Sunrise Lands Read online

  The cream of the jest was, of course, that Lady Delia de Stafford was delicately beautiful in an entirely femi nine way and a complete clotheshorse and never wore anything less than the height of fashion—female fash ion. Since she was cheerfully ready to lie truth out of Creation about it (being a secret witch, as well, and therefore not in awe of Christian sacraments), her naively sincere confessor was among the few at court who didn’t at least unofficially know or guess. Tiphaine’s own chaplain had been carefully chosen for complaisance, guaranteed by the files Sandra had on him.

  I suppose that’s sinful, what they do, Mathilda thought.

  She certainly liked boys herself; she’d enjoyed kissing a couple, Odard and Rudi among them. But she was also fairly proud of the fact that she was still a virgin, and intended firmly to remain so until her wedding night. And she fully confessed everything she could think of in meticulous detail, tried her best to repent, and duti fully did every penance set. Sometimes the thought of her mother’s files made her a little queasy; even more so the thought of reading and using them herself, even on priests. Better than chopping off heads or burning people at the stake, but . . .

  A ruler has to kill sometimes, for the good of the realm and the people. Blackmail, that makes you feel . . . dirty. Mom has to live like the spider they call her, at the center of a web of paper and secrets.

  “Rumors aren’t a joke, though. They can hurt; they can kill,” Sandra said. “As a ruler, you can protect someone like Tiphaine . . . which helps ensure they’re loyal . . . but if people believed rumors like that about you, it could threaten your position. Which means threatening your life. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  Mathilda nodded. And it’s a sin even if it doesn’t hurt anyone else. But it’s not as bad as a lot of things some peo ple do, like bullying peasants or waging blood-feuds over some piece of nothing. We have to kill to live sometimes, but it’s not something you should ever do lightly. Besides, I like Delia. It’s lucky I don’t have to confess other people’s sins. Father Donnelly is sort of strict . . . I wonder why Mom picked him for me, and not someone she could control?

  That reminded her of her worries. “Mother . . . I’ve been thinking.”

  “Something I heartily recommend,” Sandra said, her eyes shrewd as always.

  It was a bit daunting, sometimes, to realize that she was always thinking, and always had been. Even more daunting to think of living like that, never saying or doing anything without having a dozen possible consequences dart through your mind.

  “Mother . . . when I’m Protector . . .” She’d come of age for that in five years; you had to be older than the heir to a lesser title. “Will I really be Protector?”

  “Ah,” Sandra said; she sounded satisfied somehow. “I was wondering when you’d ask that.”

  “Well, will I be? Like Father?”

  Sandra smiled again. “There will never be another Norman Arminger,” she said. “What you mean is—will you really hold the power, as I do?”

  Mathilda nodded, and her mother went on: “That depends entirely on you, my dear. It won’t be easy. Half the nobles will want to marry you, or have their sons marry you, and rule through you; and you must marry, and fairly soon—a ruler’s first responsibility is to have an heir, to keep the peace after you’re gone. It would really be best if you married and had a child before you come to the throne; a ruler should have an adult heir, and at least one spare, and it’s better if they have an heir in turn before coming to the throne. Your father and I would have had more children, if we could have.”

  Unspoken was what would have happened if one of those had been a son. Mathilda went on: “But if I mar ried anyone here, or their heir, wouldn’t that turn the others against me? As long as I’m single, I can sort of keep them guessing and trying to court my favor. The way Elizabeth did.”

  Sandra silently clapped her hands. “Bravo! But you don’t want to die childless the way she did, do you, my dear?”

  “Well . . . no. I want kids, someday. But not whole litters, like Victoria; just four, that would be perfect—two boys and two girls. A small family’s better, I think . . . what’s funny?”

  “Nothing, my dear. Just reflecting on how perspectives change.”

  “Like you said, I can’t not have any. I mean, we don’t have a lot of relatives; nobody like James Stuart was to Elizabeth the First. It’s my kid or they fight over the throne till the last one standing takes it. And they might rip the Protectorate apart doing it.” She made a moue. “James wasn’t any great prize, but he was better than a civil war.”

