“It’s good of you to volunteer to work so soon after such a terrible journey,” she said, as they climbed the spiral staircase of the donjon tower. “Everyone is putting state aside and doing what they can.”

Their mother and sister-in-law were off making appearances where they told the truth about what Martin Thurston did, which was why she’d been set to shepherd and chaperone the girls. It had already started producing results that the High Queen was pleased with. None of them were getting much rest; the girls were still moving a bit stiffly, even after being able to rest on the railcars for the last two days of their headlong trip from the Wild Lands. The troubadours were already fitting it into the songs.

Shawonda groaned and made as if to rub herself rather indelicately. “Those Dúnedain are made of iron,” she said.

“They’re very hardy warriors,” Yseult agreed; she didn’t add anything about their morals or, for most of them, their religion.

“They’re cool,” Janie added. “I want to be one! Don’t you, Shawonda?”

Shawonda looked a little troubled. “I’ve always loved the books, the Histories they call them. It was like being in the books to travel with the Dúnedain. But . . . and I don’t know if I want to be a soldier. It was wonderful what the Hiril Astrid did, but . . .”

She shuddered. “The fight was so horrible. And I saw her die. It was awful, and she did it to save little Lawrence, or even Juliet, and it was so brave but . . . terrible.”

Be fair about the Rangers, Yseult told herself. Some of them are good Catholics. Besides which, that was a glorious and knightly deed that Lady Astrid did, the rescue and the way she put herself in the way of the bolt. We all die soon or late, but Lady Astrid’s name will live while honor’s praise is sung, and God loves those who imitate Christ by sacrifice, even if they don’t know Him. I will pray for her; surely she’s in Purgatory.

“Well, they’re not all knights-errant,” Yseult said aloud.

She’d had a few romantic dreams about Mithrilwood herself; most girls did, for a little while at least, and some young noblemen. The old grudges had died away over her lifetime.

“There aren’t any Ranger peasants,” she went on. “But they have . . . oh, troubadours, bards they call them, and armorers, and healers, and craftsfolk. And they own ranches, and hunt and do forestry, and have houses in towns, and things like that, so some of them look after their properties.”