Chapter Three
27 March 1767
Government House,
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Owen hesitated before he answered, less because of the question’s direct nature than the insight behind it. “My only wish, Highness, is to be of service.”
The Prince smiled. “I hoped that was the case. I asked because you are a friend. I wish you only the best.”
Owen glanced toward the floor. “I know that. Had you not asked, I would have convinced myself that service to the Crown is my only concern. However, it is…”
“The sailing season, I know.”
Catherine Strake had never abandoned the idea of returning to Norisle, even when she was told she would be friendless and humiliated. If anything, that seemed to heighten her desire to go back. As spring gave way to summer, she would spend more time in their rooms in Temperance and become increasingly insistent that she be allowed to leave. The edge in her voice would grow, and her glances would become more venomous.
Owen sighed. “It’s the sailing season to everyone else, but I know it as the insane season. I had so hoped she would come to love the land as I do, as our daughter does.”
“Miranda’s a bit young to ascribe such feelings to her, don’t you think?”
“Is she, Highness?” He smiled. “You’ve not seen it with your children yet, but to hear Miranda laugh toddling after butterflies, or sticking her nose in flowers, I have no question that she loves her home. Her mother thinks I let her run wild and wants me to hire a governess from Norisle to raise her properly. This is this year’s ploy, to be allowed to go back to Norisle to find someone suitable.”
Vlad nodded thoughtfully. “When she says it, it’s always a return home, yes?”
“Yes.” Owen rubbed a hand over his face. “Why she can’t see the beauty of this place, why she can’t come to love it, I don’t understand.”
Vlad laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “I have come to realize that some people can love what is, and others can only love what they control. You and I can marvel at the wonders of this land, and take comfort in its mysteries. Your wife sees it as hostile and chaotic. Had you remained in Norisle, you likely never would have been given cause to notice this difference. Here, you could not possibly escape it.”
And this would mean that she loved me because she could control me. But here, no more. Owen’s shoulders slumped. “You’ll not have me go, then?”
“Regardless of your answer, I have no choice but to send you. That die was cast before Rathfield ever sailed from Launston.” Vlad frowned. “The only reason to send a hero to Mystria is to lose him, or to use his notoriety to validate whatever news he sends back. Without Tharyngia to worry about, my aunt now has time to concern herself with Mystria. I have no doubt that your uncle and Johnny Rivendell have convinced her the colonies are festering pits of rebellion, so she’s sent Colonel Rathfield to deal with it.
“I would have assigned the same men to the expedition as you suggested. You may not recall how Nathaniel and you got on at first, but can you imagine how he would treat Rathfield if you weren’t along?”
“Abandon him in Hattersburg, I’d imagine.”
“If he didn’t trade him to the Ungarikii for a polecat pelt sooner.”
“True.” Nathaniel Woods, arguably the best Mystrian scout, had little tolerance for Norillian imperiousness. His association with Lord Rivendell during the Anvil Lake campaign had made his negative attitude even worse. “Do you think he could get that much for him?”
The Prince raised a finger. “I don’t find myself much inclined to like Colonel Rathfield either, Owen, but I am forced to respect him. What he did at Rondeville was commendable, and the tragedy he suffered after nearly unendurable.”
Owen nodded. Word had gone from the Continent back to Rathfield’s wife, mistakenly informing her that her husband had been killed. Though she was joyful when he returned home, apparently the specter of his death haunted her. In November of 1766, she died of “a broken heart,” which Catherine informed Owen meant she’d killed herself.
“I suspect he accepted this assignment for similar reasons to your doing the same three years ago, Owen. He’s far away from home and will rigidly adhere to his orders. You were intelligent enough to be flexible. I am not certain he is. You will have to watch him carefully.”
Owen frowned. “What is it you’re not telling me, Highness?”
Vlad opened his hands. “I know nothing substantive, but since the end of the war, Ryngian correspondents of mine have hinted at dark rumors about Colonel Rathfield. Don’t ask me for details—there are none. There have been more reliable rumors about Rufus Branch’s location than there are about the hero of Rondeville.”
“Understood, Highness.” Owen scratched at the back of his neck. “If he insists on meting out the Queen’s justice in the back country?”
“If it is warranted, allow it; if not, suggest the case be appealed to the Governor-General.” Vlad walked with Owen to the door. “I trust your discretion, Captain. And I do want a full report of everything. You’re used to that, however.”
