The Golden Princess: A Novel of the Change (Change Series) Page 29

  Although just getting ignored was about as common in the really big places, as long as you stuck to the main streets and the places transients stayed. She found that sort of creepy and unnatural, far worse than curiosity and stares and suspicion. Most people seldom saw outsiders, after all. In a city like Portland everyone was a stranger outside their neighborhoods, which was downright unnatural.

  Then she looked around to size up her destination, coming out of the fixed mile-eating focus of her trade and letting it sink in . . .

  “Whoa!” she muttered, and the horse sidestepped under her at the conflicting signals. “Sorry, Shine. But . . . whoa!”

  There wasn’t much to see at ground level, just a few stone-and-redwood stables and haystacks and such flanking the old road, a pathway now mostly surfaced with natural stream gravel. One looked as if it might be an inn, from the sign carved with a prancing pony and the mix of people sitting at tables outside. It took a moment to realize that the buildings were in fact full-size, and that the people around them weren’t midgets—were nearly all taller than she was, in fact.

  The scale of the tree-trunks all around had thrown her off. Their bases were more like basalt pillars she’d seen in the Badlands once than trees, more like geology than vegetation. But their surfaces were infinitely more alive, a fibrous red-brown like the hide of some monstrous beast. Not a hostile one, but something that might crush you into insignificance if it decided to pick up and walk. Then her head went back and back as her gaze went up and up . . . and up, into a green haze like a dream of walking beneath the Pacific. The early-summer sun baked out scents like spices and sap as the long day drew to a close, warm and green and intensely fresh.

  A grin split her high-cheeked bronze face, and she laughed with pure delight. There was awe in the sound as well, though she’d never considered herself more than conventionally reverent. But even she felt the Wakhán‚ Thán‚ka sometimes.

  More in certain places and times than others; for her it had been strongest during summer lightning storms on the makol, watching the clouds build up into forever and come striding over the sky and land with flashes of lightning from horizon to horizon turning the thunderheads into huge caves, gates that reached through to another world. There was something of the same feeling here, though strange and subtle and different.

  “Well, girl, you wanted to see the world,” she said quietly to herself. “By Wóhpe, this sure counts!”

  She was tired and hungry, but that was normal working conditions for a Crown Courier. This was worth it and more. She’d seen forests all over Montival, ranging from the lodgepole pine of the Black Hills in her own folk’s territory to the sunny oak groves of the Willamette to the tall dark Douglas-fir woods of the Cascades, but . . .

  “But nothing like this before, eh?” a voice said down by the head of her horse.

  She looked down and saw a middle-aged woman in Dúnedain garb, jerkin of dark gray doeskin with the white Tree and Stars and Crown embroidered on it, soft boots, and loose shirt and trousers of a green much like the flat needles of the giant trees high above. She was slim and slightly tired-looking, with short curling brown hair and a black-leather satchel held by a band over one shoulder. That had a silver rune on it like a capital X with vertical bars framing it on either side. When Susan leaned over to shake the offered hand the other’s grip was dry and firm but didn’t have a warrior’s calluses. With a hand over her heart, she bowed and spoke:

  “Mae govannen; well-met. I’m Ioreth Taconi, the nesteleth . . . healer, doctor, here.” More formally: “Of Stath Ingolf and the Folk of the West.”

  “You’re right, I’ve never seen nothing like this before!” the Lakota courier said. “I’m Rider Susan Mika.”

  Susan swung down, landing lightly; she was tired, but she’d known far worse. This didn’t even come close to what you felt like after a long day up on the makol in February, coming back to a collection of ger in the dark, the cold seeping into your very bones until even the sight of warmth and light and the smell of food left you indifferent and numb. As if you were doomed to ride on forever, never quite reaching the corral, and didn’t even care anymore.

  “Yes, I was told to expect you. That would be . . . Rider Susan Clever Raccoon, wouldn’t it, in the Common Tongue?”

  “Yeah,” Susan said, mildly pleased that the Dúnedain woman had taken the trouble to check. “Of the Lakota tunwan and the Oglála folk, ma’am, originally, now of the High King’s Household and the Crown Courier Corps.”

