Fit for Life

[Kulindahr]

Report​

Their signal had been seen. The evidence lay before them in the cove: a three-masted Wilberforce-class frigate, wide and flat save for a small forecastle and roomier stern deck. Sir Kevin MacNeil, Lord MacNeil, Major of Dragoons, winced at the sight: It would have been crowded for a full patrol, but for his remnant it would be almost roomy.

The lookout in the crow’s nest – there were no crows here, but if there had been every officer of Her Majesty’s Navy would have recognized one, thanks to Sir Homer Lyle of the First Crew, who had committed to paper everything he could recall of naval lore and terminology, including sketches of creatures and places related to any parts of a ship – waved a gray flag: ship moving in. No sails went up; the movement was accomplished by winches with cables run to heavy posts on shore. Cranking in a ship of that size took strength, but more, it took patience. The patrol was just reaching the stone shelf carved out painstakingly by hundreds of men over twenty-five years for the sole purpose of receiving a boarding bridge, when that device lurched out over the water, extended, and thumped onto the solid rock. The three sections bounced, just once, then the latches locking them into place caught, transforming it into a solid bridge.

“Lead them in, Alfred”, MacNeil instructed wearily. He was weary of far more than patrolling, than injured men requiring the column to go slowly, than rationing their water because there hadn’t been any rain, just frost and some snow flurries. An odd year, it was, when the weather skipped fall and went straight to winter – though on the other hand, it was better than being soaked to the skin despite oiled leathers, something he’d experienced more often than he had saddle sores. Those he had again; it was stop-and-go riding that caused those, for him.

His gentleman’s gentleman, of no rank bestowed by Her Majesty but ranked highly by the rating that counts, the esteem of his fellows, touched his cap and led onto the bridge. His lord would be last; no grasper at privilege, he, but like his father, a stickler for duty, and honor. Every man going past their commander was greeted by name; these men were like family to MacNeil. When all had passed, Kevin sat looking out at the plains around their sea. You took from me, he silently told the Aliens. But I find I agree with Earl FitzWin: you are enemies of us all. I will be back, to take from you. The British earl turned toward where his fallen lay in their cramped coffins, and saluted. Sleep well, lads – mayhap with the Earl, we’ll make an end of your killers.

The bridge began rising even before he was off. The ship’s captain himself came to take the Earl’s horse. “Welcome aboard, Kevin.” The bushy red beard and bright red pony tail penetrated MacNeil’s weary haze.

“Angus! Angus O’Rourke, what chance brings you to haul us?” MacNeil swung out of the saddle with a grin, taking the proffered forearm and clasping it as aid in landing.

“No chance, laddie. I knew ye’d be low on supplies, so I swapped sailin’ wi’ a friend, so here I was when ye signaled. Now, none o’ this ‘nomads’ nonsense – tell an old friend God’s honest truth.”

“Clear your deck”, the Earl recommended, looking at the poop. “We can talk there.”

“Wantin’ no ears, is how it is – aye, I’ll clear me deck, once we’re away from this wall and into proper water. A moment, Kevin.” O’Rourke turned and scanned the activity on the ship. Some days he hoped for some mistake; this wasn’t one – today he was proud, watching his crew do their tasks quietly and efficiently.

“Raise fores’l!” the first officer barked out, beginning the process of warping away from the shore and out into the deep. Men swarmed up the rigging and hung waiting. The foresail caught a wisp of breeze, the pitiful breeze that had merely tortured the patrol with hopes of being cooled – on a day when they woke to light snow, but by late morning were roasting in their lightest clothing. “Up tops!” came the cry, and men already high above the deck moved to respond. Satisfied, O’Rourke nodded toward the stern and led the way.

“I’ll take that, lad”, he told the second officer nearly twenty minutes later. They were finally away from the shore and picking up a good wind. The wind wasn’t blowing the direction they wanted to go, but Her Majesty’s Navy knew its business; they could sail across and make headway despite the wind’s will. The leftenant nodded and gave a quiet, “Aye-aye, sir”, releasing the wheels to his superior. MacNeil watched him descend the ladder to the afterdeck before giving his attention to Angus.

“You managed to get the Reginald, I see”, he observed. “How is the old fellow?”

“Not good, lad. They turned him out to pasture, an’ he’s a-wastin’ from it.” The subject or Kevin’s concern was his father, Duke Steffinghom, Lord Peel, the very Reginald for whom the ship was named.

“He doesn’t get to Parliament?”

Angus shook his head. “Nay, tho’ it is sore needed he is.”

“Emmerton?”

“Nay – Creevy and his vermin.”

MacNeil let his eyes shut. Lord Henry Creevy, Earl Berwick, was Her Majesty’s Minister of Settlement. The office had been mostly symbolic for several generations, as the last untamed parts of the islands had filled. Now, though, it had revived and gained increased visibility and influence as Creevy sought to move the poor out of the cities into a realm on the mainland.

The man dithered. Lord Richard Grenville, Duke Radcliff, urged renewal of the effort to settle on the eastern shore, despite the escarpment; the ramps and their switchbacks from the ill-fated effort two generations earlier were still there and sound, the harbor and docks still clear and solid. On his own, the Duke had hired a ship and investigated, finding the fortress at the top intact, hardly touched but for rats and spiders – the ordinary kind of spiders, not those which looked like the severed head of an Alien. Against Radcliff stood Lord Percival Sidmuth, Grand Earl Wenham, who called for settlement of the west coast of the sea, where access demanded no steep ascent. Minister Creevy, his family’s fortunes a tad bit down, held the office where the choice ought be made – but he did not choose. Due to the political situation, Her Majesty dared not step in and make that choice, and so she provided both sides with permission to pursue investigations pursuant to making their case.

Thus the patrols so far out on the west side. Wenham wished to show there were no dangers, and yet because he needed allies in Parliament, he had consented to a request for orders mandating that any humans who might be encountered be turned away – despite the fact that the only ones of which they had knowledge were the Escobars in their hill realm, a people who rarely ventured so much as an hour onto the savanna.

So for reasons of state – more pressures in Parliament! I find myself exiled to this far shore, ordered to the thankless task of patrolling nothing – except it was not “nothing” which I found, hardly “nothing” which killed thirty-two good men, MacNeil complained to himself, unwilling to name that “reason of state”..

“If the encounter had happened to another, Master Kevin, you would have suffered envy for multiple seasons”, came Alfred’s voice, interrupting his melancholy meditation.

Kevin MacNeil favored his longest-standing friend with a teasing, scolding look. “Alfred, should I die before you, you could keep the kingdom ignorant of it, saying I was secluded. For you could issue orders in my name, and they would be the same decisions I would make.”

“A poor gentleman’s gentleman I would be, could I not think your thoughts, and so anticipate your needs. Moreover, do not forget that you do surprise me from time to time.

“So tell me, old friend, what am I contemplating just now?”

Alfred smiled, tipping his head as he always had when he thought his charge a bit out of line. “As since you were eight, you desire to swim unclad, to ease your tensions. Yet I dare say the Reginald is faster.”

Kevin laughed. “Exactly right! And I dare say she is, most especially with friend Angus in command.” His face grew serious; he sighed. “Nor would I make any delay. I wish Her Majesty to know certain things swiftly. Some of the knowledge could even be of use to her.”

“Certainly it may! Having encountered Aliens no great distance off the shore could serve to stir ‘Cautious Creevy’ to make a choice.”

Kevin shorted. “I doubt that. He will wish more patrols, and Sidmuth will urge it. Parliament will deadlock, merely turning louder in its debates. No, but Her Majesty may find a way to use this knowledge, a way you and I fail to see.” They stood together, unspeaking, until evening and dusk overtook them.


“Arl MacNeil, stand fast!” A man on pony was bearing down on them as Kevin and Alfred stood while Kevin’s men unloaded horses, saddling and loading only once on solid ground.

Alfred put him in the man’s way. “Ardry Phelps, take yourself elsewhere – Lord MacNeil is not here.”

Sir Ardry Phelps gaped. “There he stands, filling my eyes!”

Alfred turned and looked across the dock area, eyes coming to rest on Kevin, who was ignoring them. “I see none but Major MacNeil of Her Majesty’s Dragoons”, he stated. “As he is on business, none may interfere – except one as might wish to answer to Her Majesty.”

“It’s the same man!” Phelps exclaimed. “I’m no daft, old man.”

Kevin’s face turned dark and cold. In three long strides he was at Alfred’s side. “It is not becoming of a gentleman to insult a gentleman’s gentleman. Will you apologize?” He put his hand on his sword, almost itching for the fool to refuse.

He knew it wasn’t going to happen; Phelps sputtered, his fright making his pony jittery. “I misspoke, nothing more.” He bowed awkwardly to Alfred.

The gentleman’s gentleman looked Phelps over as one might if inspecting a new chest of drawers, looking for flaws. Sir Ardry grew increasingly nervous. Finally Alfred spoke. “In light of the duress you suffer, I shall let it pass”, he said, not quite a statement that he had not been offended, or that the apology set things right.

Sir Phelps looked flustered. “Duress?”

“Why of course”, Kevin said, stepping to Alfred’s left, a bit ahead. “Most clearly I heard you claim Lord MacNeil was here! In fact, it is only I, Major MacNeil of Her Majesty’s Dragoons, on my way to Far Londinium to make a confidential report to Her Majesty.” Kevin couldn’t resist. “Since you are here, might you oblige Her Majesty by clearing the way for our swift passage?”

“This will not stand”, Phelps hissed at Kevin. “You are the same man!”

“He is none but Major of Dragoons MacNeil”, Alfred answered in a low tone. “Would you like to hear the law and precedents? Why, the first was with your namesake, King Ardry, in the year after....” Phelps had turned and was riding off, fuming, his pony stomping for him. The two watchers turned to each other and solemnly shook hands. A moment later they couldn’t contain it any longer, and burst into laughter.

“‘Might you oblige Her Majesty’”, Alfred quoted. “Well struck, Master Kevin, well struck!”

“Does precedent really go back to King Ardry?” Kevin inquired. “I know it only from Prince Kyle.”

