“Captain Strake’s size perhaps, blond. He wears the Fifth Northland Cavalry uniform, with wurmrider badges.”
“Very good. See them into the audience chamber… what is it?”
The aide glanced down. “The Colonel insisted that he see you in private.”
“I see. Send him to me in the audience chamber. Tell Captain Strake to wait outside.” Vlad pointed at the well-worn, brown leather case. “Finish up with this and get it into the cart, whenever it arrives.”
“As you wish, Highness.”
His aide withdrew and Vlad crossed to the wardrobe. Within it hung several coats. For official business he often chose a red-and-gold brocade—a gift from his aunt, the Queen, after the Anvil Lake affair. The gold threads had been worked in a wurm design. It impressed visitors, though tended to make Mystrians of Virtuan stock uneasy because of its sheer ostentation.
No, that won’t do for this man. Instead he selected a forest green woolen jacket, cut after the military style, with black facings. This, too, he’d been awarded after the Anvil Lake campaign, and he prized it much more highly than his aunt’s gift. The Mystrian Rangers had all voted him the rank of Colonel and presented him with the coat on the first anniversary of the battle. Within two weeks, his son Richard had been born, making August 1765 the single best month of his life.
Vlad had instantly recognized his visitor’s name. Scant few would not. The Battle of Rondeville nine months previously had ended the long war between Norisle and Tharyngia. Colonel Rathfield—then Major—had been sent into the city by Richard Ventnor, Duke Deathridge, to offer the Tharyngian commanders a chance to surrender. Laureate-General Philippe de Toron laughed at the suggestion, accused him of being a spy, and imprisoned him. Rathfield escaped and killed de Toron and his command staff. Without leadership, the Tharyngian forces collapsed and the war ended.
Norillian forces entering the city found Rathfield seriously wounded and barely alive. He managed to recover and became the sort of hero Norisle desperately needed.
Vlad frowned. The Crown must have had a very good reason for sending him here. I don’t think any good will come from this at all.
Pulling the Ranger coat on, he entered the audience chamber through a side door. When the Colonial assembly was in session, wooden desks filled the room and a podium occupied the same spot as his throne. Because of his royal blood he was permitted such and, occasionally, in his role as the Mystrian Governor-General, he used it. He opted against it with Colonel Rathfield and hoped he would not regret that decision.
The double doors at the room’s far end opened. Sunlight from the windows in the hallway opposite poured in, initially reducing Rathfield to a tall slender silhouette. He moved easily and powerfully into the room, the squeaking groans of floorboards seeming muted by his steady tread. He came with hat in hand, his face impassive and noble. The only visible scar ran from forehead to right cheek, over his eye and splitting the brow, but the eye had suffered no apparent damage.
Rathfield paused a dozen feet before Vlad, then dropped to a knee and bowed his head. “Highness, please forgive my interruption. I am…”
“I am well aware of who you are, Colonel Rathfield. News of your heroism has spread even here.” Vlad stepped forward, offering his hand. “Please, rise.”
Rathfield came up and shook the Prince’s hand firmly. The man looked the Prince up and down. A slight tremor rippled through the Colonel’s grip as puzzlement faded into a hint of shock on his face. He let Vlad’s hand drop, then drew himself up and clasped his hands at the small of his back.
“If I might be given leave to report, Highness.”
Vlad purposefully delayed his reply. His wife often chided him for playing games with people as he did the unexpected and gauged the results. Rathfield expected more formality, clearly, and Vlad’s wearing a colonial militia uniform surprised him. The Mystrian Rangers’ reputation had suffered horribly because of the Battle of Villerupt in 1760. The victory at Anvil Lake in 1764, being an action in the colonies misreported back in Norisle, had done little to rehabilitate it. Vlad took the man’s reaction and behavior to mark him as somewhat vain. This tallied with the story of his heroism, and would be a factor to temper Vlad’s reading of anything he said.
“Yes, please, Colonel. Report.” Vlad turned, took a step toward the throne, but did not mount the dais before turning back. “I’m anxious to hear news of court.”
