S. Stirling - Dies The Fire

Any High Priestess was automatically, if your coven split off more than a couple of daughters, which hers had- several times over. That didn't mean all that much, besides prestige and people asking for your advice; the Craft didn't have popes or ayatollahs or anything resembling them. And of course, you got to put some doodads on your garter:

Or at least it didn't mean much before the Change, she thought uneasily.

Dennis left and came back with a keg of his beer over one thick shoulder; there were appreciative murmurs from the ranchers, since there hadn't been much worthy of the name east of the mountains in some time. Eilir bustled about with mugs and glasses, and set up a little spirit-lamp with a big pot of chamomile tea near Juniper's place.

There were also a number of visitors from little clusters of coveners who'd survived in the mountainous backwoods south of Eugene and some other out-of-the-way spots. They were respectful to a degree that made her blink; granted, the Mackenzies had been able to spare some much needed help there, the difference between life and death in some cases. And her clan were much better off than any of theirs, and for that matter the Singing Moon had had a good reputation for years, still:

Luther Finney grinned at her as he detached himself from the dancing and came over to the table. "Nice spread, Juney. Haven't had a good barn dance like this in ages, neither."

"Good to see you can still cut a rug, Luther." She nodded at him, and his younger companion, before turning to the other guests: "Luther Finney, a member of the University Committee, and Captain Peter Jones, of their militia."

Handshakes went around; Juniper made small talk- mostly about crops and weather-until the food was finished. Some of the people on kitchen duty came and took away the empties; and at last Sam Aylward gave her a thumbs-up signal from the edge of sight:

"I think the other guests have arrived," she said, leaning forward to turn up the knob of the table lamp.

Heads came around at a uniform tramp of feet and clash of metal. There were a few gasps when five Bearkillers marched into sight, looking like giants in their long mail hauberks, vambraces, shin guards and armored gauntlets; they had their shields on their arms, and their bowcases and quivers slung over their backs. The sixth was in civil garb, dark cargo-pocket pants and duster and broad-brimmed hat, but he had the red snarling-bear outline embroidered on the left shoulder of his jacket. He also had one of the long straight-bladed, basket-hilted swords at his waist.

"Ma'am," he said, taking off his hat. "Will Hutton, at your service. Ladies, gentlemen."

You know, it's been weeks since I saw a black person, she thought suddenly.

That brought a momentary pang for the thronging many-threaded tapestry of life before the Change; even his accent was nostalgic, a twanging drawl from off the southern plains, Oklahoma or Texas.

"Mr. Hutton," she said, rising and extending a hand. "Mike Havel told me a great deal about you."

"Likewise, Lady Juniper," he said.

His grip had the careful gentleness of a very strong man. And his hand was callused in a way that spoke of hard work long before the Change, battered and a little gnarled-the hands of someone who labored outside in all weathers. Otherwise he was unremarkable, middle-aged and wiry save for broad shoulders: and a steady shrewdness about the eyes.

One of the ranchers blurted: "You're this Lord Bear we've heard about?"

"No, sir, I am not," Hutton said with dignified politeness, unbuckling his sword belt and handing it to one of the troopers before he sat. "I'm ramrod and second-in-command of our outfit, and I have full authority to negotiate for the Bearkillers."

"Wait a minute," another rancher said. "Hutton: didn't you used to ride roughstock? Saw you at the Pendleton Round-Up back in 'seventy-five, 'seventy-six-that was one mean bull."

Hutton smiled whitely; it made his rather stern, weathered brown face charming.

"Long time ago," he said. "Been wranglin' horses since 1977, until the Change."

"I've talked to men who bought horses from you."

That seemed to break the ice. Hutton made a motion with his hand, and one of the armored men took off his helmet. It was the blond young man she'd met with Havel that spring; looking older and tougher now, his beard a little less fuzzy and a recently healed scar on his chin.

"This here is my aide-de-camp"-Hutton pronounced the words as if he'd learned them from a French speaker-"Eric Larsson; our bossman's going to be married to his elder sister, Signe. We're headed for the old Larsson place west of the Willamette. He's engaged to my daughter Luanne."

The ranchers nodded; they understood blood ties, and that Hutton had made good his claim to be high in the Bearkiller hierarchy. Now that the elaborate panoply of bureaucracy and cities and civilization was gone, such things were beginning to take on their old importance.

Juniper sighed to herself. Oddly sweet, those few days. But not lasting: she set a hand on her stomach: except for the consequences!

"And this is his younger sister, Astrid, who's here 'cause she sketches good; she's got drawings that'll interest you gentlemen."

A coltish teenager; you could see Eric's chiseled Nordic looks in her face, but finer-boned, almost ethereal; and the eyes were remarkable, huge and pale, blue rimmed and streaked with an almost silver color. Her outfit looked a little like something you'd have seen at a RenFaire before the Change, or a Society meeting-Robin Hood gear, but in good-quality leather, and showing signs of hard use. Juniper's dirk stood at her waist, and a beautifully crafted bow and quiver over her shoulder.

Eric was standing near Juniper. She could hear his sotto voce murmur:

"And with luck, she won't have put in any unicorns or trolls."

The girl glared at him, but silently. Her fingers moved in patterns Juniper recognized.

So did Eilir, and she leaned forward from her position behind her mother's chair and replied: You know the Sign for abortion and bad odor and completely unnecessary person?

Astrid's white-blond mane tossed as she nodded: I've been studying Sign all summer.

From a book, I bet, Eilir replied. You need to know some stuff they don't print – the Sign for creep and jerk and moron. How come you were studying, though?

Ever since I got this utterly rad dagger from your mom and heard about you guys. Are you really Witches? This is so interesting!

Juniper ignored the byplay-one of the convenient things about a Sign conversation was that you didn't have to overhear it-and spoke aloud:

"I don't think your people need to stand there being uncomfortable, Mr. Hutton. There's plenty to eat and the dancing will go on for hours."

He nodded to her, and then to Eric. The younger man spoke: "Stand easy-friendly country protocol."

Hutton relaxed and turned for a moment to put his mug under the spigot: she noticed that he hadn't eaten or drunk before his men could. The menacing iron statues turned human as they came out from behind the nasal-bars of their helmets, grinning and nudging each other as they moved off to shed their armor; then they headed for the food tables, and any interesting conversations they could strike up-being figures of strangeness and glamour, that ought not to be very difficult.

Eric disarmed too, but came back quickly.

"Sorry we're a bit late," Hutton said easily, then took a draught. "My oh my, I've missed a good beer! Yeah, we had a little bandit trouble gettin' over the pass."

"Serious?" Sam Aylward asked.

"Not for us," Hutton said with a grim smile.

Chuckles ran around most of the men at the table. Juniper winced inwardly, then spoke herself: "Now, you've all heard of the Bearkillers?"