’s a Changeling like me, or nearly. But it’s more embarrassing because he is young enough to understand.

  “Well, I try not to.”

  Ignatius nodded. “That is all you can do.”

  Another pause, and she went on: “It’s a bit different now. I mean, we’ve been like brother and sister all these years, and this . . . sort of changes things. I don’t know why it’s just now. I’ve been, ummm, noticing boys for quite a while! And Rudi’s, well, he’s a witch; you know how they are. I guess it’s because Mom and I talked about us maybe marrying. I’m not sure if I love him, love him that way, but I sure think I could if I let myself. It may be just because we know each other so well. And . . . well, he’s so damn pretty. And I keep imagining us together, you know, not just . . . well, I keep thinking about children and a life together and stuff.”

  Ignatius surprised her with a chuckle. “My child, are you confessing to longing to know Rudi Mackenzie in a carnal manner after you marry him?”

  “Ummm . . . sort of. Yes, with the thinking part of me. The other part’s just . . . longing, when I let it.”

  “Then you have not sinned, not even in intention. It isn’t Satan who gives you such feelings, you know. The worst the Deceiver can do is tempt you to misdirect them. He can mar even the highest things, but he creates nothing.”

  Mathilda blinked in surprise. “But . . . are you saying that God wants me to marry Rudi?”

  “Not at all, my child. That may or may not be pos sible; there are matters of State, which you must con sider as part of the duty your birth has laid on you. That, thankfully, is not a priest’s to decide. And there is the difference in faiths, which does concern your spiritual directors. But the desire itself is pure.”

  “Then what does God want me to do?” she said in frustration.

  “He has told you that, Mathilda Arminger. He has said it very plainly: ‘Be ye perfect.’ ”

  Mathilda shivered. “I don’t have the makings of a saint, Father.”

  Ignatius’s voice turned sharp for an instant: “Oh, yes, you do, my child.”

  He gestured upward to the dome of stars. “When all this beauty is past and all Creation is a story that has been told, you will endure—either a horror beyond con ception, or a radiance of glory such as we can scarcely begin to imagine. That is the makings that God put in you!”

  Mathilda looked upward herself, and then nodded slowly. It was a humbling thought, when you looked at it that way.

  “I, well, I’ve never had a vocation. I thought I did for a while when I was younger, but I didn’t, really.”

  “Not a calling for the life of a religious, no,” Ignatius agreed. “But He does not give us each the same cross to bear. Your nature and mine are different, and so we seek Him by different paths, but we are both loved by God and called to His perfection.”

  “Father, thinking about the perfection of God scares me silly. How can I be perfect, just being . . . me? It’s not just being on the throne someday, though that scares me too. I know that’ll always be like a fight in the dark, no matter how hard I try, and I’m afraid of it twisting me and making me someone who can’t trust or love any one or anything. But being with Rudi all this time, the things I want, a home, babies, they just don’t seem in the same . . . the same league as, well, perfection.”

  She made a wry face. “I mean, they feel so animal sometimes. Not in a bad way, but it’s a lot like a mare with a foal, or a mother cat with her kittens.”

  “Now you are verging on the sin of pride! Lying in His mother’s arms and nursing was good enough for Our Lord! God has given you these desires—including your desire for Rudi—and He gives us carnal love for a purpose, for mutual delight, to produce children, and the sanctification of the soul. Cast yourself headlong on God’s love, begging His grace to help you in the perfection of the nature He gave you. To love another so deeply that we seek union with the beloved, by that to bring an immortal soul into this world and care for and shape it . . . that is to imitate God Himself in His splendor!”

  They waited together for a moment more. “Now make an Act of Contrition, my child, while I pronounce the words of Christ’s forgiveness.”

  While the young priest spoke the words of absolution, Mathilda recited the formula:

  I am most heartily sorry

  That I have offended Thee

  And I detest all my sins

  Because I dread the loss of Heaven

  And the pains of Hell

  But most of all because

  They offend Thee, my God

  Who are all things good

  And deserving of all my love

  I firmly resolve

  With the help of Thy grace

  To sin no more

  And to avoid the near occasions of sin.

  “Amen,” they finished together, and she signed herself.

  She always found confession comforting, and always tried to keep herself mindful of the importance, but it rarely struck her so strongly as it did this night, with the fallen of battle not a thousand yards away and the mem ory of the Death Angel’s shadow, Azrael’s wing brushing across her eyes.

  I’m not sure exactly what I’m sorry for, but I sure feel better, she thought. Thank You, Lord.

  Ignatius took his kit from his baggage and they walked a little way into the darkness; others didn’t no tice, or looked politely aside if they did. He lifted out the white surplice and red stole and donned them; as he did he seemed to change somehow. Mathilda knelt, and he lifted a wafer from the ciborium. It seemed like a snowy sunrise in the darkness of the wilderness as he raised it.

  “Ecce Agnus Dei,” he said three times. “Ecce qui tollis peccata mundi. Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him who takest away the sins of the world.”

  She took the wafer on her tongue.

  “Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. May the Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ preserve your soul for everlasting life.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Northern Nevada

  June 1, CY23/2021 A.D.

  “Yes,” the scout commander of the detachment of the Sword of the Prophet said, sketching in the wet sand beside the pool. “The misbe lievers and their general are heading south and east, towards Goose Valley—you see, here, north of Wild horse Lake—they may push on into the hills south of the flats, to trace the old irrigation canal and repair it. The western pagans are keeping on eastward with the Mormon infidels; they should meet Thurston’s force, or come very close.”

  The one-eyed man smiled, looking east and west over the encampment at the bottom of the canyon.There wasn’t much to see; the horse lines were scattered up
and down the rocky cleft wherever there was water within digging range, usually in clumps of cottonwood and willow. The men were even less conspicuous in the shadow cast by the narrow rock walls; a soft murmur of chanting came as some repeated the teachings in chorus, and the sound of oiled stone on steel as others touched up the edges of shete and lance and arrowhead. There was no smell of woodsmoke as there would have been with ordinary levies, no matter what the orders were; only rock and dust and the peppery-spicy scent of crushed sage and greasewood.

  The commander of the detachment nodded eagerly at the scout’s report; he was a youngish man, well short of thirty, shaven-headed and scar-faced.

  “See how the Ascended Masters guide the lifestreams!” he said. “Your mission and mine, High Seeker, are now fully compatible.”

  Kuttner suppressed an impulse to grind his teeth. His authorization from the Prophet’s son overrode ordinary military commands, or it should. There were times when he wished very much that the Prophet would establish clearer lines of authority below his own level, instead of letting disputes fester until they had to be referred to him . . . or to the Son.

  And the Prophet speaks so seldom now, and so . . . oddly. . . .

  He shook his head. The Son has given you a mission. Let’s get on with it. And when the Prophet discards his mortal envelope to rejoin the Masters, things will change.

  Kuttner looked up again, and a man on the rim of the canyon waved down, stooping behind a boulder to be invisible from the outside.

  * * * *

  Ritva Havel and her sister lay behind a ridge of rock. Their war cloaks covered and concealed them; perhaps not as thoroughly as elven ones woven in Lothlorien, but enough to make them effectively invisible beyond a few yards if they didn’t move. The thin tough cloth with its loops full of grass and twigs and the gauze masks also provided welcome shade on what was turning into a hot day. In the high desert anything that broke the sun made a big difference.

  There had been fresh horse dung down on the road that ran below and a mile west of this ridge. Someone had come by, even in this emptiness. Chances were they would again. Shod hooves, to boot. Which meant civi lized men, or at least the more capable and therefore dangerous type of savages.