Alfred wagged a finger at Kevin. “It is not becoming of a gentleman to accuse a gentleman’s gentleman of lying”, he scolded. The two shared another laugh. “I would never mis-cite the law, and you know it”, he went on. “Good King Ardry stood on his title as Baron Highdale, that he might not have standing to negotiate with the Greeks, when he met them. He was accused of deception, in Council, but the High Court ruled that since he was indeed Baron Highdale, he could act in that office and set aside his other. The challenger argued that he had no authority so to do, but the lead justice noted that as the king may settle and withdraw titles, he had royal authority.
“The case was cited later, noting that for the king to authorize his baron to speak with the foreigners but not have authority to negotiate, the king and baron were clearly two distinct persons under law, however much they might wear but one pair of breeches.”

“And Prince Kyle established that a noble of any rank may set aside his higher rank and act in the capacity of the lesser, by virtue of the hierarchy of rank”, Kevin finished. “An interesting progression. Do you know the rest if the chain, if there are other links?”

“Certainly, Master Kevin! You wish to hear them?”

“What I wish is to know and understand them. Phelps was easy to stand at; I will surely face greater lords.”

“With brains in their head”, Alfred agreed, “not in their bowels.”


Ardry Phelps did nothing to aid their journey, yet even so they got help: Captain Angus O’Rourke had some favors to call in, so when they departed late that afternoon, a port herald and four knights of the Order of St. Michael led the way. If any had dared challenge a mere Major of Dragoons, or wished to make an issue of Kevin’s legal identity by armed force, no one would interrupt a member of the Herald’s Guild, especially on his – actually, in this case, her – way to the capital city, and most especially when the herald’s banner bore the red and gold streamer of the House of Stuart-Bóruma.

The city of Blackpool behind them, Kevin led them that half day and two more before stopping for a half-day in Selkirk. The town, just a long day from the capital, was known for its quick-working tailors.

“By morning, Major?” the chief tailor at Overby’s asked in dismay. “For all these men?”

“An extra shilling per man, if you manage”, Kevin told him. “And an extra per uniform.” It was the last item that would persuade; the extra shilling would barely cover the extra cost of paying tailors to work through the night, but the shilling per uniform bonus would go straight to the master. The master hesitated. “If it would help, I will have dinner sent up, and a good wine”, the Earl added.

Now the master smiled, and agreed. Having that good wine would make men more likely to work for him at a moment’s notice in the future, and even if he had to provide it again he’d easily make it up in the price for quick work.

Next morning, the company of Her Majesty’s Dragoons that rode out of Selkirk didn’t look at all like the one that had ridden in. Gone were the patches from wound and wear, gone the frayed edges, gone the stains. Each man kept his old uniform; it could be useful in the future if a dirty job arose.

So when they reached the outskirts of the capital late that evening, no one seeing them had any reason to suspect that they had lost half their number in action, and that against beasts so ghastly they had to be seen to be believed. Thanks to the herald, they took over an entire inn; the guests who got displaced were given full refunds, and a night of different rooms paid for – by the Crown.


The next morning, the exits from the inn’s stables and courtyard were blocked by armed men. Alfred went out to meet those blocking the stables. “Good morn, Lord Teed”, he said. “Have you come to block a herald bound for the palace?”

The large burly man on an extra-large pony growled back. “The herald may go. I want Earl MacNeil.”

“Earl MacNeil is not here”, Alfred declared. “Hear me out!” he ordered when Teed opened his mouth. He proceeded to recite the law and precedent as he’d taught them to Kevin over the last few days.

“Then bring me Major MacNeil!” the lord demanded.

“I will go speak with him.” Alfred turned and left. The moment he was out of sight of the gate, he ran.

Kevin grabbed an arm and helped his man into his saddle. “He’s waiting for you?”

“Yes. Are we all ready?”

“Absolutely.” Kevin grinned. “This should be fun.” Alfred rolled his eyes and looked heavenward. “Doors!” ordered Major MacNeil. Four stable hands pushed hard, swinging the doors open fast. The herald charged out, with his four escorts. Reflexively the men outside made way for them – and Kevin’s company charged through, right on the herald’s heels. The escorts for the herald then slowed to drop to the end of the line. When the two armed groups caught up with them, they stated quite bluntly that the entire party ahead was part of the herald’s message, and that should any interference be contemplated, the two lords should know that it would be taken as an affront to the Order of St. Michael.


“I have no orders; I cannot let you in”, the leftenant at the lower palace declared. MacNeil looked to the herald in appeal.

“Leftenant, might I have your name and rank, and the name and rank of your commander?” the herald asked in a quite businesslike fashion. It confused the leftenant.

“My – for what cause?”

“That I might file a charge of interference with a herald bearing a message for Her Majesty.”

“Take your message in – I’m not holding you!” the officer responded, flustered and on the edge of panic now; such a charge would ruin his career.

The Herald sighed. “My message is not in written form, leftenant. It is these men, concerning whom you say you have no orders. I tell you they need no orders, for they are the message I bring. They must come with me.”

Kevin felt sorry for the leftenant; it was a situation outside his – or possibly anyone’s – experience. He looked trapped, staring ahead, looking back at the guard house, seemingly hoping an answer would appear.. Suddenly he looked relieved; he’d hit on something. MacNeil just hoped it would work.

“Could I have that in writing, sir? It is a most unusual sort of message, and I really think I ought to record it... its entrance.”

The herald suppressed a smile. It was an elegant solution for the poor man: messages were to be passed, events out of the ordinary were to be logged – so he would log this message as an event out of the ordinary – and it certainly qualified! So the herald drew out his log book, wrote out a specification of the contents of his message, giving the number of men with ranks, but no names. By the designation “Major of Dragoons”, he wrote “confidential message, word of mouth, H.M.’s ears only.” He signed it and passed it to Kevin, who signed his name under his rank before passing it on to the leftenant. When he’d read through it, the guard officer looked content, his world back in place. They rode into the palace of Her Majesty, Queen of Lost Britain, Duchess of Three Emerald Isle, Head of the House of Stuart-Bóruma, Countess of Tara Hold, Lady of the Rose, Lady Captain of Amazons, Elizabeth III.



“I hate court”, confessed Kevin MacNeil to the Michaeline knight serving as his escort. “Lots of talk when a few words would do.”

The knight chuckled. “We are men of direct action, my lord. I think perhaps that is one reason that the Court, or many in it, do not like you.”

“If they liked me, I wouldn’t get to stand here chatting with another man of action”, MacNeil noted. “Besides, the lot of them are so full of hot air they could heat the palace in winter just by talking.”

His turn came. The Master of Entrances – a lazy position, since the man had no duties most of the hours of every day, yet a serious one: he had to know the ranks and titles of all the nobles in the kingdom. Today Kevin got announced as “Major, of Dragoons”, nothing else.

He approached and knelt, as officers serving the Queen were privileged to do. “You come bearing news”, the Queen said. “Is it for the ears of this gathering?”

“Some is, your Majesty.”

“Then rise, and tell us.”

Kevin stood. What he wanted to do was go to Elizabeth and hold her tight, but not only was that forbidden, it would also send the wrong message to the wrong factions. “We are not alone, as some feared – and others hoped”, he added drily. “While on patrol of lands near the Sea, we encountered nomads. We turned them away, but learned enough to judge them friendly.”

“Nomads. Seeking a new home range, perhaps?” the Queen wondered. “Tell us, did it seem they might have anything for which we might wish to trade?”

He nodded. “I judged it so. I ought speak with your Ministers, to be certain, before speaking my thoughts.”

“Be free to do so. And stay after; we would hear of your other news.” It was a dismissal. MacNeil backed the required three steps, turned smartly, and left. Eyes throughout the great hall speculatively, many of those eyes belonging to Members of Parliament. A few would guess there was far more to the news he brought – he doubted any would guess the worst.



The sound of the door opening woke him; Kevin rolled out of the chair and came to attention, then dropped to one knee. “Your Majesty”, he said.

“Get up, you lump”, Elizabeth ordered. “Does this look like court?”

“Well, you are wearing that shiny jeweled thing.” He stayed on one knee, but rested an elbow on the other, a mock serious look on his face.

She laughed, and pulled the item out of her hair. “It’s a tiara – and there, it’s gone.” Almost negligently the Queen of Lost Britain tossed the lesser symbol of her rank on a side table. “Now come greet me properly.” Neither of them paid any attention as a piece of jewelry rich enough to pay for building a ship like that which had brought MacNeil from his patrol spun and came to rest hanging from the table’s edge.

It was a long, intense embrace, but it had to end, to the regret of both. Elizabeth pointed to a chair, then in most un-queenly fashion pulled another close. “So – what really happened on your patrol?”

“Did you see my unit outside?” He’d had them line up where she couldn’t have missed them.

“Yes. Did you send half on leave?”

He kept the pain of command from his voice. “What you saw is what’s left – half never came home, except in boxes.” Kevin looked his queen straight in the eye. “We met outsiders. I bid them depart, and they did. A bit later we sighted Aliens. We didn’t have the power to stop them, so we prepared to sell our lives dearly.
“Then the outsiders came back” The wonder and gladness of that moment colored his voice. “Between us and them, we ground the Aliens into the dirt. They did most of the work, really; we played anvil to their hammer. They rode horses – not ponies, but real horses, big enough for and trained for war! It was strange – they had lances, and I thought that was daft until I saw what men on horses can do to Aliens with lances! They don’t kill them straightaway; they skewer them through and leave them thrashing, chopping at their fellows. And they had crossbows; those rode in after the lances, piercing any the lances missed. Then with the foe wounded and hardly moving, hardly aware of anything but their pain, a wave with sabers rode by, slashing!”
He leaned forward. “But that was a small thing next to their most potent weapon: they have rifles, effective at half again the range of ours! Their rate of fire is nearly twice ours.”

“They came to your aid, after you turned them away?” she exclaimed. “Noble men, indeed!”

“Their leader said it is his duty to fight the Aliens everywhere. But a greater shock came next: Elizabeth, they have Healers! Like Elzbeth Kennessee! Without her, a third of my men outside would be in boxes as well.”

“Horses, lances, rifles – and Healers”, the Queen whispered. “Thank the gentle Lord that they proved friendly!

“Indeed. I believed I would never see you again – then they came charging in. After, I got a good look at them.” He shook his head, still having trouble believing. “Most were Celts. But there were Spanish among them, and some I think were Italian. They spoke English, albeit a bit strangely! Indeed, the name of their leader was strange: ‘Lord Rigel FitzWin.”