“Thank you, Highness.”
As the men descended the wooden stairs, Owen once again could scarcely believe he was walking beside an heir to the throne. His disbelief grew out of equal parts of Prince Vlad acting entirely common and Owen’s not feeling worthy of the man’s friendship and trust. He had no doubt that things like Vlad’s friendship with him or Nathaniel Woods became the source of many crude jests at the Queen’s Court. The same qualities that endeared the Prince to the people of Mystria would make him the object of ridicule in Launston.
Indeed, Vlad’s openness and friendship had been the sole reason why Catherine had initially remained in Temperance Bay. Catherine and Princess Gisella became fast friends and, Owen subsequently realized, Catherine had believed this friendship would place her at the top of Mystrian society. She’d been right. In Norisle she would have been the equivalent of one of the Queen’s Ladies, making her the envy of millions. In Mystria, however, her status placed her only a class or two above barmaids. While their deference amused Catherine, her enjoyment did not last long. Mystria’s virtually classless society came to repulse her.
She doesn’t understand that only because of it was she able to become so close to the Princess. Owen reveled in the same simple social structure, but he had connections into it that she did not. His actions at Anvil Lake, and the time he’d spent with Nathaniel and Kamiskwa, had solidified his position in Mystria.
Owen also realized that he didn’t need society or its approval the way his wife did. In Mystria people were judged largely on what they made of themselves, not who their parents had been. The point of coming to Mystria and changing their names had been to cut themselves off from the past. Many Norillians saw it as a move to spare their families embarrassment, but Owen realized it went further. Unencumbered by eons-old expectations, individuals could become the people Mystria needed them to be.
The two men exited Government House and headed north on Generosity to the livery. While the winter had been cold, it had not produced a great deal of snow in Temperance. As a result, the streets remained in fairly good shape. They made it easily to the stable, greeting many people with a nod or wave on their journey.
Rathfield awaited them. “Your man has taken the cart to gather my baggage after he gets yours, Highness. As you suggested, we can ride ahead.”
Owen collected his horse—a brown gelding—and saddled it. He pulled a horse-pistol from the saddle-scabbard, checked it, and rotated the firestone. Satisfied, he returned it to the scabbard.
“For the savages?” Rathfield studied the street. “I thought I saw one a bit ago. Can you allow them into town if they’re dangerous?”
Owen shook his head. “You’ll not want to call them savages. They’re the Twilight People to most, Shedashee as a whole, then there’s the tribes and nations among them.”
“But they are savages.” Rathfield mounted the saddle on a grey stallion. “I am aware there is a certain affection for them in some parts, but I also have read reports of atrocities committed by them.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.” Many of the reports to which Rathfield referred had been written by Colonel Langford to explain expenditures of materials from Norillian armories. These false reports covered his wholesale theft of the same items, like brimstone and firestones that he sold to colonists, enriching himself.
Vlad swung into his black gelding’s saddle. “You’ll find, Colonel Rathfield, that the only way you’ll see the Shedashee is if they want you to see them. Owen’s pistol is just to frighten off any predator we might encounter.”
The Norillian chuckled. “Surely we have nothing to fear from animals.”
Owen led the way back along Generosity, then turned west on Kindness. “Not much to fear, really. The wolves mostly have gone back up-country. Bears are heading into the mountains. We’re too far north for axebeaks.” Owen shot a sidelong glance at the Prince. “I don’t recall many signs of a jeopard this winter.”
Vlad shrugged. “One rarely sees a jeopard before it’s too late.”
“True.”
Rathfield looked from one man to the other and back again. “I do believe you are having me on. Wolves? Jeopards? You’ve made them up to frighten visitors. You’ll find I do not frighten easily.”
Vlad shot a quick salute to the sentries at Westgate. “I assure you, Colonel, we would not attempt to frighten a man of your obvious bravery. However, wolves are far from extinct here in Mystria. In fact, they appear to be considerably larger than the variety that has been hunted out in Norisle. And they do exist. The winter of ’65, just like that of ’63, came on quickly and very harshly. We had wolves at the doorstep. Captain Strake and his wife were staying with me until their home was built. On the very night his daughter was born, he killed three dire wolves.”
Owen nodded. “Shot two, killed the last with an ax.”
