"Mine too, though we call Them Thunor and Woden. But in some of my father's books They're called by those names." His gaze turned thoughtful. "In the old days, in the Society, he had what they called an Anglo-Saxon persona, but he took it seriously. There's some in the barony who still follow the White Christ, and there's the monks at the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas, but most folk are Heathen here. Myself, I'm training to be a scop-a singer-so I offer to Woden."

Thora shrugged. "I think it's pretty much that way all over. In Hawaii they offer to Pele and Kane. That was worth leaving home to see! The old, old ways go better with the life we live now."

A smile lit Deor's gray eyes and she felt a flicker of attraction. To let the crew even think of her as a woman could have caused stresses in the little world of the vessel. She had been wary even of making a friend, though the sailor-girls seemed to get along okay. But they were not on shipboard now. I could take Deor in a fight, she thought, but if he invited me to share his blankets, I wouldn't say no . . .

"My father leads the rites, and my sister Gytha uses healing spells, but my brother puts his faith in the spear and the plow," he replied. "I've tried to learn the runes. Do you have anyone who knows more?" Any thought of dalliance was clearly miles away.

Thora sighed. Admittedly she did not look her best, though she had bathed at the village and washed the salt out of her hair. But she didn't know the customs here, and anyway, there was no privacy.

"Not on the ship, certainly. In Montival, for magic I guess you'd go to the Mackenzies. Or the High King."

"Tell me-" Deor's eyes shone. "Tell me about your king . . ."

What will King Artos think of this land?

As the road wound upward Deor took a deep breath and looked back the way they had come.

If it is his, will he belong to it in turn? Will he see how beautiful it can be? Surely Mist Hills was a part of Montival.

The previous night the heroic figure of the High King had filled his dreams. And the Sword of the Lady-and Woden speaking through the godwoman to say it was forged for the hand of a King!

The rain had ceased. The rich scent of damp earth and mulching leaves lay heavy on the air, spiced by an occasional breath of wood smoke from the farmhouses in the valley below. He thought the valley had impressed the visitors with its well-kept farmsteads, each surrounded by a stout palisade, and the stock grazing in the pastures and the orchards where a few apples still clung to the trees. They had stopped at Gowan's farm for cider and meat pies, but that seemed a long time ago.

The setting sun shafted between bands of cloud, illuminating ochre slopes half covered by oak forest, the wet leaves shining richly orange and bronze and gold. Farther down he could see the thick band of trees that edged the river, and mist smoking off the fir-clad ridges beyond. He had dreamed of seeing the world beyond this valley, but for a moment a sudden awareness of the land overwhelmed him, as if all the myriad lives around him had fused into a single Spirit that welcomed him home.

Thora trudged beside him. She looked weary, but her hazel eyes missed nothing. He was surprised to realize how much he liked her. Lately his mother had started matchmaking, and it made him feel as if walls were closing in. Perhaps it was because all the girls at the burg felt like his sisters. His older brother had three children already and Gytha had two. The Godulfsons were not going to go extinct if he did not breed.

He grinned as the long blare of a horn rose and fell beyond the trees.

"It's a fair land, your Mist Hills, and reminds me a bit of home. I take it we're almost there?"

After hearing about the wonders of Montival Deor did not expect to impress her, but he could not resist a spurt of pride as the rock wall and the palisade came into view. Beyond them rose the peaked roof of the mead-hall and a tower where two banners snapped in the wind, the one per fess azure and vert a fess wavy argent, and the other per chevron or and sable, a raven volant bendwise sable.

His father's huscarles were marching out to form two lines before the gatehouse. The last sunlight sparkled on the serried links of their hauberks of riveted mail and gleamed from the curve of the spangenhelms and the points of their spears and the bosses of their round gold and black painted shields.

Beneath the arch of the gate waited the baron and his lady. For a moment Deor saw his parents through the strangers' eyes-a man of sixty-two with scarred face and hands, still big in the shoulders though his body had thickened with age; a woman whose crisp linen wimple hid fading hair and a double chin, but whose erect posture and sharp gray eyes conceded nothing to the years.