Elizabeth laughed. “It sounds as though someone took the front of Fitzsimmons and the front of Winham and patched them together!”

“So I thought, except I imagined Fitzgerald.”

Elizabeth pondered these things for a while. “What rank does he hold?”

“He was introduced as an earl. He had a number of knights with him, and the Healer, and an advisor designated ‘Wise Woman’. There was also a Druid!”

“Celts with a Druid, Spanish, Italian, a Healer, rifles better than ours, actual warhorses, lances – what other surprises have you?” she teased.

“Only that they conversed in English, Spanish, and Gaelic, all mixed and twined. A rifleman would speak in Gaelic, an officer would answer in English. A squire spoke in Spanish, and was answered in English. And they said the Druid can bestow languages he knows!” MacNeil stood and started walking back and forth. “Elizabeth, what sort of place must it be that an Earl has Celts and Spaniards and Druid and Healer among his retainers? Our histories speak of trade with the Spanish, and battles with the Celts – but we know nothing of any Italians! This world is growing outside us, apart from us – we must meet it, join it!”

“You’re hiding something”, the Queen accused. She gazed on him intently; that has always worked when they were children.

The Earl turned and gazed at a wall hanging showing a sixteen-gun sloop pounding a shore with a crude village, which was answering with rocket fire. “What are your biggest problems in the kingdom?” he asked, turning back, his gaze seemingly going past her and through the walls to the city outside.

The Queen took his apparent change of topic in stride. “Creevy, Grenville, and Sidmuth. But with Aliens returning, Sidmuth’s hopes are dashed. Then...” She sighed. “Kevin, Parliament means to make me marry. The only question is who will finally join together to pick my husband.”

He couldn’t believe what he just heard. “It’s gone that far?”

“Were you harassed on the way here? Did anyone try to stop you?”

“More than one”, he answered grimly. “I’d hoped that after being gone, that foolishness would have died down. Instead, it’s worse.” He rolled his eyes, looked upward, and spread his arms.

Elizabeth laughed. “You enjoyed tweaking them though, didn’t you?”

“Well, when the world tweaks you, I’ve always said, tweak it back. But to the settlement problem – I have an idea: do both.”

“But–“

“No, listen! Aliens are coming to the western shore. Now, in the histories, what one thing always draws them?”

“Besides the scent of human young? Positions humans try to hold.”

“Exactly! Make the settlement on the west shore one with a sole task: drawing Aliens so they can be killed. Not to be a town, not even really a port, though it will need a good harbor, but a killing place. It in, right by the harbor, make an even stronger keep.” He caught her eyes and held them. “And in that keep, families with lots of children, at first. Once the Aliens come, those families leave the keep, directly onto the docks and ships. Then we just start killing them.”

“You would use children as bait?” she whispered in disbelief. “How could you?!”

“By being sure the Aliens can’t reach them! Build the area around the keep to flood with oil. Coat the walls of the keep with oil! And build it with a ramp right to a separate dock, with a ship of the line always ready, and two to guard! And only long enough to attract Aliens. Once they know we’re there, no one but your soldiers remain”, he concluded in a calmer voice.

She stared at him for a while, then nodded slowly. “Very well, Kevin, I will think on this. Now, I can tell you have some notion for my other pressing problem.”

Lord MacNeil walked to the fireplace. He stood watching the small flames. “When we were small, the tutors required you to learn all sorts of things I thought were silly. Remember?”

“I remember you ruined lessons for me by pestering!”

“I never meant to ruin them”, he responded absently. “Then you started something I decided was mysterious, so I asked to learn, too. It became something special between us, because not many studied it.” He stopped and brooded over a candle flame that was dancing to the updraft from the fire.

“The Old Tongue”, she recalled. “How you struggled with it!”

“And it came naturally to you. I hated that.”

“It made you work harder. Tutor said it built character.”

“Yes, and that’s why I’m such a character”, he answered, finishing their childhood joke. “Remember one day when I got a silly grin and started reeling off phrases?”

Elizabeth nodded. “You said it all suddenly felt like you’d gone from a choppy trot to a smooth canter. After that it never seemed hard for you.” From this drawn-out introduction, she knew to be patient; he’d get to his point in time.

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t as easy as for you, but it felt... comfortable. Tutor said my brain had accustomed itself to the rhythm and pattern of the language. All I knew was that when you said something, it made sense, and without turning it into English in my head.” Now he turned and faced her. “I still keep up on it – I always carry my copy of the stories he gave us. And when someone speaks it, my mind tells me the sense, and only later do I turn it into English.” MacNeil looked troubled; she gave him time.

“After the battle, when all the Aliens were dead, the Healer moved among the wounded, doing just enough to save lives. It wore her out. She came and talked to me. When she left, I looked back at the wounded, and saw Rigel, Earl Fitzwin, moving among the wounded with no distinction between them. He gave sips of a tea the Healer had brewed, something to help the body heal itself better. I wondered at this lord who came back to aid us who had turned him away, and who now with his own hands treated all the wounded as though they were his own.
“An image came to mind, but I couldn’t bring it clear. It hovered there as a question, so I asked: ‘Just who is he?’” MacNeil stepped back to his chair but didn’t sit. “A young squire smiled at me and answered, but FitzWin’s ‘Wise Woman’ jabbed the youth in the gut with her elbow. Immediately I wondered what she didn’t approve of – but just as immediately I realized what he’d revealed about this Earl.”

Elizabeth waited, but he didn’t go on. A smile tugged at her lips; she was supposed to ask the right question, now. This one wasn’t hard: “So who is he, really? What did the squire say?”

“He called him something the advisor didn’t want that known”. MacNeil whispered. “But the youth, proud of who his lord really is, said it and it couldn’t be taken back. And it is not unheard of for a noble to travel under a lesser title.” His eyes looked directly into those of his Queen.

“He called him ‘Ard Righ’.”

 

[DonQuixote]

That is a bit puzzling, isn't it?
Something to do with reducing the wind in to a gentle breeze that doesn't stir up the dust.

As for the bacteria - maybe it phosphors, so the tunnel will be illuminated further in w/out help/need of fire?

We shall see, we shall see.
Kuli does have a knack for creative solutions, doesn't he?
And, wasn't that "secret sauce" for the acorns grand? lol.

 

[DonQuixote]

OK, now that I've read the new chapter on "Report" -

So, the word play of our "global" assortment of men and women under Lord Rigel, the Celts of the Corps, came out with what Criotior gave us a sneak preview up -
Ard Rye - The King.

Rigel FitzWin, who indeed shorted his hyphenated monstrosity of a name, as the Queen and Earl deduced has just attained a much loftier position than he ever aspired to - or felt he would climb to. Indeed, does not Anaph bring the Celtic King to be with him on his journey back to Cavern Castle?

What a great insight into the inciting actions of politicos parlimentarian - aka "the putzes" of noblesse noblige.

Another significant installment. And, I wonder, as Lord Kevin and Her Majesty Elizabeth discussed the learning of the ancient tongue - if, perhaps, Kevin has a gift like healing, and all the others, that just needed a bit of nurturing to ignite the spark?

Well done, sir, well done. You have accomplished the goal - I want MORE - as you are able to provide - my PM stands, lol.

 

[Críostóir]

At LAST!!!!!

Of course, Rigel isn't supposed to be Ard-Righ. That's the guy chopping down the trees with swords and stuff.

Complications! We needed more of those...the story was getting too simple, what with events in only a hundred gajillion locations with a gajillion squared people!

 

[Kyanimal]

Aw, YES! ... FINALLY!! A deeper look at The Brits!

"Island isolated", huh? Not that different from their "former" position. But, "Here", a needed defense from "Them"! Yet, they still managed some contact with Celts and Spaniards.

Too bad they "brought" Parliament with them, and were stubborn enough to maintain it!! Nothing quite like missing a chance at a New start!

I'm thinking that future contact with "The High King" will straighten all of That out, though!

Previous chapter: Yeah! Seems my Night Shift brain merged "cook's assistant" with "cook's sister"!

Now that I've figured that out, I can better understand why "Rye" was smiling, and Austin's "animal" was drooling!

All in all ... MORE, Please!!

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Kulindahr]

Selections​

Elizabeth stared. She hadn’t kept up with the Old Tongue as well as Kevin, be she was no slouch. “Ard Righ”, she whispered. “And you met him.” Suddenly she recalled what Kevin had undertaken to answer. “You think he is the solution to my marriage difficulty!” Kevin was too serious to grin; he merely nodded. “I don’t even know him!” she protested. “You hardly know him!”

Kevin MacNeil continued to look at his cousin the Queen, saying nothing. The thoughts had percolated through his mind during the trip back, every evening and every morning filled with arguments one way or the other. He knew that Elizabeth would see the same thing, follow the same paths, and likely more quickly than he: after all, his mind attended to politics on occasion, when he wasn’t busy thinking of affairs military or family, but her thoughts were rarely anywhere else.

She stared at him, her expression shifting from moment to moment. MacNeil tried to guess which reactions went with which players in the game of the capital. Waiting for the inevitable one, he took a chair where could watch woman and fire at the same time. Finally she stuck out her tongue at him.

“Real horses, better rifles, Healers – it would be a good match”, she conceded. “All the alliances, all the hopefuls” – she laughed – “all the betrothals postponed in hopes of a royal hand!” Her face darkened. “And many of them hating me for not choosing them.”

“Beth, those would hate you no matter who you picked. If you picked one of them, he’d hate you anyway, or at least despise you, certain you didn’t want him, only his position and alliances and name. None like that are worthy of you in any case, nor of the throne. Marry from outside, and you gain no enemies.”

Elizabeth nodded. “But friends, perhaps. Those families who hide in fear, who stand with distasteful allies because they must stand with someone, could stand with me, then.” Kevin smiled lightly and nodded his agreement.

“With a strong crown – strong again in its own right, not merely by virtue of machinations and maneuverings. I know not how vast this High King’s realm or holdings are, but even if they are no larger than those of the strongest alliance in Parliament, it will be enough to give the lesser nobles hope.”

She shook her head. “Sad that hope will mean votes when the right does not. And such a marriage would–“ She straightened in alarm. “Kevin, the halls!”