  “Smart Stuarts were few and far between,” Sandra agreed. “Charles the Second, maybe, though he was lazy.”

  “And . . . there’s Rudi. He wouldn’t be, you know, here a lot; he’d never want to live here all year ’round. And the Mackenzies are definitely going to hail him Chief after his mother, now that the Assembly’s made him her tanist. And the fighting men here all respect him. A lot. If it didn’t turn everyone against me, those who were against me would really think three times about revolt—I could call on the Mackenzies for help. And I like him muchly, and God knows, he’s cute as hell.”

  Sandra nodded. “You know his mother and I have talked about that. But it would be chancy. He’s a witch; he’d never take the Faith even in form, and the Church isn’t as much under our control as it was in your father’s day. Plus there’d be the question of what religion your children followed—no witch could ever rule here, and no Christian in Dun Juniper. A lot of our believers and priests would be angry enough at a pagan consort. That could mean trouble; assassination attempts, say.”

  “If I died without an heir, who would succeed? The Grand Constable?”

  Sandra looked at her and smiled again, this time slow and fond. “That’s my girl! No, Tiphaine couldn’t lead a big enough faction. It would be Conrad, probably. Though only after a fight. He doesn’t actually want to be Lord Protector, but he’d take it rather than let some of the others in.”

  “And the Stavarovs and the Joneses and the others know that, and that helps keep me alive,” Mathilda said.

  “Bravo! And he does have an heir already—three—and very able lads they are, too, with very good matches already lined up. But your father built all this for you, my dear. You have a duty to his blood.”

  Mathilda nodded slowly. Her mother went on: “And some of the rest of the lords will try to rule through you whether you’re single or not, and some will be ready to bring the whole Association down in wreck as they jockey for power, if they’re not restrained . . . or occa sionally, killed. I’ll advise you as long as I’m around, of course, but the decisions will be yours. You’ll have Conrad and Tiphaine and a few others you can trust, but ultimately it’s your wits that the realm will depend upon.”

  “I think . . . I think the common people will support me. And the town guilds. If I offered charters ...”

  Sandra nodded; Mathilda could see she was pleased.

  “Yes, for what that’s worth, they would support you; they know what a cabal headed by someone like Count Piotr Stavarov would be like, and they want a strong protector to keep the barons in line. But remember, this isn’t the Clan Mackenzie or Corvallis or even the Bear killers. What counts here in the end is the great tenants in chief, and their vassals and men at-arms and their strong walls, and if you do anything that unites all of them or nearly all of them against you, they’ll destroy you. Your father knew that—it’s a balancing act. They have to be afraid of you, but not too afraid, or for the wrong reasons. You’ll be stronger than any one or two or three of them, but not all of them. They’ve tolerated me because I leave them alone beyond enforcing their dues and keeping them from killing one another too often. And because we got hurt badly in the war and the uprisings, which left a lot of widows ruling for underage sons—you won’t have that advantage.”

  “A lot of them would like to make the peasants serfs again,” Mathilda said with sudden bitterness. “The older ones, they give
me the chills, sometimes. I know . . . I know that Dad did a lot of hard things, but he had to.”

  Or did he? a small voice within her wondered.

  She lashed back at it:

  He did save all sorts of people! Portland is the only big city we know about that didn’t have everyone die! And the whole country around here has more people than almost anywhere else that was near a town before the Change. If it weren’t for Dad there wouldn’t be anything human left between Seattle and here and Eugene except bones boiled for stew.

  “But the Change is a long time ago. We don’t have to be like that anymore. I want to be a good ruler,” she said, the words tripping over one another. “I want my people to love me.”

  She managed to throttle back the next part: I don’t want to rule like Dad . . . or even like you, Mom.

  Sandra looked at her, and there was no fathoming her expression, except that there was love in it.

