A series of liquid trills answered, and then she shook her head and dropped back into English: “Sorry, forgot.”

Poor boy. You actually had a pretty good chance of getting lucky, she thought. You’re sweet, which is a welcome change from Hrolf.

“I think it’s my aunt,” she went on. “My mother’s younger sister. The Hiril Dúnedain. A party of my people.”

By the time the party reached her it was obvious. A dozen Rangers, all of them known to her—the Dúnedain weren’t so many yet that she couldn’t remember them, especially the ones based out of Mithrilwood. She waved and called greetings to the green-clad riders. They had a couple of Anchor Bar Seven riders with them, probably from the patrols; one peeled off and galloped for the homeplace.

Lots of remounts and they’ve been pushing hard, she thought.

You could go nearly as fast as a rail-borne pedal car if you had three or four horses and switched off several times a day. For a while, at least, and if you didn’t mind your backside getting thoroughly tenderized. There was a very old joke about a book titled Thirty Years in the Saddle, by Major Assburns .

And in front of them all were Aunt Astrid with her disturbing eyes of silver-rimed, silver-threaded blue, Uncle Alleyne blondly handsome, Uncle John bulking huge under a red-brown thatch just showing some gray with his greatsword slung over his back, and raven-headed Aunt Eilir beside him grinning. The whole ruling quadrumvirate of the Folk of the West; it must be something important to bring them all out here in the middle of a war when they’d be badly needed closer to home. Everyone dismounted, and Ritva went to one knee, put hand to heart and bowed: “Well-met, my liege-lady and kinswoman; and all of you, my kin, my brethren.”

Astrid smiled and advanced, holding out her hands. Ritva placed hers between them. Close-to you could see that she’d spent many days in the saddle moving fast, but she showed the strain little as yet, though there were small lines beside those odd compelling eyes.

“Ritva Havelion, you have brought honor to the People of the West. You have helped to bring our King, your kinsman, back once more to his people. You have helped to lay the very foundations of the Kingdom of the West, of Montival. Mae coren! Very well done!”

Ritva felt herself blushing, and astonished at it. Off by yourself, you could think of Astrid Loring-Larsson as something of a figure of fun, however formidable. In her presence, the sheer burning power of belief caught you up again. Looking into the moon-rimmed eyes, you saw yourself as something else again from the light of common day.

I don’t think I have it in me to believe in anything quite that strongly. Does that mean I’m more sane, or something less than she is?

Then, rebelliously: But I probably have more fun!

“Did you see Rudi . . . Artos, Aunt Astrid?”