Read The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change for Free Online

ma’am,” he said again.
    He placed it in front of her; a slab of rare prime rib, some fried potatoes, pickled vegetables and a half-loaf of bread and butter on the side, with a wedge of dried-apple pie and cheese to follow. Winter food, but good.
    Mike stood at parade rest with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the far wall.
    “You’re in the field,” he said. “You don’t know when you’ll get another chance at a hot meal. Never pass that up.”
    “At ease,” she replied.
    The smells tickled at her nostrils, and she took up a fork and dipped a chunk of potato in the spicy Bend-style ketchup and pointed with it before she put it in her mouth.
    “Sit.”
    He relaxed then—Bearkiller discipline bit deep—and sat in the chair across from her. The suite was comfortable by modern standards, which meant there was a blaze going in the fireplace and you only needed a sweater despite the chill early-spring night of the high desert.
    “So ...” he said. The order had put him back in pupil mode, which meant he could ask questions. “What the hell are we going to do now?”
    “Fight,” Signe said succinctly.
    The first bite had made her ravenous; there had been nothing but field rations for the past week, and not always that. She ate with slow care anyway. He was right; this might be the last chance for a good long while. It was something Mike Sr. had always said too. He’d probably gotten it from her, though. He hadn’t been old enough to remember his father, not really. For him the first Bear Lord was something put together out of stories, and out of the shape his life had left in the world he helped to make.
    “Mom, you were right out there. If we go at them straight-up, well, they’ll know they’ve been in a fight, but then it’s pork chops at Odin’s All Night Diner for us until Ragnarok.”
    “We have to fight. A delaying action at least. Evacuating this bunch of range-country anarchists is going to be a nightmare, especially considering how late they’ve left it. We have to cover them . . . us and the rest. I hope the PPA can send some help but that’s iffy. Boise is pressing them hard, even with the castles.”
    “Time,” Mike Jr. said soberly. “We have to play for time. Until Rudi gets here.”
    Her mouth twisted slightly. If he hadn’t been so self-controlled, Mike Jr. would have sighed in exasperation. She caught it anyway, of course.
    I am his mother, after all!
    And she had that odd floating feeling you had when you were very tired, or sometimes very drunk; as if you were perfectly lucid but some part of your brain was missing. The part that decided what to say and what to leave out.
    “Don’t worry,” she said dryly, tearing a chunk off the bread and buttering it. “I’m not going to let it get in the way of business.”
    “I didn’t think you would, ma’am.”
    Signe swallowed and chuckled. “The hell you didn’t. You’re growing up now—you’re old enough to be told things—but you’re not forty yet. I don’t know if emotions get weaker as you get older, or you just get better at controlling them. That’s supposed to be part of growing up.”
    His expression was perfectly calm, but it radiated: I am grown up!
    No, you’re not , she thought. You’re getting there, you’ve fought and seen blood shed and you’re not a virgin anymore either, but there’s a lot more to it. I want you to live long enough to be an adult. I want to see your children. And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it except to try to win this war, or at least not lose it.
    Aloud: “But one way or another I’ve got it covered. Hey, Brother Havel—what matters most, what you’re feeling , or getting the job done?”
    He snorted; there was only one answer to that , for a Bearkiller of the A-list. For a Havel. A hesitation, then:
    “You know, Mom, I like Rudi . . . Artos, I suppose, now . . . fine. Always did.”
    Signe nodded, mopped the plate and began on the pie. “You’re