just into her middle twenties. But
the bloom of youth has abandoned her. Hard years have piled on hard
years. There is little feminine about her. She had no chance to
develop in that direction. Even after two years on the Plain none
of us think of her as Woman.
She is tall, maybe two inches under six feet. Her eyes are a
washed-out blue that often seems vacant, but they become swords of
ice when she is thwarted. Her hair is blonde, as from much exposure
to the sun. Without continuous attention it hangs in straggles and
strings. Not vain, she keeps it shorter than is stylish. In dress,
too, she leans toward the utilitarian. Some first-time visitors are
offended because she dresses so masculine. But she leaves them with
no doubts that she can handle business.
Her role came to her unwanted, but she has made peace with it,
has assumed it with stubborn determination. She shows a wisdom
remarkable for her age, and for one handicapped as she is. Raven
taught her well during those few years he was her guardian.
She was pacing when I arrived. The conference room is
earth-sided, smokey, crowded even when empty. It smells of long
occupation by too many unclean men. The old messenger from Oar was
there. So were Tracker and Corder and several other outsiders. Most
of the Company were present. I finger-signed a greeting. Darling
gave me a sisterly hug, asked if I had any progress to report.
I spoke for the group and signed for her. “I am sure we
don’t have all the documents we found in the Forest of Cloud.
Not just because I can’t identify what I’m looking for,
either. Everything I do have is too old.”
Darling’s features are regular. Nothing stands out. Yet
you sense character, will, that this woman cannot be broken. She
has been to Hell already. It did not touch her as a child. She will
not be touched now.
She was not pleased. She signed, “We will not have the
time we thought.”
My attention was half elsewhere. I had hoped for sparks between
Tracker and the other westerner. On a gut level I had responded
negatively to Tracker. I found myself with an irrational hope for
evidence to sustain that reaction.
Nothing.
Not surprising. The cell structure of the movement keeps our
sympathizers insulated from one another.
Darling wanted to hear from Goblin and One-Eye next. Goblin used
his squeakiest voice. “Everything we heard is true. They are
reinforcing their garrisons. But Corder can tell you better. For
us, the mission was a bust. They were ready. They chased us all
over the Plain. We were lucky to get away. We didn’t get no
help, either.”
The menhirs and their weird pals are on our side, supposedly.
Sometimes I wonder. They are unpredictable. They help or
don’t according to a formula only they understand.
Darling was little interested in details of the failed raid. She
moved on to Corder. He said, “Armies are gathering on both
sides of the Plain. Under command of the Taken.”
“Taken?” I asked. I knew of only the two. He sounded
like he meant many.
A chill then. There is a longtime rumor that the Lady has been
quiet so long because she is raising a new crop of Taken. I had not
believed it. The age is sorrowfully short of characters of the
magnificently villainous vitality of those the Dominator took in
olden times: Soulcatcher, the Hanged Man, Nightcrawler,
Shapeshifter, the Limper, and such. Those were nastymen of the
grand scope, nearly as wild and hairy in their wickedness as the
Lady and Dominator themselves. This is the era of the weak sister,
excepting only Darling and Whisper.
Corder responded shyly. “The rumors are true,
Lord.”
Lord. Me. Because I stand near the heart of the dream. I hate
it, yet eat it up. “Yes?”
“They may not be Stormbringers or Howlers, these new
Taken.” He smiled feebly. “Sir Tucker observed that the
old Taken were wild devils as unpredictable as the lightning, and
the new ones are the predictable tame thunder of bureaucracy. If
you follow my
the bloom of youth has abandoned her. Hard years have piled on hard
years. There is little feminine about her. She had no chance to
develop in that direction. Even after two years on the Plain none
of us think of her as Woman.
She is tall, maybe two inches under six feet. Her eyes are a
washed-out blue that often seems vacant, but they become swords of
ice when she is thwarted. Her hair is blonde, as from much exposure
to the sun. Without continuous attention it hangs in straggles and
strings. Not vain, she keeps it shorter than is stylish. In dress,
too, she leans toward the utilitarian. Some first-time visitors are
offended because she dresses so masculine. But she leaves them with
no doubts that she can handle business.
Her role came to her unwanted, but she has made peace with it,
has assumed it with stubborn determination. She shows a wisdom
remarkable for her age, and for one handicapped as she is. Raven
taught her well during those few years he was her guardian.
She was pacing when I arrived. The conference room is
earth-sided, smokey, crowded even when empty. It smells of long
occupation by too many unclean men. The old messenger from Oar was
there. So were Tracker and Corder and several other outsiders. Most
of the Company were present. I finger-signed a greeting. Darling
gave me a sisterly hug, asked if I had any progress to report.
I spoke for the group and signed for her. “I am sure we
don’t have all the documents we found in the Forest of Cloud.
Not just because I can’t identify what I’m looking for,
either. Everything I do have is too old.”
Darling’s features are regular. Nothing stands out. Yet
you sense character, will, that this woman cannot be broken. She
has been to Hell already. It did not touch her as a child. She will
not be touched now.
She was not pleased. She signed, “We will not have the
time we thought.”
My attention was half elsewhere. I had hoped for sparks between
Tracker and the other westerner. On a gut level I had responded
negatively to Tracker. I found myself with an irrational hope for
evidence to sustain that reaction.
Nothing.
Not surprising. The cell structure of the movement keeps our
sympathizers insulated from one another.
Darling wanted to hear from Goblin and One-Eye next. Goblin used
his squeakiest voice. “Everything we heard is true. They are
reinforcing their garrisons. But Corder can tell you better. For
us, the mission was a bust. They were ready. They chased us all
over the Plain. We were lucky to get away. We didn’t get no
help, either.”
The menhirs and their weird pals are on our side, supposedly.
Sometimes I wonder. They are unpredictable. They help or
don’t according to a formula only they understand.
Darling was little interested in details of the failed raid. She
moved on to Corder. He said, “Armies are gathering on both
sides of the Plain. Under command of the Taken.”
“Taken?” I asked. I knew of only the two. He sounded
like he meant many.
A chill then. There is a longtime rumor that the Lady has been
quiet so long because she is raising a new crop of Taken. I had not
believed it. The age is sorrowfully short of characters of the
magnificently villainous vitality of those the Dominator took in
olden times: Soulcatcher, the Hanged Man, Nightcrawler,
Shapeshifter, the Limper, and such. Those were nastymen of the
grand scope, nearly as wild and hairy in their wickedness as the
Lady and Dominator themselves. This is the era of the weak sister,
excepting only Darling and Whisper.
Corder responded shyly. “The rumors are true,
Lord.”
Lord. Me. Because I stand near the heart of the dream. I hate
it, yet eat it up. “Yes?”
“They may not be Stormbringers or Howlers, these new
Taken.” He smiled feebly. “Sir Tucker observed that the
old Taken were wild devils as unpredictable as the lightning, and
the new ones are the predictable tame thunder of bureaucracy. If
you follow my
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