"Food and baths and beds for all!" he grinned. "And if I know my mother, a feast tomorrow. Welcome to Hraefnbeorg!"

I've made it to Meduseld . . . thought Thora as the summoning horn ceased to blow. The Rangers will love it here!

She had never seriously considered joining them, but she had read the books the Dunedain called the Histories. The rest of Hraefnbeorg's buildings were a maze connected by covered passages, the older sections weathered and much repaired, the new with a rough vitality. The kitchen was separate, and there was a small house for the images of the gods.

The feasting hall was also new. It stood at the highest point of the hill, where the summit had been built out with stone. Timbers braced the sides, and the lower part of the shingled roof was angled outward over a porch. Above, crossed timbers ended in raven heads, stark against the sky. For a moment she stared, then followed Captain Feldman up the steps and into the hall.

Her legs felt naked beneath the long skirts of the russet gown they had given her. Bearkiller women rarely wore them, but all her other clothes had been carried off to be cleaned. The meat must have gone into the pit and onto the spit as soon as they were sighted coming up the hill. Her stomach had been growling all morning as the scent of roasting pig wafted through the air.

At the door a boy stood with a basin and towel so that the guests could wash their hands. Deor's friend had said Lady Avisa liked to be prepared. To be in control was more like it, she thought wryly. Some people had reacted that way, after the Change.

Light shafted down from windows at each end and from the dormers over the doors at the sides, but at first all she could make out were the two rows of pillars that ran lengthwise to support the upper part of the roof. As her eyes adjusted she could see that the uprights were carved and painted with bands and chevrons, as were the crossbeams that braced them. The long tables were filling with solid-looking folk, most of them in some kind of T-tunic or gown, though a few wore carefully preserved dresses or jackets and trousers. They must be the eorl's guard and the more prominent farmers from the valley below.

"This way, mistress-" Deor's friend Willa appeared at her elbow and pointed her toward the trestle tables set up along the left side of the hall.

Captain Feldman was already waiting by a carved chair in the middle, where the long hearth had been divided so that people could pass between the two sides of the hall. The crew sat on the benches beyond him. He seemed a little self-conscious in a tunic of purple cloth that looked as if it had been packed away somewhere since the Change.

On the other side of the hall Deor's father stood by a dais that held two even more ornate chairs with a small table between them. The lord's seat was carved with a sinuous interlace within which she glimpsed the horns and muzzles, curving tails, beaks and bright eyes of every bird and beast one might find in these hills. The lady's chair bore all the fruits of orchard and forest and field. A tapestry had been stretched between the pillars behind the high seats, cross-stitched with the arms of the barony. There were discolored spots on the green, as if new stitching had replaced a wreath that had once been there.

Eorl Godulf's tunic was made of very finely woven saffron wool, heavily embroidered across the breast and shoulders with twining beasts. The cloth was a little faded with age, and strips of a cruder weave and slightly different color had been set into the sides to expand it. He wore a white belt like an Association knight and a pendant Thor's Hammer on a complex linked chain. The jutting nose above the strong, bearded jaw was that of a man accustomed to being obeyed, but he did not seem unkind. Close to the lord's high seat she noted a strongly built man in his thirties who was the image of what Godulf must have been when he was young, with a pregnant woman beside him.

"The countess will come-" Willa followed her glance. "We sit here. Usually I help serve, but Deor said stay t' tell you what's goin' on."

"I thought Godulf was a baron-" said Thora as she took her place behind the bench next to the first mate from the Ark. And where was Deor? He was surprisingly easy to be with, and she had hoped he could sit with her to explain.

"For Mist Hills, aye, but in th' old days he won the rank of eorl by arms. He was noble afore the cataclysm"-Willa pointed proudly to the embattled silver band that held the eorl's silver hair-"an' he saved us all!"

Loaves of brown bread and a variety of sliced cheeses were already on the table, but no one else was eating, so she controlled the impulse to tear off a piece and wolf it down. There was a stir at the end of the hall as Countess Avisa appeared in the doorway, bearing a large silver-mounted drinking horn. Several young women with pitchers followed. All fell silent as Godulf lifted his hand.

