“But while that may be wrong, it is not evil,” the Abbess continued earnestly. “And General-President Thurston has . . . changed since he came back from his meeting with the false Prophet Sethaz in Bend last year. He was always a very hard man, very ambitious, but . . . the new decrees are ominous.”

“They’re straight out of the CUT’s book,” Ritva said; she’d been reading the briefing papers the leaders had brought along during the ride south. “And they’re just a start.”

“Can you tell me what use you will put our aid to, if we give it?”

“No, of course not, Mother Superior. You don’t need to know. That’s need to know in the technical sense. You know we’ll use it to fight the CUT and the parricide Martin Thurston and I can’t give details.”

A long silence, during which the older woman’s gaze turned inward. Then: “Yes. Tell me what you need us to do.”

“No more questions?” Ritva asked.

The Mother Superior smiled. “If it is to be done at all, it should be done well. When you make a decision, think carefully, pray, consult where appropriate, and then make it. Half measures give you all the drawbacks of each alternative and none of their advantages.”

Ritva rose and bowed a salute, hand to heart, as she would have done for her own superiors.

“So also says the Lady of the Rangers, and the other leaders of our people, my kinsfolk,” she said. “And my brother Rudi . . . Artos . . . as well. Are you sure you were never a soldier, Reverend Mother?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Only a foot soldier of Christ, my child. But in this office I have had to make decisions in plenty. Your aunt is a wise lady, if she grasps that, because it is not an easy thing to do. And your High King doubly so, because he is still a young man.”

A slight wince. “It is no easier when lives ride on it.”

Ritva listed the aid that Operation Lúthien would need. The Reverend Mother sighed, pushed herself back slightly from the desk, and opened a drawer that proved to hold a typewriter.

“What you need, then, is primarily information and recommendations,” she said, as she inserted a sheet of paper in the roll. “Between us, St. Hilda’s and Rancher Woburn will be able to furnish those.”

Then she smiled; it made her face much younger for a moment, reminding Ritva of Mary’s—which was to say, herself—when they were thinking up some prank.

“In fact, we may be able to furnish unexpected help from above, so to say.”

Ritva nodded. I wish I could be as carefree about this as Mary and I used to be on missions, she thought. But this time it’s not just my life. It’s the life of my home . . . not just the Dúnedain, either. All of Montival.

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE