A Meeting At Corvallis

agus cuirfidh me breagriocbt air.
To Melinda Snodgrass, Daniel Abraham, Emily Mah, Terry England, George R. R. Martin, Walter
Jon Williams, Sally Gwylan, Yvonne Coats, and Laura Mixon-Gould of Critical Mass, for constant help
and advice as the book was under construction. And heck, they were already friends.
Special thanks to Heather Alexander, bard and balladeer, for permission to use the lyrics from her
beautiful songs which can be—and should be!—ordered at www.heatherlands.com. Run, do not walk,
to do so.
Special thanks to Kate West, for her kind words and permission to use her chants.
Special thanks—am I overusing the word?—to William Pint and Felicia Dale, for permission to use
their music, which can be found at http://members.aol.com/pintndale and should be, for anyone with an
ear and saltwater in their veins.
Thanks again to everyone from the author of Amadis of Gaul on down. Writing is a solitary
occupation, but we aren't alone!
All mistakes, infelicities and errors are of course my own.
Chapter One
Portland, Oregon
December 10, 2007/Change Year 9
Norman Arminger—he rarely thought of himself as anything but the Lord Protector these
days—stared at the great map that showed his domains, and those of his stubbornly independent
neighbors, it covered the whole of the former Oregon and Washington, with bits of the old states of
Idaho and northern California thrown in.
Winds racing out of the Columbia gorge howled amongst the empty skyscrapers, and drove rain that
spattered audibly against windows hidden by tapestries shimmering with gold and silver thread. The map
covered one wall of what had been the main hall of the city's old public library, built in Edwardian times
with a splendor of gray-veined white marble and brass inlay. That and the easily adapted heating system
were why he'd picked it as his city palace, back right after the Change, and he'd had workmen busy with
it ever since.
Then he turned on his heel and walked to the larger of the two thrones that stood on the new dais at
the foot of the staircase; his left foot automatically knocked the scabbard of his longsword out of the way
as he sat. This hall was the place he'd first unsheathed it in earnest nine years ago, and where he'd first
spilled a man's life with the steel. The chairs were massive gothic fantasies in jewels and precious metals,
gold for his and silver for his consort's; the materials had been salvaged from luxury stores and worked
up by Society-trained artisans. The long stair behind them was black marble carved in vinework, rising to
a landing and then splitting in two, curling up to the second story and the gallery that overlooked the
throne room.
Outside, day's gray light was fading into blackness under clouded heavens, but the great room was
brilliantly lit, by gasoline lanterns of silver fretwork hanging from the galleries around it, and by a huge
chandelier salvaged from a magnate's mansion in the center of the ceiling thirty feet above. That burned a
spendthrift plenitude of fine candles; their wax-and-lavender scent filled the chamber, overlaying metal
polish and cloth and the sweat of fear from the crowd of well-dressed courtiers, clerics, advisors and
officials. It was silent except for the occasional creak of shoe-leather or crisp ripple of stiff embroidered
cloth from the tapestries, quiet enough that the faint whisper of flame from the lights was audible; the
shifting glitter of flame shone on the thrones, on the jewelry and bright clothes of the courtiers, and on
naked steel …
Spearmen stood like statues about the walls, their mail hauberks gleaming gray and the heads of
seven-foot spears bright; their big kite-shaped shields were flat matte black, bearing the same sigil of a
red, cat-pupiled eye wreathed in flame as stood on the great banner hanging from the ceiling to the
landing behind him. Three household knights stood in a line before each throne. They wore
black-enameled mail; the golden spurs on their boots and the bright steel-sheen of their swords were the