  “Those are two things that don’t always go together, my darling,” she said.

  Chapter Seven

  Mount Angel Monastery,

  Order of The Shield of Saint Benedict

  Queen of Angels Commonwealth,

  Willamette Valley, Oregon

  January 14, CY22/2021 A.D.

  Abbot Bishop Dmwoski rose from his knees be fore the image, feeling them creak and pop as he signed himself and turned back to his desk and sank into the swivel chair. He was a broad-shouldered man who had been thick muscled most of his life, but going a little gaunt now as white and gray replaced the blue black of tonsured hair and short cropped beard. Pale blue eyes showed beneath his shaggy brows, in a square pug nosed face graver than the smile lines said was natural. He put his palms on the silky polished wood of his desk and sighed.

  It was not the one of plain pre-Change metal he’d used for so many years; on this last Christmas he’d come in to find that the brothers had replaced it with one they’d been working on in secret for years. This one was mostly burl-grained walnut, and the panels on the sides and front were carved with biblical scenes, and the top shone with the intricate patterns of the dark grain.

  He sighed again. He hadn’t had the heart to demand that they replace his old desk and turn this one over to the town mayor down in town, as had been his first impulse.

  I still miss that old monstrosity, he thought. I have seen so much change in my life—the Change most of all—that I find myself craving stability more and more. Perhaps not the worst of yearnings in a monk, but I must be cautious that it does not cloud my judgment as head of the Order. Even God knew mortality and change when He became flesh in this fallen world, and we must remain supple before time’s gales.

  The top of the desk was painfully neat with its piles of paper, inkwell, seal, pens and typewriter for very private correspondence; he had been a soldier before he found his vocation, and then again after the Change when Mount Angel became the core of survival in this corner of the Willamette, and he was a precise and methodical man by nature and training. The office walls held a crucifix, a Madonna and Child done in a spare style that looked—and was—both Eastern and very old, and abundant bookcases, stocked with works on everything from agriculture and medicine to theology, tactics and engineering.

  There were few personal items. A framed photograph of a middle-aged woman with a square face, tired and lined and resembling the abbot’s own more with every year. Also framed was the Rule of the Order of the Shield that Pope Benedict had returned with his approval when contact was reestablished, together with an addendum in his own hand: Well done, thou good and faithful servant.

  He opened several files and arranged them before him, pulled the plug out of the speaking tube and called: “Send in Father Ignatius, please, brother.”

  The young soldier-monk came in, bowed and kissed the bishop’s extended ring, then stood at the Order’s equivalent of parade rest—feet at shoulder width apart, head slightly bowed above braced shoulders, hands clamped together beneath the concealing sleeves of the robe. Behind an immobile face, Dmwoski smiled at the earnest discipline of the young man. It reminded him of himself, once—though there were aspects of the younger generation he would never understand, short of heaven.

  We are separated by the death of a world and the birth of another. Perhaps never since Noah and his grandchildren has there been such a division.

  “Your reports on the Vogeler affair have been excellent, my son,” he said. “Be seated.”

  Ignatius perched uneasily on the edge of the chair. “Thank you, Father,” he said.

  “You have familiarized yourself with this?” the bishop went on, tapping another folder.

  The younger cleric drew a deep breath. “Yes. Extraor dinary! Nantucket is the center of some disturbance of space and time, possibly the epicenter of the Change itself.”

  “That is apparently so. The Holy See’s information and the . . . evidence . . . that the British visitors brought make it plain.”

  “I wish they had stayed longer, Father.”

  Dmwoski shrugged. “They had told all they knew. What is also plain—not least from your work, my son—is that the Mackenzies have other information from this Vogeler with respect to Nantucket. Information that they have not shared with us.”

  Ignatius frowned, though his hands rested motionless on his thighs, one sandaled foot flat on the ground and the other bent back slightly beneath him. Dmwoski’s lips quirked slightly—the young man was in the First Position for Swift Drawing, quite unconsciously ready to leap, whirl and strike. Mount Angel’s martial training bit deep. There were times when the Order of the Shield reminded him a little of tales about Shaolin monks from the old days.