“I have little of that, Highness. I am a mere soldier acting under orders. I have written copies of them in my luggage.” He reached inside his jacket. “I was, however, asked to personally convey a letter from your father.”
Vlad accepted it, turning the yellowed package over to verify the red wax seal, then tucked it into a pocket. “Thank you. Now, if you would not mind communicating that which my aunt or her advisors feared to consign to writing.”
Rathfield almost covered his surprise at Vlad’s deduction.
Ah, his vanity extends to thinking he is more intelligent than most.
“As you wish, Highness. The Crown has received a petition for the charter of a new colony. It calls itself Postsylvania. The petitioners are vague about the location of their colony because, it appears, they already have founded several towns. What they ask for—demand really—is a claim which runs from the Gulf in the south, north to the Argent River, and from west of the mountains to what they refer to as land’s end. We do not know if this means the Misaawa River or the far coast.”
Vlad’s brown eyes narrowed. Aside from the characterization of the petition as a demand, he instantly recognized two problems with the claim. The first was that by either measure, the petitioners were requesting a vast amount of territory—virtually all of it unknown to Mystrians. While ships had circumnavigated the world, inaccuracies with measuring longitude meant that no one could reliably state how far away the continent’s west coast actually lay. The Queen, even on her least lucid day, would never consent to such a concession.
More immediately, however, the claim would overlap with Tharyngian territorial claims. Having just ended a war, the Crown would never grant a charter for a colony that would immediately reignite that war.
Vlad nodded slowly. “You were sent to assess how far settlers have gone in the mountains and beyond?”
“Yes, Highness. Toward that end…”
“There is more, isn’t there, Colonel?” Vlad killed a smile prompted by the flicker of distress on the man’s face. “You betrayed nothing, sir. You described the petition as a demand, which my aunt saw as mutiny or treason or worse. Given the colonial reaction to last year’s document tax and resentment over the Crown’s refusal to compensate the colonials for expenses incurred during the Anvil Lake expedition, she wants you to assess the level of loyalty among her subjects.”
Rathfield’s hands appeared open from behind his back. “You understand the situation very well, Highness. Queen Margaret became quite alarmed when Lord Rivendell read from Samuel Haste’s A Continent’s Calling in the House of Lords. He said it was a seditious document, claimed the colonials revered it more than they did the Good Book, and suggested certain passages advocated regicide.”
“That’s a bit hyperbolic, but this is Rivendell we’re talking about.”
“True, Highness. By your remark, I take it you’ve read the book?”
“Several times, in several editions.” Again Vlad reveled in the surprise on Rathfield’s face. I hope you do not gamble, sir, for you certainly will lose. “I suspect my aunt would be even less enamored of Haste’s latest pamphlet The Blood of Liberty.”
“He has new work available? You’ve seized it, of course, and destroyed the press.”
“Hardly.” Vlad refrained from mentioning he’d financed the first print run. “One cannot kill an idea by suppressing its publication, Colonel. One can merely mount a counter-offensive through reasoned discussion. This, however, is a point we may debate more fully at a later time.”
“Yes, Highness.”
??
?If you don’t mind, I will invite Captain Strake to join us. Your mission will require an expedition, and he has particular insights into these things.”
“Highness, I was told this information is to be held in the utmost secrecy.”
Vlad smiled easily. “I know, Colonel, that you do not mean to suggest you doubt the soundness of my judgment as to Captain Strake’s character or intellect, nor that you understand the administration of Her Majesty’s affairs here in Mystria better than I do.”
“No, Highness.” Rathfield half-turned back toward the closed doors. “Shall I fetch him?”
“You’re very kind.”
Within three steps toward the doors, Rathfield had regained his composure. He strode with a certain grace, reminding Vlad of the effortless power with which a jeopard moved through the Mystrian forests. Perhaps he is like the saber-toothed cat, strong enough to be deadly and, therefore, not required to be too clever. If the story of Rondeville was even half-true, the man would be implacable in combat, and just intelligent enough to learn what his masters wanted, yet not so bright as to question their need for that information.
The two men returned, Rathfield a half a step ahead of Owen. Vlad offered his friend his hand, then clasped Owen’s in both of his. “Wonderful to see you again, Owen. I didn’t realize you were in town.”