Now he grinned. “Are in the hands of the Michaelines, cousin. No regular guards, no servants – just the Knights of St. Michael. Did you think I’d have spoken, else?”

Elizabeth chuckled. “No, but this – they still fear I would choose you!” At that, they both laughed. The two had been barely teens when he had quite accidentally learned his true, as opposed to his official, heritage, that they were not, in fact, seventh cousins twice removed, but first cousins, forbidden by church law from marriage save in extremis, prevented by common sense and knowledge of their lineage from doing so for the sake of any children. Elizabeth had been furiously and famously angry for days, Kevin coolly and sulkily for weeks, but in the end it had let them be closer: whatever anyone else thought, they two knew there could never be any union between them. That truth somehow provided a safety zone for all else.

Nor would they reveal the truth now. That decision had been given into the hands of then Knight-Confessor Sir Hugh Lockesby, as the tormented twosome poured out their internal tortures to the one man they could trust to keep silence. Now Bishop Lockesby of Oakwood, and likely next Archbishop of Far Londinium, he would never choose to free the knowledge into the narrowly and badly balanced chaos of the kingdom’s political arena.

“But he would support a public declaration of my intent to marry elsewhere”, Kevin noted, knowing her thoughts were traveling the same paths.

“What, will you take up the knot?” It was an old taunt; the clergy of Lost Britain were not celibate except by choice. Those who so chose formed a special order, and the ceremony vesting them with their distinct robes ended, as far as actions, with three individuals chosen for the ceremony wrapping a heavy cincture around the new brother’s or sister’s waist, which was then tied in a special knot. They would never go another day of their lives without wearing it, so choosing that life had come to be called “taking up the knot”. Since marriage was referred to often as “tying the knot”, comparisons between the two states abounded.

Kevin chuckled. “No, nor am I ready to tie the knot. Although that Rita... Elizabeth, the knowledge and wisdom in that one’s eyes! And no fear! She, I could have to wife.”

“But?”

He snorted; she read him so well. “She’s spoken for. Nothing was said, but there’s a man for her, and she not the sort for a man in every castle.”

“Do you have yet a woman in every port?”

“Not even in every one I’ve been to. Perhaps I need a foreign woman.” A woman who rode with men, who did not fear battle, who looked at those who thought she was above her place with contempt and pity....

“If indeed you’ve found me one, then I shall for you”, she whispered. “Kevin, the idea is sound. I trust your measure of a man – yet I would know him some, first! The suitors here, the proposed matches – these are all men I know at least by reputation, men I have met!”

MacNeil nodded; he’d foreseen that, and thought it through. “First announce that you consider a suitor – that will throw them off. And search as they may, there is nothing to uncover; let them bump heads on that a time. With what I know, I will work with–“

“You will draw up the contract”, she decided, anticipating his thought, every centimeter the Queen. “No suitor draws up the contract; it must be someone who has not been considered and will not be. With what you know, you can make an outline that will serve.”

Kevin laughed, feeling blind. “And I spoke of a public declaration! Very well – but as is often done, I intend to have others do the writing.” His voice broke off, the final consonant dying not-quite-said.
“And I know how for you to meet him”, MacNeil whispered. “He will return, I’m certain. This Ard Righ will seek to visit our realm. So I must be waiting for him....”




Lords rose as one as the great doors swung open and their Queen came in. Someone slapped a hand against the single armrest on his seat; another joined in, then another, and it turned from a scattered slapping into a roar.

“I think they know why you’re here, cousin”, commented Kevin MacNeil out of the side of his mouth, and in the Old Tongue, as he escorted Elizabeth along the ceremonial aisle reserved for occasions when the monarch of the realm came to Parliament with an official declaration. “And thank all the Saints, I think they approve!”

“And every single one is hoping he’s my pick, and all the fathers with eligible sons are hoping nearly as much – and the counting beads are running in the backs of their heads”, she replied, also without turning her head. Only those practically within arms’ reach would have been able to even tell they were speaking, and those seats were all Crown Tories, who wouldn’t breath a word if they smelled a festering wound in their Queen.

“And now comes the second wave”, he noted. As the significance of the diagonal and waist sashes he wore struck home, the volume increased: they marked him as the Bride’s Spokesman, and meant that of all the unmarried males in the chamber, he alone – and the archbishop and bishops, of course – was without question not the Queen’s choice. While for the sake of the Realm it would have been more than an arguably good match in theory, for political considerations which couldn’t be ignored it was feared and vehemently opposed by more than one party.

And parties they were. However unified they were as all Navy – the law said that no one who did not serve could inherit – and however bound together they were by blood, as inevitably as four toddlers would argue over three toys, divisions marked the Parliament and the Kingdom. It was one reason she agree they needed to settle beyond the Islands, on the Shore: a frontier would bleed the energetic and aggressive off into productive activity, as it had for Old Britain, whether in America or Australia. It would be a path for the poor to make places for themselves, easing tensions in the places they left behind. Everyone would have a new focus, for a generation anyway – and that was all the time she had, anyway. So before she reached her station, the double gladness would have vanished before the calculation of advantage and gain. Tories, Crown Tories, Whigs, Planters, Republicans, Levelers, and the ones called “pony parties” because they were small, all kept slapping, while their brains measured and weighed.

Three steps from the podium, Kevin stopped. She released his arm, and on sudden impulse leaned to plant a kiss on his cheek, as a lady might after dancing with a lord. Despite a few rumbles of disapproval, most of the chamber reacted with good humor, seeing in the gesture a sort of nod to the thing that many there had feared but which she and Kevin, by their appearance in this place as they were, had declared was out of bounds. The last three steps were hers alone, and she took them confidently and proudly.

Only during those last three steps did anyone notice she bore the scepter of the Realm in the crook of her left arm. Her own “Alfred”, a quite ancient landless lord named Jays, had artfully camouflaged it against the regal bouquet with which Kevin had presented her. But as she handed the flowers to Kevin and stepped forward, it was plain to all that the orb wasn’t part of the floral arrangement; and as she swung it up and set it across the front of the podium in the rack provided, there was no mistaking the rich reddish hue of the mahogany that had formed a great upright spoke of the ship’s wheel held firmly by Second Lieutenant Sir Aston Ashton II as HMS Elizabeth Regina crashed through collision in one world into wreck in another. Not only because of protocol, now, the slapping ended, and silence reigned more surely than the Queen.

“My lords, we thank you for your greeting”, Elizabeth proclaimed warmly “We are pleased to find all present in the seats of our Parliament on this occasion.” Auras bristled, she was sure, if auras were real, but the presence of the scepter chilled any more obvious response. “But this is your chamber – please, my lords and ladies, be seated.” Again there was bristling; despite the actual presence of ladies in the House of Lords, a reality achieved by her father, many lords did not care to have it acknowledged. Well, they could have their fancies; when the words were dictated by tradition, she would say “lords”, but when they were not, she would slap their eardrums with truth. Not the best policy, had she been male; but she had studied the histories: no queen ruled who gave so much as a nail’s thickness of ground.

So they sat, one of the few times in British life when protocol permitted anyone to sit in the presence of a standing monarch. Eyes darted from her to the scepter and back; her eyes sought out the great lords, one after another; measurements were taken, and in more than one set of eyes she saw questions, wondering at her strength. Some certainly thought it bluster; others saw more clearly.

“You have noted our regalia and understood, it seems”, she began, avoiding both the obnoxious royal plural and the too-personal single pronoun. “You judge rightly: Earl MacNeil stands as Bride’s Spokesman, and will be negotiating with a suitor.” Relief and gladness mixed to bring a majority of the lords – and all the ladies – to their feet in response, not just slapping seats but stomping feet. “His task will not be easy. It must remain uncomplicated by any attempts to learn the name of the possible groom.” Quite on purpose, she let her eyes stray to the scepter, and two fingers twitch toward it. “You all know how important this matter is – it must not be unsettled in any way.” Of course that would make some all the more eager –but let them be! Kevin had arranged for the Knights of St. Michael to act as messengers, but also as inquirers, authorized to ask questions to ascertain whatever detail he might decide was helpful to his task. Choosing a spouse for their monarch was a point where the British here gave great latitude in the matter of the traditional right of privacy; all manner of poking and prodding were tolerated when it came to making certain that a prospective mate was not only acceptable, but impeccable. Kevin could ask what the count of cherries taken from a certain manor’s north orchard had been three years before, and while the query would raise questions, none would be voiced: on things as such details might turn a judgment of the truthfulness of a lord’s account of the honor of a confidante of the prospective spouse. As a matter of course, messengers were sent and questions asked where the matter was totally unrelated, just to keep curiosity spread and real inquiries obscured. Of such maneuvers would Kevin MacNeil’s shadow play now be built, with no one knowing that of all the questions, none were anything but such subterfuge: for the one she sought was not in the Kingdom.

“Let all give him aid in his quest”, she intoned, turning to where MacNeil still stood. “Let none hinder his endeavor.” All eyes moved with hers; all bodies made a slightly deeper bow in his direction, acknowledging his office and the traditional dictates. Earl MacNeil bowed back. They all waited on Elizabeth; when she straightened, then the lords did, and the new Bride’s Spokesman got to turn and go to his seat – now with the Ministers, since he ranked as one until after the honeymoon.

Tradition expected a certain length for the announcement, with pious phrases and polished platitudes. She’d cut it short: she didn’t like pious polish, and it was a good way to get attention. Now she had it, as they responded to her wave and sat once more. Time to use it.

“You see here the Scepter. It tells you I come for more than just an announcement of hoped-for matrimony.” Only a few winced at her use of the first personal; they were too intent on wondering what she was up to. “It pains me to say so, but my Minister of Settlement, Earl Berwick, has found himself unable to choose between two alternatives. I have admonished him, yet he claimed the balance was too fine for a decision. Therefore I have relieved him of his duties” – gasps rose at that; it was a monarch’s prerogative, but hadn’t been exercised for two generations! – “and thanked him for the hard work he has done. I one thing I find merit: the issue does seem well-balanced. Therefore I have made a decision on this issue which has languished far too long: Lord Richard Grenville, Duke Radclif, please stand” – cheers rose, but so did angry challenges from elsewhere – “and Lord Percival Sidmuth, Grand Earl Wenham, please stand.” Quiet returned: the two great rivals over the issue of which direction the Kingdom should expand were both on their feet. They shared one thing: each glared at the other, and both looked suspiciously at their Queen. “My Lords, I concur with my lord Creevy, that the two sides are finely balanced. A good case may be made for each.” She counted to three while a perplexed expectancy built. “Therefore I appoint you both: Duke Radclif, I appoint you Minster of Eastern Settlement; Grand Earl Wenham, I appoint you Minister of Western Settlement.” The chamber erupted in noisy confusion, speculation and argument vying for dominance.