"Laid are the boards and the guests assembled. Wilcuma! Be welcome!" He stepped onto the dais and took his seat. Thora felt the prickle of awareness that came sometimes at home when they sat at sumble, as if the visible guests were not the only ones in the hall.

Lady Avisa passed between the tables and the hearth to stand before the dais. "Hail the hall!" She turned to face her husband. "Hail Godulf Eorl! This drink I bear to bless the land-father, wine and wynn for the boar of battle!" She held out the horn.

The eorl made the sign of the Hammer over the top and lifted the horn. "Hail to the gods, hail to the goddesses, hail to the fathers and mothers of our folk! Hail to the sele-aelf, to mund-aelfen and aecere-aelfen, hail the wights that ward us all!" He took a long swallow. "Wuton wesan wel! Let us be well!" He handed the horn back to his lady.

Once more the countess faced the hall. "To all our guests a host of welcomes!" Her face shone. "Far have they fared, bringing hope unlooked for!"

Traditional words, but rarely so sincerely spoken, thought Thora as Lady Avisa paced across the gap between the hearths and offered the horn to Captain Feldman.

Clearly the captain had been warned. He took the horn a little awkwardly, but this was no real challenge to one who had feasted Association-style.

"Greetings to you, my lord and lady, and to all here. On behalf of myself and my crew I thank you for this welcome. And your son Deor, lord Baron, I thank for his quick wit and quick action! Not so long ago I thought our next meal would be at the bottom of the sea! He saved our ship and cargo at the very least, and likely our lives as well."

Feldman laid his hand on the shoulder of the youth beside him. "Including my son Moishe here, who is on his first voyage to learn the trade. If you or yours ever come to my home, my lord, my house is your house and any help I can give is yours for the asking. But I'm grateful also to find yet another community that has survived the wreck of the old world. I drink to a long and profitable relationship between your barony and the Kingdom of Montival!"

He drank, then looked at the horn with an appreciative smile.

Has he told our hosts that from Montival's point of view, Mist Hills is already a part of the kingdom? Thora wondered as she sat down. Until now the Province of Westria had existed only in theory, but she guessed that once the Ark got home plans to reclaim it might start moving faster.

As the countess went to her seat the girls spread out to fill everyone's cup or glass. The wine went down like silk, leaving a complexity of flavors, rich and earthy beneath the hints of fruit and flower that preserved the essence of the land from which they came. A pinot noir, she thought, as good as anything she had tasted at home, perhaps from one of the vineyards they had passed on their way.

But the friendly fire in her belly only whetted her appetite for the dishes that the children of the burg, faces scrubbed and shining, were bearing in. Leading the procession came a platter with the head of the boar wreathed in bay laurel, an apple in its tusked mouth, followed by trays with steaming slabs of pork dripping with fat and some spicy marinade and accompanied by bowls of barley with little bits of dried fruit mixed in.

At the sound of a plucked chord everyone looked up, though they did not cease to chew. Deor was standing before his father's high seat with a rectangular lyre cradled in one arm. She noted with approval that he cleaned up nice. His wild hair had been combed and he was wearing cross-gartered gray breeches and a T-tunic of muted blue wool that had been lavishly embroidered around the neck and hem and along the seams by a loving hand. There were silver plates on his belt and the sheath of his seax, and around his neck a valknut on a silver chain. His gear, like most she had seen here, lacked the polish she would have expected for folks of their rank in Montival, but really, for what must be a relatively small community, they were doing pretty well.

He cleared his throat. "Here we have no scop, but my father grants me leave to offer some entertainment." He half bowed to Captain Feldman. "This is a poem from long before the Cataclysm, that I've put into our tongue. 'Tis by another man who was a wanderer. I think things long ago were a lot like today . . ." Once more he struck the strings. His voice was unexpectedly precise and commanding as he began to declaim.

