Iqbal returned her welcome, calling, “Well met, Mum, well met indeed. I present to you Sir Hjortt of Azgaroth, Fifteenth Colonel of the Crimson Empire.” The anathema glanced to his superior, but when Sir Hjortt didn’t fall all over himself to charge ahead and meet a potential witch, Iqbal murmured, “She’s just an old bird, sir, nothing to fret about.”
“Old bird or fledgling, I wouldn’t blindly stick my hand in an owlbat’s nest,” Portolés said, stepping past Sir Hjortt and Iqbal to address the old woman in the Crimson tongue. “In the names of the Pontiff of the West and the Queen of the Rest, I order you out here into the light, woman.”
“Queen of the Rest?” The woman obliged Portolés, stepping down the creaking steps of her porch and approaching the fence. For a mayor’s wife, her checked dirndl was as plain as any village girl’s. “And Pontiff of the West, is it? Last peddler we had through here brought tidings that Pope Shanatu’s war wasn’t going so well, but I gather much has changed. Is this sovereign of the Rest, blessed whoever she be, still Queen Indsorith? And does this mean peace has once again been brokered?”
“This bird hears a lot from her tree,” muttered Sir Hjortt, then asked the woman, “Are you indeed the mayor’s wife?”
“I am Mayoress Vivi, wife of Leib,” said she. “And I ask again, respectfully, to whom shall I direct my prayers when next I—”
“The righteous reign of Queen Indsorith continues, blessed be her name,” said Sir Hjortt. “Pope Shanatu, blessed be his name, received word from on high that his time as Shepherd of Samoth has come to an end, and so the war is over. His niece Jirella, blessed be her name, has ascended to her rightful place behind the Onyx Pulpit, and taken on the title of Pope Y’Homa III, Mother of Midnight, Shepherdess of the Lost.”
“I see,” said the mayoress. “And in addition to accepting a rebel pope’s resignation and the promotion of his kin to the same lofty post, our beloved Indsorith, long may her glory persist, has also swapped out her noble title? ‘Queen of Samoth, Heart of the Star, Jewel of Diadem, Keeper of the Crimson Empire’ for, ah, ‘Queen of the Rest’?” The woman’s faintly lined face wrinkled further as she smiled, and Portolés slyly returned it.
“Do not mistake my subordinate’s peculiar sense of humor for a shift in policy—the queen’s honorifics remain unchanged,” said Sir Hjortt, thinking of how best to discipline Portolés. If she thought that sort of thing flew with her commanding colonel just because there were no higher-ranked clerical witnesses to her dishonorable talk, the witchborn freak had another thing coming. He almost wished she would refuse to carry out his command, so he’d have an excuse to get rid of her altogether. In High Azgarothian, he said, “Portolés, return to the village and give the order. In the time it will take you to make it down I’ll have made myself clear enough.”
Portolés stiffened and gave Sir Hjortt a pathetic frown that told him she’d been holding out hope that he would change his mind. Not bloody likely. Also in Azgarothian, the war nun said, “I’m … I’m just going to have a look inside before I do. Make sure it’s safe, Colonel Hjortt.”
“By all means, Sister Portolés, welcome, welcome,” said the older woman, also in that ancient and honorable tongue of Sir Hjortt’s ancestors. Unexpected, that, but then the Star had been a different place when this biddy was in her prime, and perhaps she had seen more of it than just her remote mountain. Now that she was closer he saw that her cheeks were more scarred than wrinkled, a rather gnarly one on her chin, and for the first time since their arrival, a shadow of worry played across the weathered landscape of her face. Good. “I have an old hound sleeping in the kitchen whom I should prefer you left to his dreams, but am otherwise alone. But, good Colonel, Leib was to have been at the crossroads this morning …”
Sir Hjortt ignored the mayor’s wife, following Portolés through the gate onto the walkway of flat, colorful stones that crossed the yard. They were artlessly arranged; the first order of business would be to hire the mason who had done the bathrooms at his family estate in Cockspar, or maybe the woman’s apprentice, if the hoity-toity artisan wasn’t willing to journey a hundred leagues into the wilds to retile a walk. A mosaic of miniature animals would be nice, or maybe indigo shingles could be used to make it resemble a creek. But then they had forded a rill on their way up from the village, so why not have somebody trace it to its source and divert it this way, have an actual stream flow through the yard? It couldn’t be that hard to have it come down through the trees there and then run over the cliff beside the deck, creating a miniature waterfall that—
“Empty,” said Portolés, coming back outside. Sir Hjortt had lost track of himself—it had been a steep march up, and a long ride before that. Portolés silently moved behind the older woman, who stood on the walk between Sir Hjortt and her house. The matron looked nervous now, all right.
“My husband Leib, Colonel Hjortt. Did you meet him at the crossroads?” Her voice was weaker now, barely louder than the quaking aspens. That must be something to hear as one lay in bed after a hard day’s hunt, the rustling of those golden leaves just outside your window.
“New plan,” said Sir Hjortt, not bothering
