Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

"No, dear." Richard touched her shoulder. "You are the best made by Boston."

That day, and the hard-traveling days that followed – marching farther east to pass miles of bog, then turning north to the Wall – Baj first tasted the military life, tedious, routined, strenuous and oddly comforting.

Though these soldiers and their officers were all Persons, often odd, many furred and fanged to at least some extent by tiny bits twisted from animal co-sires, and planted in their mothers – still, they were soldiers, veterans of the trade, and allowed Baj to understand both his fathers better.

Kipchaks, North Mexicans, or Middle Kingdom's armored infantry – they still were brothers in arms to these Moonriser guardsmen, and Baj could feel something of what Toghrul Khan, of what Sam Monroe had felt in command of such forces. Forces formidable… and oddly innocent. Regiments of dangerous children.

There was a comfort in the surrounding armed and armored troops – though all were Persons, many of whom spoke only poor book-English… while some, perhaps incapable, did not speak at all. Still there was a comfort, a fellow feeling, as if all made a greater One. And the notion came – though of course illogical – that these formations were a family indestructable by any enemy.

Pedro Darry, in a rare serious moment, had once mentioned to Baj and Newton that men and women had a natural tendency – natural as short-summer flowers bending toward the sun – to bend, themselves, toward the nearest strength of arms, wealth, or wits… Traveling with the Guard, Baj found that was so, and took some care to maintain a certain easy distance from the pleasures of lean-to fellow feeling, barley beer and pie. Took care to remember that he, Nancy, and his friends, only lived and breathed because a general found them more useful than not.

The companies, still skirting huge stretches of bog, moved as Richard had moved north through the mountains, at a steady pace – never hurrying, never dawdling (wonderful old copybook word) – the infantry just keeping up with the cavalry mounts' ground-eating amble… Except for the wheedling pipes of march, everything, from "Out an' Up" to "Down an' Shut It," was ordered through the day on infantry bugle and cavalry trumpet sounding together, then thumped at the finish with a drum. In a service always professionally tense for assault, these rhythms of habit seemed to Baj a soothing medicine – as if guaranteeing a tomorrow the same as today.

He felt, sometimes – at leisure, usually – when there was a chess game to lose, when he and Nancy… murmuring, murmuring in blankets, rested in each other's arms after making love behind stinking bales, Baj felt at those times as if his fathers stood together, watching, exchanging between them an amused glance of hard-won experience observing… inexperience. At those times, so fleeting, it seemed to him their ghosts were at ease, at home with soldiers (of whatever kind) marching toward battle.

And with battle in mind, Baj resumed Nancy's lessons – and took lessons from Patience, whose left arm and shoulder grew swiftly stronger. Lessons in bitter winds – first with lean-to bracing-sticks for swords (costing many bruises), and then with their blades (costing minor cuts, and blood), being cautious to parry with the flat, to save their fine edges.

These bouts – at dawn or sunset, the light always chancy – drew soldiers as summer blossoms drew summer bummer-bees, and Baj grew used to rude comments as they fought Over-the-ditch, since any weapons brandishing – even for training – was forbidden in the camp.

Baj, Nancy, and Patience fought to blood and bruising until their swords seemed to leap out of the scabbards at any place of practice, the blades themselves appearing to become more wicked, as if they learned as their owners did… In those bouts, Patience's skill became more and more evident, despite her white hair – as behind those black eyes, there seemed a second Patience come to fence, young, swift, and merciless.

Baj often thought of poetry as they marched east, then north to pipes and drums, Tail-end Charlies to a strolling squadron of farting moose, but he wrote none – the days of poetry seemed past – except for a lyric shaped for Nancy, and scribbled on brown regimental roll-paper with a lead-point pencil.

I've been bitten to madness by a pretty fox, A vixen in silver light, but a girl in gold. Now this fortunate fool finds no fear stands Nor any trouble; they, as if by summer winds Are blown away through beauty's gentle magic. A madman's luck – with yet a richer measure: Her auric eyes to mirror our love's pleasure.

She'd read it, mouthing the words to herself – something he'd noticed she always did, as if reading needed reminding as it went along. Read it, then raised her elegant head, and looked at him. "I love you, Baj," she'd said, "- but love the man who wrote this, more."

They had became so close there were no longer quite two of them, and Baj thought not of the rest of his life, but resting his life with hers. And was afraid for her.

"I want Nancy out of this."

Patience, sitting cross-legged in her warm new coat of colors – it draped almost ankle-length on her – was finishing a bite of seal-meat jerky with effortful chewing. "Of course you do – even more than I want Nancy, and Richard, and you out of this. Weasel-boy as well."

"I mean it."

"So do I," Patience said, and took another bite. When she'd chewed and swallowed, she said, "Do you imagine, Baj, that you're the first to come to me with this?"

"I thought so."

"Nancy, already denied by Richard, came to me the night of our first day with these guardsmen. She wanted you safe and away… I told her what I'll tell you. I've come to care for you all – Errol excepted, and even there, some affection – and, since I've become older and foolish, might even die to save any one of you." She sniffed at the jerky. "Seal meat, even dried, doesn't have to be this bad… Yes, might even die to save you, so silly I've become. But I will never let you go." Her black eyes seemed darker than black.

"- And will certainly do my best to kill you both, if you run. Your life – our lives – balance very poorly against what Boston has done in its hostage taking – crimes I admit perfectly comfortable for me, until they took my son… They fear my darling so, fear the past truths he dreams – fear even more what futures he may find, traveling blood's probable highways. Find, or perhaps someday make come to pass."

She took another bite of jerky, spoke while chewing. "I've seen that for Sunrisers or Moonrisers, love is always lost sooner or later, as the man or woman is always lost, to death if nothing else… Learn to live with loss to come, Baj; prepare to fight as your fathers fought – and never come begging to me again."

Relieved of hope, Baj felt oddly content, and as march followed march, now to the north – and the Wall grew from a white ribbon… to taller, and taller… until it was a wall, stretched across the northern horizon – he kept Nancy close for the pleasure of her closeness, so they walked through the camps' habitual temporary streets a couple, with Errol – wandering, circling, having to be called or hauled back – acting their restless child.

The wind, some days, became bitter with deeper cold, notice sent down from the glacier as if a great messenger-pigeon of crystal ice were bringing word of Lord Winter's awakening. Unless in fur mittens, with parky hood up, Baj's hands and face were numbed by these breezes… In their weeks since Battle-valley, he and the others had traveled the summer away.

After chow, the evening of their sixth day marching, Richard – who had a fine gift for it – settled on a blanket by their small dry-dung fire, with his ax and their knives and swords lying beside him to sharpen. He always began with a coarse small stone from Map-Missouri… then, after the most delicate strokes – his huge hand light, light along the steel – he went to soft Map-Arkansas, both very expensive stones imported through three tribes, Owls to Blue-birds, then across the river to the Thrushes. Last – Richard's secret – he used palm-sized chunks dug out of permafrost, the ice finely powdered with the ground granite of glaciers advancing and retreating centuries ago, to stroke along edges already shaving sharp.