  The Lakota had retaken a fair chunk of their old territory after the Change, and the Seven Council Fires in the person of her grandfather Red Leaf had been among the first to swear allegiance to the new High Kingdom of Montival during the war against the Prophet—the Church Universal and Triumphant’s stamping-grounds had been just west of them, something nobody in their right mind thought tolerable. Under the Great Charter they were the Guardians of the Eastern Door, and while mostly nomads who followed their herds and hunted buffalo they tended to be homebodies when it came to leaving their own ranges. She thought she might be the first of her nation to be seen here since the Change, something that made her smile more broadly for a moment.

  A teenage boy dressed like the woman came up and bowed slightly to Susan with his hand over his heart.

  “Mae govannen, rochon,” the youngster said grinning broadly; he had reddish hair to his shoulders and freckles.

  Susan knew enough to translate the greeting as: well-met, rider.

  “Han‚ kolá,” she said.

  Which was polite for a woman greeting a friendly male stranger, and she held up her right arm with the palm out. She’d have said hi and held it out for a shake if the boy had used English . . . what the Dúnedain called the Common Tongue, and which was English with pretensions in her opinion.

  The doctor and the kid—

  Well, younger teenager, she conceded. Looks about thirteen.

  —spoke for a moment in the liquid elegance of Sindarin, which sounded odd with at least one involuntary pubescent squeak thrown in. Susan thought she caught the word for horses, and was sure the boy blushed when his voice betrayed him. A little reluctantly she handed over her reins and the leading string for her two remounts, then threw her bowcase over one shoulder, unhooked the shete scabbard from the front of her saddle and reached for her bags.

  “I can send the saddlebags up with your roll and the pack, my lady,” the boy said unexpectedly, bowing again. “No need to carry them.”

  I think he’s shy and hiding it, she thought, which made her a little more sympathetic.

  “OK . . .”

  “Fingaerion’s on stable duty,” Ioreth said.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” the boy went on. “These are really nice horses, my lady. They look like they could go forever.”

  He fed her mount an apple from a pocket, which Shine accepted with dignified eagerness; it had been a long day for her remuda too. Then he ran a gentle hand down the mare’s neck, eased forward, felt her legs and got her left forehoof up and examined it. Even for a Lakota, Susan was fond of horses; that was part of what had gotten her in trouble at home in the first place. She recognized a kindred spirit, and an expert hand.

  “Look like they could use a rest, though . . . say two days, and then light exercise? Re-shoe them then?” he said.

  She gave him a look that plainly intimated she wasn’t going to have her mounts reshod by someone whose voice hadn’t finished breaking, and he went on:

  “Don’t worry, my lady, I’m not the farrier! I just help her out.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” she said, reassured. “I’ll come visit ’em later. Air the saddle and tack, though, please.”

  “Clean, soap, and air. And I’ll go over the seams, too, my lady,” he nodded and led the animals off. “I’ll ring the bell for your kit.”

  Whatever the hell that means, she thought.

  He tentatively stroked the buffalo-robe bedroll strapped to the back of the saddle as he we
nt, as if he’d never seen one before. He might not have. The Pty Oyate, the Buffalo People, numbered in the millions once more out on the high plains after nearly half a century of careful management, but the Lakota tunwan limited the number of hides outsiders could buy. That kept them moderately expensive, especially since they were also in demand as high-quality power-belting for machinery.

  And no foreigner hunted on Lakota land except the most honored guests. Her folk regarded horse theft as an amusing rough-and-tumble sport and didn’t grudge anyone else who accepted the risks trying to turn the tables, but they took buffalo poaching seriously.

  “Seems to know what he’s doing, ma’am,” Susan said with approval. “Polite, too.”

  “We’re a bit shorthanded here right now, nearly all our warriors out patrolling, but I try to see that my son learns his lessons properly,” the doctor said, and chuckled at her double-take. “You’re exotic twice over to Fingaerion, you know. Lakota and a Crown Courier. He’ll be peacocking in front of his friends for months because of this.”

