of the Outfit, not the third-class cook on a riverboat. If you love Mike that much, you should be
glad
he’s not saddled with the throne; Juniper envies the hell out of you for exactly that reason. Mike may live to see his grandchildren. Poor Rudi, he’s not only a fated hero but he has to spend most of his time listening to reports and having meetings since he became High King. It must be Angband on stilts.
She tried to imagine an epic about being High King, rather than
becoming
High King.
Û!
she thought.
You’d have to…oh, concentrate on his companions or something. And skip a lot of the meetings and reports.
Waiting stretched. The Dúnedain weren’t many, only a troop of thirty and the crews with the boats. There was no doing this by anything but stealth; not by force, and not by the speed that would make them obvious. Wait for the signal, not tense but loose. Tension traveled, it
smelled
.
A very soft chittering sounded. She rose into a low crouch and moved forward, elf-boots silent even on the rough basalt, keeping the edges of her war-cloak gathered up with a tuck of her fingers on either side. If she tripped over it she’d never hear the last of it from the other Rangers.
Well, never until the enemy killed us,
she qualified mentally as she sank down behind another rock.
And then for a long, long time in the Halls of Mandos. Aunt Astrid would…I can’t imagine what she’d do if I came early because of a screwup. Tell me how much better they did things in the old days in Eriador, I suppose. She was my liege-lady and kinswoman and a great leader but…a bit obsessive-compulsive sometimes.
It was impossible to think of the
Hiril Dúnedain
as really, truly dead; she’d been a part of Mary’s life since she was born, as her mother’s younger sister, and she’d been the re-founder of the Rangers here in the Fifth Age, together with her
anamchara
Eilir Mackenzie. Their liege-lady since the twins moved to Mithrilwood.
It was especially hard to believe her gone when all you’d heard was the tale of it and all you’d seen was the urn with the ashes—she’d been mortally wounded in Boise on the clandestine mission that rescued Fred Thurston’s mother and sisters and sort of by accident his sister-in-law, who’d been desperate to get herself and her son away from Fred’s brother Martin, the parricide and tyrant.
The murder and usurpation hadn’t bothered Juliet Thurston since it made her a ruler’s consort and her son the heir, but the way he’d become enslaved to the Church Universal and Triumphant
had
. Mary was almost sympathetic; she remembered the High Seeker’s eyes, windows into nothing. Waking up with something like
that
on your pillow…
Almost
sympathetic, not
really
sympathetic. But Aunt Astrid
is
dead and she died saving that worthless bitch’s life. Well, the bitch and her son, who’s just a little kid. And Ritva was there…I’m glad one of us was. They’ll be someone can tell the story to
our
children.
Wryly, with a smile that combined sorrow and humor:
Aunt Astrid will be even more powerful as a legend than she was as Lady of the Rangers. And Uncle Alleyne is taking it…well, he’s perfectly functional. In wartime, that’s all you can really ask. Afterwards he’ll have Diorn and Fimalen and Hinluin. Children take you out of yourself.
They completed the next leapfrog maneuver. Everyone’s equipment was silenced—no sounds of metal on metal, no creak of leather, no rattle of arrow on arrow in the quivers, swords worn slantwise across the back rather than at the belt, and the dark green and mottled gray of the Ranger garb blended into the late night better than black would have done. The sound of a score of her people settling into their new positions was less than the scuff of a glove on stone.
The cloth mask of the hood left a strip across her eyes bare, with a screen of gauze pinned up for nighttime; she let her eye travel with a slow methodical scan. Watching for
glad
he’s not saddled with the throne; Juniper envies the hell out of you for exactly that reason. Mike may live to see his grandchildren. Poor Rudi, he’s not only a fated hero but he has to spend most of his time listening to reports and having meetings since he became High King. It must be Angband on stilts.
She tried to imagine an epic about being High King, rather than
becoming
High King.
Û!
she thought.
You’d have to…oh, concentrate on his companions or something. And skip a lot of the meetings and reports.
Waiting stretched. The Dúnedain weren’t many, only a troop of thirty and the crews with the boats. There was no doing this by anything but stealth; not by force, and not by the speed that would make them obvious. Wait for the signal, not tense but loose. Tension traveled, it
smelled
.
A very soft chittering sounded. She rose into a low crouch and moved forward, elf-boots silent even on the rough basalt, keeping the edges of her war-cloak gathered up with a tuck of her fingers on either side. If she tripped over it she’d never hear the last of it from the other Rangers.
Well, never until the enemy killed us,
she qualified mentally as she sank down behind another rock.
And then for a long, long time in the Halls of Mandos. Aunt Astrid would…I can’t imagine what she’d do if I came early because of a screwup. Tell me how much better they did things in the old days in Eriador, I suppose. She was my liege-lady and kinswoman and a great leader but…a bit obsessive-compulsive sometimes.
It was impossible to think of the
Hiril Dúnedain
as really, truly dead; she’d been a part of Mary’s life since she was born, as her mother’s younger sister, and she’d been the re-founder of the Rangers here in the Fifth Age, together with her
anamchara
Eilir Mackenzie. Their liege-lady since the twins moved to Mithrilwood.
It was especially hard to believe her gone when all you’d heard was the tale of it and all you’d seen was the urn with the ashes—she’d been mortally wounded in Boise on the clandestine mission that rescued Fred Thurston’s mother and sisters and sort of by accident his sister-in-law, who’d been desperate to get herself and her son away from Fred’s brother Martin, the parricide and tyrant.
The murder and usurpation hadn’t bothered Juliet Thurston since it made her a ruler’s consort and her son the heir, but the way he’d become enslaved to the Church Universal and Triumphant
had
. Mary was almost sympathetic; she remembered the High Seeker’s eyes, windows into nothing. Waking up with something like
that
on your pillow…
Almost
sympathetic, not
really
sympathetic. But Aunt Astrid
is
dead and she died saving that worthless bitch’s life. Well, the bitch and her son, who’s just a little kid. And Ritva was there…I’m glad one of us was. They’ll be someone can tell the story to
our
children.
Wryly, with a smile that combined sorrow and humor:
Aunt Astrid will be even more powerful as a legend than she was as Lady of the Rangers. And Uncle Alleyne is taking it…well, he’s perfectly functional. In wartime, that’s all you can really ask. Afterwards he’ll have Diorn and Fimalen and Hinluin. Children take you out of yourself.
They completed the next leapfrog maneuver. Everyone’s equipment was silenced—no sounds of metal on metal, no creak of leather, no rattle of arrow on arrow in the quivers, swords worn slantwise across the back rather than at the belt, and the dark green and mottled gray of the Ranger garb blended into the late night better than black would have done. The sound of a score of her people settling into their new positions was less than the scuff of a glove on stone.
The cloth mask of the hood left a strip across her eyes bare, with a screen of gauze pinned up for nighttime; she let her eye travel with a slow methodical scan. Watching for
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