Sunrise Lands

The boy threw a look at their kilts and plaids and bon nets; Ri

And he's not traveling with his girlfriend.

"And you wear weird clothes, too," the nobleman's son went on. "Even weirder than Bearkillers or the people from Corvallis."

"They are strange there," Edain agreed gravely. Though not so strange as you Portlanders.

"You've been to all those places?"

"To most of them. The wagons have come direct from the Clan's land, but the young Mackenzie and we have been wandering with our feet free and our fancy our only master for weeks now, and only joined them these last days."

Pure sea-green envy informed the look he got. "Cool! I'm going to go to be a page at the Lady Regent's court in a couple of years, in Portland and Castle Todenangst and places. So I can learn to be a squire and then a knight and stuff. That'll be cool too."

Edain found himself gri

The boy drew himself up then, consciously remembering his ma

"I'm Gaston Strangeways," he said, left hand on the pommel of his miniature sword. "Son and heir of Baron Juhel Strangeways-Lord Juhel de Netarts, guardian of County Tillamook, with the right of the high justice, the middle and the low."

"It's an impressive array of titles, that it is," Edain said, and they shook hands solemnly, leaning over in their saddles.

"And his father was a knight, too. Even before the Change. He died a year ago, the same time the count did."

Edain had suffered through hour after hour of tedium in the Dun Fairfax school from his unwilling sixth summer to glad escape at twelve, and some of the pre-Change history lessons had rubbed off.

"I don't think they had knights or barons or counts before the Change, the old Americans," he said. "They had lobbyists and presidents and consultants instead."

"In the Society," young Gaston said. "Granddad told me about the tournaments and things." Then he cleared his throat and went on formally: "Welcome to our lands."

Edain gri

"And I'm Edain Aylward Mackenzie," he said. "My sept's totem is Wolf."

The boy's eyes went a little wider. "You're Aylward the Archer?" he said breathlessly.

Then an accusation: "You're not old enough! The Archer fought in the Protector's War, and my dad wasn't old enough for that. Granddad fought in that war and he got his limp then."

"That's my dad you'd be thinking of," Edain said, a little sourly. "Sam Aylward, first armsman of the Clan. Well, he was until a couple of years ago."

Hecate of the Crossroads and Him called the Wan derer, hear me; now wouldn't it be a braw thing to travel far enough that people think of me when I say my name's Aylward! I love my dad, but it's like being a mushroom growing on an old oak, sometimes.

"Oh. Well. That's cool too, you've got ancestors… Did the Archer make your bow? Can I see it?"

"He did that, and you can. Careful now! It's well oiled with flaxseed, but I'd not want to drop it in this wet."

Edain reached over his shoulder and slid the long yew stave free of the carrying loops. It was strung, and the boy tried to draw it after he'd admired the patterned carving of the antler horn nocks and the black walnut root riser. The young Mackenzie let him struggle with it, and there were chuckles from the rest of the clansfolk as the youngster handed it back and said gravely, "That's a pretty heavy draw." He looked at Edain as he returned it. "I've heard a lot about Mackenzie archers. Is it true you guys are witches and can make magic, too?"

"Well, I'm not much of a spell caster myself, beyond the odd little thing to keep the sprites and the house-hob friendly, or for luck when I'm hunting-"

"I shot a rabbit with my crossbow just last week. It was eating the cabbages in Father Milton's garden."

"Sure, and if the little brothers won't mind your gardens, that's what you must do. Also a rabbit is good eating."

"Could you teach me a spell for luck when I'm hunting?"

"Mmmmm, I think your Father Milton might not like you making luck spells, so you'd best ask him for a prayer to your saints, instead. We're followers of the Old Religion, which you are not," he said, touching the Clan's moon-and-antlers sigil on his brigandine.

Then he glanced aside at his lover, Eithne.

"Now, this one you'd better be careful of!" he said, teasingly solemn. "A priestess of the second degree! She can sing a bird out of the bough, and 'chant a cow's teats to give butter ready churned, and blind a man's eyes with love by a rune cut on a fingernail. The fae themselves give her a wide berth, hiding beneath root and rock unless she bids them fetch her tea and spin wool for her, the which they do in fear and trembling before her power, so."

The boy looked at her wide eyed and crossed himself. "Is that why you've got a girl along?" he said, loading the descriptive word with scorn. " 'Cause she's a real witch?"

The mounted Mackenzies all laughed. The four of them were every one younger than Rudi; old enough to travel and fight but not solid householders weighed down with responsibilities like the group by the wagons. Eithne stuck out her tongue at the boy, or possibly at Edain. She was eighteen too, a tall lanky brown eyed girl with skin one shade darker than olive and long black braids falling from beneath her Scots bo

"It's because otherwise the boys wouldn't know what to do, the dear creatures, without a woman along," she said, her tone mock-lofty. "Pretty? They are that, but dim. Na glac pioc comhairie gan comhairie ban, as the Chief would say. It's a female's guidance you need when advice is given."

"Very true! That's why I've got Garbh with me," Edain said guilelessly.

The big rawboned bitch walking at his horse's heels should have looked up at the sound of her name. Instead she made a sound halfway between a whine and growl, stopping stock still and looking westward, the heavy matted fur over her shoulders rising and her ears cocked forward.

"Aire!" Edain shouted, loud as he could. "Beware!"

He blushed furiously as his voice broke despite the sudden sharp stab of alarm, but the clansfolk stiffened at the danger call.

He had just enough time to flip off his bo

"Down!" he yelled, conscious of eyes turning towards him. "Incoming!"

Young Gaston was still on his pony, gaping. Edain kicked his feet out of the stirrups and dove off his bor rowed mount, grabbing the boy as he did and hugging him to his chest, turning his back to the deadly whistle. Black arrows with red-dyed fletching went smack into the mud around him. There was a harder, wetter thwack as one struck flesh, and someone screamed, and a horse bugled pain and fear. Then a hard bang and something hit him between the shoulder blades, also hard. Pain lanced through him, but it was gone in a moment-the little steel plates riveted inside his brigandine had shed the point.