Elizabeth waited a full minute before nodding to the Staff, this day a young knight she’d more than once longer to invite to keep her warm of a night (but queens did not do such things). The Staff was nearly always young, and – as fitted the office – champions with the staff. This one’s choice was the tallest of the ceremonial, but still quite functional, weapons belonging to Parliament. With a slight smile the knight acknowledged her, then hefted the staff – and spun it.

A man with a staff for a weapon might, if he was a true prodigy, get a staff to hum as it spun. The ceremonial staves were made to hum, in order to get attention. Elizabeth had always liked the tallest one; it began with a low hum, a deep note that “grabbed at the guts”, as her father had put it. With a little more speed, a higher note came in, a full octave and a fourth above the lower. The combination was a very commanding sound, in her opinion; whatever others thought, it pierced through the hubbub and got attention. One look at the young Staff’s face was enough to be convinced he would be more than happy – delighted, and thrilled, came to the Queen’s mind – to crack some heads, and some ribs, arms, backs, and shoulders along the way, if order didn’t return promptly. It did, so the musical hum came to an end, the staff hit the floor with a resounding thump, and the Staff settled back into relaxed attention (“Isn’t that a contradiction, Daddy?”, a young Elizabeth had asked. “Oh, it is, but government is like that, little one”, King Daddy had replied).

“My lords, is there any objection to these appointments?” The young Queen chuckled inwardly at the consternation; those who might have objected to one of the lords were almost invariably supporters of the other, and those who might have wanted to object to both couldn’t afford to make such enemies. She waited a full minute; then, dutifully, the Prime Minister climbed to his feet and sighed. “Your Majesty, your appointments” – she heard the chastisement in his voice, for her stepping on his territory – “are accepted.”

“Thank you, Lord Owen”, she responded graciously. “My lords, that is all. We have good reason for choosing to settle both east and west. These shall be made known to you all once we have discussed them with our Minsters of Settlement. We thank you for your time and attendance.” Then the reverse ritual began: pick up the scepter, walk to be met by Kevin.... As they walked, pages dashed with prepared messages.



“Minsters”, Elizabeth said in greeting, seated and with tea and biscuits at hand before one of MacNeil’s Dragoons ushered them in. “Please, join me.” Pages guided them to their seats at the conference table, pages selected by Jays, each a not-too-remote cousin of the lord he guided. Kevin MacNeil came in as the pages were departing, Alfred and Jays on his heels, The last two took up unobtrusive stations in the corners, ready at need. While the three ministers sat at the table, MacNeil’s seat was a pace back, by his own small table.

Without a word, the moment the door closed, Alfred and Jays were in motion: tea was poured, to each man’s taste; biscuits broken, and a fresh pot of each man’s favorite fruit preserve opened by his use. It was done smoothly, so well the lords hardly noticed the intrusion of arm and hand into their space. Only the Prime Minister acknowledged the service; the other two studied the Queen’s face intently. She returned their gazes with a slight smile that fell between properly polite and friendly. After a sip of tea that she savored with eyes closed, she set down her cup and spoke.

“Lord Richard. Lord Percival. Lord Logan. Know first that nothing said here is to be repeated outside this room without my leave. There are reasons for my decision which must be held close for some time, for the good of the Realm.” With the invocation of that phrase, she required their agreement or departure.

None hesitated. “For the good of the Realm”, they responded as one. Kevin, Alfred and Jays joined in quietly, as did a certain unseen listener whose loyalty to the House of Stuart-Bóruma was absolute. With that response they sealed themselves to secrecy, any breach of which could be punished however the monarch pleased.

“Thank you, my lords. Kevin, please recount the first matter of your recent patrol that was not reported to the court or Parliament.”

MacNeil didn’t believe in introductions. “The Aliens have returned. I fought them, and lost half my men doing so. The stories and histories fall quite short of preparing a man for the reality. I watched men’s throats bit out, ponies’ bellies bitten open and the entrails slurped up while the poor beasts still lived. I watched spears shredded into chips by jaws so swift they made falling stars seem as snails. Those jaws sliced men’s faces no less efficiently than a master cook’s knife slices leeks.” The Major of Dragoons paused, knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. “Steel cuts them, and bullets pierce them, but killing one is like sinking a longboat with a staff – if the longboat could fight back.” By sheer will he released his blade. “If I must face them again, I would have five hundred men, with pikes and cannon. And the pikes steel, not wood.”

Prime Minister Lord Logan Owen licked his lips and closed his eyes. “Your Majesty, with the Aliens about, how can you think of settling the Shore?!”

Lord Percival Sidmuth chuckled unhappily. “I think her Majesty has handed me an impossible task.”

Elizabeth deliberately slurped at her tea to get their attention. “Percival Sidmuth, my father said you were a rude snob, but he never suggested you lack intelligence. I chose to settle the Shore exactly because the Aliens are about. Now, tell me why.”

The Grand Earl stared at his queen, impressed by her bluntness, cautioned by the tutor’s manner. Her father had been no fool; the daughter was evidently sharper than he had believed. But his mind was working on two levels, an ability that had brought him to such power that to advance he saw only marrying this girl and becoming king. For the first time he was unsure that would be wise, even should he achieve it: he would never dare turn his back, with this queen forced to marry where she did not choose.

“In the annals wherein the accounts of the Escobars concerning conflict with the Aliens”, he began, “a number of items were noted which drew them stubbornly to attack. Chief among these was human children, sometimes as old as seventeen, for they find our young a choice source of meat. Second of all was reputed to be a horn, the Horn of Escobar, which enraged them beyond measure, sufficient that they would turn aside from reasonable objectives to attack where it was heard.
“Yet when neither of these was present, a third irritation would draw them to attack, and to persist in attack nearly like unto a force of nature. The third was human fortifications, against which they threw themselves not only to end the lives of the defenders, but to lay waste the structures themselves. Once discovered, a castle or other strong point would draw Aliens until it was reduced. It was reported that they would abandon sensible strategy to focus on a fortress, leaving them open to devastating attack.” Lord Grenville raised his own tea cup and purposely slurped, looking right at Elizabeth as he did. The Queen raised an eyebrow, and broke off a piece of biscuit, dipping it in her blackberry preserves.
“So I conclude that you mean for me to build not so much a settlement, but a fortification – no, a system of fortifications, designed for one sole purpose: to draw in Aliens, and there slaughter them.”

“A killing ground”, the Prime Minister commented. “A place for them to come, and die.”

“A coin pocket with no bottom”, scoffed Lord Sidmuth. “A fool’s task!”

Kevin MacNeil cleared his throat for attention. “It would have another purpose”, he said. “In my encounter with the nomads, we observed something rather interesting. Alfred, I believe you commented on it?”

“Indeed, Master Kevin. My lords, Major MacNeil’s party came quite close to these nomads, and words were exchanged. I was rather pleasantly surprised that their leaders spoke our tongue, for Master Kevin was thus able to warn them away clearly, as was his duty. But while they exchanged words, I heard others of them speaking among themselves. It was these other words which truly surprised me, for the tongue was not ours.” The old gentleman’s gentleman knew just how long to pause. “My lords, they spoke Spanish.”

MacNeil anguished behind a bland face. Had they gone to the trouble of setting this up, only to have to spell it out? But the Duke saw the connection in a dozen seconds. “They had real horses”, he recalled, “hardly suitable for war, but as beasts of burden, far better than our ponies! Lord MacNeil, did these nomads have horses – real horses?!” Grenville asked eagerly, envisioning a solution to some of the difficulties involved in re-opening the settlement on the eastern, quite vertical shore of the sea.

“I recall quite clearly how astonished I was that they indeed did”, Kevin replied. "Quite large, capable of carrying great loads. Some were burdened enough for four ponies.”

“Trade, then”, the Minster of Eastern Settlement concluded. “You hope to encounter these nomads again, and obtain real horses.” He drummed fingers on the table. “Earl MacNeil, I hope you did not warn the nomads away too vigorously.”

“I did so as gently and warmly as I could conceive, I assure you.” Kevin kept the grin at his memory of how he and ‘Earl’ FitzWin had spoken in friendship while solemnly agreeing that the Queen bid them depart. “The horses were too important to lose, and then a secret I kept for Her Majesty and her Ministers, knowing this must be handled carefully.”

Prime Minster Logan Owen was chuckling. “Grand Earl, I see how paying for this killing zone might be no problem. We share the news that the Escobars survived, and their horses. I can make the case that we must trade from a position of strength, and since we do not wish them coming to our Islands, we should set an imposing fortress on the Shore, to impress traders when they come. Such a fortress of course must be immensely strong, for we do not know just how many nomads there might be. Peace, MacNeil! I do not say your nomads were not friendly, but where there are some nomads, there surely might be others. And should no other raise the matter of the Aliens, I doubt not that one of us could suggest that they may yet live.”

Grenville was staring at Kevin. Elizabeth had caught it; Lord Owen noticed, too, and stopped speaking. Lord Sidmuth saw the directions of their gazes, and turned as well. “Lord Kevin MacNeil, what are you not telling us about these nomads? If the Aliens are about once more, how is it they roam freely?”

Kevin and Elizabeth had known one of these men would see that, and had carved his story to fit. “I did chance to see them battle the aliens”, he related. “Indeed, they seemed well prepared for it. They had lances, great long things that pierced deep. These weapons did not kill the beasts straight off, but drained the life slowly and kept them from moving. In their dying, they seemed maddened, and attacked their fellows. After the lances came archers with heavy bows, sinking bolts deeply into the Alien flesh. Perhaps they use some herb unknown to us, for these blows, too, maddened the Aliens, so they fought their fellows even more than their enemies. Then after the bolts, those with faster horses dashed in with blades, not so much attacking as cutting at anything they could without risking themselves greatly. When that sally passed, the lances came again.
“Also they had some long guns. Those with such rode here and there, firing into whatever Alien threatened. Still, they could have used cannon, as well.
“And if I may, that is where I believe Her Majesty’s plan a sound one: when our forefathers dealt with those small waves of Aliens, ending by withdrawing to the Islands, our best cannon were three-pounders, our best range less than an arrow-flight. But now we make forty-eight pounders, and the range of our twenty-fours is four times that of an arrow flight – and our arrows fly farther now, as well.
“We should build this fortress in a place where a wide path will entice the Aliens to come, cunningly so they will find there is a path that seems ever to go inside the walls. But–“ He got interrupted.