Oft the lone-dweller must wait for honor For the Measurer's mercy, though he be anxious, Over the seaways wide he shall wander With his hands stroking through the frost-cold sea, Far from home faring. Weird does what it will.

Thora lost track as the servers returned with thin-sliced venison garnished with mint and baked apples and drizzled with a sauce made with a cider reduction and local bearberries. With it came bowls of red cabbage cooked with raisins and purple onion and bits of grated carrot. The drink they served with this course was a cider just at the edge of dry.

She looked up again at a sudden bitter quality in the chanting- ... many the places in middle-earth now, where walls stand wind-blown, forced down by frost, storm-beaten the shelters.

The wine-halls totter, the lords laid low.

Thora shivered, remembering a scavenging expedition when the wall of an old building had shuddered in the wind and then with a groan collapsed into the road. This had all happened before! Maybe not the same Change, but something that destroyed a world. The ruins of Portland would not have surprised the man who wrote those words.

They were bringing in a third course of wild geese stuffed with garlic and onion, with roasted root vegetables on the side. She wondered when Deor would get a chance to eat, but now at last he seemed to be drawing to a close.

Well for the one who keeps his troth, Unwise for a warrior to speak of his worry Unless for the care he has the cure.

The eorl goes bravely. Well for him who seeks blessing From All-father in heaven, in whom our help stands.

As he ended, there was some scattered applause, but really, it had been a depressing poem. People were getting up and moving around, taking a break before the dessert that Thora felt sure would be coming along soon. Eorl Godulf invited Captain Feldman to take one of the empty seats nearby.

Deor reappeared, carrying a full plate, and slid onto the bench beside her. "My father wants t' set up a regular trading schedule. What d'ye think the captain'll say?"

"What can your people offer?" she said as Deor sketched a rune above his plate and began to devour the food. "He can't afford to sail without some profit. We already have enough cattle and timber and wine at home."

"D'ye have any cider good as this?" Deor held out his cup as one of the girls came around. "Gowan has all kinds of apples. Might be some your folk have never seen."

"That's a thought." She stopped, as above the conversation she heard the long call of a horn that sounded as if it came from the tower. Deor jerked upright, hand on his seax, and the huscarles reached for the weapons they had leaned against the wall. Thora grabbed fruitlessly at her side, cursing the convention that forbade her to wear her sword with this gown.

The horn blew again. "Someone coming," Deor relaxed. "Not expected, but not wild men, or Eadric would still be blowing."

A young man with flyaway fair hair burst through the door and sketched a bow. "Milord! It's Morgruen and Orsa, decked out in their best an' trottin' up the road with their merry men behind."

"How many?" Godulf rose.

"A dozen-"

The baron nodded. "He can bring four with him into the hall. We'll talk in the rede-room." He gestured toward the door that led to a smaller chamber at the end of the hall. "Bring food, but not too much. Those who come to a feast without invitation can't complain if leftovers is all they are served."

"Hail to the hall!" Duke Morgruen's voice seemed to vibrate in the painted timbers. "Hail to Godulf Eorl and Countess Avisa. Hail to all here, and especially to your guests from the northern realm." Duke Morgruen and his lady bowed to the high seat and then to Captain Feldman.

Just as if they had been invited! Deor thought indignantly. He was not the only one whose hand had gone to his blade. Morgruen had not quite apologized for being late to the feast, but somehow it was implied. Someone in the duke's pay must have scurried off to Guildengard as soon as Willa brought word of the ship's arrival.

The duke moved forward to shake hands with Captain Feldman. He and his lady were wearing crimson silk and a king's ransom in gems set in gold. He was a big man, but looked now as if some of his height had slid down to his middle.

"We're delighted to meet you, sir! I'd heard things were happening up north. Been meaning to send an expedition to see. And now here you are!" Morgruen said genially.

Deor bristled. Surely that kind of rumor should have been shared!