“I rode in this morning. There was the Wattling affair to take care of.”
“Resolved satisfactorily?”
“I hope so. I left him with Caleb. Mr. Dunsby and I escorted Colonel Rathfield here.”
“Please tell Mr. Dunsby I am pleased to learn he has returned. Baker will be happy to have his help with Mugwump again.” Vlad slapped Owen on the shoulder, then released his hand. “Colonel Rathfield tells me that there has been a petition sent to the Queen concerning a new settlement in the west. Colonel, what do you know of the petitioners?”
Rathfield again hid his hands at the small of his back. “Highness, we know very little. No one signed the petition per se. It was signed in the name of the True Oriental Church of the Lord. No one in Launston seems to know who or what that organization is.”
“Owen, have you any insights?”
“Nothing about that group, Highness, but most of the villages and towns in Temperance Bay and Bounty started when churches had doctrinal splits and half the people moved away. Caleb once mentioned that he had second cousins who helped found the town Humility over in Bounty. I also seem to recall Makepeace Bone mentioning a group heading west a couple years ago—’62 maybe, or ’61—to escape the corruption of the coast.”
“How long would it take to mount an expedition to survey such settlements?”
Owen frowned. “No honest way of knowing, Highness, without a clue as to where to start looking.”
“They want to call their settlement Postsylvania, and want it to run from the Argent to the coast, west of the mountains until they hit water.”
Owen nibbled his lower lip. “I see the problem. That narrows it down slightly. A month to the mountains, perhaps, several more hunting, then a month back. Head out in two weeks, be back in time for your son’s birthday. Six men, including the Colonel here: Hodge, Makepeace, Nathaniel, Kamiskwa, and me.”
Vlad nodded. “I believe we have a working plan. Would it inconvenience you, Captain, to host Colonel Rathfield? Given the confidential nature of his mission, housing him on your estate would be prudent. It makes him easily accessible to me. And while I am certain Mr. Dunsby will acquit himself well, might I suggest you offer Count von Metternin a chance to join you?”
“Of course, Highness. I should have thought of that.”
Rathfield lifted his chin. “Highness, I’m not certain that this expedition, as outlined, fulfills the dictates of my orders. Horse Guards and the Queen were most keen on the idea of bringing any settlement back within chartered territories. I was thinking I could take a company of the Life Guards and that you might scare up a company of colonial scouts and skirmishers to guide us.”
“I will certainly read your orders carefully, Colonel, to make certain we are not in violation of them. Captain, would you care to explain to Colonel Rathfield how long his expedition would take?”
Owen shrugged easily—a mannerism he’d picked up while living in Mystria. “We’d be wintering somewhere out in the mountains, and be lucky to make it back here by spring. Folks in the settlements would agree to head back to the coast, but would just reoccupy things after we left for the next settlement.”
“Then we should have to burn their settlements.”
Owen shook his head. “You don’t understand. You’re thinking of towns in Tharyngia or Norisle, but settlements out here aren’t like that. Folks will have cabins spread all over, five to ten miles from the church, trading post, or tavern they consider the heart of their settlement. You’d never find them all, and they’d warn others. You’d grow more settlements than you’d stomp out.”
“I believe, Captain, your assessment misses the fact that I act with the Crown’s authority.”
Vlad held up a hand. “Gentlemen, this is a subject we can discuss on the road west. I have a cart coming at noon. Colonel, if you and Mr. Dunsby see to your luggage, it can be loaded into the cart. Captain Strake’s home is adjacent to mine. We will ride ahead and see if we can settle things.”
“As you wish, Highness.”
“Good. Please, you’ll find Mr. Dunsby waiting outside, won’t he, Captain?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Tell him to collect your things. Godspeed.” Vlad nodded toward the door. “And, Owen, a word, if I might.”
“Of course, Highness.”
Rathfield saluted the Prince smartly, then turned on his heel and marched from the chamber. Vlad waited until the door closed behind him, then looked at Owen.
“Tell me, Owen, truthfully. Do you want to go on this expedition because you wish to guarantee success, or do you just want to get away from your wife?”
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. Yo
u 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.