“But after some twistings and turnings, they come to a long passage, high walls on either side. Cannon all around, muzzles depressed, with scrap shot from the sides, and straight ahead forty-eight pounders, set low, firing the length, tearing and shredding.” Richard Grenville, Duke Radclif, smiled a predatory smile. “Percival, I wish you joy of unending slaughter. Do you see where Her Majesty’s plan goes from there?”

The Grand Earl Wenham shifted uncomfortably; strategy was not his sharpest game. “I should hazard a guess that once the Aliens have fixed on this fortress, then I may begin true settlements. Yet must they not all be fortresses?”

“I think not, Percival”, the Prime Minister responded. “I know you wished to build a grand city by the plain, but I think you must settle for a peninsula: when the Aliens see only the killing ground, build a great wall to reach from port to port on the sea, and behind it put towns, not one great city.”

“So those who wish to trade for horses pay to build this fortress, and then you can build your Shore-land”, Duke Radclif summarized. “And I on the opposite shore shall be, far to the east across the Sea. Majesty, have you any special idea for my side, as for Lord Sidmuth’s?”

“Cisterns”, Elizabeth declared. “Not just disease, but drought killed the effort before.”

“A settlement will always grow to use the capacity of its cisterns”, Grenville objected.

“Not if two-thirds are secret”, the Queen replied. “And not if the main cisterns will supply more people than the settlement can hold.”

“Again, a bottomless pocket. Who shall pay this time?”

“Fishermen”, Kevin answered for Elizabeth, having done his homework on this one. “Professors Alton and Bentham have studied the fishing patterns in the Sea, and made a great discovery: where there is a flow of water into the deep, which bears minerals, fish abound.”

Prime Minister Owen took up the account. “Indeed, they conducted an experiment, over three years: on a moderate stream cascading into the Sea beyond–“

“Creek’s Falls – that odd new village?” asked the Grand Earl.

“The very one. It began as a station where one thing was done: fine silt was fed into the stream constantly, proportional to the flow. And after two years, the number of fish nearby increased. By the third year, it was enough to sustain a small fishing village.”

“Bolted to the cliff, and built on arches over the three lowest falls where the stream comes down from above”, Elizabeth concluded. “And it inspired a grander plan: south of the old settlement on the Cliffs there is a great slide. Several streams run down it. Lord Owen was sufficiently intrigued by the Alton and Bentham conclusion that he paid for a Navy expedition to chart the area of the great slide extensively. A fascinating discovery resulted: on the south side of the slide, the Sea is shallow. A great shelf reaches out, the bottom close enough that should a ship of the lone sink there upright, the crow’s nest would remain dry.
“My plan there, after reviving the sea-level village of Ascent’s Landing, is to cut great stones from the slide, and sink them in the Sea on the shelf. Space will be left between them, and a great loose stack made. Only once near the surface will a solid, closed platform be made, with the intent to hold rubble and dirt from the slide, and solid mass to rise above the highest storm waves, with docks and wharves on the landward side, and bridges reaching to the land. On that villages will be set. And the streams from the slide will flow through the rock beneath, and gain minerals, to increase the number of fish.”

Lord Grenville, Duke Radclif, spoke for them all. “You dream great dreams, Your Majesty.”

 

[Kyanimal]

Great Dreams, indeed! And, "our" Rigel is the target of one of them!

Their plans for "welcoming" the Foe seem sound. However, will they be "given" the time to erect those defenses without interruption? Will they be able to accomplish all of that during the Winter when the Others are dormant/sluggish? Do they have a Devon??

And, the Eastern Shore? How big is this sea? And, what beings/creatures might inhabit the land beyond that coast? Are there Aliens there, too?? Could be Interesting!

I find myself looking forward to the time "our" peeps might make a return to the West Coast, and see what happens when they re-establish contact with Kevin & Co., and, oh, yeah! Queen "Beth"!!

'Tis a most Fascinating World you've emersed us in!

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[DonQuixote]

Kuli,
I started to read this before I left for work this morning, but didn't have enough morning left to finish.

A much more in-depth look at the pomp and circumcision of New Britain's noblesse noblige and BULLSHIT!, lol.

The fine are of playing politics.

And, Think small, be small; think BIG, BE big.

I like their monarch and her 1st cuz' style.

Methinks the two fractious Lords mayhaps find a common cause in accomplishing their own manifest destiny.

A great installment, Kuli, my dear sir!
Thanks!

 

[Críostóir]

Wow. This is the most interesting installment in ages, and I found the others FAR from boring! The internal politics of the Lost British are fascinating!

And I'm guessing the King that the ArchDruid found is going to be King of the Celts, and Rigel is going to end up being Ard-Righ over all the lost humans.

One nitpick: assuming the Staff is just a staff, the second note (third harmonic) would be an octave and a fifth above the first one, not an octave and a fourth. Actually that octave would be in there too, but it would be hard to hear.

 

[Kyanimal]

One nitpick: assuming the Staff is just a staff, the second note (third harmonic) would be an octave and a fifth above the first one, not an octave and a fourth. Actually that octave would be in there too, but it would be hard to hear.

Fascinating! But, wouldn't that depend on the length of the staff, and the speed of it's spin?

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Críostóir]

Fascinating! But, wouldn't that depend on the length of the staff, and the speed of it's spin?

Actually, no. The length of the staff would help determine the fundamental (the lowest note), but above that the other notes would fall in a fixed sequence. First an octave, then a fifth above that, then a fourth above that (second octave), then a third above that and so on.

 

[Kyanimal]

Aw ... makes perfect sense! Harmonics are, indeed, "Good Vibrations"!

THANK YOU!!

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Kulindahr]

Concerning the ceremonial staff in Parliament: I draw the reader's attention to this "it was made to hum". I suppose I should have been a bit more clear; the idea was that it was purposefully carved to do that. Personally, I find that note pairing a little annoying, because my ear wants it to be the octave+fifth. So I thought it would be good for getting attention.

Concerning the politics in Lost Britain: I perused Elizabethan, Victorian, and some fictional versions of the same... and toned it down a lot, wrapping it around issues that would have arisen from their geographical situation.

Elizabeth herself -- I think I noted her "background" before.

As for her treatment of the two factions on the settlement issue, I drew on a certain incident in not-so-Western history, where a monarch used a "divide and banish to the borders" solution -- well, to be honest, I liked the solution and invented the issue so I could use it.


As for my brief absence -- I've been having internet connection issues.

 

[Kyanimal]

Good to see you back, Kuli!!

And, when those connections frazzle ... well ... best we can do is ...

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Kyanimal]

Uh ... I don't mean to pry, poke, or prod ... however ... how about a friendly little nudge?

Kinda missing my "Fit" fix! Just sayin' ...

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Kulindahr]

I miss posting, Ky!

I keep hoping things will settle down.....

 

[Kyanimal]

Thinking of you, and wishing you (and Bammer) the Very Best!

And, yeah! ... no matter what ...

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[DonQuixote]

Me, too, to all of you guys.
Here's hoping this is a truly Happy 4th of July Weekend!

 

[Kulindahr]

A curse and a pox on Microsoft!

I was working on an installment here.
Windows 7 decided to do updates. It didn't ask, didn't warn me, just took control of my machine and shut down, did its thing, and restarted.

Editing work on the computer: partly saved.
Upload to JUB: lost.
Editing work at JUB: lost.

May Microsoft HQ by invaded by Others!

 

[Kulindahr]

Investigations​

“I like apple cider”, Anaph’s pupil said for the third time. “It nibbles.”

“It will nibble a girl into your bed”, his young companion replied.

“Or a nice lad”, the first agreed. “And it tickles the inside my head.” For some reason that struck his companion as hilarious: he stared a moment, then burst into raucous laughter.

The innkeeper quietly swept up the jug the two were pouring from and glided on by, coming to a seat by Anaph. “Not experienced with the bubbles, that one, master Druid”, he commented to Anaph.

“Young Raf there handles it well enough”, Anaph observed, judging that the young man in question was actually older then he was. Anaph himself had no trouble with alcohol, but that was a Druid advantage, one he didn’t even have to think about any longer. Since his second hangover, using the metabolic adjustments that kept him from passing a happy buzz had become habit – to the point that to get drunk, he’d have to think about it and work at it. The result had been no more miserable mornings, and a reputation that stood him in good stead with the Celtic men.

“He knows the line where the lasses turn back”, the third table companion related, “and watches it. ‘Tis skill, and will, that.” He raised his own mug slightly in salute, not enough so that the younger pair might see. Then he turned back to Anaph. “So, then, Druid Anaph, what say you?”

Anaph picked an apple from a wooden bucket on the bench beside him and set it on the small wooden plate from which he’d just had some dark forest bread, made as much of nuts and roots as of grain. The other shuddered looking at it: it hardly resembled an apple at all, but rather a bloated green mass with spots that, with white background and dark brown centers, looked like eyes. “It’s not a blight, really”, he answered. “It’s not even really an apple, any more. You did right, killing anything that eats one – I let a rabbit have some.” It was his turn to shudder; the rabbit’s fur had fallen out, its skin stiffened and hardened... he’d killed it because he’d seen where it was going: to become something different, and horrid, in pain while it existed, until its backbone failed and it died of starvation because it couldn’t control its own body even to eat. “Keep doing that. If there are any others like this, burn them, in a fire so hot no coals are left. Any of the trees that gave these – if they have moss, cut them down, and burn them, just as the apples. The younger trees – burn them, too, except the ones I marked. Put a fence around those; don’t let anything alive inside.”

“Grass?” asked the innkeeper.

Anaph sighed. “Burn that, too – make the ground scorched and bare. But I need the trees there, so I can come back and study them.”