“Really?” Rathfield studied Owen a bit more intently for a moment. “And jeopards?”
“Biggest cat you’ll ever see, Colonel. Long curved fangs, very sharp claws. Brown or grey in the summer, winter coat grows in thick and white. Big enough to take one of these horses down, and fast enough in a sprint to catch it.” Owen patted the pistol. “Not very fond of loud noises, which is why I keep this with me.”
“I see.”
Vlad laughed. “Not likely. Nor will you hear it, save screaming in the distance. If it’s close, you might smell it.”
As they rode west along the Bounty Trail, Owen tried looking at it with the same eyes as Colonel Rathfield. Things had already changed significantly in the four years since the first time Owen had made the same ride. More houses had been raised, more land cleared, and stone bridges had been built over a few streams. Still, to Norillian eyes, the place would seem largely wild and sparsely populated.
For Owen it remained a land that surprised and delighted him. Going on an expedition thrilled him, and not just for it getting him away from his wife. Mystria had so many wonders and secrets that he wished to see. The whisper of wind through pines, the lonely call of loons in the night, the scent of a field of bright daisies, and even the chill of seeing where a jeopard had sharpened its claws on a tree made him smile. He’d spent too long on his estate and in town—he needed to get back to the land he loved. That this might be an opportunity to save it from Crown foolishness only made the expedition that much better.
As they rode, Prince Vlad played host and guide, pointing out the natural features and commenting on interesting tidbits his researches had discovered about a variety of the plants. “Of course, Colonel, for your expedition, I shall prepare you a list of plants and animals of which, if you are able, I should be most pleased to have samples.”
“A jeopard among them?”
“We have one, but more are welcome.” The Prince smiled. “And we mounted the wolves Captain Strake killed. I’d be delighted to show them to you. They are in my laboratory.”
“It would be an honor, Highness.”
You have no idea. Owen watched Rathfield from the corner of his eye. The man looked at the landscape much as Owen had, judging it by its suitability for waging war. He’d been told that two companies of men would be slow, and he measured that claim against everything he saw. Initially he discounted that idea, but as the forest closed around the trail, and the trail wound itself uphill and down, his assessment shifted. His concentration suggested he was compiling recommendations that would allow him to fulfill his mission.
Owen found that particular idea unsettling. Having been raised in Norisle, he found himself more reluctant than most Mystrians to ascribe hostile motives to the Crown. Still, when he’d come this way looking to move troops along, it was to bring a war to Tharyngian forces. Rathfield intended the same thing, but that the troops be used against Mystrians.
And yet, four years ago, I would have accepted that same mission. Now the idea of doing that sent a shiver down Owen’s spine. Unbidden came the memory of his uncle asking him to pass along the true identity of the writer known as Samuel Haste. Owen harbored no illusions that the request was born simply of his uncle’s idle curiosity.
Just because Owen wasn’t automatically inclined to think badly of the Norillian court, it didn’t mean he didn’t understand why others did. Just a year previously, Parliament had passed the document tax, which not only imposed a duty on imported paper, but also required payment for any transaction involving papers—from the production of a Will to the printing of the Frost Weekly Gazette. Mystrians flat refused to pay it and sent the Queen a petition of protest on a sheepskin. Tax collectors—locals who had hired on for a portion of the taxes collected—got run out of town and had their businesses boycotted. Before the petition reached Launston, the document tax had died.
Three months after news of the tax had reached Mystria, reports of its repeal arrived from Norisle. The bill repealing the tax had been greeted happily, but men like Caleb Frost and his father carefully pointed out that the bill affirmed the right of Parliament to impose future taxes on the Crown’s citizens no matter where they lived.
Most Mystrians dismissed that idea saying, “I’ll be paying ole Queen Mags when she comes to me with her hand out.” They assumed the ocean insulated them from her wrath, but Colonel Rathfield’s presence suggested otherwise. How long until refusal to pay taxes is seen as sedition?
Rathfield rode ahead and, for a heartbeat, unbridled fury raced through Owen. What if Rathfield was a precursor? What if the information he’d gather would convince the Queen to send troops to Mystria? If I knew it would, if I knew that was his intention, what would I do?
He glanced at the pistol. Mystria was a vast place, full of all manner of dangers. Would leaving a man in an unmarked grave be so hideous a sin if it saved countless lives?
Owen shivered, and hoped he would never have to answer that question.