  “Father, I think that . . . they would do so only in a religious context. The Mackenzie herself does not keep secrets for the pleasure of it, and the Clan, frankly, usu ally leaks like a sieve. I would ordinarily say that while capable of many wonderful things, they cannot keep their mouths shut for any reason whatsoever. But in this case . . .”

  Dmwoski nodded. “Yes. In their view of the world, the Change must necessarily be of supernatural agency.”

  Ignatius looked up, startled into showing his surprise: “You do not think so, Father?”

  Dmwoski allowed himself a smile. “All things are accomplished according to the will of God, but He usually acts through mortals and through the natural world. Miracles would not be miracles if they happened every day, would they? Their purpose is to show us a possibility.”

  The abbot’s face grew somber: “And while even evil is made to serve His purposes in the end, those purposes are beyond our comprehension. If it serves His purpose to deliver the world to a catastrophe such as the Change, He may well have done it by allowing . . . oh, the aliens that the Corvallans postulate . . . or wicked or heedless men misusing or misunderstanding the laws of nature. Or it may have been God allowing the Adversary to exert his power.”

  “Or, with respect, Father, it might have been a veritable miracle, as when He stayed the sun above Joshua.”

  Dmwoski nodded. “All things are possible to Him, brother. If that was the cause of the Change, then of course no probe of its source can do further harm. If, however, mortal hands and minds were the agency . . . who knows what might result? Even to the destruction of the world.”

  “Pray God and the saints that may not happen!” Ignatius said, eyes wide in shock.

  “Pray indeed; but God imposes on us a duty to act in this world. I would be much more comfortable if one of our own were involved in any expedition to Nantucket. The more so as the followers of the false Prophet seem to have an interest in this—and perhaps know things which we do not.”

  Ignatius looked down in thought. “You mean to give me this task, Father? I will of course obey, but would not an older and wiser man . . .”

  He is frightened, Dmwoski thought. But not for himself; he fears failure only. Good! God deliver us from recklessness and arrogance masquerading as courage!

  “Such a journey will requir
e a young man in his full strength,” Dmwoski said. “Also you have already successfully completed several difficult missions, both mili tary and diplomatic; your teachers give you excellent reports.”

  “Thank you, Father. But how exactly am I to gain access to any mission the Mackenzies launch? I am reasonably well liked there, for a Christian cleric and an outsider, but I am a Christian cleric and an outsider and the Clan are . . . clannish. I presume that is your intention, rather than the Order sending an expedition of its own?”

  Dmwoski nodded. “Needs are infinite, resources al ways limited, my son,” he said. “With the threat of the CUT, the Order will need all its strength. One man—one man of unusual abilities—we can spare. More we cannot.”

  His blue eyes grew shrewd. “And if the Mackenzies send their tanist—”

  “They will, Father. Given the legends which surround his birth and early life, it would appear inescapable to them. And he is a . . . a most formidable man. As a warrior I have not met his match, save possibly the Grand Constable d’Ath; and he has equal intelligence. And much more charm as well.”

  Dmwoski nodded. “Just so.”

  He supposed there must be some people who liked her, but even putting her private life to one side, person ally he’d met snakes who had more charm than Tiphaine d’Ath. He knew the cardinal archbishop had contemplated excommunication, and had refrained only when a tacit agreement was reached that she would abstain from the sacraments most of the time.

  Aloud he continued: “But consider also the relation ships which Rudi Mackenzie . . . Artos Mackenzie ... has acquired in that storied and adventurous young life of his.”

  “Ah,” Ignatius said, and bowed his head in respect. “The princess. She and Rudi Mackenzie—”

  “Have been raised together and took the oath of anamchara. Which requires the sharing of secrets. If Rudi is to investigate these matters for his mother, he will tell her. She will not allow him not to.”