The innkeeper nodded; the fourth man, who made cider from wild apples, had a question: “With more Druids?”

“And with Wizard Ryan. There are things he knows that I don’t, that might help me understand this. I can see the things that are wrong, but I don’t understand what it is about them that’s wrong, or why it’s important.” He didn’t say that some of the things he’d seen with his Druid senses, small things creeping through the apple’s tissues, right through cells wall, he’d also seen in half the people in the village of Devon’s Mills. That terrified him; his memories of the stories of AIDS said it had been something that lived in people and in jungle animals, and was just there, not bothering anything, until one day one of them changed, and started spreading. He remembered a homeless man, secretly gay, who just once a year had gone to a bath house for some “human contact”, who’d learned he had AIDS , and burned himself alive in a dumpster. He remembered friends of his mother who’d “played around” in college, who lived in terror after one had gone to a free clinic as part of some publicity effort – and learned she had HIV, and the rest had been too afraid to even get tested. Now he saw something that lived on people, but when it lived in apples it turned them into horrors, and when rabbits ate the apples....

“You cannot make it right?”

Anaph flicked a thought at the apple. Molecules shifted, lattices failed, water bonded to open carbons. It dried, then with just a light tap on the side of the plate, it crumbled. “I can do that. Now it’s dust, nothing more – dead dust. But that’s just like killing a Quistador slaver: that one is gone, but what you want to do is go to the Quistadors and teach them to make no more slavers.” That got their understanding. “I have to understand what things go together to make them do this. What I can do now is like sticking a finger in my throat after getting bad ale; so I vomit it up; what I need is to find where the bad ale is coming from, and why it is bad.”

“The other stands?” asked the brewer. The apples around Devon’s Mills didn’t come from orchards, or ever groves, but from clusters of trees here and there in the woods along the valley’s edge.

Anaph relaxed. “It’s only the one. But keep watch on the others anyway – if any tree starts to look odd, burn it.”

“You don’t sound worried, master Druid”, the innkeeper observed.

“About the other groves – no more than about a spark from the hearth setting my cloak ablaze. It could happen, but what man takes fear from it?”

The three smiled at his homey illustration. It didn’t change the horror of what had come into their lives, but it made the danger he was leaving for them seem nothing they couldn’t handle. The brewer spoke. “I’ll tell the other villages. Better to check all the barrels and find they were clean, than to ruin a fill by not looking.”

Anaph nodded. “And send word if anything is amiss. Also – if a Healer comes this way, ask for the trees to be looked at, though not touched. Sometimes a Healer sees things a Druid doesn’t. We have aided each other before”, he added because of their looks of surprise. “Healers and Druids are a bit like two people standing on rooftops, looking down a valley – things visible to one can be hidden to the other.”

“Might a Healer help, then?” the innkeeper asked, sounding hopeful.

Anaph shook his head vigorously. “Don’t let any try! Unless” – banishing the image of some young novice suffering the fate of the rabbit, he calmed a little – “Healer Lumina herself. Whatever this thing is, she is safe from it.”

“Safe?” the wagon-driver exclaimed, as he and the brewer both drew back from the small pile of dust on Anaph’s wooden plate. “This could harm people?!”

“Not as long as people stay away”, Anaph said, wishing he hadn’t let that topic come up. “So long as people don’t bother it, it – think of it as beasts in the forest, with little to eat. They will keep seeking their accustomed food, until they can find no more. Then they may try new things. If no people are near to try, they will never learn to eat people, because they will not be able to try. I don’t know if this could harm people or not – but if we all stay away, it won’t be able to learn.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Good sense, Druid. We will keep everything living away, except Healers, and allow only Lumina K·nay’zee to touch. And if anything happens but the trees standing behind their fence, we will send word.”

Anaph nodded. “Good. If I learn anything, I’ll return.” He looked over where his companion had switched sides of the table and was whispering conspiratorially with the other young man. “Will they end in bed together, or with a lass?” he asked.

“Likely, together with a lass”, the brewer replied. “My daughter is willing, and is old enough to choose for herself. And she is prepared against their seed.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Yours spoke with my daughter before we supped. Mine is spoken for now, and let yours know.”

The wagon-driver looked at them in distaste. “You let your daughters join with young men before they are promised?”

“Many will anyway, friend”, the innkeeper counseled. “‘Tis better to be honest with them. Mine knows the risks, and knows also that if she does not, I will let any young man who wishes her hand know that she is neither untouched nor inexperienced. Honesty is a greater purity than chastity.”

“Though if they can preserve both, it is better”, the brewer asserted. “My daughter has been willing since her bleeding began, and aspires to little more than helping young men take pleasure in their bodies – and to brewing.” He chuckled. “My bondmate thinks poorly of her choices, and so for peace in the family the daughter is now my helper in the business.”

“Each to his own”, Anaph said softly, as the wagon-driver looked increasingly uncomfortable at such frank speech. “As a wise man I know told me, each person is his or her owner, and not another. These lads own themselves, and so do the daughters. “If we teach them as best we know, our task is done – the choices are theirs. Grieve for their choices, if you must, but do not try to make of them... slaves.”

The wagon-driver bristled, but then stared at the two young men, frowning. Finally he nodded. “I have a cousin who took to the axe”, he said then. “She bore three to the clan, before she went to strike against renegades. Now she can bear no more, nor raise an axe. To have said, ‘You may not choose the axe!’, that would have made of her a slave, you’re saying. To tell a daughter, ‘You may not choose the bed!’ would be the same, would it not?” His three companions responded with nods rather than words. Across the room, two young men rose, leaning on each other, and headed for the porch.



Cheers broke out. Men pounded each other on the back, planted kisses on cheeks, leapt in the air. Ryan smiled slowly and pumped a clenched right fist in front of his chest once. Echoes like thunder washed back from the walls of the little side canyon off the small hanging valley just into the hills east of Wizard’s Tower. At the far end of the valley, only the end of the upper left arm of the crude orange X eager young apprentices had smeared on the crumbling cliff face remained. As the echoes faded, another roar renewed them, a delayed collapse of another piece of the cliff.

Off to his left, four astoundingly dedicated young journeymen GunCrafters made a sharp contrast to the tumultuous celebration. Two held writing pads and pencils – Ryan winced at the quality of those pencils; half the length was always wasted to breakage – as the other two applied light and lens and swab to the cannon bore, meticulously pursuing the informal Wizards’ goal: Make it better! That he had a coterie of aspiring Wizards who had so thoroughly grasped and deeply embraced the world of measurement and testing, analyzing and improving; who sat up late arguing over the merits of method “A” over method “B”, and devising experiments to verify the claims, meant far more to him than a more-than-merely-successful test of a new artillery piece. As recently as before harvest time he would have hidden his need to wipe tears from his eyes, but now everyone present understood his joy at seeing something work, and not just right, but superbly – and he wasn’t thinking of the beautiful new gun.

“Your eyes celebrate the success”, a small female voice chanted in musical tones. Ryan grinned; though he didn’t need to in order to tell she wasn’t looking at the obliterated target or the gun, he turned to the speaker.

“Yo, Abaca. This team is more than a success”, he agreed. She reached out a hand; he bent and let her wipe his eyes gently with her good arm and hand – let her because she did it better than he did, with near-infinite care and tenderness. He felt the tingle as her knuckle brushed only firmly enough to pick up the moisture; no more, no less, for her gift was some wild and bizarre biological feedback that let her somehow sense the skin she touched as though it were her own.

She paid for that gift: the right side of her body, from mid-thigh up, looked like a surface of scorched plastic. Some sort of cross between bone and chiton and feather, it was hard enough to repel rifle bullets at medium to long range. What genetic horror had dumped that into her DNA, he couldn’t imagine, but it had come with a platinum lining: she had a photographic memory for motion, with a mind that tracked the flight of a projectile even when she wasn’t conscious of being able to see it. Geometry came intuitively to her; once she’d heard his first lesson, she gobbled up everything he knew like it was the greatest treat – and extended what he remembered, almost weekly putting forth some new theorem, hammering out a proof, and bringing it to him with unconcealed childlike delight.

Nor was that talent the only effect on her brain: she couldn’t speak normally. Chanting, with musical tones, was the only way she could get speech to come out. She hadn’t spoken until she was four, halfway to five, and when it came it wasn’t with the usual diminutives for parents, but note-perfect reproduction of songs. That had been how she’d “talked” for the better part of a season, until one day she stopped repeating song lines that sort of grasped at what she meant and started putting together her own words.

“Tell me about the shot”, he requested when her fingers withdrew. She toyed with the abacus hanging at her cincture – the source of her self-chosen name; she denied having one before, and the only one anyone else had known was “Chanter”... not often meant in any positive fashion.

“The lip isn’t quite right. The calipers need more precision. The shell had a bobble. But the tail and spin helped it settle before it peaked. The impact was low, but inside the uncertainty zone. It struck right of on, because of the wind – we’re sheltered here, but the breeze we have is a real wind starting fifty meters out. And the result was satisfactory.” Abaca grinned impishly.

Ryan chuckled. “Sure was!” A slow, gentle shake of his head expressed his feeling at the obviousness of her and a secret helper’s solution to his problem: if they couldn’t get the shell casing good enough for the impact trigger for the explosive to work right dependably, increase the power of the charge so the shell hits harder! Of course that meant a longer barrel, more precise rifling, a finer powder – they’d gotten beyond black powder now; he didn’t know the term from their Earth, but here it was “coffin fine”, “coffin” having been a popular word that week, so it came up in a comment that got repeated: “That will put some people in their coffins!” Ughyr had commented; Kinner Kinneasson had repeated it endlessly, and the next thing Ryan knew the improved powder, not just ground more finely but treated with acid, was being called “coffin fine”. He stood and waved his arms at the team; the dedicated technicians and the gun-cleaning crew quite properly ignored him, but the rest settled down.

“Abaca has pronounced the result ‘satisfactory’, people”, he called. They responded in more cheers. “Now the next test: a medium target.” Smashing into a cliff face made for a serious impact; the next step was wooden structures. Predictably, one was an outhouse, an innovation that had met with approval not because of any sense of modesty – they regarded hiding natural functions as too weird for explanation – but because when the arrival of snow didn’t mean staying indoors all day, but continued work out in the weather, keeping the wind from one’s posterior was an appealing step forward.