  Dang, I suppose what exotic means depends on where you’re standing when you point and say it, she thought.

  Before she’d left the makol it had never occurred to her that anyone would regard her people as exotic and strange. They were just people who lived the way people lived.

  And I thought Crown Couriers were exotic and romantic until I was one. Still do, come to that.

  Susan’s smile died. “I’m here to see Faramir Kovalevsky and Morfind Vogeler,” she said.

  And I want to do it without attracting too much official attention, so it’s likely best they’re all busy here.

  “I’ve got dispatches,” she went on aloud. “Ah . . . the Crown Princess wanted to know their condition, though, too. She was concerned about the injuries of her cousins, from the reports. And . . . she was upset about Malfind’s death.”

  “So are we,” Ioreth said grimly. “So I gathered from the message from Hîr Ingolf. Looks like we’re finally going to get the backup we need.”

  Susan nodded. “But my messages to Faramir and Morfind . . . from what I understand, they’re personal. And the Princess really wants to know how things are going with them.”

  Ioreth frowned, obviously marshaling her professional side. “Besides quite severe general battering, they both had concussions—his worse than hers.”

  Susan nodded; being knocked out was no joke. Sometimes you never did get completely better. One of her cousins back home had blinding headaches every week and forgot things all the time because he’d gotten kicked in the head by a mean stallion.

  “And she had a nasty cut to the face from an axe, though it’s healing well. Fortunately even Faramir’s headaches have tapered off and I can’t detect any long-term injury. They’re both fit for full duty, if that’s what you mean and if it’s absolutely necessary,” she said. “But they’re both rather young—ah—”

  Susan nodded. “So’m I, ma’am,” she said. Dryly: “I’d noticed that myself, sorta.”

  It was the Dúnedain’s turn to do a double-take, and she waggled a reproving finger and gave a snort before she went on.

  “And I was frankly a bit worried about them, about possible long-term trauma. That was why I delayed putting them back on the active roster as long as I could.”

  She sighed and went on: “I’ll take you to them. Activity is probably what they need, now. Can I give you a hand with your gear?”

  “Thanks, but I can manage,” Susan said, shouldering her bow, bowcase, quiver and shete.

  She was a smallish young woman, but wiry and enduring, and she prided herself on handling everything she could personally. Often enough there was nobody else to depend on, when she was out in the parts of the High Kingdom that didn’t have heliograph nets or railroads or even mail service. She’d slept in snowdrifts and lost remounts to tigers and been treed by grizzlies, exchanged long-distance arrows with bandits more than once, and it had come to at least a show of blades in rough places now and then. Knowing you’d be well avenged was comforting, but she preferred to keep it on a theoretical basis and make sure others respected the High King’s badge herself. Mostly that was a matter of being visibly ready for trouble, though not someone who was looking to start it. A lot of Couriers were more pushy, but then a lot of Couriers were guys, little ones, with little-guy problems.

  “Here’s the lift then,” Ioreth said. “I’ll show you the ropes.” An impish smile. “Literally, I’m afraid. Heights don’t bother you, I hope?”

  “No,” Susan replied, and it was true.

  Well, not much.

  The lift rested on a low fieldstone base approached by a ramp. The vehicle itself was a circle made of two cross-lapping sets of planks with a pillar in the center, its rim surrounded by a chest-high wall of thin woven laths. It swayed a little as they opened the door and entered. Susan’s eyes went up again. The supports for the breastwork were structural ribs as well, and they curved in to join the pillar well above their heads. A cable ran straight through the central column; she realized it was probably fixed in the stone base. A barrel-like arrangement stood out from the wood, with a crank-handle on either side.

  Ioreth pulled out an anchoring pin. Susan put her burdens down and took her place at one of the cranks without needing to be directed; she’d never been shy about chores. The doctor nodded at an unasked question.

