Sunrise Lands

When he was in the irritated phase, Sam Aylward called it life imprisonment among the stage Irish, whatever that meant.

But when he was under a strain more of his father's own voice came out in his, and Sam Aylward had been born in England-on a farm near Tilford in Hampshire, to be precise-and the soft burr clung to his tongue despite more than twenty years here in the Willamette.

Edain could see his father relent; he laughed then, and the younger man flushed.

"It's all right," Sam Aylward said. "Just that you're about as good at keeping something off your face as I was at your age. Still, you're a better than good shot and useful otherwise for a long trip."

"You know?" Edain blurted.

His father gri

That was no surprise. His mother was high priestess of the oldest coven in Dun Fairfax, and she heard everything from this world and the Otherworld both.

"You want to go?" Sam Aylward asked.

He looked at his father in astonishment. "Well, of course I do, Dad!" he said.

"Ah, I should remember what nineteen's like," Aylward senior said. At Edain's affronted look: "You'll understand in a while."

"It's the farm I was worried about, with the spring work and all," the younger man said awkwardly. "I mean…"

"Lambing and shearing's over," Aylward said. "And besides, we've got Tamar, and her man's about the place now, and young Dickie is getting to be a real help, and your little sister with your mother. We'll manage."

Edain blew out his lips in relief. A huge excitement grew beneath his breastbone; it dimmed only a little when his mother came through the door from the main house with his siblings, including his elder half sister, Tamar-she'd been born a little before the Change that killed her father-and her handfasted man, Eochu, and their firstborn in her arms.

Baby Forgall just gurgled quietly, but everyone else looked at him. His mother with worry; she had the upper section of her arsaid over her head like a hood, which meant she'd just been at some rite before the house altar. Dick was looking at him with naked envy. Young Fand was nearly as distressed as their mother, her fair redhead's face flushed.

Then her expression changed and she spoke: "I guess we can't tell Eithne, sure?" and giggled, back to her usual hateful twelve year-old self.

That made him feel better about it. For one thing, Eithne would be spitting mad that he was going and she wasn't when it all came out, so he wouldn't be sorry she didn't hear of it. And things had never been quite the same with them since that trip north last year. He felt even better when his father snapped in a tone harder than his usual: "No, and if you want your brother back alive, you'll keep your mouth bloody well shut, girl!"

She looked properly abashed. Then Sam Aylward went on to his eldest son: "Rudi has the gear you'll need for the first part ready. But you'll need a spare war bow."

There were dozens racked on the walls, finished or in the making. Edain's eyes went wide when he saw the one his father took down. It wasn't new-he'd gotten a new one as a gift at his birthday this spring, just after Ostara-but it was beautiful, from the darkly shining riser of black walnut root to the carved horn tips at either end. The staves were yew, the whole weapon six feet long with a subtle double curve, out a little from the riser and then back again, what the old books called reflex deflex.

His father was known as Aylward the Archer through out the Willamette, and his marksmanship was only half the reason.

"That's your war bow, Dad!"

"Too heavy for me, these days. I get a twinge in me shoulder at full draw with it. A hundred and fifteen pounds with a thirty inch arrow… Give it a try."

Edain flushed again at doing it with everyone watch ing. The actions were automatic: he strung it Mackenzie-style, with the lower tip braced against his left foot and his right thigh over the riser. Then he brought it up and drew, pushing out his left arm and pulling with the muscles of his torso and gut as much as the right arm. A little to his surprise it bent easily, and he held the draw without any betraying quiver.

"You'll do," his father said when he'd eased off from the draw, then pulled him into a quick rough hug. "You'll do me proud, boy."

His mother was crying a little; she was a decade and more younger than his father, but he suddenly realized with a shock that her yellow-brown hair had gone mostly gray too. When had that happened?

He knelt before her. She made the invoking sign over his head-a pentagram, starting with the top point-and spoke with a catch in her voice:

Through darkened wood and shadowed path

Hunter of the Forest, by your side

Lady of the Stars, fold you in Her wings:

So mote it be!

The whole family joined in on the final line of the spell-prayer. It made him feel stronger; then his mother handed him a sack.

"Just a few extra things. There are some simples in the white box; they're all labeled in case you take a chill. Try"-her face worked-"try to come back safe!"

He was glad to finally get out and on his way; good byes were all well and good, but he had to go. He strode down the graveled lane between the houses and sheds, the Covenstead and the big communal barn, and out through the gate, with Garbh padding at his heels. It was midmorning, and most of the folk were out in the fields; he passed a few younger chil dren playing or watching still younger siblings, and the odd adult whose work kept them in the dun even now. Outside the gate he paused to leave a few crumbs by the grave of the Fairfaxes, the old couple who'd owned the farm around which the dun had grown, and then turned east.

He kept to the road, passing people busy in the garden plots with their eternal battle against slugs and couch grass and creeping shoots, their hoes flashing as they sang a working song:

Remember what old gra

These beetles are pretty-but better off dead;

They can be compost-and we can be fed!

Eithne gave him a look and went back to work; he winced a little. Her mother gave him a look that was even worse and called out, "Care to try a spell at the hoe, if you can spare the time from a walk in the woods?"

He shrugged and kept walking. "No, no, these myster ies of the Earth Mother are too sacred for my eyes!" he called with mock solemnity.

That got him a chorus of good natured hoots and jeers, particularly from the men and boys working there, and he waved back as he went by. Nobody was too upset; they knew he wasn't one of Dun Fairfax's few shirkers. This was a solidly prosperous settlement and proud of it-prosperous by standards no older than Edain, which meant that everyone in it had plenty of food all year 'round, at least two spare sets of clothing and a clean bed of their own. But it stayed that way because everyone in it worked very hard indeed.

The fields narrowed as he went east towards the head of the valley. A quick skip from rock to rock at a ford put him over the river that flowed down from Dun Juniper's hillside bench. Then he was into the green gloom of tall forest, land that had been Mackenzie owned in the old days, Lady Juniper's land; that meant a century of careful tending since it was last logged. Red alder grew tall along the stream, ten times his height, with its bark mottled white and the new leaves green and tender. Fir and hemlock and red cedar stood taller still and candle straight on the drier ground; beneath the forest floor bore a carpet of low-growing red stemmed ki