Ryan wasn’t terribly worried about this test; the shells were smashing home at better than twenty, maybe even twenty-five percent higher velocity than before, and against wood that would be more than enough to make his triggers work dependably. The real test was going to be plain field dirt.



“It actually looks like it’s going to be a castle”, Chen commented as they rounded the last hill hiding the entrance to the Valley of Servants. “When it’s done, it’ll be visible before the Stone, I think.”

“But the Stone is more impressive”, Rita countered, partly teasing.

Rigel laughed. “Fine. But no one can live in the Stone.”

Tanner laughed at that. “Point to Rigel”, he judged in a soft tone. “I’ll take the one I can live in. Besides”, he added in a slightly troubled tone, “that thing still bothers me.”

“So don’t swim out and touch it”, Rita admonished, definitely teasing.

“I wish no one had to swim out and touch it! Learning that way seems like cheating!”

Rigel regarded Tanner thoughtfully. “I thought you’d accepted the Druid ways.”

“It’s not the ways, it’s... it’s like sticking a computer chip in your head to get math instead of studying. God didn’t mean it to be that way.”

“Sort of like taking prescription meds instead of chewing on leaves?” Lumina challenged sharply. “Or lying very, very still for weeks instead of using a cast for a broken arm? Where do you draw the line – do we throw out anything Jesus didn’t have?”

“Jesus didn’t have hot tubs”, Oran called teasingly, in an effort to tone things down.

Tanner rode with mouth wide open for several seconds, some statement begun then abandoned. “Okay, I guess I deserved that”, he conceded. “It just seems to me like... turning people into something different than what God made us.”

“That’s a good caution”, Rigel responded. “But it’s up to the people offered the choice to decide. Remember what that lady from Oregon told that Senator from Georgia, on the show about their death with dignity law? ‘I don’t see where God wrote your name on my body, sonny, so you just keep your hands off!’ An atheist will agree I own my body because my thoughts are the ones that control it – I think a Christian has to agree I own my body because God gave it to me. Under Him, I’m the owner, right? Nobody stands between us.”

“Jesus does”, Tanner replied, more by reflex than anything, and subconsciously as a way to gain a second to think. “No, I see what you mean. But what if one of those computer chips let me run your body with my thoughts? Wouldn’t that ruin the atheist’s argument?”

“Only if the other person was born that way”, Rita countered. “Alterations after the onset of sentience don’t count.”

“So in the womb would?” Lumina said with scorn. “Just get in there and put in a chip before the baby’s brain is formed, and it’s your property?”

“Crap, take a chill pill!” Oran hollered. “No one’s saying it would be right!”

“Point to Oran”, Rigel announced. “Totally hypothetical discussion, everyone, so crank it down. Tanner, do you think the Stone offers a way for one person to control someone else? Is that why the comparison?”

Tanner reigned in Shiloh and stared at the Stone. “I guess... maybe. If a Druid can call rabbits without even saying anything, how big a step is it to controlling people?”

Rita whistled. “Score. Ask Anaph – if he knows, he’ll say so.”



Druid fingers slipped into tousled hair while the innkeeper’s younger son poured another bucket of hot water into the tub. A wisp of his mind admired the work, skillfully shaped and fitted golden oak with grooves for the redtree bands peeled from the nutrient layer under its bark; the bands were tapped into place right out of boiling water, and as they cooled they shrank lengthwise and thickened in cross-section, binding the tub together snugly without glue. Tendrils of his mind slid into the brain beneath the skull beneath the hair, others passing on into blood and – critically – certain organs. Energies he’d once either held or loosed trickled down the tendrils, drifting almost lazily into their destinations.

“Life, you’re good”, the young voice said as the young body’s tension let go. Anaph didn’t care about the tension so much; that was a reaction to having the effects of the previous night’s alcohol etched away with feather touch. “That’s almost as good as when I was swallowing Raf and pumping–“

The Druid behind him chuckled. “I’m supposed to say, ‘Your secret is safe with me’, and ‘Remember those relationships will change at Solstice’. Then you’re supposed to say, ‘I know that!’ But since I shut off your reflexes so you wouldn’t jump and waste hot water, and you really do know that, I’ll say I’m glad you had fun, and made the girl very happy. Now, pay attention and I’ll show you what I’m doing – you can learn to do this yourself.”


“I’m really tired”, Anaph’s pupil related over a half hour later at the common room table nearest the kitchen. He kept blushing every time the three girls at work in that kitchen burst into giggles.

“Yes, they’re talking about you, and giggling about you – and Raf, of course. You certainly have nothing she can complain about” – especially not after I ‘grew’ him the same way I did myself! Anaph noted to himself – “and I doubt Raf has, either. And of course you’re tired; you drank more bubbling cider than was good for you. Your body’s been working hard cleaning up after you.”

“I thought you fixed that”, the youth muttered. “And I’m not worried about complaints, it’s... Raf and I did things together....” He refused to look at Anaph.

“I know what two young men can find to do together, lad”, Anaph informed him, “and that they can be quite enjoyable. And I know that they can seem amusing to girls who tend to think about young men doing things with them. And the only way you’ll find out what any of them think about it is if the innkeeper’s daughter lets them ruin our breakfast.”

“I know what she thinks – she asked questions and had ideas! But Anaph” – the voice took on a touch of pleading – “Raf doesn’t want anyone to know!”

The Druid chuckled. “They won’t tell anyone but each other – they’re good girls. So did Raf object to any of your ideas, or theirs?”

“Some. Some he knew. I never heard of ‘slurping’ before – she showed me. She has a nice throat, but Raf swallows harder.”

Breakfast arrived just then, eggs scrambled with soft yolks poured over them just before serving, and a mound of boiled grain with small chunks of ham. The timing was excellent for Anaph; Raf’s swallowing wasn’t the only thing that was “harder”, and he knew that such thoughts about the future king were “very double ungood” – a line he remembered from somewhere. Maybe after breakfast he’d go visit Raf; the young man was trustworthy, so maybe an exchange of favors could work – relief from a hangover, and that other relief... not that he couldn’t do it himself; as a Druid he didn’t even have touch himself, but it was always more enjoyable when it wasn’t solo.

“We’ll stay here today”, he announced. “You can rest. I want to look over Devon’s town.”

“I want to see where they grind grain. And meet some more girls.”

Anaph saw “and guys” in the expression on his companion’s face, but didn’t comment. He certainly saw nothing wrong with the future king’s utter disregard for gender as a factor for picking sexual partners, and so long as he married and turned out children, most of the clans wouldn’t care, either. Those children wouldn’t necessarily inherit the Great Torc, but without them the clans would worry about choosing a king to follow, or throw aside the idea entirely again. No, the lad would have to have offspring, and at least one would have to be competent enough to succeed. Yet he couldn’t resist entirely.... “And someone besides Raf to share... them with?”

The reply surprised Anaph. “You’re just jealous.”

The Druid chuckled. “Maybe. So have enough fun for both of us.” That answer startled his prince – yes, prince was the right word! – so, considering that a good place to stop, he turned to his trencher’s steaming contents.

Later, he wandered randomly at first, though less so as time went on because he avoided visiting most streets more than once. Not that Devon’s Mills was huge, despite its general twelve by twelve layout of town blocks; the streets were there, the grid adjusted to river and terrain both, but hardly half the blocks had anything on them at all. But his ear tugged him again and again toward what really interested him, so after somewhere between one and two hours he surrendered and made a turn that took him toward the row of buildings that gave the place its name.

The one he sought hid behind a thick wall of trees. That was part of Devon’s effort to keep the noise from the rest of the village. Anaph couldn’t resist helping: leaving the street, he followed something of a search pattern through the woods, touching tree after tree, murmuring to them and himself, making a weave of life energies. What he knit required most of an hour. At the end he emerged by a high wooden fence marking the edge of the mill’s yard, and turned to face the trees. Eyes closed, he considered the web he’d fashioned, ordered adjustments here and there, and anchored the end to a young blue oak. Then he turned left to follow the longer way to a gate, giving some attention to the cedar fence as he went.


The noise was incredible; Anaph’s Druid memories compared it to a battle, and decided battle was quieter. Of course battles weren’t held indoors, so maybe that wasn’t fair. He’d been prepared; a variation on one of the patterns he’d studied at the Gathering Place served as invisible ear muffs that let in human voices. Real ear muffs on a rack made it even more effective.

“Druid!” called a voice. “There isn’t much alive, here.”

Anaph smiled at the crafter – smith, he presumed. “Everything is alive”, he responded. He thought about letting the man know about the woods and fence, but decided to let it be a surprise, one that would grow on them over time. “I come to see how the hammer works fare.”

“Not as well as hoped, not as poorly as feared.” The smith laughed. “Is it not usually so?”

The Druid had to agree; that was the way the world normally went. “No rails yet, then?”

The smith looked surprised at Anaph’s knowledge. “Ah, you speak with the Wizard and the Engineer. No, we work still to get the bars for the rollers right. The rollers work well on air, but rails of air give no service. Testing on bars we do not have is more of a task. But if you wish a guess... we may have rails in two solstices. We may have rails suitable for the Engineer’s road of rails by Harvest equinox.”

Anaph nodded. The idea of a railroad with a steam engine was exciting, but revolting at the same time. Trains were fun, steam engines were awesome, but the great clouds of nasty smoke they produced made him, as a Druid, shudder. He had an idea for helping with that, but it had some kinks in it, and would take a while to work out. So while he was disappointed he wouldn’t be having any train rides for a while, he was glad he had time to work on his idea – two ideas, actually, but he’d rather help a fire burn with less smoke than catch the smoke before it spread all over, anyway. Though since the world generally went the way the smith had noted, he’d probably end up doing some of each.

“Certainly longer than Wizard and Engineer hoped”, he responded with a wry grin.

“But not yet so late as they fear”, the smith said, with an answering grin. “Wish you to look, then?”

“I’ll wait until the Engineer is ready to show off.” He would have liked to, but Anaph found the mechanical, even mechanistic, in comparison to the dominant culture, feel of the place irritating. The two nodded, then went their separate ways.


The High Druid – not that he felt he deserved the title yet – smiled in his sleep as the midpoint of night approached; the weather was shifting, and that meant he’d have a chance to make a detour the next day.