  “This isn’t the only way up,” she said. “Just the easiest for people. One of the big trees is hollow, and we’ve rigged a spiral staircase in that one. And there are rope ladders and simple climbing ropes all over the place, and baggage hoists. This is the one that, ah, visitors usually use, though. The trees are strong, but you have to be careful about balancing the lateral strains above the base or you could pull one right over the way storms do. A redwood makes a very long lever.”

  They turned the cranks. It wasn’t much effort, and the platform rose steadily though rather slowly. From that smoothness and the low whining sound, Susan guessed the cranks were linked to high-ratio worm gearing within. Mostly she watched as they rose, her lips shaping a silent whistle.

  She’d heard they used treehouses a lot here. The flets were treehouses, she supposed. Just as the makol was rather flat and quite wide.

  The lowest looked to be around fifty feet up, the highest twice that. In shape they were more like burls or pods, each supported by a circle of graceful curved wooden beams that started in a broad support collar built around the bark and fanned out to end in a ring-beam around the outer edge of the building. Most of the flets were one-story, surrounded by wide verandahs overhung by the mossy shingle roofs, though she saw a couple that were taller. Flowerboxes or similar constructions for small herb-gardens ringed the balconies, often dropping long tendrils of flowering vines.

  Walkways joined them, light airy flexible things rigged like suspension bridges, looking shaggy and green for some reason. The trees often grew close together anyway, in tight clusters like sections of a circle where they’d sprouted from the roots of some ancient fallen ancestor. A few lanterns had already been lit as the sun dipped westward, and they glowed in cool complement to the warm yellow of the last sunbeams slanting down into the enormous stillness around them.

  The wooden surfaces of the lift’s structure had all been carved, in lacy patterns of interlocking tendrils. As she rose higher she saw that the structures of the houses and walkways had been decorated likewise, images of leaf and vine, bird and beast, warriors and spirits, all in a elongated style a little like what Mackenzies used but more delicate and intricate. Some of the larger ones showed scenes from tales, a giant wave overwhelming a mountain, two huge wolf-like beings fighting, a one-handed man with a star on his brow, a tall kingly figure kneeling before a shorter one.

  The basic construction material was crimson-tinged gold-brown redwood, which she knew was light and strong and easy to work and very resistant to decay. It had been generously supplemented with other woods, and just touched here and there wi
th decorative tile or glass. It was a substantial settlement . . . and it was lost in the immensity of the trees, ramming home the scale of what she was seeing again. Her mind kept stuttering that way at what she was seeing.

  “It isn’t as grand as Tham en-Araf over on the other side of the valley, but we at Eryn Muir like it,” Ioreth said.

  The words were modest, but pride rang underneath them. Susan found she didn’t mind that in the least.

  “I’ve seen a lot of big, pretty stone buildings,” she said.

  Though she had been rather impressed with Hîr Ingolf’s dwelling at Wolf Hall, recently built on the ruins of a structure burned long before the Change in the Valley of the Moon. And more with its surroundings, mountain-backed grove and vineyard and woodland. Though the household had been understandably quiet and serious, with his eldest son so newly dead.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she added honestly.

  There was a click as they came level with the middle of a walkway. The lift wasn’t secured to it; instead cables stretched out to half a dozen trees from a big multilooped steel anchor-point just above, and those were in turn braced with more thigh-thick ropes to others to spread the strain. The arrangement wasn’t rigid, and neither was the walkway. Everything was moving as the trees swayed, very slightly and slowly but continuously, to a murmur and sough and creak. Susan swallowed slightly—she wasn’t afraid of heights, but she’d been raised on very solid, and mostly very flat ground where the highest place was your head when you were sitting on top of a horse.

  The Dúnedain opened a door in the side of the lift, and another in the walkway. The walking surface was planks and it was about ten feet wide; the railings to either side were latticework with openings just large enough to pass a thumb. Every six feet or so the lattice arched over the walkway in a high curve; the side-walls and the roofed sections were both thickly overgrown with Morning Glory vines rooted in wicker tubs hanging a little below. Round pink-and-white flowers starred the glossy green, busy with bees and hummingbirds and big colorful moths of some sort.