"I'm sure Eorl Godulf here has been making you offers," Morgruen went on, "but you'll want to make the best deals you can. I've had good hunting in the dead cities-" He patted the massive gold of the necklet beneath his pointed beard. "Don't make any promises till you've heard what I have to say-"

Duchess Orsa handed her cloak to one of the girls, looking around her as if she were setting a price on the tapestries. The collar was of fox fur, a shade lighter than her dyed hair. A faceted red stone winked from her cleavage. In a predatory way, thought Deor, she was still beautiful. He stilled as he realized that the duchess was looking at him. He could smell her perfume from here. Seeing him flush, she smiled without showing her teeth, then followed her husband and Godulf into the rede-room.

"Thinks a lot of himself, doesn't he?" Thora said softly. "Don't fear we'll be too impressed. You've never seen an Association noble in full court drag . . ."

The odd chill that had followed Deor's blush eased. "Looks as if they're not getting leftovers-" she added as two boys headed toward the rede-room with plates heaped high.

"My mother won't let you guests see her fail in hospitality, even to an enemy." Deor's breath caught as he realized how easily he had used that word.

"An enemy, or a rival?"

"I don't . . . know. I think the stakes just got higher."

"Because of us."

He nodded. "There's things worth fighting over now. My father says the folk from the old kingdom-the Society-used t' joke about gathering at the Beltane tourney site near Cloverdale if there was a zombie apocalypse, whatever that was. So when the Cataclysm happened, my parents armed up, piled everything they could carry on the tourney wagon, put my brother atop it and started walking. They lived in Santa Rosa then." He shivered. He'd been to the old city once, scavenging. It wasn't as bad as the great cities by the Bay, but he remembered his mother's silent tears as they picked through the wreckage that had been her home.

"Morgruen said he should lead because he was a duke. My father said the kingdom was dead, but if we fortified Hraefnbeorg, the barony could survive. But he'd have to command, 'cause it was our family's land-my great-grandfather's buried here, and his spirit guards us. Godulf was baron in the first place 'cause the people had wanted him-in the old days that rank wasn't won by arms-so when he headed up Highway 128 most of them followed him."

"And the local farmers?" she asked.

"Well, they knew him too. There was a bit of an argument when he ordered them at sword's point to pack up every bit of food they had stored and bring it to the burg, but most were just glad t' see someone who sounded like he knew what t' do. By the time refugees got this far, the valley was stripped and we had a palisade up round the burg." He looked at the shut door of the rede-room, wondering what they were saying in there. Captain Feldman's son, still sitting on the other side of his father's fancy chair, looked as if he wondered too.

"Do you wish you had been invited?" asked the Bearkiller girl, following his gaze.

"Yes . . . I'm the one brought you here, after all. But while he has Godric, my father has no need for me."

"Trade is not all that could come of this, you know," Thora said then. "If you're not required here, you could come back with us to Montival."

But that would mean leaving Mist Hills . . .

Suddenly uncomfortable, Deor swung his legs over the bench and stood.

"There'll be no dessert till they're done," he said brightly, "but if I ask nicely Auntie Hilda will give us a pie. Come along and I'll show you round the burg."

The morning had dawned crisp and clear. Men and horses filled the space before the Gatehouse as Duke Morgruen prepared to escort the Montivallans and a party from the burg to his hold. Godulf's raven fluttered in the wind. The duke's banner, gules five bezants in annulo, had been stiffened with a rod to hold it steady in the still air.

As the baron had put it, Captain Feldman already knew what Hraefnbeorg had to offer, but if Morgruen tried to underbid him he wanted to be there to get his counteroffer in. Deor suspected he also wanted a new look at Morgruen's defenses. They might have something to fight over now.

Captain Feldman was giving his son some last directions for the work on the Ark. As Godulf kissed his lady and swung up on his big bay, Deor stepped forward.

"Father, will you give me leave to accompany you?"

"You ran off to Albion Cove without telling anyone," his mother's gray eyes narrowed. "And you expect to be rewarded?"

"To see Morgruen's rock pile? Hardly a reward," murmured Godric. Deor sent his brother a grateful glance. Godric had teased him unmercifully when he was a child, but fatherhood had mellowed him.

"Not as a reward," he said loudly, "as a responsibility. If 'twere not for me the Montivallans wouldn't be here!"