Sunrise Lands

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

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

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

"I think… I think the common people will support me. And the town guilds. If I offered charters…"

Sandra nodded; Mathilda could see she was pleased.

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

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

Or did he? a small voice within her wondered.

She lashed back at it:

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

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

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

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

"Those are two things that don't always go together, my darling," she said.

Chapter Seven

Mount Angel Monastery,

Order of The Shield of Saint Benedict

Queen of Angels Commonwealth,

Willamette Valley, Oregon

January 14, CY22/2021 A.D.

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

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

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

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

The top of the desk was painfully neat with its piles of paper, inkwell, seal, pens and typewriter for very private correspondence; he had been a soldier before he found his vocation, and then again after the Change when Mount Angel became the core of survival in this corner of the Willamette, and he was a precise and methodical man by nature and training. The office walls held a crucifix, a Mado

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is apparently so. The Holy See's information and the… evidence… that the British visitors brought make it plain."

"I wish they had stayed longer, Father."

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

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