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"Prig," Mary muttered to herself as the girl moved away; she was about the Dunedain's own age. "Naeg nedh adel!"
Ingolf's eyes went upward and his lips moved slowly; he'd been learning some Sindarin. It was fiendishly complicated, and the only two people in this part of the world who could talk it were right beside him, but he'd kept at it doggedly. It would have helped if they had some books, but the only material they'd brought on the trip was a small-print section of the…
Histories, Ingolf thought. Think of them as the Histories, dammit. Mary takes that seriously.
"There is pain in the…" he began.
Ritva gri
"Bored with being sick," Mary said. "I know I'm a lot better off than Rudi, but it's still a drag. We should be getting going!"
There were windows in the refectory, south-facing ones. It was getting dark already, and would have been even if the winter sun didn't set early. You could just see the powder snow the wind was driving at the glass, until one of the monastery staff went around cranking the shutters closed. Even when that was done the sound of the wind came through the stout log and fieldstone walls.
"This reminds me of winter at home," Ingolf said. "And that means we're not going anywhere for a good long while. You want to get caught in another blizzard?"
"It can be done," Mary said.
"Yah, and so can juggling sharp knives on horseback," Ingolf said. "A couple of hunters on snowshoes or skis, sure. Nine people? With horses? Big horses that need grain feed, some of them? We're lucky we didn't lose more getting here."
"I might as well go back to bed," Mary said with a martyred sigh.
"Something happened, didn't it?" Mathilda asked. "While we were in the cave."
"Well, I came close to dying," Rudi said, mock cheerfully.
Even that was hard when you felt as wretched as he did right now; in the daytime he was merely weak, but after dark like this, before sleep came, there were times when he felt as if the fever were back. An aching in every part of his body, not just the stabbing, itching ache of the healing wounds; as if he were utterly tired and at the same time too uncomfortable to rest. And when the simple comfort of the room was like a prison, wrapping him in tight bands from head to toe like a corpse trussed for the funeral pyre.
And that's when it's a struggle not to snap at people, Rudi thought. Yet it's also when you don't want to be alone. The Mother's blessing on you, anamchara.
Mathilda raised his head with a hand and fed him more of the bitter-sweet herbal tea. The low gutter of the lamp on the bedside table underlit her face, bringing out the strong contours, and highlighting small green flecks in her hazel-brown eyes. The acrid scent and taste of the liquid were comforting, and the heat relaxed him a little as it made its way down to his grateful stomach.
"Your problem is you're used to being Lugh come again," she said severely, when she'd turned back from replacing the kettle on the stove. "And now you're not, for a while."
He rolled his head on the pillow and smiled a little at her. She looked a bit shocked, which meant he wasn't doing it as well as he'd hoped.
"I had a vision, anamchara," he said, and waited for a little, until the herbs took some of the ache away.
"Well, your family is prone to them!" she said, and smoothed a lock of hair back from his forehead.
"While we were in the cave," he said. "I thought I was dead for a moment, and on the trail to the Summerlands with the Dread Lord. Then I met-"
She swallowed and crossed herself when the tale was done.
"It might have been just a dream," she said.
His smile quirked a little. "I doubt it. But it made me realize something. Ignatius planted the thought in me, that night we rescued you, but now I know it's true."
"What?"
His eyes went to the shadowed rafters and planks of the ceiling. "That this journey's end is my own death," he said softly. "I am walking towards a sword indeed; and to take it up is to take up my own mortality. All our perils and struggle just bring the altar and the knife closer."
Matti took his hand. "We're all on a journey towards that," she said stoutly.
He shook his head slightly. "Let's not play with words, you and I, my heart. I'm the Sword of the Lady; my blood is my people's ransom, the price paid for their hearths and their happiness. That's my… fate, my weird. It's a hero's death, to be sure-but I'd rather it wasn't so soon. A hero's life makes a fine song, but the living of it is another thing altogether. It's one thing to risk your death in battle, or a hunt or even climbing a tree… it's another to walk a path with only one ending, every step a pace closer. Most men run from death…"
There was a long silence. Then her hand moved on his forehead again. "You could-"
Another pause. "I could what?" he said. He laughed faintly, and then stopped because it hurt. "Matti, I wish I could run off with you and start a farm somewhere, seeing your face every morning, and die at eighty-six with our grandchildren about us, and in between no worries but the weather and the day's work."
Her hand squeezed his. "Me too, Rudi. Oh, God, how I wish we could!"
"But I can't. My fate… is. All I can control is how I meet it-whether I can make it mean something."
"Your father's did," she said.
Rudi nodded. "But my father didn't believe in fate; he laughed at it and at the gods. He didn't know the story he was in-and I'm thinking that made it easier for him. I must walk the road with my eyes open, and renew my consent to it every moment."
Something splashed on his hand. He turned his head; she was holding his hand between both of hers, tears falling silently. With an effort he freed himself and cupped his palm against her cheek; she turned and kissed the palm.
"Och, darlin', all men are born fey," he said. "It's your part in this I regret even more. For I know now that a long life would be sweet with you, and if you and I are together, it will be to your sorrow."
Mathilda took a long breath. "I don't believe in fate," she said. "We make our own. Well, there's the will of God, but that's not the same thing."
Rudi sighed. I have to tell her, he thought. But I don't have to work to convince her. Honor's not that demanding a mistress.
"Right now the only path you've got to walk is the one marked recover y. Or health! " she said, and he could feel her pushing foreknowledge away.
"Now, that's true, and there's no doubting it." He closed his eyes.
Strange folk, Christians, he thought. Aloud: "Would you mind singing that song for me again?"
She nodded, and began; there was a quaver in her voice at first, but it strengthened into the soft melody:
"Oh, Ladies, bring your flowers fair
Fresh as the morning dew
In virgin white, and through the night
I will make sweet love to you
The petals soon grow soft and fall
Upon which we may rest;
With gentle sigh I'll softly lie
My head upon your breast."
Very quietly, he began to sing along with it, more a suggestion than real sound:
"… And dreams like many wondrous flowers
Will blossom from our sleep
With steady arm, from any harm
My lover I will keep!
Through soft spring days and summer's haze
I will be with you till when
As fall draws near, I disappear till spring has come again!"
He closed his eyes and smiled. "Ah, that was a breath of home. Now tell me of your problems and worries, my heart's friend."
She laughed softly, that gurgling chuckle he'd always liked. Not even the fact that it was her mother's laugh could hide the warmth in it.
" My worst problem is boredom," she said. "I've been sparring-"